No Cure for Death

by Hazel Holt

  “Will you pour, please, Sheila,” she said and continued sharply, “and don’t forget to warm the tea cups, the hot-water jug is to your left.”

  When I had successfully negotiated the tea pouring (almost as complicated in its way, I felt, as the Japanese version) and handed Mrs Dudley the cucumber sandwiches, she settled herself in her high-backed chair and began to cross-question me about any local gossip I might have accumulated. Unfortunately, since I hadn’t known in advance that I was going to see her, I was woefully ill prepared and realised that the meagre information I was able to give her was proving unsatisfactory. She interrupted my version of Lisa’s news about her sister in Auckland.

  “Yes, yes, I know all about that.” She leaned forward. “Now tell me all about this business with Dr Morrison. I believe you were actually there when it happened.”

  “Well, yes I was – at least I was in the waiting room, but I didn’t really see anything.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sheila, you have eyes in your head, you must have seen something.”

  I gave her an account, as far as I could remember it, of what had happened that morning.

  “Of course,” I concluded, “they didn’t say Dr Morrison had been killed. They just said there’d been an accident.”

  “Dr Macdonald was there, you say?”

  “Yes, he was the other doctor on duty.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t think he was too sorry to see the back of Dr Morrison.”

  “You surely don’t think…”

  “Of course not,” she replied impatiently. “I’ve known Alec Macdonald since he was a child. No, what I was about to say when you interrupted, was that I heard that there was some sort of disagreement between them. Have you heard anything about that?” she demanded. I shook my head and she continued. “Personally I think it is a great loss. Dr Morrison was a distinguished doctor with the highest qualifications and the practice was very lucky to have him.”

  I looked at her in surprise. Mrs Dudley’s approval was not given lightly.

  “Did you know him then?” I asked.

  “I did see him on two occasions when Alec Macdonald was away on some sort of course.” The word was spoken with some disdain. “I know Dr Morrison was not popular in the town, but I always speak as I find and he was most civil to me.”

  I gave him full marks for recognising and appreciating Mrs Dudley’s energy and spirit.

  “He was a very brilliant man,” I said, “with many excellent qualities.”

  “Precisely,” Mrs Dudley said approvingly, “which is why I was surprised that Alec Macdonald said that he regretted taking him on.”

  “Really? How did you hear that?”

  “Mavis Carpenter overheard him speaking to Dr Howard about it. She was waiting for her X-ray at the hospital and they were standing there talking. Of course they didn’t see her, she was round the corner in that little annexe place, you know where I mean, but she heard them quite clearly.”

  “What did Dr Macdonald say?”

  “He said that if he’d known the trouble Dr Morrison would cause he would never have taken him on.”

  “Did he say what sort of trouble?”

  “No, they moved away and Mavis,” Mrs Dudley spoke impatiently, “didn’t hear any more.”

  I suddenly remembered the snatch of conversation I had heard at the hospital when Alec Macdonald told Dr Howard that he’d spoken to someone strongly and that it was the last thing the practice needed. That must surely have referred to Dr Morrison and been about his relationship with Joanna Stevenson. I was brought up sharp by Mrs Dudley.

  “Do you know anything about this, Sheila?”

  I pulled myself together quickly. “No, no I don’t.”

  She regarded me suspiciously and I tried to assume an expression of bland innocence, though I knew from long experience how difficult it was to hide anything from her.

  “Well,” she said in a dissatisfied tone, “there was obviously something going on.”

  “Perhaps it was something to do with Kenneth Webster,” I suggested. “You know his son’s been threatening to sue Dr Morrison over his father’s death.”

  “Absolute rubbish!” Mrs Dudley said vehemently. “Everyone knows that Kenneth Webster has been at death’s door for years. I’m surprised they were able to keep him alive as long as they did. Richard Webster’s always been very grasping – I suppose he thinks he can get some sort of money out of all this.”

  “He says his mother’s been very distressed by it all.”

  “Anyone,” Mrs Dudley said magisterially, “would be distressed if they had a fool like Richard Webster for a son.” She looked at me sharply. “You don’t imagine that Richard Webster had anything to do with Dr Morrison’s death?”

  “Well…”

  “Quite impossible. For one thing he may be full of bluster, but, like all bullies, he’s a coward underneath. He didn’t even have the nerve to stand up to Dr Morrison face to face, only blackguard him behind his back. Besides, he was in the Isle of Wight when it happened.”

  “Really?”

  “He took his mother to see her sister Evelyn in Shanklin, though what she wanted to do that for I can’t imagine – they’ve never got on ever since Evelyn married that insurance salesman. Still, I suppose it made a change for her after Kenneth died.”

  She passed over her cup for me to refill it. “No, as I said,” she continued, “Richard thought he might get some money out of his father’s death. It’s this dreadful compensation culture. People nowadays seem unwilling to take any responsibility for their own actions. I saw in the Daily Telegraph only the other day that there are lawyers who make a living out of claiming compensation for people tripping over paving stones and other such nonsense. I cannot think what this country’s coming to!”

  I passed her the plate with the chocolate éclairs in the hope of diverting her from the enormities of modern life, a subject she was capable of enlarging on ad infinitum.

  “Thank you, Sheila, perhaps just the one. Dr Macdonald says I need to keep my strength up.”

  I didn’t imagine he had actually specified cream cakes for this purpose but I was glad to find a way of getting the conversation back to medical matters.

  “They’re finding it a bit of a strain at the surgery,” I said, “being so short-staffed now that they don’t have Dr Morrison. It’s more difficult than ever to get an appointment now. A lot of people settle for seeing Nancy – we’re very lucky to have such a good Nurse Practitioner.”

  “That is no way to run a practice,” Mrs Dudley said severely. “I wouldn’t dream of seeing anyone but a proper doctor. I believe Nancy Williams is an excellent girl – her grandmother was a friend of mine – but that is not the same thing at all. Of course Dr Macdonald visits me at home – one of those girls in Reception was impertinent enough to suggest that I should go to the surgery, but I soon put a stop to that! I did see one of the nurses once, and she said that at my age I should have my main meal at lunchtime and not in the evening.”

  “Really?”

  Mrs Dudley nodded. “Of course I put her in her place,” she said. “I told her that I did not imagine that the Queen had her main meal at mid-day and even the most rabid republican could hardly claim that Her Majesty was not in robust health at her age!”

  When I got back home I was (as I always am after playing lady-in-waiting to Mrs Dudley) absolutely exhausted. Having had such a large tea I had no wish even to think about supper (though like Mrs Dudley and the Queen I have my main meal in the evening), so I poured myself a large gin and tonic, and flopped down on the sofa. But I wasn’t able to relax for very long since the animals, having had a run-about outside when I got back, now demanded to be let in and fed. Mechanically I got their food out of the fridge, warmed it up in the microwave, put it down for them and was just about to go back to my glass and my sofa when the phone rang.

  Just for a moment I contemplated letting it ring, but I never can so I reluctantly went over to answe
r it.

  “Sheila, I’m really sorry to bother you again like this.” It was Nora. “Something’s come up and I’d really like to talk to you about it.”

  “Of course. Do come round.”

  “No, I won’t disturb your evening again. And, anyway, I think I’d like to think about it a bit more before I speak to you. Would tomorrow morning be all right?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I’m in all morning.”

  “About eleven, then, if that suits you. Thank you so much.”

  I put the phone down feeling more disturbed in a way than if Nora had actually come round. Now I would spend the evening wondering what on earth she wanted to tell me – something important, obviously, but what? It was very frustrating. I finished my drink and poured myself another one. I put on the television but couldn’t concentrate. Even my favourite soap didn’t hold my attention, nor a documentary about Ancient Egypt. I must have drifted off to sleep because I woke with a start to find it was 10.30 and the screen filled with depressing images of various world trouble spots.

  Foss, who has a very accurate internal clock, was pacing up and down the room declaring loudly that it was time to switch off the television and prepare for bed. As I got my tray ready for the morning he sat bolt upright on the microwave, looking (perhaps influenced by the television programme) particularly Egyptian – rather like the reproduction figure I had from the British Museum. He gave me a disdainful stare as if to remind me that he was a Temple Cat and that his ancestors were Sacred. Tris, who was more interested in supper, contented himself with giving anxious little whines in case I had forgotten the priorities.

  As I went upstairs my mind went back to Nora’s call. Presumably it was something about John Morrison. It was borne in on me what an important part of her life he had been and how empty it must seem to her now. It had been an unusual relationship – unusual for these days, certainly, though I could think of a few parallels in literature. I could see how they must have responded to each other. Two rare spirits. The fact that John had been close to her father was important to her, and, after he died, she must have felt that John was all the family she had, or, indeed, was likely to have.

  She had made him her life, not really seeking out her old friends (thinking about it I realised that I hadn’t seen her very often since her return) or making new ones. And now that he’d gone, and in such tragic circumstances, she was using all the incidents surrounding the investigation into his death to cling onto him, so that she could feel that something of him still remained. Perhaps she would never be able to start her life again until the whole business of his death had been settled, and unless something dramatic happened to bring the investigation to a conclusion, I didn’t think that was very likely in the near future. I felt that I must do what I could to hasten that conclusion for Nora’s sake if for nothing else.

  Certainly I now knew that Dr Porter had an alibi, as had Alec Macdonald and the girls (apart from Lorna) in Reception, but I had no idea about any of the others. Obviously Roger would know who had an alibi and who hadn’t and I made a resolution to try and find out what he knew.

  I switched on the radio beside my bed hoping for a reading from The Book at Bedtime, but it was on the wrong station and I got what appeared to be a phone-in about football. Aware of my inadequacy to understand one of many aspects of the present day, I switched off the radio and opened The Last Chronicle of Barset, sinking back with some relief into a century I felt I understood better, in some ways, than my own.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You must be sick of me, running to you with all my troubles like this,” Nora said.

  I poured the coffee and pushed the jug of milk towards her. “Don’t be silly. Here, have a piece of shortbread and tell me what you think – it’s a new recipe with a little bit of semolina in it. I think it makes it richer.”

  “Mm yes, it’s delicious.”

  “Now then, what’s the matter?”

  “Well, you know I told you that in his will John asked that I should go through his papers – though why he should have imagined that I’d outlive him seeing how much older I was… Anyway, I’ve been putting it off; I thought it would be upsetting and I somehow didn’t feel ready for that.”

  “That’s quite understandable,” I said. “Surely there can’t have been any great urgency about it.”

  “There was, in a way. You see the police had already been through the papers in his desk, I suppose they had to see if there was any sort of clue to his murder.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “I haven’t heard anything from them and, when I came to look through the things in his desk and in the filing trays, there wasn’t anything personal at all, only scientific stuff, papers he’d been working on, that sort of thing. No, that was no problem – I knew what he’d want me to do with them. There’s this man at one of the teaching hospitals he’s been in touch with, I’m sure he’d want me to send all that to him.”

  “So. What’s the problem then?” I asked.

  She hesitated for a moment and then she said, “One day when I was there he showed me a little Victorian writing desk he had. A pretty thing made of walnut with a marquetry design on the lid. It seemed a very feminine thing for him to possess but he told me that it had belonged to his grandmother, his mother’s mother, and it was the only thing he had as a remembrance of her. I expect you know the sort of thing it is – like a large box that opens up to form a writing surface with storage for pens and papers underneath.”

  “Oh I know,” I exclaimed. “Mother had one like that. It belonged to her grandmother – I gave it to Thea to give to Alice when she’s grown up. It’s the sort of thing you like to keep in the family.”

  “I don’t know about yours,” Nora said, “but this one of John’s had a secret compartment – not very secret, just a piece of wood that slides to one side and reveals a space just big enough to keep a couple of letters in.”

  “Splendidly romantic, like something out of a novelette – somewhere for a young lady to keep forbidden correspondence! So did you find some letters in John’s?”

  “There were a few old letters from his father in the main part of the desk. Brief, curt things, nothing affectionate or loving. I expect the police found those.”

  “But?”

  “But there were several letters in the secret compartment. Two of them were from Francis Wheeler.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “I think I told you, didn’t I, that something happened that made John have nothing more to do with him?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Now I can see why. He did something that John found unforgivable.” She paused and drank the rest of her coffee.”

  “What was it?”

  “As I told you then, John, Virginia, and Francis Wheeler were all friends from Medical School, really good friends, even after they worked in different places, John and Virginia on that research team and Francis in one of the other teaching hospitals. John said that Francis was always very ambitious. He went into orthopaedics because he thought he could get further quicker – apparently there were fewer people specialising in it at that time.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “As well as being ambitious in his work, Francis was very keen to get onto the social scene. There were a couple of people at his hospital who moved in those circles – you know the sort of thing I mean, young men from aristocratic families, actors, models, millionaires who’d made it young – what we’d call ‘Celebrities’ now, I suppose. Francis was fascinated by them. He got out of his depth of course and couldn’t keep up. He wanted the lifestyle, but he hadn’t got the money – he was soon in debt and borrowed from his so-called friends. He couldn’t keep up in other ways, too. A young doctor needs all the energy he has just to keep up with the job – especially if he’s trying hard to impress his superiors.”

  “I can imagine. So what happened?”

  “That’s all John ever told me. He said it was all too squal
id and he didn’t want to talk about it. He was obviously upset, just thinking about it, so I didn’t press him.”

  “What about Virginia?”

  “I don’t think she saw Francis again while she and John were married. I don’t know what happened afterwards.”

  “They were together at the funeral.”

  “Yes – it may be that John didn’t tell her everything he’d heard.”

  “But you know now what it was all about?”

  “I managed to piece together what had happened from the letters. They were ones that Francis had written to John, with notes John had made on the back of one of the sheets.”

  “Good heavens.”

  Nora smiled. “John was a great one for making notes, even in the most unlikely circumstances.”

  “So what happened?”

  “As I said, Francis found it difficult to keep up the pace, so he turned to drugs to keep going.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Exactly. He started off by buying the stuff, but when he got so deeply in debt he began stealing from the hospital. And then, to make things even worse, his so-called friends started calling in the money he owed them and when he couldn’t pay it they got him to steal drugs for them.”

  “How ghastly. And John found out?”

  Nora nodded. “You can imagine how he felt about it, with his high standards and firm principles. Being so strong himself he simply couldn’t imagine how someone could be so weak and have gone to pieces like that.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “At first,” Nora continued, “he threatened to tell the authorities what was going on, but Francis begged him not to, promised to mend his ways – all that sort of thing. Eventually John agreed not to tell anyone – though I’m sure he must have felt he was doing the wrong thing. But he insisted that Francis should resign and leave London and take a job somewhere where the social temptations were less great.”

  “So that’s why he came down to the West Country?”

  “That’s right. It was a tremendous wrench, not just the social thing, but he’d been almost certain of getting a place on Sir Robert Forsyth’s team – he’s the top orthopaedic man and it would have absolutely made Francis’s career if he could have done that. It must have been the hardest part of all for him.”