Read Online Fox Evil by Minette Walters - Free Book Online Page A

verdict to the old man. At the time James had taken it well and had instructed Mark to draw up a will that would result in the breakup of the Lockyer-Fox estate with only minimum bequests going to his two children. It had remained unsigned, however, with James sitting on the draft document for months, apparently reluctant to take what he perceived as an irrevocable step. When urged over the telephone to voice his concerns, his only answer had been an angry one: "Stop harassing me. I still have my faculties. I'll make the decision in my own good time."
    Mark's worries had increased a few weeks back when an answerphone had suddenly appeared on the Manor line, as if James's naturally reclusive nature now extended to a ban on all access. Letters, which had previously been dealt with by return, went unanswered for days. On the few occasions when James bothered to return Mark's calls, his voice had sounded remote and indifferent, as if the affairs of the Lockyer-Fox estate no longer interested him. He excused his lack of enthusiasm on grounds of tiredness. He wasn't sleeping well, he said. Once or twice, Mark had asked him if he was depressed, but each time the question was greeted with tetchiness. "There's nothing wrong with my mind," James had said, as if it were something he feared nevertheless.
    Certainly Mark had feared it, hence his insistence on this visit. He had described James's symptoms to a doctor friend in London, who told him they sounded like full-blown depression or post-traumatic stress disorder. These were normal reactions to unbearable situations: avoidance of social contact-withdrawal from responsibility-listlessness-insomnia-anxiety about incompetence-
anxiety
, full stop. Use your imagination, his friend had advised. Anyone of the Colonel's age would suffer loneliness and distress when his wife died, but to be suspected of killing her and questioned about it…? It was delayed shock. When had the poor old fellow been given a chance to grieve?
    Mark had arrived on Christmas Eve, armed with advice about bereavement counseling and the ability of mild doses of antidepressants to lift the mood and restore optimism. But he had prepared himself for sadness, and sadness was absent. Talk of Ailsa only made James angry.
    "The woman's dead," he snapped on one occasion. "Why this need to resurrect her?" On another: "She should have dealt with her estate herself instead of passing the buck to me. It was pure cowardice. Nothing was ever gained by giving Leo a second chance." An inquiry about Henry, Ailsa's elderly Great Dane, brought an equally curt response. "Died of old age. Best thing for him. He was always mooching around trying to find her."
    Mark's contribution to the holiday was a hamper from Harrods after his doctor friend told him that depression didn't eat. The truth of that was starkly obvious when he opened the fridge to store his brace of pheasant, pate de foie gras, and champagne. No wonder the old man had lost so much weight, he thought, eyeing the empty shelves. The freezer in the scullery was fairly well stocked with meat and frozen vegetables, but thick layers of frost suggested most of it had been put there by Ailsa. Announcing that he needed bread, potatoes, and dairy products, even if James didn't, he drove to the Dorchester Tesco's before it closed for the holiday and stocked up on essentials-throwing in detergents, bleach, shampoo, soap, and shaving equipment for good measure.
    He set to with a will, scrubbing and disinfecting the surfaces in the kitchen before mopping the stone-flagged hall. James pursued him like an angry wasp, locking the doors of rooms that he didn't want him entering. All questions were greeted with half-answers. Was Vera Dawson still cleaning for him?
She was senile and lazy.
When did he last have a decent meal?
He wasn't expending much energy these days.
Were his neighbors watching out for him?
He preferred his own company.
Why hadn't he been answering letters?
It was a bore to