‘Sorry, miss,’ said the older man, blocking her way with his outstretched hand. ‘You may want to postpone your appointment with the doctor. We’ve just had to break some bad news to him, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Una. ‘I hope it’s nothing too serious?’
‘The worst news a man could get,’ said the younger officer.
‘Perhaps I should reconsider,’ she said, turning away.
As Una started to walk with the constables down the path the figure of Kurs appeared at the door.
‘Officers, would you let the lady pass?’ he shouted.
What on earth had happened? wondered Una, as she brushed past the two policemen.
‘Miss Crowe. Just the person I wanted to see,’ he said. There was a certain desperation in his eyes.
‘Dr Kurs. Are you all right? The police said you had received some bad news.’
‘Yes, it’s awful. Come inside and I’ll tell you. When I heard the news I gave Mrs Johnston the day off. Of course, she wanted to stay to try and comfort me, but I didn’t want her clucking around me like the mother hen she is. Oh, you must think me terribly cruel, Miss Crowe. I hope I don’t come across as unkind, but when you hear news like this . . . ’
‘What happened?’
Kurs led her into his surgery and asked her to take a seat.
‘It’s my wife, Flora. I’m afraid I have just received news that she is dead.’
‘Oh, how terrible. You must be feeling, well, like your world has fallen from under you.’
‘Yes, I do rather. We had our difficulties, I must admit, and recently we had been leading rather separate lives due to our geographical differences. Flora lived in the north of England, where she grew up. She never liked living in the south, she said. And of course I had my patients here. I knew she had been ill for a while, but I didn’t realise her condition had worsened to the extent that it had. The police told me that . . . that she was found dead in her bed this morning.’
Any dislike Una had once felt for him melted away as a wave of sympathy washed over her. Her memory of losing her father was still so raw that the grief was just as painful as it had been when she had first heard the news.
‘I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,’ she said, tears forming in her eyes. The words were meant for herself just as much as for Kurs.
‘Yes, poor Flora. She had a great deal to live for. Such a vital nature, always so happy. That is, until the disease started to eat her away. I will miss her so very much. But listen to me talking about myself. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am the doctor.’
Kurs stood up and came round to comfort Una who now sat in her chair sobbing.
‘I don’t know what’s come over me. I miss him – Father – so, so much,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘Please, you must forgive me. You must think that I am unbearably selfish. Here you are, you have lost your wife, and all I can do is go on about myself, about the loss of my father eighteen months ago.’
He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. And please don’t try and restrain your emotions. What is that line from Shakespeare? “To weep is to make less the depth of grief.” ’
‘Henry VI, Part 3?’ said Una, sniffling.
‘Yes, very good. I didn’t know that—’
‘That I have an education? At school they told me I was bright. I got a scholarship to Bedford College, but after Father died, I was so grief-stricken that it was thought best for me not to pursue my education. It did hit me rather hard, my father’s death. In many ways, I don’t think I will ever get over it. Sorry, you don’t want to hear this. It’s not an appropriate time.’
Una stood up to go, but Kurs pressed his hand down on her shoulder once more.
‘I’ve got a little plan that might offer some comfort – as an alternative to the tonic.’
‘Really?’ Una had brightened a little now.
‘It’s something I have tried with a couple of my patients. They find it has helped them to some extent, it has lessened their grief. And they have been so very kind as to help me because it’s something I am researching for a future paper. Perhaps – but no, I suppose this is the wrong time completely. No, please forget I ever mentioned it.’
‘If there is anything I could do . . . ?’
‘In this country we survive on bottling things up, don’t you think? Strength and endurance in the face of the utmost difficulty, that’s what makes us British. That is all very well and good for those who are strong and can endure, but what about the ones who cannot face the thought of the dawn of the next day? At the moment, I have never been more sympathetic to their case. Poor Flora.’
‘And how could I help?’
‘As I said, I am in the process of testing a method to help treat those, like you, and now me, afflicted by bereavement. Instead of sweeping things under the carpet, so to speak, and not talking about one’s feelings, I suggest that it may be better to focus on the loss, to acknowledge it and let one’s emotions come to the fore. It is against the British way of doing things – in fact, I read about the technique and its development from some of my Continental colleagues – and I would be lying if I said some patients found the method too painful. But that is the very point – that is the reason why it is successful.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. How would this involve me?’
‘I wondered whether I might be able to test the method on you. I know you have been very badly afflicted by your father’s death, but I hope that by exposure to your feelings you might feel better.’
‘And how would it work? Is there a drug involved?’
‘No, no drug at all. I would simply force you to confront certain things that perhaps you have been trying to avoid.’
‘I haven’t been able to visit my father’s grave in Swanage since he died. Do you mean that?’
‘Exactly. In fact, we could start with that very issue. If you are amenable we could take a trip down to Dorset.’
‘But what about your wife? What about—’
‘The police say there’s nothing I can do for the time being. There will be an autopsy, of course, and that won’t be done until the middle of next week at the earliest.’
‘I don’t know, I’m not sure I am ready.’
‘Of course, if you feel you can’t help me at this time, then I totally understand. I know you’ve got that story to work on. I had assumed that I could fill you in on what I do know about the affair on the drive down there. But if you’d rather not, then—’
‘I think it’s a splendid idea,’ said Una, although she had doubts and felt most unsure. ‘Just what I need. I’m sure it will do me the world of good.’
‘Excellent. I have a few things I need to do in the morning, but shall I see you back here tomorrow in the early afternoon?’
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘Yes, thank you, goodbye,’ I said as I shut the door on the last of the policemen. What an ordeal. I just hoped that I was still in time. I ran into the kitchen and retrieved the large pot that contained the several pints of saline solution that had now cooled. I carried the pot up the stairs as quickly as I could without spilling too much. I arrived in the bedroom short of breath, my hands shaking. If Flora wasn’t dead then surely it was only a matter of minutes before she departed this world: her skin was as cold and white as the marble of an old tomb.
From my bag I wrenched out the length of brown rubber tubing. I dabbed a good knob of butter onto the end of the tube, opened Flora’s mouth and quickly fed it down her throat; from experience I had learnt that eighteen inches of tubing was enough to reach the stomach. I arranged Flora in the prone position, so that her head lay over the side of the bed, and then, with the use of the funnel, started to pour the liquid down the tube. After the first pint had gone down I lowered the tube into the bucket that lay on the ground, and the water, together with some of the contents of Flora’s stomach, gushed out. I repeated the procedure until I started to see that the li
quid was clearing.
‘Come on, Flora,’ I urged under my breath. I held my friend’s hand and squeezed it, willing life into her. But there was still no response. I said a prayer for Flora and then another for myself. It was hard to acknowledge, almost impossible to say the words to myself, but I had committed a murder. The enormity of it was too much to comprehend. How silly of me to think that murder could ever be a source of entertainment. I had made light of it in some of my books. Now I knew the true nature of murder, what it felt like, how its shadow could linger over a life and corrupt and destroy it. I felt like I had been the one to ingest a poison; I could feel a darkness beginning to seep through me, gradually eating away at my soul.
If only those policemen had not stayed so long. They had asked me all sorts of questions about my friendship with Flora, how we had first met, the nature of Flora’s illness (of which I had had to plead ignorance), and of course the name of my friend’s doctor. On this last point I had begun to panic. I could not allow a competent doctor anywhere near Flora in case they spotted not only signs of life, but also signs of poisoning. And so I had told them that Flora was under the care of her husband. If the police checked with him I was sure that Kurs would understand why I had had to lie. Fortunately both Dr Maxwell, who was looking like he needed his regular mid-afternoon drink, and the police seemed satisfied with my answers and said, on leaving, that they would return at some point over the weekend. They were sure, they said, that Mrs Kurs’s husband would be in touch regarding the arrangements. Of course, they added, there would most likely be an autopsy.
As I looked down at Flora’s lifeless but still beautiful body, I could not imagine it being defiled by the scalpel of the pathologist. What had I done? There wasn’t much more saline solution left, only a pint or so, but I poured it down the tube and then lowered the pipe towards the ground once more. The water, now quite clear, gushed forth from the tube and spilled into the bucket. Then, just as she emitted a terrible groaning sound from deep within her, Flora’s chest started to move. A moment later her eyelids began to flutter. I compressed the tubing, withdrew it quickly from her throat and, out of concern for Flora’s feelings, hid it and the bucket out of view. Although Flora opened her mouth to speak, she could not utter a word.
‘You’re back,’ I managed to gasp between sobs. ‘I thought – that you’d gone. That it was too late. Oh, Flora.’
I wanted to embrace her, but I was conscious that Flora would be weak and probably still in pain. I did not have much time and there was still a great deal to be done.
‘Is there anything you need? Water?’
Flora nodded her head weakly.
‘Here you are,’ I said, supporting the woman’s head so she could take a sip. ‘Why don’t you rest for the next few hours while I get everything ready? Of course, normally I would nurse you here and stay with you. But do you remember I told you that I have to return to Harrogate? Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon you. You’re coming with me. I am going to pack a small suitcase for you and tidy up the house.’ I wiped the woman’s brow. ‘To think you went through all that just to help me. I will be eternally grateful, you know that. And one day I mean to repay my debt to you. Thank you.’ I took hold of Flora’s hand and rubbed some warmth into her fingers. ‘I’ll light the fire, I think. That should help. And maybe some sweet tea if you can swallow it? You will feel sore for the next few days, but that should wear off.’ I watched as Flora opened and closed her mouth to try to say something.
‘You want to know about Patrick? Well, the police were going to let him know the news of your death.’
‘But, but – after?’ she whispered. ‘After?’
‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ I said. But Flora was right. There was only so long we could keep this up. At some point, Kurs would discover what we – what I – had done. I did not want to dwell on the terrible revenge he would inflict on me and my family if I did not follow through with the next stage of my plan. In fact, I could hardly bear to contemplate what I knew I had to do.
Just after dusk I drew the dark green velvet curtains; although the house was set back from the road I did not want anyone, particularly any policemen who said they were ‘passing’ or ‘concerned’, to see inside. I emptied the contents of the bucket into the bath, making sure that I swilled it with a good quantity of water and bleach. I washed the rubber tubing and placed it back in my bag. I proceeded to pack some clothes for Flora, as well as a few pieces of her nicest, and most expensive, jewellery. At seven o’clock I tried to wake Flora, but I was met, as I knew I would be, by moans and grumbles.
‘Flora, you need to wake up. Do you remember what we said? What we agreed?’
The words were met by a curse under her breath; it was obvious Flora was still suffering from the effects of the drug.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, I know you want to sleep, and you will. But not here. Not just now. I need you to wake up. When we get to the hotel you can sleep then, you can rest for as long as you wish.’
‘No, I need to . . . ’ she said, the rest of the sentence degenerating into nonsense.
I reached into my bag and took out the bottle of smelling salts. I hesitated a moment before I held them under Flora’s nose. The woman turned her head violently from side to side to avoid the pungent smell and then started to thrash around but I held the salts firm. Flora retched but there was nothing to bring forth.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, but we really do have to get ready to go,’ I said. ‘Here, let me help.’ I sponged my friend’s face with a damp cloth and then combed her dank hair. She looked a fright but that hardly mattered. She was alive, a miracle in itself. I pulled off Flora’s nightgown, a garment so stained it looked like it needed burning, and slowly I managed to ease her into a kimono. I placed a floppy hat on Flora’s head and wrapped a long scarf around it, then slipped a pair of comfortable slippers onto her feet. That would have to do for now.
‘Now, place all your weight on me,’ I said. ‘That’s right, one step at a time. Slowly. That’s it.’
I directed her out of the bedroom and down the stairs. There were times when the physical demands of the task were too much for me and I had to stop on the stairs and catch my breath.
By the time I had directed Flora into the drawing room and lowered her into a chair, sweat was pouring down my face. I took a moment to catch my breath before I went to use the telephone. I took up the directory and found the numbers that I was looking for. First, I ordered a taxi to take us to the railway station. It would have been more comfortable for Flora to travel all the way to Harrogate by taxi but I knew that that was too risky; when the police realised the ‘dead’ woman had disappeared they would check with all the taxi firms in Leeds and simply trace her back to the hotel. Although Flora was still incredibly weak, there was a possibility that the physical effort might help revive her.
Then I booked Flora into the Cairn Hotel, which was only a few minutes’ walk from my own. I would have preferred her to take a room at the Hydro where I could keep a close eye on her but again this was far from sensible; it was bad enough that reporters were most likely snooping around after me. There was one other thing to do: a notice to be placed in The Times that would signal to Kurs that the plan had been carried out. I wrote the words in capital letters: ‘FRIENDS AND RELATIVES OF TERESA NEELE, LATE OF SOUTH AFRICA, PLEASE COMMUNICATE. WRITE BOX R 702, THE TIMES, EC4.’ I enclosed some money and sealed the letter, which I intended to post at the station.
As I waited for the taxi to arrive I went to make a pot of tea. Then, after helping her drink it – Flora could take no more than a couple of sips of the sweet liquid – I asked my friend if I could borrow a few items from her wardrobe. I selected a hat and a scarf and, standing in front of the glass, I shrouded myself in the same manner as I had disguised Flora. I waited by the front window unable to visualise anything beyond the end of that day. When I saw the lights of the car in the drive I eased Flora up from the chair and supported her to
the car. I made sure she was comfortable and then returned to the house to fetch my handbag and Flora’s suitcase. Shielding my face I told the driver to take us to the station; we were, I informed him, going to take a late train to London. My sister was not well and needed to be seen by a Harley Street specialist the next day; I hoped the misinformation would be fed to the police.
On the train I let Flora rest, but I kept an eye on her, occasionally testing her pulse to make sure that she wasn’t about to retreat within herself again. At Harrogate I helped Flora into another taxi and accompanied her to the Cairn, where I registered my friend under the name of Daphne Flowers. I told the lady behind the desk that my friend had been taken ill on the train from London and that she would not like to be disturbed the next day; I said that I was local and would arrange for my friend to see a doctor. As she was rather sickly and off her food at present I said that I would take care of her dietary requirements. The lady from the hotel assured me that that would be acceptable.
In the room, I put Flora to bed and checked her pulse again; it was getting stronger. I made her drink a little water and told her that I would let her rest now and would return in the morning when I expected my friend to have recovered some of her strength.
‘Thank you, my dear, for what you did for me today. It took enormous courage. I will never forget it.’
‘I knew you could do it, I knew you could bring me back,’ she said softly.
I was curious to ask her questions about what she had experienced, if anything, but I would leave that until she regained her strength. Now wasn’t the time to talk about the shadows of death.
‘God bless,’ I said, as Flora closed her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘Have there been any developments today in the press?’ Kurs asked Una as they drove away from his house. ‘Regarding Mrs Christie, I mean. I’ve only seen The Times, none of the other newspapers.’
A Talent For Murder Page 20