It took time to slide the sling under him and position his limbs to ensure they’d be safe during the transfer. He groaned as the boom of the hoist raised him from the bed and my mouth tightened to see him in such discomfort purely to satisfy the wife’s wishes.
When he was safely deposited in the chair, Carol turned to me with a smile. ‘Thank you.’ The castors rumbled noisily on the wooden floor as she pushed the chair across to the window and the world beyond, the one he’d soon be leaving, then she moved a smaller chair closer to sit beside him. ‘Do you mind seeing yourself out?’ she said. ‘He’s often a little restless for a few minutes after being moved and I don’t like to leave him.’
Of course, he was restless! The poor man had been dragged from the comfort of his bed for no reason. ‘No problem.’ I picked up my bag. ‘I hope the rest of the day goes well.’
Shutting the door softly behind me, I headed down the stairs. Several doors opened from the large hallway. It seemed a shame not to make the most of the opportunity I’d been given and investigate a little.
I opened the front door, then shut it with an unnecessarily loud bang. With a glance up the stairs, I crossed the hallway, opened one of the two doors facing me, slipped inside, and shut the door softly behind me.
The room was huge with tall bay windows overlooking the garden to the front. A group of three sofas was set around a stone fireplace. Three cushions sat on each, flat against the back, all with a trendy neat dent in the top. A grand piano stood against one wall, sheet music on the stand above the keys. Unlike the sofas which looked as if nobody ever sat on them, these were dog-eared and obviously used. Mrs Wallace possibly. I’d never learned to play, but I’d like to have sat and run my fingers along the keys, played lady of the manor for a while. It was tempting but would have brought Carol down, and despite grinning at what she might say, at the look of horror on her face at my deception, I wasn’t finished exploring.
Shelves to each side of the fireplace were filled with all kinds of tat – high class and expensive, but tat nonetheless – and I felt for whoever had to lift and clean each piece. It was obvious it was done, there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.
I crossed the room to a huge sideboard that almost stretched the length of the wall. Almost half of its surface held alcohol: most in bottles, some in finely carved glass carafes. Alongside, an ornate silver tray held delicate wine glasses and goblets. The other half of the surface was crammed almost to overflow with framed photographs. I picked up one to peer closer at Mrs Wallace. She was tall, slim, conventionally attractive with perfect features and hair cut in an asymmetrical bob.
There were older photographs: men and women with a vague resemblance to each other, uncles and aunts, perhaps even cousins. There were some of Mr Wallace as a younger man too. I picked up one for a closer look, my initial twinge of sorrow changing to a jolt of shock in an instant. I carried the frame to the window for a better look but in the light that filtered through the net curtains, the resemblance between Mr Wallace and my father was even more striking. Both were movie-star handsome. Both had that heavily Brylcreemed hairstyle that was the fashion of the day.
I’d kept no photographs of my father, unwilling to have a constant reminder of a man who’d cheated us so badly. There was one in Mother’s room in the nursing home. I doubt if she even noticed it. It was one taken a year before he’d died, one taken while he shared his life with his other wife.
This photograph, in its ornate silver frame, resembled my father as a younger man. The one before he’d learned how to cause pain. And I wanted it. There were so many frames on top of the sideboard, would anyone miss one? Surely not if I carefully moved the surrounding frames to cover the gap.
It was tucked into my bag before I debated the wisdom of stealing from a dying man. If I had, I’d have shrugged it off. He wasn’t going to care. I stood back with the purloined frame safe in my possession and regarded the remainder of the display. There was a second, almost identical frame further back. I could put a photograph of my mother in it. I was almost tempted by the old in for a penny in for a pound maxim. But I wasn’t stupid, if someone missed one small frame, they might consider it was mislaid, if they missed two, they’d think theft.
With the frame in my bag, and a final glance over the display, I opened the door, listened for a moment, and slipped back into the hallway. I should have left then, I really shouldn’t have tempted fate, but it was impossible to resist exploring further.
The next door opened into a rather dark dining room. It had an air of abandonment about it, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see cobwebs stretching from the chandelier to the corners of the table. But when I switched on the light, setting the chandelier aglow, it was obvious the same care that had been given to the other room had been given here. It was clean and surprisingly devoid of anything personal. For someone intent on finding secrets, it was extremely disappointing.
Back in the entrance hall, I glanced towards the front door, then towards the door in the furthest corner of the hallway. One look behind it and I’d go home, that’s what I told myself as I crossed to it and pushed it open. Unfortunately, it opened into a short corridor. It lured me on, as did the descending staircase at the end. If I encountered anyone at the bottom, that incredibly efficient cleaning person for instance, I’d simply claim I was looking for the toilet.
The stairway led down to another small corridor. Light shone from under the door facing me and before I could stop myself, I’d grabbed the handle and pushed. It opened into a large, bright open-plan kitchen-cum-living room with a stretch of glass doors overlooking the garden and that lovely view.
There was nothing exciting to be found in any of the cupboards apart from the usual plethora of stuff most people kept. There was a drawer stuffed with recipes torn from magazines, and another filled with odds and ends.
In the living room, I admired the artwork on the back wall and the view from the comfortable sofa across the terrace to the valley beyond. A wall-mounted TV and an open copy of a programme guide indicated that this was where Mrs Wallace sat in the evening.
I took a last look around. Apart from the view, there was nothing of interest.
Shutting the door behind me, I looked up the stairway, then to the other doors off this small space, one to the right of the kitchen and one to the left. One, I discovered, opened into a small windowless room with a toilet and tiny wash-hand basin. The other was locked.
Locked. Was there anything more tantalising than a locked door? From being vaguely interested in what was behind it, now I was consumed with curiosity. What was so important, on what was a domestic floor, that it needed to be kept locked away?
The door was old, probably original, and the lock the old-fashioned type. It was possible to peer through the keyhole but the room beyond was in darkness. The key to open it would be too big and awkward to fit on a keyring. I reached a hand to check above the door. All I found was some dust. Life was never that easy.
I was about to give up, take my curiosity and the stolen silver frame and get the hell out of there. But I did hate to give up. The key had to be somewhere handy. I checked above the other doors. Nothing.
My hand was on the newel post and my foot on the lower step before I had an epiphany. The newel post was set about half an inch from the wall. I slid my hand down it and almost laughed as my hand snagged on a nail and my fingers closed over the metal key hanging from it. I was right, it was big, old-fashioned and heavy.