by H. Y. Hanna
“No, no, don’t do that,” I said hastily. “I don’t think the police would appreciate it. You know how they feel about civilian interference.”
“They should be thankful that we are offering interference.” Mabel glowered. She waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind, we do not need the police. We can conduct the investigation ourselves. You too, Evelyn. You may join our team,” she said grandly to my mother.
“Er… wait—what?” I said. “No, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Look, you can’t go around breaking into houses and things—you’ll get arrested, even at your age!”
“Why on earth do you think we would be breaking into houses?” said Mabel haughtily.
Because that’s what I caught you doing last time, you old coot, I thought. Aloud, I said, “Please, don’t get involved. I’m working on it—I just need a bit more time. I’m sure I can convince Devlin to order a post-mortem on Dame Eccleston’s body—”
“Why don’t you just ask the pathologist, darling?” my mother spoke up.
“What?” I stared at her. “Mother, I can’t just go to see him and ask him if he would cut up a body for me, as if I’m asking him to cut up some teacakes!”
“Why not?” asked my mother.
I opened my mouth to answer, then paused and shut it again. She was right—why not? Hadn’t Lincoln suggested something similar? Yesterday, during our phone call, he’d said I could try approaching the pathologist myself. And it was known that forensic pathologists sometimes went out on a limb and did things on their own initiative in a murder investigation. Well, they did in books, at any rate, I thought with wry humour. Anyway, what did I have to lose? Nothing at this point.
I turned quickly to the Old Biddies. “Listen, can you and Cassie manage without me here for a bit this morning?”
“Well, of course, Gemma,” said Glenda in surprise. “But what—”
“I’ll tell you later!” I promised and, leaving them looking after me perplexedly, I dashed back out of the tearoom.
I decided to catch the bus rather than cycle—there was a direct one to the hospital—and I was soon on it, rehearsing in my head what I was going to say. When I got to the hospital, however, I lost my nerve slightly. Suddenly the thought of marching into the morgue, and demanding an autopsy from a pathologist I hadn’t even met, seemed very daunting.
I know—I’ll go and find Lincoln first. That way at least I’d get the name of the new pathologist and maybe even an idea for how to introduce myself in the most positive way. I made my way up to the Intensive Care ward, only to find that Lincoln wasn’t there.
“Dr Green? He’s just gone down to the hospital canteen, actually,” said one of the nurses at the ICU reception counter. “It’s on the third floor. If you go down now, you should be able to find him. There won’t be many people there at this time of the morning.”
“Thanks,” I said, already turning and making for the lifts.
I found the canteen relatively easily and hurried in, scanning the room for a sign of Lincoln’s tall figure. I saw him instantly, to my right just as I came in the room, and I started eagerly towards him—then jerked to a stop.
He was leaning against the wall, his body relaxed, his head tilted to one side in a slightly teasing manner, laughing and looking down at a pretty Oriental girl who was standing next to him. From the white coat and scrubs she was wearing, she must have been a doctor, although she looked too young to be even out of medical school. Her hair was jet black and silky straight, pulled back in a low ponytail, and it matched her black almond eyes. She had that enviable smooth glowing skin that all Asian women seemed to possess, with a faint smattering of freckles across her high cheekbones. Her head was tilted back too, looking up at Lincoln and laughing with him as she balanced her tray against one shapely hip.
They’re flirting, I realised. And something wriggled uncomfortably inside me.
Suddenly, I changed my mind about speaking to Lincoln. The last thing I wanted to do was intrude on this intimate tête-à-tête. But at that moment, a clatter of crockery across the room made Lincoln look up and his eyes fell on me.
“Gemma!” he said with a smile. “What are you doing here?”
Reluctantly, I approached them. “Uh… hi Lincoln,” I said uncomfortably. “Sorry to bother you…” I glanced at the girl, who was looking at me curiously. “I… um… was hoping that you might be able to help me. I wanted to try and speak to the locum forensic pathologist—you know, you said he might be open to listening to me—but I wasn’t sure about just going down to the morgue… I was thinking maybe you could give me his name?”
“I can do better than that,” said Lincoln with a laugh. He put a hand under the elbow of the girl standing next to him. “Let me introduce you to Dr Josephine Ling. Jo is the forensic pathologist who will be taking over Dr Maxwell’s job while he’s away on long service leave.”
I couldn’t help but stare. This was the new forensic pathologist? The girl looked like she belonged in a Chinese teenage cheerleading team! Then her gaze met mine and I saw the vivid intelligence in those dark eyes—and I quickly revised my opinion. In spite of her looks, this was no empty-headed China doll.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” she said, holding a hand out towards me. She had a soft, musical voice. “What was it you wanted to ask me about?”
“Um…” I hesitated, assessing her, wondering what her reaction would be. Then I tossed caution to the winds. “I’d like you to do a post-mortem on a woman who died last Saturday,” I said. “I think she might have been murdered.”
“If you think that, shouldn’t you be reporting it to the police?” asked Jo.
“I have—that is, I’ve told Inspector Devlin O’Connor—”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, Dev! He’s great. Such a brilliant investigator.”
I eyed her warily. Dev?
Jo was continuing, “Wait… last Saturday—was this at that village fête out in the Cotswolds? Wasn’t Dev there himself? I heard there was a thing with the Agri-Crime gang…”
“Yes, he was. He arrived just after Dame Eccleston collapsed and he pronounced her dead.”
“Well, surely if he had thought that there was anything suspicious—”
“The thing is, the woman’s GP was at the fête as well and he certified that she had died of natural causes. She had had a heart condition and it was put down as a heart attack.”
Jo raised her eyebrows. “He didn’t feel the need for a post-mortem to confirm?”
“It was Dr Foster from Meadowford-on-Smythe,” Lincoln put in.
Jo’s eyebrows climbed even higher. “Ah.” She looked at me again. “But Dev is normally very sharp about these things. If he doesn’t feel that there needs to be an investigation—”
“Devlin could be wrong!” I burst out. I felt slightly disloyal questioning his judgement in public like this, but I was getting desperate. “I’m not sure he’s taking the evidence seriously enough.”
“You have evidence?” said Jo quickly. “What sort of evidence?”
Quickly, I told her everything I knew, from the inconsistency with the pillbox to the anonymous letter that Mary had found to Edwin Perkins’s suspicious behaviour to Joseph’s possible grudge and finally the general belief that Dame Eccleston had many enemies who wouldn’t have hesitated to do her harm. When I finished, Jo shook her head sceptically.
“I can see why Devlin is reluctant to turn this into a murder investigation,” she said. “All the so-called ‘evidence’ seems highly circumstantial or tangential and could all have other interpretations.”
My heart sank.
She chewed her bottom lip for a moment, thinking to herself. Then she gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Still, I believe in a woman’s intuition. I think you’re on to something… Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Really?” I said, delighted. “Can you do it tomorrow? Because she’s being buried on Friday.”
She considered. “I should be able to swing it. But just be aware tha
t it’s not like a cookery show where I can go into the kitchen and say: ‘Here’s one I made earlier!’ I can’t just do it on the side and then produce the results to give to the CID. It’s got to go through official channels. I’ll tell you what I’ll do though,” she said with sudden enthusiasm. “I’ll speak to Dev and tell him that I support your suspicions and get him to officiate everything.”
Uh-oh. I hope Devlin won’t be annoyed that I’ve gone behind his back, I thought uncomfortably.
“You might find him really difficult to convince,” I said to Jo. “I’ve already tried speaking to him several times—”
“Oh don’t worry, leave Dev to me,” she said with a wink. “And I’ll tell him that I’ll stay late on my own time to do it, so there won’t be any question of overtime expenses and impinging on other cases.”
“Thanks,” I said, surprised and grateful. “That’s… that’s really nice of you.”
“I told you she was great,” said Lincoln with an admiring smile.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Dr Green,” said Jo with a laugh and a playful shove at Lincoln’s arm. “Now, are you going to help me eat this muffin or not?”
She indicated her tray which contained—in addition to the chocolate muffin—a pasta salad, a tub of yoghurt, a muesli bar, a packet of crisps, a large banana, and a cup of tea. I stared at the crammed tray and then at Jo’s slim, petite figure. Where did she put all that food?
“I’ll just grab a coffee,” said Lincoln, heading towards the canteen counter. He looked back at me. “Would you like to join us, Gemma? Can I get you something?”
“N-no, that’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’ve got to get back to the tearoom. But thanks. And thank you,” I said, turning back to Jo. “I really appreciate it.”
She smiled at me. “No problems. I’ll try to squeeze it in tonight, so you’ll hopefully have a preliminary report by tomorrow morning.”
I left Jo and Lincoln still talking and laughing together in the canteen, and walked slowly out of the hospital to catch my bus back to Meadowford. I was aware of a funny mix of feelings—there was relief and gratitude, but also something a bit like irritation. On the one hand, I was delighted and grateful that Jo was willing to stick her neck out for me. But on the other, her confident takeover of the situation rankled a bit. Like the way she had talked so easily of handling Devlin—or “Dev”, as she called him. I frowned. The nickname implied a level of intimacy that I was surprised they had, given that she had only just come to fill in the locum position. And then there was the way Lincoln hovered around her, like a Labrador eager for a pat… and they had definitely been flirting when I arrived…
Come on, Gemma, I thought with a wry smile. You’re just jealous! Admit it!
Okay, so maybe I was. Just a tiny bit. And a tiny bit peeved. Oh, don’t get me wrong—of course, I was happy for Lincoln if he had found someone else; I wasn’t trying to be “dog in the manger” about it. But… I’m only human. And I guess every girl likes to think that the chap who fancied her wouldn’t have moved on that quickly and easily. Besides, Jo Ling was the type of girl who would make any woman’s hackles go up. She was just so bloody perfect—smart, charming, confident, and highly skilled at her job, all while managing to look like some kind of Asian fashion model too!
I shook my head and gave a self-deprecating laugh. All right, maybe I was more than just a teeny bit jealous. Who wouldn’t be of that gorgeous creature? Still, if that gorgeous creature helped me prove that Dame Eccleston had been murdered, I would be eternally grateful to her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was slightly quieter in the tearoom that day, which was just as well because I had to leave early. I had made an appointment for Dora with the village GP and I was making sure that she kept it by practically marching her to the door of the clinic.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! You’d think I was a child, the way you are treating me,” Dora grumbled as we left the tearoom together and walked slowly down the cobbled lane to the other side of the village where the GP clinic was situated. “I said I would go and I am going! I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
However, when we arrived at the clinic and I was about to bid her goodbye, Dora suddenly reached out and caught my arm.
“Um, Gemma… Would you… Do you mind coming in with me for a bit?” she said, licking her lips. “I mean, if you don’t need to rush off—”
“Oh sure, I’d be happy to,” I said with a smile. “I’ll sit with you in the waiting room until you go in.”
“No, actually, I’d like you to come in with me—that is, if you don’t mind,” said Dora. She swallowed again and I saw the whites of her eyes. “I… um… It would be nice to have a friend with me… if it’s bad news.”
“I’m sure it won’t be that,” I said quickly. “It’s probably something really simple and the doctor will fix you up in no time.”
Inside, we found a waiting room full of what seemed to be sniffing, coughing people and wailing babies. Like most general practice clinics, the appointments were running late and the receptionist informed us apologetically that Dr Foster wouldn’t be able to see us for at least another half an hour. Resigned, we went to find seats to wait. I sat down between a lachrymose man with a dripping red nose and a middle-aged woman who was coughing fitfully into her handkerchief, and reflected wryly that it would be a miracle if I left the clinic without catching something. Dora sat on the edge of her seat, her back ramrod straight and her eyes darting nervously around the waiting room. I tried to interest her in the few magazines that were scattered on the table next to us—just to help her take her mind off things—but obviously, the latest celebrity diets and photos of rock stars sunbathing nude on their yachts weren’t distracting enough.
Finally, the door next to the reception desk opened and Dr Foster stepped out. He looked even more doddery than he had at the fête, his spectacles sliding off the end of his nose and his white hair slightly rumpled. He called Dora’s name and she jumped up like a frightened animal, turning desperate eyes on me.
“I’m here,” I said reassuringly, rising and accompanying her into the doctor’s inner office.
“I hope you don’t mind but I have a first-year intern with me today,” said Dr Foster, sitting down at his desk and indicating the young man hovering behind him. “Now then, what can I do for you, Miss Kempton?”
Dora began to speak haltingly whilst Dr Foster made notes on a notepad next to him.
“Hmm… Yes, I see…”
“… and I’ve been getting terrible headaches,” Dora confessed. “Especially at the end of the day, after I’ve been baking for a while… I find I can’t see things… when I look down, everything looks blurred. And… and…” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been making mistakes.”
“What kind of mistakes?”
“Baking mistakes,” said Dora, with all the grim horror of someone announcing a global stock market crash or threat to national security.
Dr Foster looked bemused, obviously not understanding why a baking mistake should be such a grave problem.
“Dora is a very good baker,” I explained. “She never makes mistakes.”
“Well, now, everyone makes mistakes now and then,” said Dr Foster with a smile.
Dora drew herself up with great pride. “I don’t.”
“Now, my dear…”
“Mainly with the new recipes, mind you,” added Dora quickly. “I haven’t had such trouble with the old ones. But I’ve been trying some new recipes and I just don’t understand—they’ve come out too sweet or the dough’s too wet or even… even tasting absolutely disgusting sometimes! And things getting burnt in the oven… I never make mistakes like that.” She fidgeted, looking down at her hands, then looked up again, her eyes scared, “I think… I think there is something wrong with my head. Perhaps something in my brain…” She swallowed convulsively, then said in a rush, “Do you think it might be a tumour, doctor?”
The old doctor frowned. �
��Hmm… hmm… well, one never knows until one has had the proper tests and such. It is certainly possible…”
“But there could be a simple explanation too, right?” I said quickly, seeing Dora’s white face.
“Perhaps, perhaps…” said Dr Foster vaguely. “Have you been having trouble tasting anything?”
“No… I mean, the things haven’t tasted very good but I could certainly taste that!”
“Hmm… quite so… and you can distinguish the flavours on your tongue? Sweet, salty, sour?”
“Yes.”
“And your hands? Have you been finding yourself dropping things a lot or not having the strength to grip things properly?”
Dora looked down at her calloused hands and shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. I do drop things sometimes but probably no more than usual. I am finding it hard pouring things out properly in a measuring jug though—I just can’t seem to get the levels right…” She looked up at him anxiously. “I’ve never had trouble doing that before.”
“And how long have you noticed these… ah… difficulties occurring?”
“It’s been coming on so gradually, I can’t really remember. You know in the beginning, you just put it down to carelessness or maybe bad luck…” Dora thought for a moment. “Perhaps a couple of months or so now?”
“Hmm… hmm… I see… Now, I’m just going to check a few things…” the old doctor said as he began taking medical equipment out of a drawer.
Dora watched apprehensively as he started to examine her. I sat quietly to one side and tried to give her an encouraging smile every time she looked my way. I could see her getting more and more anxious as the doctor said nothing other than an occasional “Hmm…” and her anxiety began to rub off on me. Could it be something serious after all?
Finally, Dr Foster sat down again opposite Dora. “Miss Kempton, I think we may need to send you for further tests at the hospital—perhaps a full neurological exam,” he said gravely.
“Oh my God!” Dora covered her mouth with a hand. “You think… you think…?”