No Cure for Death

by Hazel Holt

  A thought struck me. “And she’s pregnant.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You think it’s John’s child?”

  “That would explain the money.”

  We were both silent for a while, then I said, “But the note in the Bible. It sounds as if he’d ended it. Would he have done that if he’d known about the child?”

  “That may have been why he did.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “John never wanted children. He had this extraordinary idea that he’d be a bad father.”

  “But why?”

  “His own father was a very difficult man, strict, dominant, controlling – a caricature of an old-fashioned stern Presbyterian Minister. He made John’s childhood thoroughly miserable. He was the only child so he got the full force of all his father’s theories and prejudices.”

  “What about his mother?”

  “She died when John was very young. They had a succession of grim housekeepers afterwards.”

  “How ghastly. But still, that wouldn’t mean that John would be the same.”

  “You probably know that John was deeply interested in genetics – he’d done research, was continuing to do so here. It wasn’t just his father. His paternal grandfather was much the same – John felt that explained his father’s character – and there was, apparently, a history of actual violence in the family.”

  “But surely, that doesn’t necessarily mean…”

  “Some specialists,” Nora said, “who’ve been deeply involved with a particular theory over a long period of time, can end up by seeing what they want to see.”

  “But that’s terrible.”

  “I tried to argue with him once or twice, but I was never going to get anywhere, so I gave up.”

  “Do you think that was why he and Virginia split up?”

  “I think that was part of it. I believe he discussed it with her before they got married. But she said it didn’t matter – well, she was young and she had her career, she was ambitious.”

  “But?”

  “But, as time went on, I suppose it began to get to her. She knew that John would never change his mind. She and Sutton have two children.”

  “Oh dear, what a mess! Do you think Clive Stevenson knows?”

  “About John and Joanna? I’m not sure.”

  “Actually,” I said, remembering something, “I think he probably does.”

  I told her about the little scene I’d witnessed in the corridor at the practice.

  “There was something about the way she pulled her arm away when he tried to talk to her, as if she’d already distanced herself and didn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “So,” Nora said thoughtfully, “if he knew about the affair he’d have had his suspicions about the baby.”

  “Which,” I said, “gives him a pretty strong motive for murder.”

  “True,” Nora agreed. “But then so had Joanna.”

  “What?”

  “Just think about it. She’d been rejected – and in the most painful way possible, because she was going to have John’s child. Just think how that would have made her feel. He may even have asked her to have an abortion.”

  “How terrible. But look,” I went on, “if John had broken things off with her, why did he leave her money in his will? I mean, he didn’t know that he was going to die.”

  “I expect that was John being extra cautious,” Nora said. “He’d have wanted to provide for the child financially and since he was that much older than Joanna it would be likely that he would die first, so he would want to make sure that the money would go on coming to her after his death.”

  “It all sounds so cold-blooded, so impersonal.”

  “No, I don’t think he meant it like that. But the fact is that John was a logical person, who tackled each situation as if it was a problem that could be solved by rational thinking.”

  “That sounds cold-blooded to me,” I said.

  Nora smiled. “He was a very complex person. He lived his own life on an intellectual level, as it were, but he was capable of great warmth and sympathy. He was wonderful to me when Father died.”

  “But not to poor Joanna!” I pointed out.

  “In that case, I think his overwhelming fear of fatherhood was stronger than anything else. It really was something of an obsession with him, and you know how it is with obsessions, they obliterate everything else.”

  We were both silent for a while, trying, I suppose, to take in the implications of what had happened. Then Nora said, “I don’t know what to do. I really don’t.”

  “You ought, really,” I said slowly, “to tell the police. I mean, there are these new motives for John’s death, motives they have no way of knowing about, well, not unless you tell them.”

  Nora shook her head. “But how can I? It would be the worst kind of betrayal of John.”

  “No,” I said firmly, “not the worst kind. That would be allowing his murderer to get away with it. You owe it to John, you must see that.”

  “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly. “But if that’s so why do I feel so awful about telling them?”

  “Your John was a very private person,” I said, “and you feel you’re destroying his privacy. But there’s nothing private about murder. You must tell Roger. Even when they find out about Joanna and the baby and the money (and they will very soon), they still need to know how he felt about the baby – there’s no way they could guess that. Only you or Joanna can tell them, and I doubt if she will.”

  “You’re right, of course, and yes, I’ll do it. I’ll ring Roger Eliot tomorrow. Somehow I won’t mind so much telling him, it’s not a situation that everyone would understand, but I think he will.”

  “I’m sure he will. I know you’re doing the right thing. I wonder,” I said, “what Joanna will do now, will she leave her husband? For that matter would he have her back?”

  “I suppose, before the baby, she may have thought she’d move in with John.”

  “Would he have wanted that?”

  Nora shook her head. “I doubt it. After Virginia he always avoided any sort of real commitment.”

  “You sound as if there’ve been others, before Joanna.”

  “There were a few, but he was – how shall I put it – very wary, after Virginia. I don’t think he ever recovered after that.”

  “That’s sad. Your John was certainly a complicated character.”

  “Complex – yes. That’s what made him so interesting. I’d never met anyone like him, and now I don’t suppose I ever will again.” She sighed and looked at her watch. “Goodness, is that the time. I must be going.”

  “No, do stay and have supper – it’s only pasta, but I’ve made the sauce so it won’t take a minute. Come into the kitchen and talk to me while I get it together.” It really is extraordinary how things multiply; inanimate things, books, flower vases and especially magazines. It doesn’t seem to me, when I try to consider it rationally, that I buy many of them, very few on a regular basis, usually on an impulse or when I’m going on a train journey, but there they all are – copies of the Spectator, Gardening World, The New Yorker, Good Housekeeping, Country Life, not to mention all the colour supplements, forming unsteady piles on small tables or cluttering up valuable work-space on the kitchen dresser. Kept because there’s always one article that I didn’t get around to reading, or something I’ve kept to show Michael or Thea, or a specially interesting recipe that I meant to cut out and never did, all kept, I must confess, because throwing things away is something I’m always going to do tomorrow.

  When once again I knocked a pile of the wretched things onto the floor in the sitting room, I decided something had to be done. I gathered together as many as I could manage, stuffed them into a large canvas bag, put them into the car and drove down to the Outpatients department of the hospital.

  Lyn Varley, an old hospital acquaintance, was in Reception, though the waiting room was empty.

  “
Hello Lyn,” I said, “can you use some magazines for the waiting room? I can never quite bring myself to throw them out and I thought you might be glad of them.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Lyn said enthusiastically. “They get so chewed up and mangled here and people tear recipes and things out of them – sometimes there’s only a cover left. They’ll be very welcome!” She emerged from behind her glass partition and helped me to take them out of the bag. “What a lovely lot – there’s several here I might just borrow to read myself before I put them out!”

  I looked around the empty waiting room. “No clinic this morning?” I asked.

  “No, nothing on Wednesdays until 1.45, that’s Mr Wheeler’s.”

  “Does he come every Wednesday?”

  “Oh no, just the first Wednesday in the month.”

  “Oh, right. And he came last month?”

  She looked at me curiously. “Yes. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason, I just wondered if the police came to tell him about poor Dr Morrison. They were old friends apparently.”

  “Not as far as I know. Mind you, he was late for his clinic that day. He said he had a puncture and it took ages to get it changed, especially with all the traffic on the road.”

  “The holiday traffic’s awful, worse than ever this year,” I said. “It took me ages just to get to Williton the other day. Have you been away yet?”

  “No, Derek and I usually go somewhere warm abroad in January – I think a break does you more good then, don’t you?”

  As I left the hospital I passed Clive Stevenson, presumably on duty there. I would have said hello, but it was perfectly obvious that he was miles away, lost in goodness only knows what thoughts.

  As I drove home, I considered the fact that Francis Wheeler had been in Taviscombe the day John Morrison was killed. And he’d been late for his clinic. I wondered how familiar he was with the layout of the surgery. It was more than likely he’d been there sometimes to talk to Alec Macdonald or Sam Porter, both of whom were interested in orthopaedics. I remembered what Nora had told me about the awful thing that John said Francis Wheeler had done. I wondered how I could find out what it was and if it was terrible enough to be the motive for a murder.

  Rosemary phoned the following day.

  “Sheila, I have an immense favour to ask you.”

  “Something to do with your mother?” I asked.

  “How did you guess? I promised to take her to the chiropodist this afternoon, but I’ve got to look after the children. Roger’s had to go up to London on business of some kind and Jilly’s suddenly decided to travel up with him so that she can see an old school friend who’s over from South Africa. I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, but it’s all been a bit short-notice. I’ll quite understand if you’ve made other arrangements – I mean, I could take Delia and Alex with me – the appointment’s at four o’clock – but you know what Mother’s like with them, always criticising!”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I can easily manage four o’clock. Anyway, it’s been ages since I’ve seen her – I’ve been feeling guilty about that.”

  “Mother’s very good,” Rosemary said morosely, “at making people feel guilty. Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind…”

  I wondered what “business” Roger had in London, and if it had anything to do with John Morrison’s murder. He might have decided to talk to people at the hospital who used to know him – I didn’t know if he’d already spoken to Virginia. I wondered, too, if Nora had had a chance to speak to him about Joanna and Clive. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that a lot of people might have had a reason for wanting John Morrison dead.

  It was funny, I thought, as I began collecting things from the linen basket to take downstairs, how much my view of him had changed. All the things Nora had told me made me realise what an unusual and interesting person he must have been, and I regretted never having had the chance to get to know him. More than ever I could see what a gap he’d have left in Nora’s life. She, too, was a reserved person, not making friends easily – I was an exception because we’d grown up together. As far as I knew she’d never had any serious romantic relationship (or if she had she’d never told me about it) and this friendship with John, someone with what she considered such fine qualities, seems to have been the most important thing in her life. And, on his part, he would probably have valued the things that Nora could offer him: the intellectual rigour, the calm and rational examination of any problem, together with a warm but undemanding affection. It had been, it occurred to me, that rare thing nowadays, a perfect friendship between a man and a woman.

  I gathered up the clothes and bed-linen and went to make my way downstairs. I was brought to a halt by Foss who suddenly greeted me with loud cries when I was halfway down the staircase. He has this habit of coming to find me when he’s been out and loudly announcing his safe arrival home, something I usually find rather touching, but on this occasion the sudden unexpected noise made me drop my armful of washing.

  “Oh Foss! Now look what you’ve made me do!”

  Tris, attracted by the commotion, came into the hall barking and by the time I’d gathered up the scattered garments, got them into the washing machine and placated my two vociferous friends with food, I was obliged to go and get myself ready to collect Mrs Dudley. This was no easy task, since I knew that whatever I chose to wear would be subjected to the silent but critical scrutiny that had been successfully undermining my confidence ever since I was seven years old.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I arrived at Mrs Dudley’s, as I always do, a good ten minutes before the appointed time, but she was already sitting in her chair by the window, wearing her hat and coat and an expression of patient resignation, as of one who has been waiting a very long time. Mrs Dudley is now the only person I know who regularly wears a hat. Today’s was a navy blue straw with a brisk petersham ribbon bow at the back.

  “Ah, there you are, Sheila,” she said glancing pointedly at the clock, “I am quite ready.”

  As we drove to the chiropodist she said, “Since we are a little early perhaps you would be kind enough to stop at Morgan’s. I want to leave a pair of spectacles to be adjusted.”

  Mrs Dudley is always doing this, popping in little extra tasks apparently casually although the whole thing is carefully planned and I have come to expect it. “Why doesn’t she just say what she wants to do?” I once asked Rosemary. “The simple exercise of power,” Rosemary explained, “is not enough; she likes to add just one more thing to top up the pressure.”

  Needless to say there wasn’t anywhere to park outside the optician’s and I had to stop in the space reserved for taxis, which provoked sour glances from the drivers. However, when they saw who it was being helped out of the car their looks turned to pity rather than wrath, since they had all of them suffered at one time or another from Mrs Dudley’s forceful personality.

  When we finally got to the chiropodist we were five minutes late.

  “I am so sorry we are late,” Mrs Dudley said to Lisa the receptionist, “Transport difficulties, so tiresome.” She swept past her into the surgery.

  “That’s you told,” Lisa said smiling.

  Since, when I was with Mrs Dudley, I didn’t dare go away and come back I settled down to have a nice chat with Lisa.

  She has an extensive family and my enquiries about them and her answers usually took up most of the half hour of Mrs Dudley’s appointment. We had covered her sister in New Zealand and her sister’s husband, and the eldest boy in Tasmania, and gradually worked round (by way of her husband’s brother in Carlisle) to relatives living in Taviscombe. Her eldest son, now at university in Bath, was doing well, her daughter who had just taken her A levels was anxiously awaiting her results, but her youngest son Graham hadn’t been at all well.

  “It was chicken pox,” she said “and he had it really badly. Poor little soul he was in a terrible state. There was a swimming competition he was supposed to be in at
school but of course that was quite out of the question. I rang up the surgery and they said can you bring him in? But I said no, his temperature was right up and I didn’t want to risk it. I mean, even if I wrapped him up in a blanket there’d be all that time in the waiting room! Well, fortunately it was that nice receptionist, Valerie, isn’t it? She said she’d see what she could do and then she said Dr Porter had just come in and since he didn’t have a surgery he’d be round straight away.”

  “Goodness,” I said, “you were lucky to get a house call!”

  “Well,” Lisa said, “I didn’t know how lucky until the next day when I heard about Dr Morrison.”

  “You mean…?”

  “It must have been just about the time poor Dr Morrison was killed that Dr Porter came to see Graham.”

  I looked at her enquiringly.

  “Well, if it had been any later – after the murder – I don’t suppose any of them would have been available to call – helping the police with their enquiries, or whatever they call it.”

  “No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” I said thoughtfully.

  “It was a dreadful thing,” Lisa said, “and in the surgery too. It makes you feel nowhere is safe, doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. But how is Graham now?”

  “Oh he’s quite all right now. Amazing, isn’t it, how they can be down one moment and right up the next!”

  When I took Mrs Dudley home she said, “You’ll stay to tea, Sheila.”

  Since this was more a command than an enquiry I said that of course I’d love to. Actually, by then I felt the need for a cup of tea. The small tea table, already spread with a white crochet-edged cloth, stood beside the small fire (lit even in the summer) in the sitting room. Elsie, Mrs Dudley’s devoted slave, came bustling in with the silver teapot and put it down beside the fine Royal Worcester china and the splendid array of sandwiches and cakes. I found it extraordinary, but somehow comforting, to think that even in the twenty-first century this little ritual took place every day whether Mrs Dudley had visitors or not.