Some Deaths Before Dying Read Online Free Page A

told Helen. And the fellow who
     looked at it really knew his stuff. He spotted it for a Ladurie at once, and got very excited. Said it ought to be in a museum,
     and all that, and it must be one of a pair, and if the woman had had the other one and the box and all the fittings it would’ve
     been worth getting on fifty thousand quid—more, if it had belonged to someone famous, which it easily might have, judging
     by the workmanship. He even got it right that it could’ve been made for one of Napoleon’s marshals. The trouble was she’d
     only got just the one, and it hadn’t been properly cleaned last time it was fired, which knocked the value down a bit, but
     even as it stood he said it might fetch a couple of thousand. Are you listening, Ma? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
    Rachel had closed her eyes, rather than gaze any longer into the countenance of Greed. Lardy cake, she thought. I might have
     guessed, even then.
    “Yes,” she whispered. “Go on.”
    “There isn’t anything more. That’s it. The question is, How’s this woman got hold of one of my pistols? And where’s the other
     one, and the box and stuff?”
    “Not yours.”
    “Ours, then. When did you last see them? Where are they now? In the bank you said.”
    “Don’t know. I’m tired. Can’t think.”
    “But listen, Ma…”
    “Sorry, darling. Tell Dilys… nurse … need her.”
    He drew breath to persist, but then gave in.
    “Oh, all right. I’m sorry, Ma, if I’ve upset you, but I’ve got to be on my way in any case. I’ll have a word with Flora about
     it. She’s got power of attorney, hasn’t she? See you soon.”
    He squeezed her hand—she could feel the touch but not the compression—and kissed her on the forehead, but didn’t think to
     remove her spectacles. Her fury was now mingled with shame as she listened to his footsteps crossing the room. The door opened.
     She heard both voices from the corridor, footsteps returning, a murmur from Dick and a thank-you from Dilys, the door closing
     behind her as she crossed to the bed.
    Good heavens, Rachel thought, Helen’s been teaching him manners. The notion was bitter.
    “How are we then, dearie? Mustn’t wear ourselves out, chatting away, must we! Done with our specs, then?”
    “No, leave them. Lock the door, please. Need you.”
    “Now what’s this about?” said Dilys, coming back and feeling Rachel’s pulse. “So we’ve got ourselves excited, haven’t we?
     Tsk, tsk.”
    “Do something for me. Important.”
    “Well, well, well, aren’t we being mysterious? Out with it, then.”
    “Don’t tell anyone, Dilys. Not Flora. Nobody.”
    “Cross my heart. It’s all right, dearie, it’s just my manner of talking. I can see you’re dead serious, and I shan’t let you
     down. There’s secrets I’ve heard over the years from patients of mine—not like you, dearie, because maybe they’d lost their
     grip a bit and you’re all there and no mistake—but anything they told me like that, it’ll go with me to my grave. It wouldn’t
     be right any other way, would it?”
    She spoke earnestly, with pride in her professional reticence—nothing that she’d ever taken an oath to, but she was a confidential
     nurse, and for her the word meant what it said.
    “Thank you,” said Rachel. “Bottom drawer of bureau. Take everything out. Pull drawer right out.”
    “Got you. My, isn’t this exciting!”
    Dilys bustled off. Rachel listened to the slither of the drawer, and the movement of packages. While she waited she thought
     about the trusts, one for the as yet unborn children of each child. Jocelyn had begun to set them up a fortnight after his
     first stroke, when he could still barely make himself understood, and then only to her—just as she had at first been the only
     person who believed that Jocelyn himself was still there, locked inside the mumbling wreck in the wheelchair, all his intelligence,
     all his pride, all his immense willpower.