No Cure for Death

by Hazel Holt

  He hesitated as if not quite sure how to phrase what he had to say.

  “We’ve found her.”

  “But,” I said, puzzled, “I didn’t know you knew she was missing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Roger said, “I’m putting this badly. What I’m trying to say is that we found Nora Burton dead.”

  “Oh God, no! Where was she? What happened?”

  “She was in her car right over the other side of the moor, beyond Hawkridge. She’d driven off the road into a clump of trees – the car was quite hidden. Hardly anyone goes up there, but a farmer went to check on his sheep and wondered what a car was doing there. He found her and called us.”

  “So…?”

  “It looks as though she’d taken her own life. There was a bottle of whiskey and a bottle that had contained sleeping tablets.”

  I felt the tears in my throat. “How long had she been there?” I finally managed to ask.

  “Several days, maybe longer. I haven’t had the forensic report yet. There’ll have to be an inquest of course.”

  “If only I’d realised,” I said. “If only I’d said something, tried to help her…”

  “Sheila, I’m so sorry – this must have been a terrible shock for you. But you mustn’t blame yourself. I’m sure you were a good friend to her.”

  “Not good enough, apparently.”

  “What was all this about her being missing?”

  I told him about the telephone number and how I’d tried to find her.

  “And all that time…” I broke off.

  “You say she was in a distressed state the last time you saw her?”

  “She was deeply unhappy,” I said. “She obviously felt her life was finished – that it wasn’t worth going on without John.”

  “You think that’s why she did it? Grief?”

  “I suppose so. That is…” I paused. “There is another possibility, though I don’t know if I can bear to think of it just now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Roger looked at me. “Sheila, are you all right? Can I get you something?”

  I nodded. “Yes, perhaps – it’s been quite a shock. Could you pour me a glass of sherry please – it’s over there on the sideboard. Do have one too.”

  Roger refused anything for himself, but waited while I drank the greater part of the sherry.

  “Is that better? Do you feel able to go on?”

  “Yes, I’m much better. Sorry, it’s just that I never imagined…stupid really, I should have thought – when she was so desperately unhappy.”

  “But you thought something else?” Roger asked.

  “Yes. It’s just a possibility.”

  I told Roger about John’s plans to go to America without Nora and how upset she’d been.

  “You thought she might have killed him?”

  “Yes, I did. She was very bitter about it all – that is when she broke down and finally told me how she felt.”

  Roger looked grave. “As you say, it’s a possibility. As good a motive as any, I suppose. As good as Joanna Stevenson’s perhaps.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t think Joanna was capable of killing John.” And I told him about her visit to the house and Nora’s reaction. “I think she was angry and upset, but bewildered about the whole affair. Out of her depth,” I said. “But I really don’t think she killed him. I didn’t somehow feel that her feelings were that deeply involved – I think she’ll make her life elsewhere.”

  “You may be right,” Roger said, “you mostly are, but I’ll keep her on my list just in case.”

  A sudden thought struck me. “Roger – was there a note? Did Nora leave a note in the car or at home?”

  He shook his head. “No, nothing in the car and we did go to her house of course but there was nothing there either.”

  “Then she didn’t kill John,” I said.

  “What do you mean? How can you be so sure?”

  “Because if she had, she’d have left a note saying that’s what she’d done. Nora was a very conscientious person. I know – I know that if she had done it she’d have left a note confessing so that no one else would be blamed for it.”

  “I see.”

  I put the glass down. “Such a relief,” I said. “I couldn’t bear to think Nora could have – silly, really. I’m sure she would have been capable of it. She may even have considered it. But she knew, I suppose, that she’d never be happy without John. I think she took the only possible way out for her.”

  Roger got up. “I expect you’ll have to give evidence at the inquest,” he said. “Evidence about her state of mind and so forth. I know it will be distressing for you but I don’t think you’ll have to go into details. It’s a straightforward case, no indication of foul play or anything. They’ll let you know when it’s to be.” He looked at me. “Are you sure you’re all right? Shall I ring Thea or Rosemary or anyone?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m all right. I just need a little time to come to terms with it all. Thanks all the same.”

  When Roger had gone I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The sherry was all very well, but I felt the need for a strong cup of tea. Attracted by the sound of activity, Tris got out of his basket and Foss leapt down from the windowsill where he’d been keeping an eye on the bird feeder outside the window. They sat, side by side, waiting. Confidently. Grateful for this evidence of normality, I opened a couple of tins for them.

  The weather, which had been fine suddenly, took a turn for the worse – dull, cloudy and damp. And my wrist began to give me trouble. I have this inclination to arthritis, hardly surprising, I suppose, since my poor mother suffered badly from it. I hoped to nip it in the bud by physiotherapy. Fortunately Jean had a cancellation and was able to fit me in the very next day.

  “There’s not a lot I can do if it is arthritis getting into the wrist where you broke it,” Jean said. “But we can ease the discomfort a little.” She began to assemble her equipment. “How are you? I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “Just ticking over. Rather sad, really. I lost a close friend recently.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, that’s awful. Was it sudden?”

  “Yes, it was – quite unexpected.”

  “That’s always the worst, isn’t it?”

  “She was a friend of Dr Morrison.”

  Jean finished putting the little pads on my wrist. “Now that was a very strange affair,” she said, switching on the machine so that I began to feel the tingling sensation. “And,” she continued, “they don’t seem to be much further forward in finding out who did it.”

  “I think they’ve managed to eliminate quite a few people,” I said.

  “Oh really. That sergeant did come and have a word with me, had I seen anything and so forth, but I was very busy that morning – no time to look out of the window!”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Mind you, something did occur to me – oh quite a time after – and I wondered if I should have said anything.”

  “Really?”

  “It was about Dr Stevenson – Clive, that is, not Joanna.”

  “What was it?”

  “That morning I had a query about one of my patients that I wanted Clive’s opinion on. I rang through and he picked up the phone and said hello, but just then another patient arrived and I had to put down the phone without saying anything. I did mean to ring him back later that morning to explain, but, what with all the commotion and the police everywhere, it completely slipped my mind. Anyway, I managed to sort things out without having to consult him so I never mentioned it to him.”

  “When was this?”

  “Well, it was my eleven o’clock patient, but she was late – which is why I put the phone down in a hurry, so’s not to waste any more time – so I couldn’t be exact. But I gather it was round about then that Dr Morrison was killed.”

  “It would depend how late your patient was,” I said. “But I do think you ought to tell the police.”

  �
��Yes, I suppose I must, but you know how it is – you mean to do something and then time goes by and it slips your mind. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it again until you mentioned Dr Morrison just now.”

  “You lead such a busy life,” I said, “you must have a great deal on your mind.”

  “Well, I do really, and now the boys are getting older they need ferrying about to all their sports things, and with Roy and I both working…”

  “I can’t imagine how you manage it,” I said.

  “There are times,” Jean said, “when I envy Thea, at home all day, but then I do think one should use one’s education and training, don’t you?”

  There are times when Jean reminds me very much of her mother, Anthea.

  I managed to get a quick word on the phone with Roger and told him what Jean had said. He sighed. “If only people would tell us things,” he said, “but they will think they know what’s important and what isn’t. I’ll have a word with the girl who works the switchboard at the practice, Valerie, I think her name is. She seemed quite reliable, I seem to remember.”

  “Let me know how you get on,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  He rang me back next morning. “The girl, Valerie, confirms what your friend Jean said. She says that since the phone was put down so quickly she thought it was a wrong number so she didn’t mention it. And Clive Stevenson said that when there was no reply when he answered the phone he thought it was just a blip on the line – apparently they’ve been having some trouble with it lately. So, of course, he thought there was no one at the other end of the phone that could have given him an alibi. And, yes, before you ask, the time was about right. What did I say about wishing people would let us decide what’s important and what isn’t!”

  “So Clive Stevenson’s in the clear too?”

  “It looks like it. And your friend Jean too. Not that she was ever a suspect.”

  “So there’s no one left?”

  “Well there’s the girl Lorna, though I wouldn’t put money on it.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “If only,” Roger said with some force, “we could find the murder weapon. The shape of the wound is so distinctive. I was fairly sure it had to be a surgical instrument. A curette, for instance – they come in all sizes and they’re in pretty general use.”

  “Nothing’s turned up?”

  “No, and it’s not likely to now. After all we have the entire Bristol Channel on our doorstep – what easier way of getting rid of something?”

  I was thinking of what Roger had said as I walked along past the harbour that afternoon. The tide was out and I gazed at the distant sea, wondering if the murder weapon was, indeed, lying somewhere out there. As I walked slowly along, trying to pick out the land marks visible across the channel, I recognised a solitary figure leaning on the rails also looking out to sea. He didn’t look up as I approached and only turned when I spoke to him.

  “Hello Alan, are you looking at Wales too? It’s really clear today. I suppose that must mean it’s going to rain.”

  For a moment he looked at me blankly, then, recovering himself he said, “Oh, hello Sheila. Do forgive me, I was miles away.”

  I looked at him curiously. “Are you all right?” I asked. “You look really tired. Come and sit down on the seat in the shelter.”

  He followed me slowly and sat beside me and sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I am a bit.”

  “You mustn’t overdo things,” I said. “It wasn’t so very long ago that you had a major operation. Did you walk all this way from home?”

  “No, I left my car just along the Esplanade.” He turned and faced the sea and, without looking at me he went on, “It’s not that sort of tiredness, it’s more like worry.”

  “What’s the matter? Can you tell me?”

  He turned, then, to face me. “It’s Susan and Fiona,” he said. “They’ve had a quarrel.”

  “Oh well, mothers and daughters do, you know. It isn’t the end of the world.”

  “It’s not like that. I’m sure it’s something serious.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “No, they’ve tried to hide it from me and when I asked if anything was wrong they said no, everything was fine and why was I asking.”

  “Have you heard them arguing or anything?”

  “I did, a little, a few days ago – just voices raised – but I’ve no idea what about, and since then they seem to be avoiding each other. Fiona’s hardly ever in now and when she is she says she’s tired and goes up to her room.”

  “Oh dear. I can see that would be uncomfortable for you.”

  “It is, Sheila. There’s obviously something very wrong and I simply don’t know what to do about it.”

  “From what you’ve told me,” I said, “there doesn’t seem much that you can do, except wait for them to sort things out for themselves. I’m sure they will. It’s always seemed to me that they’re very close, devoted to each other in fact.”

  Alan sighed again. “I do hope you’re right,” he said. “It does make me so sad to see them like this. We’ve all been so happy, ever since they came back from Canada. It’s really given me a new lease of life.”

  “I’m sure things will get back to normal soon.”

  He got up slowly. “Well, I’d better be getting back or I’ll be late for tea and I don’t want to upset Susan with all this other happening.”

  I watched him walking slowly off towards the Esplanade and wondered idly what the problem was with Susan and Fiona. They’d always seemed to me to be the ideal mother and daughter – Susan, in particular, was especially loving and protective towards Fiona. Still, no relationship is perfect and, however loving it may be, it’s inevitable that there will be some friction between the generations.

  As it happened I saw Susan a few days later. She and Alan were at the open-air production of As You Like It in the grounds of the castle. They were sitting quite a distance away from us so I couldn’t have a word with her, but I was shocked to see how strained and ill she looked. Obviously whatever the argument between her and Fiona had been it was still not resolved and was affecting her badly.

  “Oh dear,” Rosemary said, “do you think we were mad to come?”

  I looked at her enquiringly.

  “Well, you know how it is with things out of doors in the evening. Either it’s a nice warm evening and you get bitten to pieces by midges, or it’s cold and damp and you freeze to death.”

  “It’s quite warm this evening,” I said consolingly.

  “Too warm really, and we’re so near the river – the midges will be out in full force.”

  “I think I may have some insect repellent in my bag.”

  “It’s no good,” Rosemary said despondently, “I’m allergic to most of them.”

  It was a charming production by very good amateurs and Rosemary had cheered up enough by the interval to agree that a glass of wine would be a splendid idea.

  “I’ll go,” I said. “There’s no need for us both to stand in the queue.”

  “All right, if you’re sure. Actually I want to have a word with Maureen – she’s sitting a couple of rows back – about some plants she promised me.”

  I was pleased to see that Susan was just in front of me in the queue for refreshments.

  “Hello,” I said, “are you enjoying it?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, “it’s very good.” Her tone was abstracted as if she was speaking at random.

  “I thought the girl playing Rosalind was excellent,” I said, “almost up to professional standards. And the man doing Touchstone was marvellous. I think I’ve seen him with the Opera Group when they were doing a Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  “Really?”

  “How are you all?” I asked. “How’s Fiona?”

  “Oh,” she focussed her attention on me at the name, “she’s fine. Busy, you know.”

  Alan came up and joined us. “Hello Sheila, nice to see you. Actually I wanted to
have a word. Can you manage lunch next Friday? Alec Macdonald said he’d come and have a word about this new machine the Friends are raising money for, you know, the one we were talking about.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’d love to come, but I’m not sure if I can make it. The thing is I have to give evidence at an inquest that morning and I’m not sure how long it will take.”

  “An inquest?” Alan asked. “That sounds serious.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s very sad. A friend of mine, Nora Burton, I don’t think you know her.”

  “No, what happened?”

  “I’m afraid she committed suicide.”

  “What a dreadful thing. What happened?”

  “She was a great friend of John Morrison,” I said quietly, “and when he was killed she…well, she just didn’t feel able to go on without him.”

  “But that’s terrible!” Susan spoke very loudly so that the people in the queue in front of us turned round and looked at her curiously.

  “Yes,” I said, “it was a great shock. Such a waste – both of them really, two very valuable lives wiped out like that.”

  “You’re a friend of that detective, aren’t you?” Alan asked, “Do you know if they’re any nearer finding out who did it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It all seems so complicated.”

  “Well, look,” Alan said, “about next Friday – come when you can. Even if you can’t manage lunch we can still have a chat.”

  We’d reached the head of the queue now and I bought our glasses of wine and went back to join Rosemary.

  “Sorry you had to queue for so long,” she said, taking a sip of the now rather warm Chardonnay. “Was that Susan Campbell you were talking to? What on earth’s the matter with her, she looks awful!”

  “I think there’s some trouble between her and her daughter,” I said, “that seems to have upset her badly.”

  “Poor soul,” Rosemary said, “children can be an endless worry. Did I tell you that I had a letter from Colin saying that he’s thinking of taking a job in South America! I mean, not that I’ve anything against South America as such, it’s just that it seems even further away than Canada, and sometimes I feel I’ll never get to see him again!”