No Cure for Death

by Hazel Holt

  One more patient went in to Dr Macdonald and I read an article about how some woman had restored a ruined house on Poros. As I looked at the pictures I wondered what her Greek neighbours thought of it all – the distressed (in every sense of the word) furniture, the violently coloured hessian curtains and throws, the ‘amusing’ objects scattered around and, especially, the examples of modern art that adorned the walls – but, then, I expect they’re used to it all by now and think that everyone in England lives like that.

  “Goodness, there’s a lot of people waiting!” Susan Campbell came and sat beside me.

  “I know,” I said, “it’s very slow this morning. When’s your appointment?”

  “I’m supposed to be seeing Dr Morrison at half past,” she said, putting her shopping bag down beside her, “I thought I was cutting it a bit fine, but I don’t suppose he’ll be through for a while yet.”

  “No, he’s not too bad,” I said. “I think there’s only one more person before you. No, it’s Dr Macdonald who seems to be running late.”

  “Oh good.”

  “How’s Alan?” I asked. “Is he looking forward to his party?”

  “He says it’s all a lot of fuss – well, you know what men are like – but I think he’s pleased really.”

  “Oh I’m sure he is, and it’s a nice way for his friends to say how glad they are that he’s better.”

  She smiled. “Fiona’s made him a birthday cake,” she said, “She’s a very good cook and she loves making something special like that.”

  “She’s a very talented girl. I think it’s wonderful the way she’s settled down over here and I gather she’s doing really well at her job.”

  “Oh, she loves it there,” Susan said, “and they’re a jolly crowd so she’s made some really nice friends.”

  The elderly man I’d identified as Dr Morrison’s next patient started to get restless. He got up and went over to Reception and I heard him complaining (“…been waiting here I don’t know how long…not good enough…the NHS is going from bad to worse…”) and Lorna, although she was obviously speaking to him pretty sharply, looked worried, and when he reluctantly went back and sat down, I saw her pick up what I took to be the internal phone. After a minute she spoke to Valerie and Judith and went out through the door that led from Reception to the consulting rooms.

  “Oh dear,” I said, “I do hope there’s not been another hold-up – no one sent out on an emergency or anything – I really don’t think I can bear waiting much longer.”

  “Do you think there’s something wrong?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t know, but Lorna looked worried about something.”

  “Oh dear, that is a nuisance. I’ve got a lot of shopping to do and I need to get Alan’s lunch early because he’s supposed to be going out for the afternoon with Mark Jackson. He said he’d come at about 2.30 and take Alan for a drive. Alan’s been so looking forward to it and I don’t want to make him late.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Where are they going?”

  “There’s this fishing tackle shop at Dulverton – Mark’s mad about fishing and Alan thought he might take it up again. Mark’s got a fishing licence for Wimbleball reservoir and he thinks Alan might like to go with him a couple of times to see if he likes it.”

  “What a good idea. Just what he needs, something out of doors but nice and peaceful. My father used to say that fishing was the best way of relaxing that he knew.”

  “He’ll be glad to get out in the fresh air now the weather’s warmer,” Susan said. “He seems to have been shut up in the house for such a long time while he’s been ill.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lorna going back into reception closely followed by Dr Macdonald, both looking very upset. Alec Macdonald picked up the phone and I saw him speaking earnestly into it. When he put it down he came through into the waiting room.

  We all looked at him expectantly and for a moment he seemed disconcerted and unsure of what to say. Finally, he began hesitantly. “I’m afraid there’s been an…an accident and, I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave because we’re having to close the surgery for the time being. I do apologise for the inconvenience – I know some of you have been waiting for a long time already. Lorna will come out in a minute and take your names and we will be in touch to give you alternative appointments. Thank you so much.”

  He went back into Reception leaving a buzz of conversation behind him.

  “Well,” Susan said, “what do you think all that was about?”

  “He said an accident – but why have they had to close everything down? Very odd.”

  Lorna now appeared with a pen and clipboard. She was immediately besieged by questioning patients demanding to know what was happening, indeed, what had happened. The man who had been complaining before was particularly vociferous.

  “It’s a downright disgrace. I’ve been waiting days for this appointment and now they’re just fobbing us off. Heaven knows when we’ll finally get to see anyone. My chest’s getting worse by the day, it’ll be pneumonia before they’ll do anything about it. People could die waiting to see someone. I’m certainly going to take this up with my MP…”

  There were murmurs of assent from other patients and Lorna had a decidedly resentful reaction when she went round taking people’s names.

  “So what’s happened?” I asked when she came to us.

  “An accident, like Dr Macdonald said,” she replied. “I’m not at liberty to say anything more.”

  She took our names and passed on to the next patient.

  Susan picked up her shopping bag. “Oh well,” she said. “I suppose I’d better get on to the supermarket.”

  “Did you want to see Dr Morrison about anything important.”

  “No, nothing that can’t wait. How about you?”

  “I just needed Dr Macdonald to have a look at my wrist, but that can wait as well.”

  “I’d better get on,” Susan said. “Are you coming?”

  “I just want to pop into the chemist while I’m here so I’ll go out that way.” I pointed to the door with the sign ‘To the Pharmacy’ and made my way across the small gravelled courtyard to the chemist next door. There I found several people who had been in the surgery engaged in animated conversation about the recent happening.

  “You were there, weren’t you?” One of the women who I knew by sight buttonholed me. “What did you make of all that?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “They said there’d been an accident.”

  “That’s what they said, but if it was just an accident why did they have to close the place. Mr Prothero here,” she indicated the elderly man who had been making a fuss, “he thinks it’s something to do with drugs. You saw that dreadful young man who was in there…”

  “It might have been a robbery,” Mr Prothero broke in. “He might have attacked someone to get drugs – that’s what they do. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t a case for the police.”

  “Surely not,” I said. “Not in Taviscombe!”

  But when I’d made my purchases and went outside I saw, as if on cue, a police car drawing up in the surgery car park and a police sergeant getting out.

  “There you are, what did I say!” Mr Prothero had materialised beside me. “A case for the police, that’s what I said. It’ll be drugs, you mark my words. That’s what it is nowadays. Young people today don’t know they’re born. I went all through the last war, Merchant Navy, torpedoed twice. Soft, that’s what they are, everything done for them. And all this loud music, keeping decent people awake half the night!”

  “It could just be an accident,” I said. “The police might have to be called if it’s serious.”

  “Well, drugs are serious,” Mr Prothero said, “there’s nothing more serious than drugs.”

  We watched as the police sergeant walked towards the main surgery door and disappeared inside. For a moment we stood watching the door as if hoping for some further manifestation, th
en Mr Prothero said, “That’s all they ever do nowadays, ride around in cars. When did you last see one on the street? In the old days there was a police house in every village and always a couple walking up and down the Avenue. Now all you get are these traffic wardens and what use are they?”

  He looked at me sharply and when I didn’t reply he said, “Well, I can’t hang about here all day. It’s not good for my chest, all this standing about.”

  “No,” I said, “I must get on.”

  After sitting for so long in the stuffy surgery I felt like a little sea air so I drove down to the sea wall beyond the harbour and stood for a while watching the waves creaming over the pebbles on the shore. I saw there was a new notice telling people not to feed the seagulls. ‘They make a mess and can be vicious.’ It was just the sort of officious notice I greatly dislike so I was pleased to see that a particularly large and raffish looking seagull was perched on the top of the notice board, and I made a vow to bring them some stale bread next time I came down here.

  I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost lunchtime, so rather than go home I decided to get something to eat at the Buttery. It was quite full but, easing my way through the crowd, I was glad to find a table for two in a corner and thankfully put down my tray. I was halfway through my quiche and salad when I saw Valerie Carter at the counter. As she moved away I beckoned to her and she came over and sat down.

  “Thank goodness,” she said, “isn’t it crowded! I suppose it’s mostly holidaymakers. Everywhere is so full now that the season’s started.”

  “I know, the supermarkets are quite impossible on some days, people with trolley-loads of beer and Coca-Cola. And as for Woolworth’s!”

  Valerie took a sip of her coffee. “It was my turn for an early lunch today,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure if I could go out. It’s all been so confusing.”

  “What exactly has happened?” I asked tentatively.

  “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything. Still, it’ll all be in the Free Press on Friday so I don’t suppose it matters.”

  “Dr Macdonald said it was an accident,” I said. “Was it something serious?”

  Valerie cut her sandwich carefully into half before replying slowly “It is serious, yes, but no, they don’t think it was an accident.” She laid down her knife and looked at me. “It’s Dr Morrison, he’s dead. They think he was murdered.”

  Chapter Six

  “Murdered,” I said, “but how?”

  “He was stabbed,” Valerie said with a shudder. “When it was a long time and he didn’t come out for his next patient, Lorna went in to see if anything was wrong and she found him.”

  “How awful.”

  “She says she didn’t realise at first what had happened – he was just sitting in his chair with his back to the door. But when she spoke to him and he didn’t answer she went over and saw that he’d been stabbed. There was blood…” her voice trailed away.

  “It must have been a terrible shock for her. For all of you,” I said looking at Valerie’s pale face.

  “Yes, it was, rather.” She pushed her sandwich away. “It doesn’t seem real, I can’t seem to take it in somehow.”

  “Look, drink some more of your coffee,” I said, “put lots of sugar in it, that’s good for shock.”

  She obeyed, mechanically. “I feel rather awful about it,” she said, “because I never really liked Dr Morrison. He could be very sarcastic at times, and impatient – when you didn’t understand straight away what he wanted. He made you feel a fool.”

  “He wasn’t popular. I think a lot of people felt like you did.”

  “But now he’s dead…”

  “You feel guilty that you disliked him. It’s a very natural feeling, but it’s not logical. Being dead – not even being murdered – doesn’t make someone a nicer person!”

  She gave me a wintry smile. “You’re right of course, and, as you say, quite a few people found him difficult to get on with. In the practice – I mustn’t say, but, well, I expect you can imagine.”

  “Yes I can. So what’s happening, are the police still there?”

  “They sealed off his room and all that corridor. I suppose they’ve got to do the – whatever it’s called – the forensics. They took statements from Lorna and Judy and me, I think they’re still doing the doctors. Like I said, it was my turn for an early lunch, but Dr Macdonald said Judy and I should go home – the surgery’s got to be closed anyway – but I think they may want to ask Lorna about files and records and things, so she was going to stay.” She finished her coffee. “I think I’d better get back home now. Mum was out but I left a message on the answerphone telling her what’s happened, so if she’s back she’ll be worrying.”

  “Yes, of course. Can I give you a lift?”

  “It’s very kind of you, but it’s not far and, really, I’d be glad of the fresh air.”

  The next day I had a visit from the police. Actually it was Constable Harris who I’d known ever since he was a small boy when he used to come with his father who did our garden.

  “Well Bob,” I said as he followed me into the sitting room, “I suppose it’s about what happened at the surgery yesterday. Do sit down.”

  He sat down on the sofa, laying his peaked hat carefully on one of the arms.

  “That’s right, Mrs Malory. We have to speak to everyone who was on the list they gave us of people who’d been in the waiting room. To see,” he said, getting out his notebook “if you noticed anything, if you see what I mean.”

  “Oh dear, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can be a lot of help, though I was there for rather a long time. Let me see. I last saw Dr Morrison when he came into the waiting room to get that young man – what’s his name – Rhys Hampden.”

  “Did you see this Rhys Hampden come out?”

  “Yes, after about ten minutes or so – maybe a bit less.”

  “And how did he seem?”

  “Seem?”

  “Did he look upset or anything?”

  “Well yes, he did a bit. Sort of agitated, and he went out of the surgery very quickly. Do you think…?”

  “It’s early days yet to be thinking anything,” he said ponderously. “But we do need to check up on these things, you understand.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And was there anything else that struck you as odd? Anything about Dr Morrison, for instance?”

  “No. No I don’t think so. He seemed to be much as usual.”

  “Is he your doctor?”

  “Oh no, though I did see him once when Dr Macdonald (he’s my doctor) was away.”

  “And how did he strike you?”

  “I’m sure he’s very clever and probably a brilliant doctor in many ways, but he’s not the easiest person.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Remote – I think that’s the word that sums him up. I don’t think he’s very good with people, and that isn’t a particularly good trait in a doctor.”

  “Not popular then, would you say?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, but of course I don’t really know much about him.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if he had any enemies?”

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t the faintest idea. So this Rhys Hampden,” I asked, “was he the last person to see Dr Morrison?”

  “As far as we know. What I mean is, he was the last person with an appointment. The trouble is,” he leaned forward and spoke confidentially, “that place is like a rabbit warren, so many doors in and out. For example, you can get to the corridor where the doctors’ surgeries are from three different ways as well as from the waiting room.”

  “Oh dear, that must make things difficult for you.”

  “It’s a nightmare, Mrs Malory, a real nightmare.”

  “So anyone could have got in from outside and no one in reception or in the waiting room would have seen them?”

  “That’s right. It’s all being built on a connecting square that does it, if you see what I m
ean. The corridor from the nurses’ rooms goes round the quadrangle and meets up with the doctors’ corridor, then there’s another corridor from that alternative medicine place that joins the nurses’ corridor. Then, again, there’s the back door – sort of staff entrance – which leads into reception and you can get from there straight into the doctors’ corridor.”

  He paused for breath and I said sympathetically, “It really is impossible!”

  He nodded. “Of course to get to the nurses’ rooms you have to go through that back end of the waiting room so I suppose people there would have seen who was coming and going.”

  “Not really, yesterday,” I said, “at least not when I was there. Most people were the other end – the doctors’ end, even the people waiting to see the nurse, and they either had their heads buried in magazines or were talking to each other and wouldn’t have noticed anything.”

  “Well,” he said, picking up his cap, “I’d better go and see if they did.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t any help,” I said. “Can I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?”

  “No thanks, Mrs Malory, I’d better get on.”

  “Well, do give my regards to your father. Tell him that winter-flowering cherry he planted was a picture last year.”

  Unsurprisingly Dr Morrison’s death was one of the main topics of conversation at Alan’s birthday party.

  “It’s very shocking, of course,” Anthea said, “but he was a thoroughly disagreeable man.”

  “He was very reserved,” Alan said. “And it took a long time to get to know him, but I always found him most sensible, and a very good doctor.”

  “Tell that to Moira Webster!” Anthea retorted. “Poor Kenneth should never have died like that.”