“Would you like a cup of tea?” she offered.
Patrick thought she needed one herself, as shock treatment, and making it would help to soothe her, too. His plan of action for the next half-hour was one his sister would deplore. He grinned to himself, thinking of her reaction. Betty took him into the sitting-room and settled him down with the Daily Mail while she went to put the kettle on.
Left alone, Patrick at once got to his feet and inspected the room. It was large and comfortable, with shabby, well-worn chairs and a big, loose-cushioned sofa. There was no book in sight. Some knitting lay on a table, and there were photographs on the mantelpiece and on a large oak dresser by one wall. Patrick recognised Tim in adolescence, and more recently, before he grew his hair and adopted sideboards. There was another boy, too, a fairer, slimmer young man with a sensitive, anxious face; this one was like his mother. A second one of him, a wedding picture, showed him smiling with self-conscious pride beside his bride outside a church. Poor boy, no wonder he looked embarrassed; Patrick, well accustomed though he was to pageantry in Oxford, and to processing through the streets in his cap and doctor’s robes of blue and scarlet, nevertheless considered any man who underwent the ordeal of the Church of England wedding ceremony in full regalia to be a hero. He was still looking at this photograph when Betty returned with a tea tray.
“Your other son?” he asked. “He’s very like you.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Betty was pleased. She put the tray on a low coffee table and they both sat down. “Yes, that’s Martin. He’s been married just over a year.”
“What a very pretty girl,” said Patrick.
“She’s a model. She’s kept her job on,” Betty said, rather sadly, for unreasonably she had expected to become an instant grandmother. “They live in Chelsea. I’m sure she needn’t work. Martin does quite well. He’s with an advertising firm.”
“Most young wives carry on with their jobs these days until they have a family,” Patrick said. “It’s sensible. They get bored otherwise.”
“I suppose so,” Betty said. She had become pregnant with Martin on her honeymoon, and those early years after the war had been a nightmare of contriving, with food, soap and clothing all rationed; it was a time when anxiety and overwork went hand-in-hand with motherhood, so different from today when parents could enjoy their babies.
“I expect you often see them?” Patrick asked.
“No, we don’t,” Betty said. “They’re busy. They have their own friends. They don’t come down to Sunday lunch at Pantons any more, I’m sorry to say. My mother- in-law has been very distressed about it. Old people mind these things.”
“And Tim is away from home? I thought Cathy said he had come back from his holiday?” Patrick inquired.
“He got home on Saturday evening, but he went away again yesterday,” Betty said. “I don’t know where to,” she added bleakly. How to explain the emotion that she felt, half fear for Tim, and half afraid of him, with his moods and his withdrawals? But there seemed to be no need; Dr Grant appeared to be a very understanding man.
“They’re secretive at that age,” he said. “Wrapped up in themselves, and thoughtless. I shouldn’t worry.”
“No,” said Betty doubtfully. It was vain advice; one could as well attempt to stop the tides.
“You said the police were here this morning?” Patrick felt that confidence had been established now and he could start to probe. “That’s a sad business. Poor woman.”
“Did you know that they think she may not have died a natural death?” said Betty, shuddering. Talking to Dr Grant so frankly was not indiscreet; he seemed like an old friend. “It seems some of my mother-in-law’s sleeping pills have disappeared. Yet I should never have thought Mrs Mackenzie the suicidal type.” She felt a sudden compulsion to confide in him. “The police are being very thorough. They want statements from us all about when we saw her last, and when we’d all been to Pantons.”
Was this why Tim had disappeared, wondered Patrick, or was it for another reason ?
“When did you last see her, Mrs Ludlow?” he asked aloud.
“On Friday. My mother-in-law rang me up that afternoon while Mrs Mackenzie was upstairs in her room and Phyllis was in Fennersham, and then my husband and I went round in the evening to welcome Gerald, that’s my brother-in-law, and his wife back from their honeymoon. Oh, isn’t it sad? We should all be happy now, for Gerald, instead of sad about Mrs Mackenzie.” And frightened. In an obscure way that she could not define Betty was frightened about Mrs Mackenzie’s death.
“It’s very unfortunate,” said Patrick. “She seemed quite well that night?” Better to go along with the suicide idea until the alternative was admitted.
“Oh yes,” said Betty. “But then, people are deceptive.”
Indeed they are, thought Patrick, even you, guileless though you seem. I wonder if the police noticed that you are terrified?
While Betty went on thinking that Patrick was a delightful, sympathetic man, he drew from her, bit by bit, an account of what had passed during her interview with Inspector Foster.
TUESDAY
I
The inquest was opened on Tuesday and adjourned for a week. Patrick sat at the back of the village school which was used for the proceedings, watching while Mrs Mackenzie’s son Alec, a thin, pale young man with a stunned expression, gave evidence of identification. Phyllis Medhurst was present, soberly dressed in a grey suit and subdued feather hat, and both her brothers, but not their wives; afterwards the three conferred together in the school playground, watched interestedly over the wall by some of the pupils who were enjoying this unexpected day’s holiday. Alec Mackenzie left the building with a young man whom Patrick recognised at once from his photograph as Martin Ludlow; after a few words with the older members of the family, the group broke up; Derek Ludlow patted his son on the shoulder and they all separated to their cars which were parked in the lane outside the school. Patrick got into his Rover and sat there lighting his pipe while Martin drove off in a dark Vauxhall Viva, with young Mackenzie as his passenger.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Patrick to himself as he drove slowly back to Reynard’s.
The fine weather had broken and a gentle rain was falling. After lunch Jane and Andrew had a date at the clinic; she might be away some time, Jane said, as she might go back for a cup of tea with one of the other mothers. Patrick settled down for an afternoon’s work with his papers. It was intriguing to speculate on what had motivated people’s actions centuries ago: much the same things as drove on their successors now, he thought, greed, envy, lust. He soon found his mind wandering away from Chipping Campden towards Pantons and the mystery there.
At three o’clock the front doorbell rang, and when Patrick answered it he found standing on the step Inspector Foster, whom he had seen at the inquest earlier, and his red-haired Sergeant.
“Dr Patrick Grant?” inquired the Inspector.
“Yes,” Patrick said. “What can I do for you, Inspector? Will you come in?”
He led the way into Jane’s sitting-room, and removed a rattle and a small woolly duck from a chair so that the Inspector could sit down. “My nephew’s he explained, and sat down opposite after finding another chair for the Sergeant.
“This will be your sister’s house, I believe? Mrs Conway?” asked the Inspector.
“That is correct,” said Patrick.
“I’m making some inquiries into the death of Mrs Joyce Mackenzie,” said the Inspector. “There are one or two points you may be able to help me with.”
“I am at your service, Inspector,” Patrick said.
“You were at the inquest, were you not?” the Inspector asked.
“I was. A sad business.”
“Yes. A shock for the lady’s son, I’m afraid. He’s taken it hard.”
“A shock for everyone,” Patrick suggested. “But perhaps in your job you become inured to these things?”
“To some extent,” said the Inspecto
r guardedly. “It depends upon the circumstances. When it’s a youngster - never.” He cleared his throat and rattled his papers. “Well now, sir,” he said. “I believe you went up to the Stable House on Saturday evening. Will you tell me how that came about, please ?”
“Certainly, Inspector. I went to Pantons, too, and met the deceased lady,” Patrick said. He watched to see if this was news to the Inspector.
“Did you? Please tell me what occurred,” said the Inspector with a poker face.
“I was collecting for charity,” Patrick explained. “I went up on behalf of my sister, who had been round the rest of the village. I had met Miss Cathy Ludlow, whose cousin, Timothy Ludlow, is a member of my college. I went to Pantons first, and the door was opened by a woman who must have been the late Mrs Mackenzie. Plump, grey-haired, about fifty. She had very blue eyes and wore a green overall.”
Silently the Inspector handed him a photograph, and Patrick nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
“What time was this?” asked the Inspector.
“About twenty-five past eight, I should say.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No. Mrs Mackenzie disappeared briefly and came back with five shillings, which she gave me, and I left.”
“You waited on the step meanwhile?”
“She invited me into the hall.”
“Did she go upstairs to get the money from her employer, do you think?”
“She did not go up the front staircase. I imagine there is another in a house of that size. But she was not very long.”
“Hm.” The Inspector made a note in his book. “Did you happen to notice that there was an oak chest in the hall?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Patrick, who had stood there noticing everything from the prints on the walls to the state of the barometer during the housekeeper’s absence.
“There were a number of objects on it. Can you recall what any of them were?”
Patrick had always been good at Kim’s game.
“There were some car keys, a pile of books - novels from the library, I should imagine,” he said, knowing very well what they were and all their titles. “Some gloves, a torch, the parish magazine, and a small parcel.”
“You’re very observant, Dr Grant.”
“I try to be,” said Patrick modestly.
“What size was the parcel?”
“Oh, very small. A little paper bag, about two inches square, or less.”
The Inspector took from his pocket a small paper bag printed with the name of the chemist in Fennersham.
“Like this?”
“It could have been. That size, anyway,” Patrick agreed. He sighed. “The fatal pills, eh? Of course I didn’t know then what was in the parcel, so I can’t tell you whether the bottle was half-empty at the time I called, or whether they vanished later. What a pity.”
Jane, of course, had so low an opinion of him that she would have expected him to pry during his brief spell of solitude.
“You seem well-informed about the manner in which Mrs Mackenzie died,” said the Inspector disapprovingly.
“My sister and Cathy Ludlow are friends,” Patrick said. “Cathy was very distressed by this whole business, naturally enough, and she told us what had happened.”
“I see. I hope I can rely on your discretion, Dr Grant?” said the Inspector. “I am anxious to keep this quiet at present. I don’t want the Press down here.”
“I share your anxiety,” Patrick said. “My sister and I only want to help our friends.”
“After Mrs Mackenzie had given you a donation, you went to the Stable House?”
“I did. I must have reached there soon after half-past eight.”
“And who was present?”
“Mr and Mrs Gerald Ludlow, Mrs Medhurst, and Cathy Ludlow,” Patrick said. “They kindly invited me in and gave me a drink as well as some contributions.”
“And you remained there for how long?”
“Oh, about three-quarters of an hour. Perhaps a little longer,” Patrick said. “We had a pleasant time.”
“And everyone you have named was present all the while?”
“Yes. That is—” Patrick hesitated, but someone else, Cathy for instance, would tell the Inspector if he did not.
“Mrs Ludlow left the room briefly to fetch her purse, which was upstairs. She put ten shillings in the tin.”
“And Mr Ludlow contributed as well?”
“Yes. He gave me a pound,” said Patrick.
“Did you not think it surprising for Mrs Ludlow to contribute on her own account?”
“I thought it generous,” said Patrick. “I knew that she had not been married long and perhaps did not realise it wasn’t necessary. Her husband made some such comment, as a matter of fact.”
“She was gone only briefly? Just long enough to fetch the money from her bedroom?”
“Well, no, Inspector. She was a little longer than that,” said Patrick. “She probably took time to powder her nose and so forth. You know what women are.”
“Dr Grant, in your opinion, would there have been time for her to have gone up to Pantons and returned again?”
“You’re not suggesting, are you Inspector, that Mrs Gerald Ludlow sprinted up to the big house to put sleeping pills in the fruit pie in order to murder the mother-in-law she’d only just met? Anyway, all but the fatal slice had been eaten by this time.”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Dr Grant,” said Inspector Foster coldly. “I’m asking you a question. “I didn’t time the lady,” Patrick said smoothly. He glanced towards the Sergeant, busy with his shorthand, ginger eyebrows twitching.
“So the pills were in the pie?” Patrick said.
Inspector Foster looked at him, meditating. Then he said: “I’ll tell you this in confidence, sir. We’ve had the analyst’s report, and a quantity of barbiturate was found in the deceased’s stomach, together with partially digested lemon meringue pie and enough whisky to suggest that she had consumed two or more doubles before retiring.”
“I see,” said Patrick. “I appreciate your confidence, Inspector.”
“The powder could have been in the whisky, but it doesn’t dissolve readily, and there was no trace of any such adulteration in the glass in the dead woman’s room or in the bottle she kept in her cupboard.”
“So it all points the other way,” Patrick said slowly. “If only I’d looked inside the chemist’s parcel when I was in the hall. If Mrs Mackenzie was bent on suicide she might not have taken the pills out of the bottle until later, when she went to bed.” He looked at the Inspector. “We have suicides in Oxford you know,” he said. “Youngsters who can’t cope. It’s easy to be wise afterwards, of course, but Mrs Mackenzie didn’t look disturbed in any way.”
“No, sir.”
“So you’ve got a case of murder here,” said Patrick. “What a dreadful thing.”
“I’m not agreeing with you, sir,” said the Inspector grimly. “I’m just investigating every possibility, at present.”
Patrick nodded.
“Quite so,” he said.
“Would you tell me what time you left the Stable House, Dr Grant?” the Inspector asked.
“About a quarter past nine,” aaid Patrick.
“You had your car?”
“No, I walked. I wanted the exercise.”
The Inspector would ask if he had seen anyone as he returned to Reynard’s, and he would have to say that Martin Ludlow’s Vauxhall Viva had passed him in the drive. Only citizens totally lacking in a sense of responsibility withheld information likely to assist the police. Patrick waited for the question, but to his surprise it did not come.
“Thank you, Dr Grant. You’ve been most helpful,” the Inspector said, rising to go. “If you think of anything else, I’m sure you’ll get in touch with me. Apart from old Mrs Ludlow, you were the last person to see Mrs Mackenzie alive.”
“I will of course,” Patrick assured him, earnestly. In his pocket wa
s the envelope addressed to young Tim Ludlow which he had found that night, and in his pocket it would stay until that youth had explained his movements. For the present, the Inspector must dree his own weird, and a pretty confused one it appeared to be.
Jane came back from her afternoon’s expedition in time to see the police car drive away from the cottage.
“What’s been going on?” she demanded, hurrying into the house with the baby in her arms.
“Inspector Foster wanted my assistance,” Patrick said, with a complacent air.
“Don’t give me that. It’s a pity he couldn’t arrest you and lock you up out of the way,” Jane said. Patrick ignored this gibe.
“My collection of the facts is being hampered because I have yet to meet the formidable Mrs Ludlow,” he said.
“I think I’ll rectify the matter. If I go up to Pantons this evening, I’ll catch her before she goes to bed.”
“You can’t go bursting in up there when they’re in all this trouble,” said Jane.
“Yes, I can. I can carry our condolences and offer them our help,” said Patrick. “And I’d quite like to see how little Cathy’s getting on.”
“Now lay off her. She’s just at the age to fall for an older man,” Jane warned. “Don’t add cradle-snatching or infant heartbreak to your list of sins.”
“It won’t hurt her at all to have a little crush on me,” said Patrick smugly. “Form her taste for her. Quite beneficial, I should say.”
“Oh you!” cried Jane, exasperated. “Andrew, here’s a most conceited man. Don’t you grow up like him, my precious poppet,” and she bore her baby away, out of the contaminating presence of his uncle.
II
It was Cathy who opened the door when he rang the bell at Pantons some time later. Her face brightened when she saw him.
“Hullo, Cathy. How’s everything? I just came to see if you’re all bearing up, and if there’s anything I can do,” he said.
“Come in,” Cathy said. She looked round, and added in a whisper, “It’s awful. It’s agony waiting for something more to happen.”
Dead In The Morning Page 9