No Cure for Death

by Hazel Holt

  “I know. Still, I don’t think I’d like to live in a predictable climate, would you? Think of not being able to talk about the weather every day!”

  “I’d hate to miss the changing view I get from here,” she said. We were standing by the window with our drinks, looking out on the seashore. “Those clouds, for instance, out over the sea, changing all the time, even on a day like this – I’d hate a permanently blue sky.”

  “You do love it here, don’t you?” I said. “I used to wonder why you never went back to London and your exciting life there.”

  “Oh I missed it dreadfully at first, and almost resented being here – not being with Father, of course, but being out of the world like this.”

  “But?”

  “After Father died I went up to London occasionally, but I was always glad to come back home. I knew I’d never leave.”

  “Do you still miss your London life, your work and your friends?”

  “I did in the beginning. I was restless and bored and some of my friends dropped away and we lost touch. But I made new friends and,” with a smile at me, “rediscovered old ones, and, looking round, I found plenty to occupy me – peaceful things like gardening or walking Barney here.” She patted the placid golden Labrador that lay at her feet.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “Actually I didn’t lose all my London friends. John Morrison bought a house here – almost next door.”

  “You knew John Morrison? I’m so sorry, I had no idea – it must have been awful for you.”

  “His death was a terrible shock. John was a very dear friend. In fact, it was because of me that he moved down here in the first place.”

  “Good heavens. Had you known him long?”

  “About ten years I suppose. I met him at a dinner party given by Daphne Tyler – I think you met her once when you came up to London. She was quite a bit younger than me and had only just joined the Ministry from COI. A small, dark girl with enormous brown eyes.”

  “Oh yes, I remember her.”

  “She had quite a thing about John. He’d just broken up with his wife and I suppose she thought she might have a chance.”

  “And did she?”

  “No, John was absolutely shattered when Virginia left him. It was a very messy business, all mixed up with their work. The last thing he wanted then was another relationship. No, we sort of hit it off that evening – we had a lot in common, and we began to see each other for meals and theatres. Just as friends. I was that much older and he…well, I think he wanted, not exactly a shoulder to cry on, he wasn’t that sort of person, but just someone to be with, if you see what I mean. A sort of friend, in fact.”

  “I see.”

  “He came down with me when I visited Father and they hit it off too. They both loved sailing and John used to come down on his own sometimes to crew for Father. So when there was this trouble with the research group and he felt he had to leave, he decided to come down here and join the practice in Taviscombe. A house on The Weir was vacant so he bought it and moved in.”

  “What sort of person was he?” I asked. “Somehow I find it difficult to think of him as anyone’s friend – I suppose because he seemed so remote.”

  Nora smiled rather sadly. “He was always what you might call reserved – something to do with being a Scot perhaps – but there was warmth there and wit and humour. And, of course, a formidable intellect. Sometimes I got angry with him for burying himself away down here when he should have been out in the world doing something really important.”

  “What happened? I mean, with the London research team?”

  “It was complicated – there was this man, Paul Sutton, very brilliant in his field, but very, very ambitious. You know, a Nobel Prize always in his sights. Because he had an easy manner, easier than John certainly, he got everyone on his side, especially the professor who was leading the team, who thought he was something really special, you know how some people can create an impression.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, John had made quite a bit of progress in one aspect of the research and, like a fool, he discussed it with Sutton, used him as a sort of sounding board, but, being John, cautious and truly scholarly, he wouldn’t share it with anyone else until he’d got the whole thing completed. You can guess what happened. Sutton, using John’s work, forged ahead along those lines and, not being as thorough as John, got the results written up first and presented them as his own.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “John was appalled – not just by the false claim, but because, although the general principle was right the working out, as it were, was careless and badly done, so much so that he felt it vitiated the strength of the theory.”

  “How awful. But couldn’t he prove that this Sutton had stolen his work?”

  “Not really, there was no sort of time-scale. Sutton implied that he’d been working along those lines for ages before John and that John had been more or less following in his footsteps. He was popular, you see, so everyone wanted to believe him. John, being a forthright sort of person who didn’t suffer fools gladly, was not.”

  “So unfair!”

  “The worst thing was that Virginia, who was also working on the team, sided with Sutton.”

  “But she was his wife – hadn’t John told her what lines he was working on?”

  “No, like I said, he was a perfectionist. He had to get things absolutely right before he’d present them. Besides, there was a sort of rivalry between them. He was the brightest, no doubt about that, but Virginia found it hard to accept. There was an edge there.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “The final blow came when he discovered that Virginia and Sutton had been having an affair.”

  “Which is why she sided with him.”

  “Exactly. I can’t imagine how he must have felt – utterly disillusioned about the work and devastated by the breakdown of his marriage. But I understood why he wanted to get away, to leave all that sort of thing behind him.”

  “You were a good friend to him.”

  Nora shook her head. “Not really. If you think about it, if I hadn’t persuaded him to come down here then he might have still been alive today.”

  Chapter Eight

  I shook my head. “You mustn’t think like that. It was fate, karma, bad luck, whatever – but it certainly wasn’t your fault. You were the person who gave him another chance. I’m sure he was grateful for that.”

  Nora shrugged. “I can’t help feeling guilty. Yes, in a way he was better when he was down here, not so bitter and miserable. I think he might have been able to make a sort of life for himself, if only…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Have you seen the police? Do they have any idea who might have been responsible?”

  “A Constable Harris came and asked me questions the day after it happened, just generalities. Then I had a visit from some sort of higher up CID man, Eliot, I think the name was. I have his card somewhere.”

  “Oh that’s Roger. He’s Rosemary’s son-in-law – very nice and most efficient – I’m very fond of him. What did he say?”

  “When he discovered that we were friends as well as neighbours, he wanted to know about John as a person and all about his life in London, the things I’ve just told you.”

  “He didn’t say how they were getting on?”

  “No, just that enquiries were ‘ongoing’, which could mean anything.”

  “Do you have any idea – I mean, do you think it was someone local, or someone from his life in London? And why? I gather he wasn’t exactly popular with the other doctors here, but dislike is one thing, murder, surely is another!”

  She shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill John. But then, I suppose that’s because I was his friend and I saw a side of him that he didn’t let other people see.”

  “He was a loner, then,” I said tentatively, “only interested in his work – that’s what Dr Macdonald said.”

 
Nora hesitated for a moment. “You know I said he might have been able to make a new life for himself, well, there was someone he seemed fond of, a sort of relationship.”

  “Really, who?”

  “I don’t know her name. John just called her Jay – I gather she was married, I think she was going to divorce her husband to be with John. He wouldn’t say any more and I respected his reserve. He would have told me when things were sorted.”

  “Did you ever see her?”

  “I saw her car parked outside sometimes, but I never actually saw her. Besides, I would have hated John to think that I was spying on him.”

  “Do you think she had something to do with – with his murder? Her husband, perhaps?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Did you tell Roger Eliot?”

  Nora frowned. “I couldn’t betray his confidence,” she said.

  “But if it helped to find his killer?”

  “No, John wouldn’t want her dragged into this.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “There is something else,” she said hesitantly, “it may be nothing to do with it, but it was strange and somehow disturbing.”

  “Really?”

  “Someone was – what do they call it now? – someone was stalking him.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “A youngish woman – in her thirties, I’d say. She used to hang about outside the house watching for him to come home.”

  “Did he know her?”

  “Oh yes. She sent him letters and presents – it was all very difficult and unpleasant.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Again, he never told me her name. He used to call her the Incubus – he tried to make a joke of it, but I could tell that he found it distressing.”

  “I suppose it might be one of the hazards of being a doctor, having female patients fixated on you.”

  “Women did find him attractive – you know, tall, dark, slightly forbidding.”

  “Yes, I can see that, though Mr Rochester rather than Mr Darcy, don’t you think?”

  Nora smiled. “He would have been horrified to hear you compare him to a romantic hero.”

  “Did you see her – the Incubus? I suppose you must have done if she was hanging about outside.”

  “Yes, I did. Very ordinary, short, longish brown hair, glasses, quite smartly dressed. Something about her looked familiar – I suppose I must have seen her around in the town. I’d certainly recognise her if I saw her again.”

  “I wonder if she is a patient,” I said thoughtfully, “or even someone from the surgery. What a pity you go to the Porlock practice, you might have recognised her if she is. Did you tell the police about her?”

  “No. I suppose I should have done, but it seemed like betraying his confidence, he was such a private person and there’s something – I can’t explain it – something undignified about being stalked.”

  “Surely,” I said, “it’s the stalker not the stalked who’s undignified. But she might be unbalanced, they often are, and sometimes they kill or injure the person they’re obsessed with.”

  “You’re right, of course. I should have told the police. I’ll ring this man Eliot.” She turned away from the window. “Anyway, lunch is ready, let’s go in. I want to hear all about Michael and Thea – and, of course, Alice.”

  The hot weather went on, day after scorching day, and I formed the habit of walking along the beach at Taviscombe whenever I went in there to do my shopping. Even when there wasn’t much of a breeze, just looking at the water somehow made me feel cooler. In spite of it being the holiday season, the far end of the beach is never crowded, just a few locals either fishing at high tide or dog walking when the tide is out.

  I was wandering along aimlessly, watching the gulls swooping in circles, and one smaller one in particular – a tern perhaps, standing there opening and shutting its mouth as if in a silent cry.

  “I’ve often wondered why they do that.”

  A voice behind me made me turn round and I saw it was Roger Eliot.

  “Roger, hello! What are you doing here at this time of day?”

  “Day off, so I thought I’d go for a walk – too hot to stay indoors.”

  “Isn’t it awful – though I suppose when the winter comes we’ll look back in longing.”

  “I was just thinking of paddling in the sea. I bet the water’s still cold. It would take more than this little heat-wave to warm up the Bristol Channel. But it doesn’t look particularly appealing.”

  We both turned and looked at the small waves curling onto the beach. The water was the usual reddish-brown (the result of the red earth washed down into the Channel from the rivers that ran into it) with a scummy froth that lay unappetisingly on the hard sand.

  I laughed and shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s funny, though, when I was a child we always bathed here and never seemed to notice how uninviting the water looked.”

  “Oh well, children never do. Though Delia and Alex seem to prefer swimming pools. But it’s not the same, there’s something about actually being in the sea – oh well, we’ll have to wait for Abroad. Are you going anywhere this year?”

  “No, I can’t be bothered to arrange anything and then there’s the problem of putting the animals in kennels – not to mention the fact that it’s even hotter abroad. No, if only we had our usual English summer weather I’d be perfectly happy to stay where I am. How about you?”

  “The school holidays coming when they do, it’s never worth it – too hot and crowded. No, we all went to Italy at Easter – Lake Como, it was a great success, even the children liked it. I’ll try and take some time off when they’re on holiday and we’ll do a few excursions. Just at the moment, though, we’re a bit tied up with this Morrison case.” He turned and looked at me quizzically. “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned it, since you were actually there when it happened. Yes, I’ve seen the reports and lists of people on the scene.”

  “Well, yes, as it happens, I was. And, yes, I was going to ask you about it.”

  He laughed. “Go ahead.”

  “What about Rhys Hampden? Have you questioned him?”

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately no. When Sergeant Harris went to call on him he wasn’t there. He’s run off somewhere and we haven’t found him yet.”

  “Does that mean…?”

  “That he killed Dr Morrison. It’s not quite that simple. Yes, Rhys was the last patient to see him, and yes he did leave the surgery in a hurry.”

  “He certainly did. I saw him go.”

  “And I suppose that should make him the prime suspect.”

  “But?”

  “There’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.”

  “But surely Dr Morrison wouldn’t give him the methadone, or whatever the stuff is, and he got worked up and stabbed him.”

  “How do you know Dr Morrison was stabbed?”

  “Valerie told me. I just happened to see her after. She was very upset and told me.”

  “Just happened? Come now Sheila, I know you better than that! Anyway, the thing is, it was totally out of character.”

  “But surely people on drugs do behave out of character.”

  “True, but he was a very gentle, timid sort of boy. His parents said he seemed to be really frightened about something – they didn’t seem surprised that he had run anyway – nothing to do with the murder, just running away from something, or someone.”

  “Still…”

  “But there was another thing too. There was only one wound, and that was in a vital spot. Of course it might have been a lucky shot, as it were, but it could also mean that the murderer had some medical knowledge and knew exactly where to strike.”

  “And where better to find someone with medical knowledge than in a doctors’ practice?” I said.

  Roger shrugged. “It is possible.”

  “Well,” I said, “that opens up the field a bit.”

  “There was something else,�
�� Roger continued. “The wound was a strange shape. It’d been made with an unusual blade – curved. Now that isn’t exactly the kind of weapon a boy like Rhys would be carrying.”

  “Could it have been some sort of surgical instrument that he – or someone else – snatched up from the desk?”

  “I asked the various doctors if there was such an instrument, something that would leave that sort of wound.”

  “And?”

  “I got a variety of answers, there were several instruments that it could be. But the conclusion was that, whatever it might have been, it was something unusual and certainly not the sort of thing that would be lying about in a GP’s surgery.”

  “So the murderer would have brought it with him.”

  “And since we didn’t find anything there that fitted its description, he (or she) took it away afterwards.”

  “So no help.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” There was a pause while we both looked out to sea, considering the implications of that. Then Roger said, “Sheila, how well did you know this man Morrison?”

  “Hardly at all. I met him a few times and formed a sort of opinion of him, but I’m beginning to think I may have got him wrong.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s the sort of man I instinctively dislike – brusque, impatient, arrogant, very sure of himself – a stereotype really.”

  “But you changed your mind?”

  “Sort of. I think he was more complicated than that. Also, I find that an old friend of mine, whose judgement I trust, was very fond of him, so there must have been a side to him that wasn’t immediately apparent.”

  “I’m getting very mixed messages about him from the doctors at the surgery.”

  “Why? What do they say?”

  “A couple of the men felt as you did, they found him difficult to get on with. I got the impression he didn’t suffer fools gladly.”

  “That’s what my friend Nora said.”

  “Nora? Nora Burton, out at Porlock Weir?”

  “That’s right. I gather you’ve spoken to her.”