6 - Superfluous Death

by Hazel Holt

  I laughed.

  ‘You’re right, of course. Happiness can be what you’re used to, really, and things going on as they always have—well, for people like us, anyway!’

  I was just trying to get an especially tenacious rabbit tick off Tessa’s ear (spaniels are particularly prone to such things, especially if, like Tessa, they insist on trying to get their entire head down every rabbit hole they come across in a vain attempt to see if anyone’s at home) when the telephone rang. Tessa, taking advantage of my loosened grip, ran off into the garden with half the tick still firmly embedded in her ear.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ I said irritably, but my annoyance vanished when I heard Rosemary’s excited tones.

  ‘Sheila, I had to ring you right away. Wonderful news! Roger’s been made a Chief Inspector and transferred to Taviscombe!’

  ‘Oh, Rosemary, how lovely for you! Marvellous to have them all so near.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ she replied, ‘though I shall have to be particularly careful now not to be an interfering mum, you know what I’m like!’ Rosemary is sometimes given to speaking her mind.

  ‘Oh, Jilly will be thrilled to have you there to help with the children,’ I said, ‘especially with the new baby and everything.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly going to be a busy time for her now. They’re coming to stay with us for a bit—Roger starts here at Taviscombe right away—so that they can look around for a house. And then, of course, there’ll be all the packing up to do and the move. I must help her with all that. Oh dear’—she sighed heavily—‘Mother’s not going to be too pleased about it all!’

  ‘Losing her slave labour,’ I said. ‘Well, she’s got Elsie after all, and Jilly and the children do come first.’

  ‘Try telling Mother that!’ Rosemary said wearily. ‘You know what she’s like.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, bless you, but I don’t think—oh, actually, yes there is. Could you take Mother to the Arts Society’s lunch next week, if you’re going, that is? I know she could perfectly well get a taxi, but since it’s a buffet and not a sit-down thing she does like to have someone around doing the lady-in-waiting bit, fetching the food and finding a suitable seat and so on. I know it’s a lot to ask, but ...’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I replied. ‘I’vnt>ed. ‘e got to go anyway because I’m still on the Committee, fool that I am, and dancing attendance on your mama will be more entertaining than having to talk to Iris Marshall, who’s been trying to get at me for ages. She wants me to “give them a little talk about writing”, if you ever heard anything so horrendous!’

  ‘Oh, that’s marvellous,’ Rosemary said enthusiastically. ‘It’ll give me a clear run to look after the children while Jilly goes to look at a couple of houses. That place of the Welches is back on the market, gorgeous situation, up on the hill overlooking the sea, but they haven’t been there long so I wondered if there was something wrong with it.’

  ‘Oh, hadn’t you heard?’ I replied. ‘Frank Welch is having to move to Paignton. His firm’s opening a branch down there and he’s going to manage it—Michael told me the other day—so I should think they’d be quite keen to make a quick sale.’

  I was delighted for Rosemary’s sake that Jilly and Roger would be moving to Taviscombe. Partly because I hoped Jilly might share some of the burden of old Mrs Dudley with her mother and partly because Rosemary loves to be surrounded by young people—I wasn’t quite so sure that Jack would welcome such a wholesale invasion of their house—and seems to thrive on the complicated logistics such an exercise involves. I was pleased, too. I’m very fond of them both. Jilly is my goddaughter and I regard Roger as a sort of honorary godson. He shares my devotion to Victorian female novelists (I remember thinking this a rather odd taste in a policeman when I first met him) and we often have invigorating arguments about the respective merits of Mrs Oliphant and Mrs Gaskell and similar fascinating topics.

  In view of this conversation I wasn’t too surprised, a few days later, to get a phone call from Roger.

  ‘Hello, Roger, lovely to hear from you. Congratulations! It’ll be splendid having you here! Are you phoning about the Welch house? It should suit you all very well. I know for a fact that Felicity Welch had that kitchen completely remodelled when they first moved in two years ago ...’

  ‘Actually, no, that wasn’t why I’m ringing.’ Roger’s voice was grave, unlike his usual cheerful tone. ‘I’m afraid this is an official call.’

  ‘Good heavens! What’s happened? Nothing’s happened to Michael?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s Miss Graham. As you know, after she died so suddenly there was a post-mortem and certain things about the results of that made it necessary to do an autopsy.’ He paused. ‘The fact is, it seems that it was not a natural death. She was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ I repeated stupidly. ‘But ... but she just looked ... well, so natural, I suppose you’d say. I assumed it was a heart attack. How was she murdered?’

  ‘Poison. Digitalis.’

  ‘Poison! How terrible!’

  The memory of the still figure sitting in that silent flat suddenly swept over me and I found that I was trembling.

  ‘Sheila!’ Roger’s voice at the other end of the line was sharp with anxiety. ‘Sheila! Are you all right? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you over the phone, it was thoughtless of me.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘It was a bit of a shock ... having found her like that. Just a minute, I’m going to sit down.’

  ‘Look, since you found the body you’ll have to make an official statement anyway, so I’ll come round later on. You go off now and make yourself a cup of tea—and put some brandy in it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think I will.’

  While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I tried to gather my thoughts. But, try as I might, I could think of nothing about Miss Graham or her flat that day that would have given any indication that anything was wrong.

  Foss, attracted by my presence in the kitchen, suddenly materialized, loudly demanding food and as I abstractedly opened a tin for him I tried to visualize the sitting room. My memory shied away from the still figure in the armchair, but I felt again the heat of the gas fire and suddenly remembered the patch of damp beside her chair. There was something else, as well, something that I had subconsciously noted as being odd at the time, but, however hard I tried to pin it down, it continued to elude me.

  I felt better after the tea (though I didn’t put brandy in it), and a bar of chocolate that I shared with the dogs, and when Roger arrived I was feeling much more composed.

  ‘Hello, Sheila,’ he greeted me, ‘how are you feeling? It was stupid of me to ring like that, I suppose, but I thought, as Miss Graham was a friend of yours, I’d just let you know informally before we interviewed you officially.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you did,’ I replied. ‘Now that I’m over the shock I’ve been able to think about it so I may be a bit more helpful!’ I rounded up the dogs who were giving Roger their usual exuberant welcome.

  ‘Do go into the sitting room. I’ll just shut the animals in the kitchen so that we can get a bit of peace. Will you have a cup of tea or coffee or something?’

  ‘No thanks, but I’d love a glass of water. I’ve just been chairing a rather obstreperous meeting and my throat’s like sandpaper!’

  When I came back into the sitting room with the water he was standing by the window looking out at the hills beyond the garden.

  ‘It really is a marvellous view, and aren’t you lucky that no one can build in those fields? From what I’ve heard from Rosemary the Welch house up on the hill has terrific views too—right across the bay. It sounds ideal.’

  ‘Yes, it’s just above Kimberley Lodge where Miss Graham lives—lived. She loved the view too, which was why it would have been so hard for her to leave it.’

  I told Roger about Dr Cowley and his plans for turning Kimberley Lodge into a nursing
home and how Miss Graham was holding out against him.

  ‘And do you think she’d really have hung on?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘Old people can be very stubborn sometimes and that flat meant everything to her. And, after all, she did have the law on her side and lots of support from her friends.’

  ‘I see.’ Roger sounded thoughtful. ‘So this Dr Cowley would have found it difficult to get her out.’

  ‘Oh yes. Just as well for him that he was in Dulverton all day else he’d have been an ideal murder suspect!’

  ‘I gather you don’t greatly care for Dr Cowley.’ Roger laughed.

  ‘Well, you must admit he was pretty foul to poor Miss Graham,’ I replied. ‘But it’s not just that. I’ve never really liked him. Rosemary calls him smarmy and Mrs Dudley is quite eloquent on the subject!’

  ‘I bet! Well, we’ll investigate Dr Cowley’s movements pretty thoroughly, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Have you seen Miss Graham’s nephew Ronnie yet?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I saw him first, of course, since he’s the next of kin. Not that I was able to have much of a talk with him. He’s got flu and his wife would only let me see him for a frie him fshort while. I must say, he did look pretty rough and he was obviously very shocked when I told him that his aunt had been murdered.’

  ‘Poor Ronnie,’ I said. ‘He’s never been one to cope. I suppose Carol will be making all the funeral arrangements and so forth.’

  ‘Sheila,’ Roger said suddenly. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, surprised at this sudden request.

  ‘You know Taviscombe so well, the people and what goes on here—and what has gone on here in the past—and you know how much I value your opinion and judgement.’

  He paused and I looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘What I was going to ask,’ he continued, ‘was, can I talk things over with you from time to time—off the record? It would be a great help.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Marvellous! And there’s another thing. Would you mind coming with me to Miss Graham’s flat and going over what you did that day?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that, if you think it’ll help.’

  ‘And perhaps’—he hesitated—‘well, you have a feeling for things and places. You might just be able to spot something wrong, something that isn’t where it should be.’

  ‘The dog that didn’t bark in the night.’ I smiled. ‘Yes, I’ll certainly do that. When would you like me to come?’

  ‘Would now be inconvenient?’

  ‘No, I’ll just change my shoes and get a coat.’ I picked up the empty glass to take it out to the kitchen. ‘Oh, Roger,’ I said, ‘before we go, I wonder if you’d be an angel and hold Foss for me while I give him his antibiotic tablet. He does struggle so and I forgot to ask Michael before he went to work this morning.’

  Chapter Six

  I was glad I was with Roger as I approached Kimberley Lodge again. The memory of my last visit there was still vividpan in my mind.

  Roger spoke briefly to the constable who was standing just inside the gate and we went past him up the short drive.

  ‘Now then,’ Roger said. ‘Tell me again exactly what happened that day.’

  ‘Well, I said, trying to free my mind of the jumble of upsetting memories and think coherently about the sequence of events. ‘I rang the bell several times and there was no reply. I was puzzled, of course, because I knew she was expecting me. As I told you, she’d asked me to call because something unexpected had happened.’

  ‘She didn’t say what it was?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied, ‘just that it had happened—what was it she said?—“out of the blue”. I think it was something to do with Dr Cowley and the trouble about the flat, but she said she’d tell me all about it when I went round.’

  ‘I see. Go on. You couldn’t make her hear, so then what?’

  ‘I was worried in case something had happened to her. Well, you know how it is with old people, you’re always afraid they might have had a fall and are lying there helpless. Anyway, I remembered that she used to keep a spare key in the earth of the wooden tub by the door—the one with the bay tree growing in it. So I got that and let myself in.’

  ‘I see.’ Roger produced a key, opened the front door of the flat and we went in. ‘So, what happened then?’

  ‘I called out to her, but there was no reply so I went into the sitting room and there she was, in her chair by the fire. I thought she was asleep.’

  Roger opened the door of the sitting room and went in. I followed reluctantly, but of course the chair by the fire was empty. The whole room seemed empty and cold.

  ‘The gas fire was on?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Yes, the room was very warm.’

  ‘And she was sitting in this chair?’ He indicated the fireside chair with its chintz cover (a pattern of green willow leaves on a cream background—I remembered Miss Graham telling me with pride that it was a William Morris design) and wooden arms.

  ‘I tried to wake her,’ I said slowly, ‘but I realized that she was dead. She looked quite peaceful. Her face wasn’t— There was nothing to show that she’d been—’ I broke off.

  ‘No, well, that particular type of poison wouldn’t have left her with contorted features or anything like that.’

  ‘There was a damp patch beside her chair,’ I said. ‘I felt it when I knelt down beside her.’

  ‘Where? Show me.’

  I tried to find the exact spot, the brown spiral on the fawn background of the carpet.

  ‘It would have been about here,’ I said, ‘but it’s difficult to tell because the stain of whatever it was doesn’t show.’ Roger took some tweezers and a small plastic envelope from his pocket and pulled a few threads from the patch of carpet I had indicated.

  ‘We’ll get this analysed,’ he said. ‘You never know.’

  I looked round the room which was once so cosy but now seemed as lifeless as its owner.

  ‘Nothing seems to be out of place or anything,’ I said. ‘Just different.’

  ‘Different?’

  ‘Because Miss Graham isn’t here,’ I explained. ‘It doesn’t belong to anyone now, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Roger said, glancing round. ‘Right, then, let’s have a look at the other rooms.’

  In the bedroom he examined the kettle carefully and picked up the bottle of tablets from the table by the bed and put them into another small plastic bag.

  ‘She took mild sleeping tablets,’ I said. ‘She was a bit ashamed of them, actually—said that it didn’t seem right to have to take something to make you sleep. Her generation never really accepted the idea of pills and tablets. Mother was the same. They thought it was a somehow a sign of weakness!’

  Roger smiled. He went over to the wardrobe and looked inside, then he opened the drawers of the dressing table and the small bow-fronted chest of drawers by the window. There was nothing there except Miss Graham’s clothes, carefully put away and neatly folded. I turned my head away. It seemed wrong to be looking through her things like this, though I knew it had to be done. In a silly way I was glad that I was there, as if I was somehow shielding Miss Graham from the embarrassment of having a man (however nice and sympathetic and for whatever reason) going through her more intimate garments.

  ‘Nothing here,’ Roger said. ‘Let’s have a look at the kitchen. The path rent The paport said that she’d eaten breakfast toast and marmalade and tea—and then had some sort of cake and coffee. No lunch.’

  ‘She always had lunch at twelve-thirty,’ I said. ‘Regular as clockwork.’

  ‘Good,’ Roger said. ‘That means that she was dead before then.’ He opened the storage jars. ‘Tea, sugar ...’ He reached up and opened a cupboard above the worktop. ‘Instant coffee. We’d better have all these analysed. Ah, here’s a cake tin.’

  He lifted it down and I saw with a pang that it was the old H
arrods biscuit tin that I had given her (full of biscuits) last year and which she’d kept. Using a tea cloth, presumably for fear of fingerprints, Roger took off the lid and looked inside.

  ‘Cakes,’ he said.

  ‘Let me look.’ I moved over quickly and stood beside him. ‘Almond tartlets. I wonder who gave her those.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Graham was a dreadful cook,’ I explained, ‘but she adored cakes and biscuits so her friends usually brought some when they visited her. Someone must have given her these.’

  ‘She might have bought them,’ he suggested.

  ‘No, look, they’re homemade and really quite fresh. They smell delicious.’

  I made as if to pick one up but Roger stopped me. ‘Be careful, we don’t know what’s in them.’

  I withdrew my hand as if I’d been stung. ‘Goodness! How terrible! There’s quite a strong almond smell,’ I said excitedly, ‘ground almonds and quite a bit of almond essence, so the cakes would taste of it. I suppose that would have disguised anything—poison—that might have been put in them.’

  ‘True.’ Roger put the lid back on, wrapped the tin in the tea cloth and put it to one side.

  ‘Perhaps she’d had someone to coffee and they brought the cakes ... Goodness, yes!’ I exclaimed. ‘When she phoned me, the morning she died, she broke off the conversation because she said that someone was at the door!’

  ‘What time was this?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Let me see. I started to make the plum jam at about ten-thirty.’ Roger looked at me in some bewilderment. ‘It had just reached boiling point—a good rolling boil, the cookery books always call it—and was simmering nicely when Miss Graham rang, so that would be about eleven o’clock.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And eleven o’clock,’ I went on, ‘would be the sort of time someone might come to coffee.’

  ‘But she didn’t say she was expecting anyone?’ Roger asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think she can have been ... I mean, she just said there was someone at the door, which isn’t what you’d say if you’d invited someone.’