An Empty Death

by Laura Wilson

  ‘I understand. But thank you. I know that it would mean a great deal to him. I know…well, that he could seem rather abrupt sometimes, in his manner, but he was a kind man. When my mother died, he was so understanding…I’ll never forget it.’

  Stratton reflected, as he went to the cubicle that contained the mortuary telephone and asked to be put through to West End Central, that he’d often wondered what went on inside the head of a cold fish like Byrne – clearly, as he’d begun to suspect, there was far more to him, both in terms of imagination and of empathy, than he’d ever imagined. And the business about Professor Manning was, he thought, definitely an argument against Byrne committing suicide – at least, not without leaving very specific instructions.

  If it was murder, that brought the total up to three: first a doctor, then a nurse, and now the pathologist. Try as he might, he couldn’t see how they could possibly be connected other than by happening to work in the same hospital. Three different methods, and none of the victims, apparently, knew each other well in life…Yes, Fay Marchant had been seeing Dr Reynolds, but she wasn’t connected to the others, was she? Except that he’d seen her in the mortuary corridor on the night of Byrne’s death. But why on earth should she want to strangle Nurse Leadbetter? Even if Leadbetter had known about her and Dr Reynolds, and was proposing to tell him about it, adultery, whatever else it might be, wasn’t a crime…and besides, if that was so, Fay must have guessed, given the speed that rumours got about the hospital, that Leadbetter wasn’t the only one who’d noticed something untoward going on. Stratton shook his head: it ought to add up, but it didn’t – not at all.

  Forty-One

  ‘Are you sure about this, Stratton?’

  ‘No. sir. But I think we should be sure. He did ask to speak to me urgently, sir.’

  ‘And then he apparently went home.’

  ‘That’s the point, sir. I don’t think he left the hospital.’

  DCI Lamb sighed gustily. ‘I’ll send someone over, and we’ll telephone the Yard for Fingerprints. Try and be discreet, will you?’

  Stratton suppressed an image of himself stampeding down the corridor tearing at his clothes and yelling ‘Murder!’ at the top of his voice. Aloud, he said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  ‘We’ll need a pathologist, sir.’

  ‘Pathologist?’

  ‘He can hardly perform a post-mortem on himself, sir.’

  ‘I know that,’ snapped Lamb. ‘We’ll arrange something.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s possible, sir,’ said Stratton, ‘but I understand from Dr Byrne’s secretary that he and Professor Manning didn’t exactly hit it off, so it might be more suitable…if there’s anyone else available…’

  ‘For God’s sake! The man’s dead, isn’t he? He’s not going to know anything about it.’

  ‘I know, sir, but all the same…’

  ‘You’ll get whoever’s available. We can’t ask everyone to change their plans at the whim of some wretched typist.’

  Stratton couldn’t help imagining an interview with Lamb at some future date, should he prove to be wrong about Byrne’s death, with himself chewing on an enormous helping of humble pie. Bollocks to that, he thought, accepting a thick china cup of tepid tea from Higgs. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to.

  He telephoned Ballard and asked him to contact the air force and locate Byrne’s son, then asked Miss Lynn to show him the post-mortem results from the previous few days. There was nothing of note in the way of botched abortions, infanticides or anything else, which seemed to put paid to the idea that Byrne had telephoned him about a recent suspicious death.

  ‘How would Dr Byrne get access to drugs or poisons?’ he asked Miss Lynn. ‘Assuming that you don’t keep anything down here.’

  ‘He’d have to go to the dispensary,’ said Miss Lynn. ‘For morphine, or something like that, he’d have to sign the book. But he wouldn’t have any reason,’ she gestured towards the covered bodies, ‘to request it.’

  Stratton was making a note to enquire further about this when a knock on the door announced Professor Haycraft: sparse wispy hair, skewed spectacles set so far down his nose that they seemed to be pinching his nostrils closed, and an air of disengagement. Stratton was not surprised when, at the end of the explanation, Haycraft asked, with the tentative air of a bystander, ‘Is there anything you would like me to do?’

  ‘Well, I think we should wait for the pathologist’s report – we’re arranging for someone to come and do the post-mortem as soon as possible. Depending on that, we may or may not have to interview the staff—’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I’m afraid so – if it proves necessary. And of course – without wishing to be brutal – you’ll need to hire another pathologist.’

  Haycraft looked round at the sheeted figures as if he’d only just noticed them. ‘Oh, dear. Yes, yes, of course. Well, I’ll leave it in your capable hands. And I’m sure you can appreciate that we’d prefer this not to become, shall we say, widely known, especially if there’s no necessity to investigate, and so forth…Coming on top of the other matters…I’m sure you understand what I mean.’

  ‘Of course, Professor,’ said Stratton, wishing to Christ that everyone would stop treating the whole thing as if it was somehow his fault.

  Ten minutes later, Arliss – it would be – trudged in and duly stationed himself outside Dr Byrne’s office, where, as soon as he thought Stratton’s back was turned, he appeared to fall asleep on his feet. Arliss was followed, in remarkably short order, by an extremely apprehensive-looking doctor, who looked, to Stratton, like a schoolboy just grown out of short trousers.

  ‘Can we help you?’ enquired Stratton.

  The man cleared his long throat. ‘Ferguson, to see Dr Byrne. I was sent from Guy’s. I came as soon as I could – is he here?’

  Bloody hell, thought Stratton. ‘Still in his office. I’m Detective Inspector Stratton,’ he said, offering his hand.

  Ferguson took a step back. ‘I don’t understand. What’s this about?’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’

  Ferguson shook his head. ‘They just said to get here as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Stratton, as gently as he could, ‘that Dr Byrne is dead. We need you to examine him.’

  Ferguson turned pale and ran a nervous hand through his hair. ‘But…He can’t…I mean, I can’t…I…Look, Inspector, Dr Byrne taught me. He’s…It should be someone senior, someone more…’ He gave Stratton a pleading look.

  ‘It needs to be done immediately,’ said Stratton. ‘You’ll have Higgs to assist you.’

  Higgs, who had been staring at Ferguson with undisguised horror, now looked down at his shoes. Miss Lynn clutched Stratton’s arm. ‘Inspector, you don’t want…I mean, I can’t…’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Stratton assured her. To Ferguson he said, ‘Can you manage without a secretary?’

  Ferguson swallowed audibly and turned to Miss Lynn. ‘You worked for him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was…his lectures…Marvellous. That’s why I decided to work in this field.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s most appropriate, and I’m sure Dr Byrne would agree,’ said Stratton, briskly. ‘This way, please. You’ll need to examine the body before it’s moved.’

  Ferguson blinked. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.’

  Arliss, who, Stratton noticed, had yellow crusts of sleep at the corners of his eyes, stood aside to let them enter Byrne’s office. Ferguson, who went in first, took one look at the prone figure of Byrne, and turned back to Stratton, his eyes imploring. ‘I…’

  Stratton shook his head and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Ferguson’s Adam’s apple convulsed. ‘I…Oh, God…’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton. ‘I’ll stay with you.’

  ‘Thank you. Well…Here goes, eh?’ He took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and knelt down beside the
body.

  Stratton gave a brief summary of the situation, and then, fearing a repetition of his conversation with Dr Ransome, only more so, and deciding that a break with etiquette was in order, said firmly, ‘There’s a syringe on the desk. If you look at his left arm, you’ll see that he seems to have injected himself – or been injected – with something. We’re going to need a full toxicology report.’

  After Ferguson had worked in silence for some minutes, Higgs appeared in the doorway. ‘All ready for you, Doctor. I’ve prepared the instruments.’

  Obviously horror-struck by the idea of using Byrne’s instruments to dissect their owner, Ferguson looked at Stratton, who nodded encouragement. ‘I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Higgs. ‘I’ve got the stretcher outside if you’re ready to move him?’

  Ferguson, who seemed incapable of speech, merely nodded. Seeing that the young pathologist was in no state to organise things, Stratton called to Arliss to help with the stretcher. This he did, with agonising slowness, and, bending down to load Byrne’s body, let off a volley of small, squeaky farts. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ said Stratton.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Arliss gazed at him resentfully. ‘My stomach’s still not right.’

  ‘So we gathered,’ said Stratton, acidly. ‘When you’ve finished turning this into a farce, perhaps you could get a move on.’

  Miss Lynn stood in the corridor, head bowed, her notebook clasped to her chest in the manner of one presenting arms, as the stretcher, accompanied by grunts from Arliss and tutting noises from Higgs, was borne past her into the mortuary, Stratton and Ferguson bringing up the rear.

  Forty-Two

  Ten days late. Standing in the hall, Jenny gave the knot of her headscarf a final, sharp tug. She’d just taken her coat off its peg when Doris appeared with a basket of shopping.

  ‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you!’

  Jenny groaned. ‘Don’t tell me. What’s she done now?’

  ‘Nothing, really. It’s just that Don’s not going to be back for a while, and I’ve been a bit on edge since that wretched tea party…

  Just a bit of moral support, that’s all. I’ve been queuing all morning, and I really don’t think I can bear to go back and face her on my own.’

  ‘That’s all right. Being funny again, is she?’

  ‘She won’t speak to me.’

  ‘In that case, I don’t suppose she’ll speak to me, either, but I can have a go. Come on.’

  Jenny succeeded in keeping Doris’s mind off the subject of Mrs Ingram – after all, what more was there to say about the wretched woman? – until they reached her house. ‘She’s put the blackouts up in the kitchen, look.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake.’ Doris unlocked the front door and attempted to push it open, but it remained shut. ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Doris!’

  ‘Well, honestly…Wait a minute, Jen.’ Bending down, Doris pushed open the letterbox and peered inside. ‘Jen…I can smell something.’

  Putting down her shopping, Jenny leant over and sniffed. ‘Blimey. That’s gas.’ The two women put their shoulders to the wooden panels and shoved. After a few seconds, the door began to give. ‘There’s something in the way. A blanket, by the look of it.’ ‘Right!’ Jenny put her full weight against the door, which, very slowly, started to open. ‘That’s done it.’ She squeezed herself through the crack and threw herself at the kitchen door, which opened easily – the edges of that blanket not being secured – so that she almost fell into the room, with Doris hard on her heels.

  The sickly, headachy smell of the gas made Jenny feel instantly dizzy. Taking in the form of Mrs Ingram, clad in one of her sister’s nightdresses and lying full length on an eiderdown in front of the oven with a pillow beneath her head, apparently comatose, she said, ‘I’ll turn it off – you open the doors and windows.’

  ‘Be careful, Jen.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Leaning across the prone body, Jenny switched off the tap and then, bending over Mrs Ingram, began slapping her, none too gently, on her cheek, which, like the rest of her face and neck, was an alarming cherry pink. ‘Mrs Ingram! Can you hear me?’

  Mrs Ingram moved her head and muttered something, her speech too slurred for Jenny to make out the words. ‘We’ve got to get her into the garden, Dor – fresh air.’ Grabbing Mrs Ingram under the arms, and thanking God that there wasn’t much of her, Jenny began to pull her towards the door. After a moment, Doris joined her. ‘All the windows open?’ panted Jenny.

  ‘Downstairs. And the back door.’

  ‘Good. You take the legs.’

  They half-dragged, half-carried Elsie Ingram down the passage and into the garden, and propped her up against the tree furthest from the house, struggling to hold her upright as her knees buckled.

  ‘Do you think we ought to walk her around a bit?’ asked Doris.

  ‘We can try.’ They each took an elbow and attempted to propel Mrs Ingram forward, propping her up on either side. She staggered, as if drunk, her head wobbling. ‘She’s an awful colour, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, and she’s all cold and clammy. Shall I fetch a blanket?’

  ‘In a minute. I’m not sure I can manage her by myself.’

  ‘All right. Thank God for fresh air. My head…’

  ‘I know. Imagine how she must feel.’ As if on cue, Mrs Ingram lurched abruptly to the right and, jerking forwards, vomited into a flowerbed. ‘That’s a good sign.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Doris eyed the puked-on bedding plants grimly.

  Mrs Ingram sagged between them, spluttering. Over her head, Doris muttered, ‘Of all the stupid…’

  ‘I know, Dor, but she’s had a difficult time.’

  ‘Not her, me! I might have known she’d do something silly, after that other business.’

  Jenny made a shushing noise, then said, ‘Better now?’ to Mrs Ingram.

  Mrs Ingram leant forward once more, retching, Jenny and Doris hanging onto her arms. ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Jenny. ‘How could you know? Come to that, I should have known. You can’t take this all on yourself, Doris.’

  ‘Yes, well…we keep saying that, don’t we? “We couldn’t have known…”’

  ‘Well, it’s true. Dr Makepeace didn’t know, did he? And we’re just a couple of housewives, not…’ Jenny mouthed the next word exaggeratedly, ‘psychiatrists.’

  After almost half an hour spent marching Mrs Ingram round the garden, Jenny and Doris decided that, as her face seemed to be returning to its normal colour and she wasn’t showing any more signs of wanting to be sick, it would be safe to let her sit down. Jenny propped her against the back door while Doris fetched a deckchair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Mrs Ingram, as they lowered her into it. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  Jenny and Doris exchanged glances. ‘No dear,’ said Jenny, patting Mrs Ingram on one hunched little shoulder. ‘You just stay put there, and I’ll get you a cardigan and a nice cup of tea. Don’t want you catching a chill.’

  By the time they returned to the kitchen, the smell of gas had dissipated somewhat.

  ‘Did you mean that?’ asked Doris, filling the kettle.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About not telling anyone.’

  ‘I don’t see how we can,’ said Jenny. ‘If we tell Dr Makepeace he’ll have to report it, won’t he?’

  ‘They wouldn’t charge her, though? Not after what she’s been through, surely?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it depends whether they think she’s fit to plead. That’s what they call it – Ted told me. It means you can tell the difference between right and wrong.’

  ‘Right and wrong?’ echoed Doris. ‘She doesn’t even know her own husband!’

  ‘I shouldn’t think they would charge her, but they might. And if they don’t, it means she’ll end up in the you-know-where.’

  ‘Oh, dear…We can’t win, can we? Do you think it’s safe to light the gas?’

/>   ‘I don’t know. We ought to—’

  Hearing the creak of the gate, Jenny stopped. ‘Don,’ hissed Doris, glancing out of the window. ‘I’d forgotten he was leaving work early. Don’t say anything.’

  ‘But the door…And your things! We left the basket on the step.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Donald appeared the doorway. ‘The front door was wide open, and there are blankets all over the place, and…’ he spotted something behind the kitchen door. ‘What’s this?’ He reached out and Jenny heard the noise of paper being ripped. ‘Beware Gas,’ he read. ‘It was pinned on the door…’ Jenny and Doris exchanged glances – in their haste, neither had noticed it. ‘What’s that bloody woman done now? No, don’t tell me – that’s why you’ve got all the windows open, isn’t it? She’s tried to do herself in. For Christ’s sake—’

  ‘Don, please,’ said Doris. ‘Keep your voice down.’

  Donald jabbed a finger in the direction of the eiderdown, which was still lying on the floor. ‘Found her with her head in the oven, did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Outside. We thought she ought to have some air.’

  ‘It’s a shame she didn’t manage to finish the job.’

  ‘Don! That’s a terrible thing to say.’

  Fearing that Doris and Donald were about to have a row, Jenny said she’d better fetch the shopping and left the room. She put the basket in the hall and went back to the garden to see how Mrs Ingram was doing.

  Looking even smaller and more frail than before, Elsie Ingram was perched so far forward on the edge of the deckchair in a manner that, had she not been so light, she would have tipped the thing right over. She was staring fixedly at the scrubby lawn by her feet.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Jenny.

  Raising her head a few inches, Mrs Ingram said, ‘I’m sorry…Putting you out like this.’ Then she resumed her contemplation of the grass.

  How extraordinary, thought Jenny, to be so polite at a time like this…on reflection, though, she’d probably have done the same herself. And she’d left that note, hadn’t she? Even though she thought they were all part of some plot against her. People were funny. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘These things happen.’ Staring at the top of Mrs Ingram’s head, she thought, what a ridiculous thing to say – these things happen – because they didn’t, at least not to anyone she knew. People were just supposed to get on with things, especially now, with the war. But, she thought irritably, what were you meant to say? The sheer embarrassment of it was bad enough, never mind all the other stuff.