by Hazel Holt
“Oh, come now,” Alan said. “You can never really tell in cases like that.”
“That’s not what Moira thinks, and,” she continued, “her son is still set on suing the practice. He’s been to see a solicitor, I believe.”
“Well, I speak as I find,” Alan said. “Dr Morrison certainly did all right by me, I wouldn’t be here today if he hadn’t sorted out that by-pass. Don’t you agree, Susan?”
“Oh yes, he was wonderful – most efficient, he arranged everything so well and he was very good afterwards, taking care of Alan and following things up.”
“He always looks so miserable,” Rosemary said. “Dour is the word for it, I think.”
“Was he Scottish?” I asked. “I think Morrison’s a Scottish name. Do we know where he came from?”
“Oh London, I think,” Susan said. “At least that’s where he did his training.”
“That’s right,” I said, “and he was part of a research team at one of the big teaching hospitals – Jean told me,” I said to Anthea.
“She’ll have come across him quite a lot in her job,” Anthea said. “Of course, being in the building at the time – the alternative medicine part, that is – the police will have interviewed her.”
“Oh they’re bound to have done,” I said. “They came to see me. It was Bob Harris – you remember him,” I said to Rosemary, “Eric Harris’s boy, he’s in the police now.”
“That’s right,” she said, “Jack saw him when our car was damaged in that accident last year. A nice boy, he said.”
“Why did the police want to see you?” Anthea asked.
“I was in the surgery, waiting to see Dr Macdonald, when it happened.”
“What were you seeing Dr Macdonald about?” Anthea always likes to be informed of any unusual activity among her friends.
“Oh only a check on my wrist. Jean said I should see him.”
Anthea nodded. “Very sensible,” she said.
“But I never did get to see him,” I said, “because of Dr Morrison getting killed. So now I’ll have to try and make another appointment.” I turned to Susan. “I suppose you will have to do the same. Only, of course, you’ll have to see one of the other doctors now.”
“Oh I may not bother,” she said. “It was only a check-up after my bronchitis and I’m quite all right now.”
“Now Susan,” Alan said, “I do think you ought to see someone. You shouldn’t take chances with your chest. She’s never been the same since she went to Canada,” he said to the rest of us, “all those bitter winters!”
“Well, I’ll see,” Susan said.
“It never does to ignore a bad chest,” Anthea said. “It can lead to all sorts of things.”
“If Dr Morrison said you should have it checked I think you should see somebody,” Alan said. “He must have thought it was necessary or he wouldn’t have said so. He was a man of few words, but when he said something he meant it.”
“He was certainly very abrupt that day when we had the Hospital Friends’ meeting,” Maureen Dawson said. She and her husband Bruce had been sitting in a corner eating vol au vents and sipping their drinks and had not, so far, taken much part in the conversation.
“Almost rude, really, the way he rushed off like that and didn’t stay for coffee. Well, you were there Sheila, you saw how he was. But I believe he was like that. Janet – Janet Dobson, that is – was telling me that he was very unpopular in the practice. Her daughter Lorna works there and she says that most of them can’t stand the sight of him.”
“Thought himself too good for general practice,” Bruce broke in. “Always very superior the times I’ve had to see him, not really interested – he was very off-hand about my carpel-tunnel syndrome. Just prescribed ibuprofen and said it would go away. My brother Jim had an operation when he had it – they cut the nerve or something.”
“And did it go away?” Rosemary asked.
“As it happened it did, but that’s not the point. What I want to know is why would he come down here to be a humble GP when he’d been some sort of hot-shot on a research team in London?”
“I heard there’d been some sort of disagreement,” I said, “though I’d have thought he could have found something else equally high-powered if he was that brilliant.”
“Exactly!” Bruce said triumphantly. “It’s all a bit fishy if you ask me. And now he’s gone and got himself murdered – what does that tell you?”
“What does it tell you?” Anthea asked impatiently. “I don’t see someone coming down here from London especially to kill him. Apart from anything else, a stranger like that would be spotted straight away.”
We all nodded in agreement, since Anthea always has any stranger spotted, summed up and filed away for reference within hours of his or her arrival.
“The police seem most interested in that young man Rhys Hampden,” I said. “He was the last person to see Dr Morrison – at least he had the last appointment.”
“There you are then,” Bruce said, “that’s it.”
“What do you mean?” Susan asked.
“He’s a layabout and a druggie,” Bruce said. “He’d have killed Morrison because he wouldn’t give him any more drugs.”
“I don’t think doctors give them drugs, as such,” Rosemary said.
“Well, whatever. No, you mark my words, that’s what it’ll be.”
“It’s his poor parents I’m sorry for,” Maureen said. “Such nice people. And he had every advantage, went to university and everything.”
“It’s these universities that encourage them to behave like that,” Bruce said. “Students nowadays! All doing these sociology courses and media studies, whatever that may mean!”
“Oh, I think there are some very nice young people doing sociology,” Susan said. “Fiona’s friend Katy is studying that at Bristol: I believe she’s doing very well.”
“Anyway,” Bruce said, brushing this recommendation aside, “I don’t think the police will have to look too far. That’s if he hasn’t run off.”
“He certainly left in a hurry,” I said.
“You saw him?” Maureen asked.
“Yes, like I said, I was waiting to see Dr Macdonald. The young man looked upset and sort of rushed out. I remember thinking it was odd, but I’d been waiting so long I was in a bit of a daze – you know how you get – and didn’t really take it in.” I turned to Susan. “Did you see him, or was it before you arrived?”
“No he must have gone by then.”
“They’ll have gone round to his house then, the police,” Bruce said, “to question him.”
“It’s his poor parents I feel sorry for,” Maureen repeated. “Police cars outside the house and all the neighbours watching. It must be very upsetting for them.”
“Pretty upsetting for Dr Morrison,” Anthea said sharply, “being killed like that.” She turned to me. “Do we know how he was killed?”
“He was stabbed. Lorna found him.”
“How awful for her!” Maureen said, “Fancy finding someone dead like that – it doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“He’ll have picked up the first thing that came to hand,” Bruce said, “that lad. Some sort of surgical instrument. When Morrison wouldn’t give him any more drugs. It will have been a spur of the moment thing, not premeditated.”
“I don’t know,” Alan said, considering. “Are there surgical instruments lying about there, just like that?”
“Well then,” Bruce said, “he could have had a knife on him – they carry knives, don’t they? I suppose we should be grateful it wasn’t a gun and he’d had to shoot his way out.”
“Actually,” Rosemary said, “we don’t know that it was Rhys Hampden who did it.”
“Stands to reason,” Bruce said. “Who else would have had a motive for killing Morrison? It must have been him.”
“Well,” Alan said, “from what you’ve all been saying about the poor man, he had any number of enemies.”
“Come now Alan
,” Anthea said, “all we’ve been saying is he wasn’t well liked, most of us have had some sort of unpleasant experience with him. But just being unpopular, well, that’s a far cry from murder.”
“That’s true,” I said, “and there were probably lots of people, like Alan here, who thought he was a splendid doctor and were very grateful for what he did for them.”
“Of course,” Anthea said, “it could have been one of the other doctors – working together on top of each other at that surgery, there could easily be a motive there.”
We were unable to investigate this theory further because Fiona came in just then with a large birthday cake and, as Alan blew out the single candle, we all gathered round and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ in the stilted, embarrassed way that adults do.
Chapter Seven
When the surgery was open again I was able to get another appointment. The waiting room was full, though whether with genuinely ill people or those who just wanted an excuse to view the scene of the crime I don’t know. It was a very hot day, unbelievably the ninth successive day of really hot weather we’d had. Unused to this Mediterranean climate, we were all becoming a trifle irritable and edgy and the children in the waiting room were whiny and fractious while their mothers, some obviously at the end of their tether, were impatient and snappy. To get a breath of air in the surgery, all the doors were open, including the one onto the central courtyard, and I wondered if the staff felt very vulnerable after what had happened.
Valerie was back at work in Reception.
“Hello Mrs Malory. I’m afraid we’re running a bit late…without Dr Morrison…”
“Yes, of course. How are you?”
“Oh I’m all right now, though we’re all a bit shaken.” She looked over her shoulder and leaned forward confidentially. “Lorna hasn’t come in today. Actually, she hasn’t been in since – since it happened.”
“It’s not surprising,” I said, “after that sort of shock.”
“She’s been staying with her mother and she rang to say Lorna wouldn’t be coming in for a bit.”
“Quite understandable,” I said, “though I suppose it makes you even more short staffed, especially with so many patients to cope with.”
“Yes, the phone hasn’t stopped.”
As if on cue the phone rang, Valerie turned away to deal with it and I went and sat down near the open door to the courtyard. Looking across I could see Joanna Stevenson walking along the far corridor. She was moving slowly, as if deep in thought and, as I watched, I saw her husband hurrying along the corridor obviously wanting to catch up with her. When he did they seemed to be arguing about something – he put his hand on her arm and she pulled violently away from him. Just at that moment one of the nurses opened the door of her office and Clive Stevenson turned abruptly and walked quickly away. I wondered what the quarrel had been about and if it had anything to do with John Morrison’s death.
When I finally got to see Dr Macdonald he was, not surprisingly, slightly distrait. He examined my wrist and seemed satisfied with the way it was healing.
“It wouldn’t hurt to carry on with the physiotherapy for a bit,” he said, “and I’m afraid it will never be quite what it was – there’ll be less flexibility – but, on the whole, you’ve got off quite lightly.”
“Just as long as I can use it,” I said, “I won’t fret about the flexibility. I was so sorry,” I went on as I bent down to pick up my handbag, “to hear about Dr Morrison.”
“It’s been very awkward,” he said, “having to close the surgery like that. We were short-staffed before all this happened and now things are worse than ever. I really don’t know how we’re going to manage – it’s very difficult to get a really reliable locum at this time of the year.”
Since Alec Macdonald was usually a kind, compassionate person I was surprised that he expressed no actual regret at John Morrison’s death, especially in such circumstances.
“Did he have any family?” I asked.
“There’s an ex-wife and I believe there’s some sort of cousin. He never talked about himself – not to me at any rate. I don’t even know who his solicitor was – the police wanted to know that.”
“And he didn’t have any friends? Among the other doctors, perhaps?”
He hesitated. “He didn’t make friends easily. I believe he was only interested in his work.”
He got up as if to bring things to an end and, taking the hint, I left.
“He really didn’t want to talk about it,” I said to Thea that afternoon. “He seemed very uncomfortable when I mentioned it.”
“Well, it was a murder after all, and he is the senior partner so he must feel sort of responsible. Anyway, I imagine he felt he had to be discreet about one of his doctors. He couldn’t go gossiping to his patients.”
“I don’t think I was gossiping exactly.”
“No, but you know what I mean. A murder on the premises – he was just being careful what he said.”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully, “but it was more than that. Something to do with Morrison and the other doctors – I’m sure there’ve been problems there.”
“I had gathered that he wasn’t popular.”
“Mmm, but I had the feeling that there was something specific, some special problem that Dr Macdonald was brooding about. And then you see, not even a conventional expression of regret at his death, and such a violent death – most unusual from someone like him.”
“He’s probably just worried.”
“I suppose.”
Alice, who had been sitting at the kitchen table trying to fit some large jigsaw pieces together, in a moment of frustration lost patience with them, swept the whole lot onto the floor and burst into tears.
“Oh dear,” Thea said, gathering her up in her arms. “It’s this heat, it doesn’t suit her.”
“Me neither,” I said. “Tell you what, let’s go down to the beach at Porlock Weir, there’s always a breeze there. Would you like that, Alice – go paddling in the sea and have an ice cream?”
At the magic words the tears stopped. “Ice cream,” Alice said, giving it a smile of approval. “Ice cream Mummy, ice cream Gran,” she reiterated, as if to make sure that the concept was universally accepted.
There is no beach as such at Porlock Weir, that stretch of coast being composed mostly of shingle interspersed with large boulders, with a notable pebble ridge just beyond the harbour. However, at low tide a small stretch of sand with miniature rock pools is uncovered, and since it is usually deserted, it is one of our favourite places. When I had seen Thea established on a comfortable boulder and Alice poking about in one of the pools with her spade, I went off to the small shop to get the ice creams.
The shop (which is also, in summer, a café noted for its excellent teas) as well as sweets and newspapers also sells basic groceries – tea, sugar, packets of cereals and so on – for the small population of The Weir who don’t want the bother of driving into Porlock when they run out of these necessities. The shop was empty and Mrs Lincoln, who kept it, was nowhere to be seen. I was leaning on the ice cream cabinet, trying to decide which of the many colourful varieties Thea and Alice would like when a voice behind me said.
“What an extraordinary coincidence – I’ve just been trying to ring you!”
It was my old friend Nora Burton. I’ve known Nora ever since we went up to Oxford from Taviscombe together. But, while I returned home, she opted for London and a career as a high-flying civil servant. Her mother had died when she was quite young and her father never married again. He was the senior partner in a firm of solicitors in Taviscombe and an enthusiastic yachtsman, which is why he had settled at The Weir in a house overlooking the sea and the harbour where his boat was moored.
Nora often visited him and so we kept in touch over the years. She was devoted to him and so I wasn’t really surprised that, when he had a stroke, she gave up her job and came back to look after him. Mr Burton died several years ago and a lot of people thought that
Nora would go back to her life in London, but she had stayed on in the old house apparently contented and now, I suppose, it’s too late for her to make a move.
“It’s been such ages since we had a really good chat,” Nora said. “I rang to ask if you’d fancy coming to lunch.”
“How lovely,” I said. “When?”
“Tomorrow, if it’s not too short notice. About 12.30?”
“I’d love to.”
Mrs Lincoln suddenly appeared from out of the back saying, “Sorry m’dears – a couple of ramblers wanting cream teas. Now what can I get you?”
“I got us all cornets,” I said to Thea, handing her two of the already melting ice creams, “which was probably a mistake. Never mind, we can always wash off the stickiness in the sea!”
Next day the sun was still blazing down. The animals who, in the winter, always crouch pathetically as close to whatever source of heat they can find, now shunned the sun and both lay stretched out (Tris panting from time to time and Foss expressing total exhaustion by the occasional wearily lifted eyelid) on the relatively cool tiled floor of the kitchen, only rousing themselves to lap noisily from the various bowls of water I left around the house for them, all the time regarding me reproachfully as the obvious author of their misery.
When you’re over a certain age sleeveless garments can be a mistake, but it was so hot that I decided that comfort was more important than elegance and put on a dress with a camisole top that I had bought many years ago and had put away as being too youthful.
“I do deplore an expanse of middle-aged flesh,” I said to Nora, “but in this weather!”
“I know. I can’t imagine how those old women in Greece manage, swathed in black from head to foot.”
“And think of those splendid Victorian missionaries in Africa,” I said, “all done up in whalebone and layers of petticoats!”
“I think it’s because we’re not used to continuous hot weather,” Nora said, “day after day. We never really get used to it. Like being unprepared for winter – the way the first snow always comes as a surprise, as if we’ve never seen it before.”