Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz Page A

for his age.’
    ‘Yes, Frances. But a big house like that. A wire stretched out across the stairs. You never know what might happen. Maybe those burglars of yours could return and finish him off.’
    ‘You’re not serious!’
    ‘It’s just a thought.’
    Frances Pye fell silent. This wasn’t the sort of conversation to be having, particularly in a crowded restaurant. But she had to admit that Jack was right. Life without Magnus would be considerably simpler and a great deal more enjoyable. It was just a shame that lightning didn’t have the habit of striking twice.
    On the other hand, though, why not?

5
    Dr Emilia Redwing tried to see her father once a week although it wasn’t always possible. If the surgery were busy, if she had home or hospital calls to make, if there was too much paperwork on her desk, then she would be forced to put it off. Somehow, it was always easy to make an excuse. There was always a good reason not to go.
    She derived very little pleasure from the visits. Dr Edgar Rennard had been eighty years old when his wife had died and although he had continued living in his home in nearby King’s Abbott, he had never really been the same. Emilia had soon got used to the telephone calls from the neighbours. He had been found wandering in the street. He wasn’t feeding himself properly. He was confused. At first, she had tried to persuade herself that he was simply suffering from chronic grief and loneliness but as the symptoms had presented themselves, she had been forced to make the obvious diagnosis. Her father had senile dementia. He wasn’t going to get any better. In fact the prognosis was a great deal worse. She had briefly considered taking him in with her at Saxby-on-Avon but that wouldn’t have been fair to Arthur and anyway she couldn’t possibly become an old man’s full-time carer. She still remembered the guilt, the sense of failure, that she had felt the first time she had taken him to Ashton House, a residential home converted from a hospital in the Bath valley just after the war. Curiously though, it had been easier to persuade her father than it had been to persuade herself.
    This wasn’t a good day to have made the fifteen-minute drive to Bath. Joy Sanderling was in London, seeing someone on what she had described as a personal matter. Mary Blakiston’s funeral had taken place just five days ago and there was a sense of disquiet in the village that was hard to define but which, she knew from experience, might well lead to further calls on her time. Unhappiness had a way of affecting people in just the same way as the flu and even the burglary at Pye Hall struck her as being part of that general infection. But she couldn’t put off the visit any longer. On Tuesday, Edgar Rennard had taken a tumble. He had been seen by a local doctor and she had been assured that there was no serious damage. Even so, he was asking for her. He was off his food. The matron at Ashton House had telephoned her and asked her to come.
    She was with him now. They had got him out of bed but only as far as the chair beside the window and he was sitting there in his dressing gown, so thin and crumpled that Emilia almost wanted to cry. He had always been strong, robust. As a little girl, she had thought the entire world rested on his shoulders. Today it had taken him five minutes before he had even recognised her. She had seen this creeping up on them. It wasn’t so much that her father was dying. It was more that he had lost the desire to live.
    ‘I have to tell her …’ he said. His voice was husky. His lips had difficulty shaping the words. He had said this twice before but he still hadn’t made himself understood.
    ‘Who are you talking about, Papa? What is it you have to tell?’
    ‘She has to know what happened … what I did.’
    ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about? Is this something to do with Mama?’
    ‘Where is she? Where is your mother?’
    ‘She’s not here.’ Emilia was