Sick to Death

by Douglas Clark

  Sisson nodded. When Masters left a few minutes later he had the doctor’s signed explanation and request to supply one 10 ml phial of Rapitard insulin for police purposes. He knew that he hadn’t really needed the note, but he felt he’d had to have some excuse for calling on Sisson’s receptionist.

  Green was enjoying himself in Cheltenham. He had the knowledge that he was unusually and topically well-dressed, which, left wing though his views were, nevertheless made him feel good. The journey had been through pretty countryside looking at its best. The day was beautiful. Cheltenham Promenade looked attractive, with its excellent shops and its gaily dressed shoppers. And on top of all that, a chat with two personable girls in prospect.

  Their flat, in an Edwardian house some way behind the College, was on the top floor. Green climbed the first flight laboriously, and found the front door of the second-floor flat alongside and at right angles to that of the first-floor apartment. It had an illuminated bell. He pressed it and somewhere above his head heard a two-tone chime. There was the sound of light feet skipping downstairs, and the door opened. Green said who he was. ‘I’m Clara Breese,’ the girl said. ‘Come in, won’t you?’

  They were on a small landing. The colours were so startling—purple and yellow—and the travel-poster murals so garish that for the moment Green forgot to look at Clara Breese. By the time he’d recovered his wits she was leading him up an internal flight of stairs. Then he looked. She was in a short, pale pink quilted housecoat and mules to match. As she went ahead of him he had an excellent view of a fine pair of bare, firm legs and thighs. He watched the tendons tauten and the muscles move as she stepped upward. They turned at right angles. Two steps more and they were on a little square landing off which all the doors appeared to open. Except for a small window on the bend of the stairs the only natural light on the landing was borrowed through a stained-glass panel through the clear bits of which he could see the kitchen.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ Clara Breese said.

  As Green stopped a voice from a room on the right called, ‘Who is it, Clara?’

  Clara poked her head round the door. ‘Get up, lazybones. It’s the law. Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Oh, hell. At this hour?’

  Clara Breese turned to Green. She was dark and handsome. Almost black hair parted in the middle, with very little hint of wave in it. A well-shaped, sun-tanned forehead, fine black brows, a straight nose and eyes as merry and black as a West Highland terrier’s. Her neck was smooth, with no hint of line or wrinkle. Her hands were, Green thought, on the big side, but looked extremely well cared for with the nicest shaped nails he’d ever seen. The housecoat was too full and couthy to show her figure, but he noted that it stood proudly enough at the breast to promise well. ‘Come into the sitting-room,’ she said. ‘We haven’t done our weekly housework yet, but at least there’s a chair to sit on.’

  He followed her in. A big, L-shaped room, with a flat window and a wooden wainscot a yard high all the way round. This was grey. The walls were in sprigged yellow paper. Above the picture rail, where the walls curved gracefully inwards to the flat of the ceiling, was a band of lavender colour, fading into white around the central chandelier.

  The furniture was hotch potch. Unmistakably the collection of two different personalities. The two armchairs were inundated with glossy magazines. Clara cleared one heap for Green. He noted two he had never heard of or seen before—Graphis and L’Oeil. He wondered about them. He could recognize L’Oeil as French. Was it full of nude studies? Or as innocuous as the Homes and Gardens that accompanied it? He sat down and asked if he could smoke. ‘Yes, do,’ Clara said, and then went to the door to call, ‘Win! Heat up the coffee and bring it in, will you?’ She waited for the muffled reply and then came back to clear the other chair for herself. ‘You must excuse us. We hadn’t an inkling you were coming and Saturday is our Sunday, you know.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  As she sat she tried unsuccessfully to close the gap at the bottom front of the housecoat. ‘Nobody will let us near a shop to window dress on Saturdays. They’re much too busy. But on Sundays we get a free run because the shops are shut. So we’re always up and doing on Sundays. It’s the busiest day of the week with us.’

  Green thought for a moment. ‘What about last Sunday? Weren’t you worried when Sally Bowker didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Not in the least. In fact we didn’t know she didn’t turn up. Win and I were busy in Cheltenham. Sal had an appointment in Gloucester. We didn’t begin to get worried till Monday tea-time. The shop she was supposed to have done on Sunday had been trying to get us all Monday. But we were out until four. Then they tried again and got us. One of their people had been waiting for hours on Sunday to let Sal in. They wanted to know what we thought we were playing at.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I tried to get Sal on the phone. I thought she might be under the weather—being diabetic, poor old thing. But I got no reply. Then I rang the shop where she ought to have been working on Monday. When they, too, said she hadn’t shown up I began to get worried. Win and I went over to Gloucester, saw Brian Dent, and he contacted the police. They got hold of the master key and found her.’

  ‘Master key? Where from? There isn’t a caretaker in Wye House?’

  ‘No. It was in the agents’ office.’

  ‘Who are the agents?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  Winifred Bracegirdle came in with a coffee tray. Having been given more warning of Green’s presence, she had taken the trouble to dress properly. She was short and well built. She had dark hair and a naturally dark skin. An elfin face, almost triangular, that needed dark lipstick to show off the pleasant mouth and excellent teeth. She was a mature woman in miniature. A nice bosom, Green thought, and excellent legs. She had to wear very high heels to give her any height at all. She smiled at him. ‘Good morning. How d’you like your brew? Black, white or khaki?’

  She poured and handed round the coffee and squatted on a pouffe. ‘Hold the fort, Win,’ Clara said. ‘I’ll take mine with me and get dressed and in my right mind.’

  ‘I should think so. You must be embarrassing this poor man, sitting opposite him in your dishabilles. Have you got any pants on?’

  ‘Linings only,’ Clara grinned, and as she went through the door, added, ‘Transparent nylon ones.’

  Win smiled above her coffee cup. She doesn’t care, you know.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘What’s anything?’ Green said patiently.

  ‘Oh, whether she’s wearing pants or not. Whether she lives in complete chaos. Whether she shocks people. Whether she loses things, boy friends—anything.’

  ‘Boy friends? She sticks to numbers?’

  ‘Now she does. Although …’

  ‘Although what?’

  ‘Oh, just that she didn’t always.’

  Green sensed that Win was not being quite as forthcoming as she might be, or had intended to be. ‘So she had a steady at one time?’ he asked.

  Win nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, just some chap.’

  Green hazarded a guess. ‘Brian Dent, perhaps.’

  ‘You knew.’

  ‘No. But you were being so cagey it was easy to see you were trying to hide something. You wouldn’t try to hide the name of somebody not important to me. So speak up. She went steady with Dent at one time?’

  Win nodded. ‘For about six months.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He teamed up with Sal. After that Clara didn’t seem to care very much. A different one every night.’

  ‘Fair enough. She can play it any way she likes. But you hinted just now that with Sally Bowker dead …’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything. It’s just that the way seemed open again—for Clara and Brian, I mean.’

  Green lit another Kensitas. ‘When did you last see Sally Bowker?’

  ‘Last Friday afternoon. I’d done her
some stickers and she came to collect them.’

  ‘What did you do on Saturday?’

  ‘I cleaned up the flat and did some shopping in the morning. Went swimming in the afternoon. And had a date at night.’

  ‘And Miss Breese?’

  ‘I think she went to Gloucester after lunch. I didn’t see her till Sunday morning.’

  Green asked for the name and address of Win’s date. While he was writing it down, Clara came in, wearing a pale-blue summer frock and white sandals. Green noted her toe nails were painted cherry-red and, unusually for him, approved. ‘Miss Breese,’ he said. ‘When did you last see Miss Bowker?’

  ‘Here, last Friday.’

  ‘Not on Saturday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you go to Gloucester on that day?’

  Clara looked across at Win. ‘You’ve been gassing as usual, Win.’ She turned back to Green. ‘Yes, I went there. But not to see Sally.’

  ‘Would you care to tell me what you did do?’

  ‘I went to visit an aunt.’

  ‘How long did you stay with her?’

  ‘I didn’t see her. She was out when I called.’

  ‘So what did you do, Miss Breese?’

  ‘I had tea in a shop. Went round the cathedral. Then went to the cinema, and came home by the ten o’clock bus.’

  Green made notes of the places Clara said she’d visited. He closed his book and asked, ‘Were all three of you good friends?’

  ‘Very,’ Win said.

  ‘As far as I know,’ Clara said.

  ‘Yet Miss Bowker left you?’

  ‘Only to deal with our Gloucester business,’ Win explained. ‘It had nothing to do with …’

  ‘With what, Miss Bracegirdle?’

  ‘You might as well know,’ Clara answered him. ‘Brian Dent and I were friendly at one time. Then he fell for Sally. I expect Win’s already told you.’ She sounded disillusioned.

  ‘I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. He guessed. Didn’t you?’

  Green nodded. ‘Even detectives can’t guess like that without some hint to tell them they’re getting warm,’ Clara said.

  ‘Don’t fall out about it I had to know, some way or another,’ Green comforted her.

  ‘Why?’ Clara asked.

  ‘Somebody killed her. We want to find out who it was.’

  ‘Is that all? Or have you some more questions?’

  ‘Just one. Has either of you ever been a nurse?’

  Clara looked across at Win and smiled sweetly. ‘Didn’t you do a bit of studying, ducky, before Sal and I asked you to join us? When you thought you’d never get any other job?’

  Win reddened. ‘Yes. I did. What about it?’

  Green got to his feet. ‘Thank you, ladies. Could you tell me where I can catch the bus for Gloucester?’

  At Wye House, Hill and Brant were calling on those occupants who were at home. There were eleven other bachelor flats, besides Sally Bowker’s, in the block. Their questions were restricted mainly to asking when each occupant had last seen the murdered girl. The two sergeants expected little joy, and that is exactly what they got. But it was very noticeable that every person they talked to—young and old of both sexes—spoke very highly of Sally. In the most enthusiastic terms. And not simply because she was dead. Her neighbours gave the definite impression that as far as she was concerned, beauty really did live with kindness.

  By midday they had managed to see all but one of the tenants. The last one, a Miss Wombrugh, had been away all morning. The others were certain she had merely gone shopping and would be back for lunch. ‘Shall we forget her?’ Brant suggested. ‘She’ll not have anything more to tell us than the rest. And that’s nothing.’

  ‘I’d say go home now,’ Hill said, ‘but for the fact that she lives next door to Sally Bowker. She might just have heard or seen something last Saturday night.’

  Hill was right. Miss Wombrugh was a well-set-up woman of fifty. The sergeants, without knowing who she was, saw her walking smartly, despite a heavy basket, up to the front door of Wye House. The two, standing on the step, watched her approach, and stood aside as she drew near. ‘What a beautiful day,’ she said. ‘You look a little lost. Can I help you?’

  ‘If you are Miss Wombrugh, madam …?’ Hill asked.

  ‘I am she.’

  ‘We are police officers. We’ve been waiting in the hope of seeing you.’

  ‘Have you? I’m so sorry. In this hot sun! And I took an unconscionable time over my coffee in the Bon Marché this morning. Had I not done so I should have been home much earlier. I do apologize.’

  ‘No harm done, ma’am,’ Hill said. ‘Let me take your basket.’

  She handed it over as though it happened every day of the week. She had a dignity and an obvious ability to accept courtesies of this sort as a natural thing. She led the way upstairs. Her upright figure, good legs and sensible dress for the weather would have put many younger women to shame. She opened her flat door and they found themselves in an exact replica of the one Sally Bowker had lived in except that this one was at the other back corner of Wye House, and so was a mirror image.

  She invited them to sit, and without asking poured them all sherry, saying, ‘I have no other drinks in the house.’ There was no further explanation.

  She sat down. ‘Well, gentlemen, what do you wish to ask me? I assume it is in connection with the death of my late neighbour.’

  Hill said, ‘We’re from Scotland Yard, ma’am. There’s a team of us down here to investigate Miss Bowker’s death. There are several lines of inquiry going on. One of them is to ask the occupants of Wye House if they saw Miss Bowker, or heard her, last Saturday evening.’

  ‘I have told the local Chief Superintendent that I saw Sally with her fiancé about twenty past ten last Saturday night.’

  ‘Where, ma’am?’

  ‘On our little landing outside, and on the approach road.’

  ‘If you could expand that a little, ma’am.’

  ‘Of course. I’m falling into the same trap that I often warn my girls at school about. I teach English to the upper forms. I keep reminding them that though they may be familiar with the subject they are writing about, they must assume the reader is not and that explanations must be full and logical.’

  ‘Quite,’ Hill said.

  ‘I was walking home last Saturday night from a supper engagement with a colleague. It was a pleasant evening, and I felt no need for a cab. I left at ten or a few minutes after, knowing it would take me almost exactly a quarter of an hour to get here. Shortly after I left the main road—where the sign says “Private to residents only”, Mr Dent passed me—or rather, overtook me—in his car. He had Sally with him. I know the car, of course, and I could see the occupants quite easily because the road is well lit and the hood was down. It’s a coupé—an E-type Jaguar I believe it is called—with a very distinctive look. Only a minute or so later I reached the front door. The car was drawn up there. I came upstairs, and there were Sally and Mr Dent at the door of her flat.’

  ‘Doing what? Saying good night?’ Brant asked.

  ‘That is what I imagine they were doing. But not in the traditional style.’ She smiled. ‘No long, lingering kiss as in the novelettes. Sally was actually just inside her hallway. The door was half open. Her right hand was about shoulder height on the jamb, and though I couldn’t see her left hand, from the position of her arm I should say she was holding the door-knob inside. She was facing her fiancé who was just outside in the passage. I got the impression that she was about to go in, and that he was about to go away. And I think the scrap of conversation I overheard supports my belief.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘I am sure I heard Sally say, ‘I know it’s quite early, but I’ve a big day tomorrow and I feel a bit m’yer.’

  ‘A bit what?’

  Miss Wombrugh smiled. ‘It’s a modern expression—both facial and vocal. It is compounded of a grimace and an onomatopoeic sound suppose
dly resembling that associated with the rather unpleasant act of vomiting.’

  ‘M’yer?’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘This is quite important,’ Hill said. ‘Miss Bowker definitely said she felt m’yer?’

  ‘Without any doubt at all. Knowing Sally to be a diabetic, I felt just a twinge of worry, but as I stopped by them to open my door she smiled quite gaily and said good night to me. Mr Dent said good evening, too. And before I was fairly indoors I heard him say good night to Sally, too. I think the kiss came at that point, but it must have been a short one, because before I had finished hanging my light coat in the landing cupboard, I heard him going downstairs and his car starting. As I said it was a pleasant night, the windows were all open, and there is no mistaking the noise that particular car makes when it starts up.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ Hill asked. ‘You didn’t see or hear her again?’

  ‘Certainly I didn’t see her. But after I’d made my nightcap and had it, I went to the bathroom to prepare for bed. Now, if you are familiar with these flats, you will know that my bathroom neighbours Sally’s.’

  Hill nodded.

  ‘And you can probably guess, today’s building standards being what they are, that the dividing wall is made of a single thickness of breeze blocks, laid on their edges. What my father—who really was a master builder—would call “rat-trap” fashion.’

  Hill nodded again.

  ‘Bearing that in mind, I think—but I can’t be sure because I was cleaning my teeth at the time and what I heard may have been the rumblebelly plumbing—I think I heard Sally retching.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I stopped my scrubbing, turned off the tap and stood listening with my mouth full of toothpaste foam which began to dribble down my chin. I heard no sound at all, so I presumed I had been mistaken. Otherwise I should have gone to her.’

  ‘You didn’t think of going just in case?’

  ‘I’m ashamed to say I didn’t. You see, were Sally to have been all right, and in bed—as she had suggested she would be half an hour before—and possibly asleep, I should have been categorized as a nosey old cat for waking her up. And I shrank from that, partly because I like to live at peace with my neighbours and to keep my nose out of their affairs and partly because it is not easy to say to any young woman, “I thought I heard you making a noise in your bathroom.” As it is a lavatory also, and noises, even when clearly heard through party walls, may be deceptive, the greatest exception may be taken. To say the same thing to a diabetic girl may suggest that you are taking an interest in her condition so great as to constitute an invasion of her privacy.’