‘What about the left arm. What was the extent of the hardening there?’
The pathologist went back to his file, although more briefly this time. ‘Very little. The softness of the skin was a contributory factor, I decided, to the puncture wound being larger than the others.’
‘Something else not in the newspaper reports but mentioned in your statement, was how long Mrs Lomax had been unconscious.’
Bailey breathed in sharply and the irritation made it even more difficult for him initially to respond. ‘Mr Davies was furious with the policeman, for talking about the bladder collapse. That was most unnecessary. Most distasteful.’
‘How long?’ repeated Hall.
‘A considerable time: the bladder collapse was an early indication of organ deterioration.’
‘Working back from the time she was found – three-twenty in the afternoon, according to Gerald Lomax – what time the previous night would she have become deeply unconscious?’
‘Twelve hours, at least. The evening meal had been steak: very little had been digested. The blood alcohol content was also extremely high.’
‘There was no mention whatsoever in any report I read but in your written statement you talked of an abrasion inside Mrs Lomax’s upper lip?’
Bailey nodded. ‘Something else that didn’t need to be brought out to cause Mr Lomax any further distress. In my opinion it resulted from Mrs Lomax, in a very unsteady condition, accidently striking her lip between the glass and her teeth, when she attempted to drink from the brandy goblet that was found on the bedside table.’
‘As a medical expert, what’s your opinion of Mrs Lomax being prescribed meberevine hydrochloride?’
Bailey gave the impression of considering the question. ‘As you know, a diabetic makes excess glucose. Some proprietary brands of meberevine hydrochloride have lactose and sucrose added to them. I don’t think it’s an ideal preparation for a diabetic but the two, by themselves and with the instructions being strictly followed, wouldn’t be overly dangerous. But with an excess of alcohol and insulin it is, as I said at the time, a lethal cocktail.’
He smiled, expectantly, but Hall didn’t respond. Instead, tightly, he said, ‘Thank you,’ and stood up. How many deaths crying out for a proper investigation, as this had been, were dismissed by platitudes, quick chats between fellow members of the local golf club and preconceived, unsubstantiated opinions?
Bailey frowned. ‘But I haven’t told you anything.’
‘Enough,’ assured Hall.
Hall considered recovering the car but decided against it, instead taking a taxi from the station. The recognition took longer than he expected and was encouragingly disinterested.
‘You’re the lawyer, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘She coming home.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Lots of stuff on television.’
‘I saw some of it.’
‘Lot of people believe in ghosts, you know. My Doris does.’
‘So do a lot of other people now.’
‘Suppose you’re right, considering.’
Hall was relieved to get to the one-constable police house at Four Marks, which was the closest to the Lomax mansion. He was early but Harry Elroyd was already waiting in a front parlour with chintz loose covers on the furniture and long ago photographs of the man stiffly upright in army sergeant’s uniform. Elroyd sat nervously with a tattered, yellowing notebook on his knee. With him was Paul Hughes, the police inspector whom Hall had confronted over the press intrusion and who had been called before Mr Justice Jarvis. A third, narrow-faced man very formally offered a card attesting that Derek Peterson was a solicitor at law.
‘Protecting the interests of the Constabulary,’ declared the man.
‘Do they need protecting?’
‘We’ve no indication of the purpose of this meeting.’
The personal curiosity went far beyond the professional but there wasn’t the awe of the hospital and Hall was glad. He recited the same explanation he’d given the pathologist and at once Peterson said, ‘Are you alleging professional negligence or incompetence?’
‘No. I simply want to talk to Constable Elroyd to understand a few things more clearly.’
‘Whom do you represent?’ asked the solicitor. ‘I can’t let this proceed unless I am sure you are representing someone.’
‘Mrs Jennifer Lomax, who is the unencumbered heir to the estate of Gerald James Lomax,’ said Hall, matching the formality.
Peterson nodded, the reluctance obvious. Mrs Elroyd came hesitantly in with coffee and biscuits on a tray. She was so intent upon Hall that she jarred the tray against the table edge, spilling the coffee, and hurried out muttering apologies. She was a lot fatter now than she’d been in the wedding photographs on the sideboard.
The irritation at the solicitor’s attitude was fleeting. If there were oversights in the investigation into Jane Lomax’s death – and Hall was becoming increasingly convinced there had been – then this man was responsible. Was there anything after so long to learn from a portly, rubicund country policeman who could probably spot an illegally shot pheasant through thick canvas but miss an inconsistency that might have led to a murder charge? ‘Did you know Mrs Lomax, before you went to the house that afternoon?’
‘Knew who she was,’ said the man, the voice blurred by his local accent. ‘She and the mister. They’d made themselves well enough known since moving in…’ He looked uncertainly at the senior officer. ‘Not, perhaps, as much as the new Mrs Lomax, though. I hope she’s going to be all right.’
‘So do we all,’ said Hall. ‘But let’s stay with the first Mrs Lomax. What sort of things did you see her at?’
‘Village show. She was high church so she worshipped in Alton but she gave a lot of money, over?1,000, to the church roof appeal here in the village. Even attended services there sometimes.’
‘So she was well liked?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘What about the pub?’
‘Pub?’
‘There is a local pub, isn’t there? Did she ever go there?’
‘No. They never did things like that.’
‘You hear a lot in a village like this, a man in your position?’
Elroyd smiled, proudly. ‘Keep my ear to the ground. Eyes open.’
If only, thought Hall. ‘Did you ever hear that Mrs Lomax drank?’
‘I never did. That’s what surprised me that day, all that drink around.’
‘Not enough to mention it to anyone? A senior officer, maybe?’
Peterson stirred.
‘I didn’t know she had an illness: that she shouldn’t,’ protested the man. ‘What people do in their own house is their business, as long as it’s not breaking the law, isn’t it?’
‘That sounds perfectly satisfactory to me,’ said Hughes, in quick support.
It did, conceded Hall. ‘I know what you found in the kitchen and in the bedroom but what about the rest of the house? Was it tidy or untidy?’
‘Very tidy. Mrs Simpson was the housekeeper then. She’s a very neat person. Her cottage is a picture.’
‘Mrs Lomax was in her nightdress, in bed, when you entered the bedroom?’
‘Dr Greenaway and the ambulance people were trying to revive her.’
‘This is all in Constable Elroyd’s statement,’ reminded Peterson.
Hall ignored the interruption. ‘What about the clothes Mrs Lomax had been wearing, before she changed into her nightdress. Was there any sign of them around the bedroom?’
Elroyd shifted, uncomfortably, squinting down into the ancient book. Looking up doubtfully he said, ‘I haven’t made a note here of any day clothes.’
‘Would you have done?’ asked the inspector, irritatingly ahead of Hall.
‘I think so, sir. I was very careful that day. I realized how important it was.’
No you didn’t, thought Hall. ‘So what’s the answer, Constable?’
‘There couldn�
��t have been any visible in the bedroom.’
‘So Mrs Lomax must have put them away before getting into bed?’
‘Presumably,’ said the policeman, even more doubtfully.
‘Is there any importance in whether or not Mrs Lomax left her day clothes lying around?’ said Peterson.
Again Hall ignored the solicitor. To Elroyd he said, ‘What about underclothes?’
The constable visibly blushed. ‘I’ve no note of any, sir.’
‘And you would have done, if you had seen any?’
‘I took a careful note of everything.’
‘Like the sleeping pills, the temazepam, in the bath-room medicine cabinet?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable, brightening.
‘Did you take a note of the chemist who dispensed the sleeping pills?’ He felt a quiver of excitement at something that occurred to him from Gerald Lomax’s written statement and wondered if he was interpreting it correctly: if he were, this could be the most vital question of the day. It could also be, he realized, the most damning for Jennifer.
‘Hemels, Bury Street, EC3,’ read out the man, triumphantly. ‘And the date of dispensing. June thirteenth.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hall, sincerely. ‘That was most helpful. And there was the empty wine bottle in the kitchen wastebin? You even recorded what wine it was, Margaux?’
The plump man checked his notes. That’s right, sir. Margaux.’ He mispronounced it, stressing the X.
‘Apart from the Margaux bottle having been put in the bin, would you describe the rest of the kitchen as messy?’
‘Only the table. There were even food scraps on the table. But everything else was in its proper place.’
‘Do you intend trying to reopen the inquest, upon some new evidence?’ demanded Peterson.
‘I’m not sure there would be sufficient. Certainly not now that Mr Lomax is dead,’ said Hall. ‘I don’t even intend seeing the coroner.’
‘What, then, is the point of all this?’
Hall hesitated. ‘I’m not sure yet whether Mrs Lomax shared the housekeeper’s love of tidiness: I intend to ask her. But I don’t understand why Mrs Lomax would have discarded an empty wine bottle in a wastebin but left the rest of the dinner – even food scraps – uncleared on the table. Or why she went to the trouble when she got upstairs – still, it would seem, with a glass of brandy in her hand – presumably to hang up her clothes. Or why some insulin ampoules were properly thrown away in the bathroom – where the temazepam was neatly in a medicine cabinet – but others on a bedside table-’
‘… From my reading of the inquest evidence Mrs Lomax was clearly drunk,’ broke in Hughes. ‘Drunken people do inconsistent things.’
Which was unarguably true, Hall cautioned himself. He still wasn’t sure if there was the remotest chance of his achieving anything with what he was doing – insane idea for an insane situation echoed in his head – but he had to be careful against turning discrepancies into incontestable facts. ‘Had you been involved, inspector, wouldn’t those inconsistencies have prompted you to question Gerald Lomax a little more closely than he was?’
‘No,’ said Hughes, at once. ‘Mr Lomax wasn’t there. How could he have helped us beyond telling us how he found his wife?’
‘Is that all?’ demanded Peterson.
Hall was reluctant to be dismissed – could imagine the solicitor’s “and-I-took-no-nonsense” dinner-table anecdotes that night – but there wasn’t anything else about which he wanted to satisfy himself. ‘I’m sure you’ll help me further if something else comes up that I want clarifying.’
‘Are you going to the house?’ asked Hughes.
Hall shook his head. ‘I didn’t intend to.’
‘We’re still having to keep officers there all the time. And it’s not just all the media people who’re hanging around for Mrs Lomax to come back. There’s a lot of souvenir hunters now. The house nameplate has gone and we caught a family three days ago digging up plants, to take home and put in their own garden. We’ve charged them. The gardener says he’s lost some tools.’
‘What is it you want, Inspector?’
‘A private security firm. We’ll perform a police function but we’d like the general protection taken over by someone else.’
‘I’ll arrange it,’ promised Hall.
Elspeth Simpson lived just two miles along the same road as the village policeman, who hadn’t exaggerated the woman’s house-proudness. Even the garden flowers were in order of colour and in regimented lines and inside everything looked as if it were arranged soon to be packed away for safekeeping. The tiny, bird-like woman was as neatly packed as her belongings, her white hair tightly netted, the white collar of her uncreased paisley-patterned dress hard with starch. She appeared relieved that Hall refused tea but looked anxiously at a man of his size occupying one of her best-room chairs. He did his best not to ruffle the protective loose covers on the arms.
For the first time that day he discerned no attitude at all towards him. Elspeth chattered like a bird and he let her, eager for the gossip of which he quickly guessed she was the self-appointed village archivist. Jane Lomax’s death had been a tragedy, awful. Poor Mr Lomax had been very brave. They’d been devoted. There was a sniff at how quickly he had married again and at Jennifer’s name but it wasn’t for her to criticize. The second Mrs Lomax had fitted every bit as well into the village and local life, apart from the church, although she supported its events and had put money towards the new organ. She didn’t understand how the murder (‘that awful thing,’) could have happened but thought everything in court had been all wrong (‘no disrespect to you, of course, sir,’) because ghosts weren’t natural (said without a suggestion of a smile) and it wasn’t God’s way. There was only one ghost, the Holy Ghost. Perhaps it wouldn’t have occurred if the second Mrs Lomax had gone to church, not that she was criticizing, of course.
‘Why didn’t you stay on as housekeeper to the second Mrs Lomax?’
‘George, my late. He was ill, before they got married. I had to leave to look after him all the time. Emphysema. Mr Lomax was very good to me. Gave me?1,000 when I left and?500 for the funeral. And the second Mrs Lomax used to call by sometimes to see if I was all right. By then Alice – that’s Mrs Jenkins – had been engaged so there wasn’t any cause for me to go back.’
‘You made a statement after the first Mrs Lomax’s death but you didn’t give evidence at the inquest?’
‘I went but the policeman – not Harry Elroyd, the one who organized it all – said the coroner didn’t want me because I hadn’t been there that day.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It was my day off, a Friday. Mr Lomax always came home early on a Friday, so Mrs Lomax wasn’t too long alone.’
‘Because of her diabetes.’
‘Yes. And they were devoted, like I said.’
Lomax must have been a consummate actor. ‘You knew she was a diabetic?’
‘Of course. That’s why I couldn’t understand a lot of what was said at the inquest.’
Hall breathed, deeply. ‘What exactly didn’t you understand, Mrs Simpson?’
‘Mr Lomax saying she was careless with her treatment. She never was, as far as I was concerned. She’d always done it, you see. It was automatic, like washing her hands.’ As if in reminder the woman checked her own to ensure they were clean.
‘Didn’t you tell anyone at the time?’
‘Harry Elroyd. He said I couldn’t really know, which I suppose was right. I mean she never did it in front of me. Always in the bathroom attached to the bedroom. But she always said something when she went to do it. She had to do it twice a day, you see. Morning and night.’
‘Said something like what?’
‘“Pin-cushion time.” That’s what she called it.’
‘None of this was in your statement. I’ve read it.’
‘I wasn’t asked.’
And if you don’t ask you don’t get, thought Hall. ‘What abo
ut something else Mr Lomax said at the inquest, about Mrs Lomax’s drinking?’
‘I didn’t understand that, either,’ the elderly woman chirped at once.
‘Tell me why,’ encouraged Hall.
‘I’d never seen her drink, hardly at all. There used to be church council meetings at the house… did you know she was on the church council…?’
‘No.’
‘She was. And used to let there be meetings at the house midweek, on the nights Mr Lomax was in London…’ There was a pause. ‘… I thought sometimes she was lonely, in that big house all by herself.’
‘Tell me about the meetings.’
‘I was on the church council myself then. Mrs Lomax was very generous: they both were. She used to serve drinks, before the meeting started. All sorts of drinks, anything you wanted. She always had sherry, as if she was joining in, but usually I’d see she never finished it.’
‘Never finish one glass?’
The woman nodded. ‘I asked her about it. She said it wasn’t good for her to drink.’
‘You used to stay behind on church council nights?’
‘Always. George wasn’t so bad then.’
‘But on the other days what time would you come back here?’
‘Five usually. Certainly in the week when Mrs Lomax was by herself although I used to stay later when the mister was home and they had people in. I thought that was only fair for the way they let me go early other times, because of George.’
Hall patiently let her finish. ‘I don’t want to talk about the nights when people were in: not even when the church council met. After a night when Mrs Lomax had been by herself and you arrived the following morning, did you ever find empty wine bottles like the one Harry Elroyd discovered, after Mrs Lomax was found in a coma?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that I can recall.’ Her small, sharp-featured face creased into a frown. ‘Is there something wrong? About what happened, I mean?’
‘No,’ said Hall, quickly. ‘It’s just that everything is so unusual. It’s got to be gone into more thoroughly than usual. You understand that, of course?’
‘Of course,’ agreed the woman, invited into a confidence.
Hall looked around the polished-for-approval room in obvious admiration. ‘You’ve got a very nice house, Mrs Simpson. Perfectly kept.’
A Mind to Kill Page 36