Free Death Comes First by Hilary Bonner Page B

from her pastry, eyes alert. ‘What sort of question is that? You know he was a good father – and still is! What’s got into you today, girl?’
    ‘And a good father to William, too?’ persisted Joyce, refusing to allow her mother to divert her from her purpose.
    ‘Of course your father was good to your brother. They adored each other.’ Her mother scrutinized her, puzzled.
    ‘Yes, but did you ever think maybe they adored each othertoo much, that they might have been too close?’ Even as she blurted the question out, Joyce wondered whether she had gone too far. But if it occurred to her mother that Joyce might be implying something untoward in the relationship between father and son, Felicity Tanner gave no sign of it.
    ‘I do know what you mean,’ she replied, rather to Joyce’s surprise. ‘It was a bit like they were in their own private club. Nobody else could ever get a look in. But I was always glad that they got on so well. It’s a shame more men don’t get on that well with their sons.’
    ‘True,’ said Joyce. ‘And it was much the same with Charlie, wasn’t it? Being in their own private club, I mean, with their own private agenda. And we wives were kept right out of it.’
    Felicity pushed aside the pie and put her hands on her hips. ‘Joyce, you managed to make that sound quite sinister,’ she said. ‘Whatever has brought this on?’
    ‘Brought what on?’ Joyce responded, her blush deepening. ‘I wonder about Charlie, that’s all. I know he loved me, and I loved him. And he cared for me and was almost always kind. He did have some black moods, though. And there was definitely something missing in our marriage. I think it was honesty. I just wondered if you felt the same.’
    ‘Joyce, just because a man likes to keep work and home apart, that doesn’t mean he’s hiding something,’ said Felicity, wiping floury hands on her apron. ‘It doesn’t mean he has secrets. Well, not the sort of secrets a wife should worry about anyway.’
    ‘And what does that mean?’ asked Joyce sharply.
    ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ It was Felicity’s turn to blush. Her skin was even paler than her daughter’s. Practically translucent. The flush started around her neck and spread instantly up over her cheeks. ‘Only a figure of speech,’ she said.
    ‘You’re blushing, Mum.’
    ‘So are you,’ countered Felicity.
    ‘No, I’m hot, that’s all,’ lied Joyce.
    ‘Well, if I am blushing it’s because you’re embarrassing me with all your questions,’ said Felicity.
    ‘It seems to me we don’t ask enough questions in this family. I mean, Charlie died before his time – in a boating accident, even though he was such a good sailor – and we never did get to the bottom of William’s death.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joyce!’ her mother snapped. ‘You make it sound as if Charlie was doing nothing more dangerous than messing about in a pedalo on the Serpentine. He was sailing in the Atlantic Ocean. On his own. In November. I know the weather was pretty good, and that it was what he liked to do, but the dangers were obvious, no matter how good a sailor he was. As for your brother: William was knocked down by a motorist who was probably drunk and therefore didn’t stop. It was a tragic accident. They were both tragic accidents. Of course they were.’
    ‘Maybe. But Charlie’s body wasn’t recovered, so there couldn’t be a post mortem – which might have revealed exactly what did happen to him. And the motorist who killed William was never traced. Yet – and I suspect you remember me telling you at the time – the police manage to track down nine out of ten motorists who are involved in a fatal traffic incident and leave the scene.’
    ‘Why are you bringing William’s death up now?’ asked Felicity, the pain clear in her voice. ‘That was twenty-four years ago. What can you hope to gain by going over it again? It has nothing to do with Charlie’s death.’
    ‘Maybe not, but