Death in Practice

by Hazel Holt

  “Actually, insulin when taken rather than injected is very difficult to quantify in a post mortem. In fact, if he hadn’t been taken to hospital straight away it’s possible no one would have known about the insulin at all.”

  “And the death might have been put down to natural causes?”

  “With his particular medical history, yes.”

  “So that’s why the small amount.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Do you think that means that the murderer – assuming that there is a murderer – must have had some medical knowledge?”

  “Some certainly.”

  “Vets would?”

  “Probably.”

  “So it’s likely to be someone at the surgery?”

  “Could be.”

  “Roger, don’t be infuriating!”

  “I’m trying not to leap to conclusions. We can’t be certain of that, there may be another explanation.”

  “But you must admit it’s the most likely. And, as far as I can see nobody there had an alibi.”

  “There was a certain amount of confusion about that time, though, from what I can gather, that’s not unusual in the hour before surgery begins.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s true, so that would make it a good time for someone to put the stuff in his coffee.”

  “Assuming everyone knew he was having coffee then.”

  “Oh, they would have done. Don’t you remember, Alison said he shouted for it, and he had a particularly loud voice when he was annoyed – I’ve heard him!”

  “Well, like I say, they may all have disliked him, but presumably not enough to commit murder.”

  “Perhaps not – just the dislike, I mean, but someone there may have had a stronger reason.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know, but it would surely be worth investigating, wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt all that will be gone into,” Roger said. He smiled. “Probably by you.”

  “Well…” I began, but then I saw Elaine Fawcett approaching with her two dogs. “Oh dear, I’d better get Tris – he’s terrified of those two Jack Russells.”

  We both made a dive for our respective dogs and the conversation was at an end.

  “Let me know what you find out,” Roger called as he went back to his car. “I’m sure there’ll be something!”

  I picked Tris up and, avoiding the marauding terriers, made my way back to my own car.

  Thinking about Roger’s parting remark (made, I felt sure, only partly in jest) I wondered how I could find out more about the various people who worked at the surgery.

  Malcolm Hardy had sacked Ben Turner. From what his daughter said, Ben would find it very difficult to take a job away from Taviscombe because of his family. Now, with Malcolm dead, it seemed very likely that Diana would keep him on.

  Diana, too, would be glad to be rid of a man who was making her life utterly miserable, though she would now have to find someone else who was prepared to put money into the practice.

  Keith, a gentle, sensitive person, had also been made wretched by Malcolm Hardy’s bullying, and although it was hard to think of him as a potential murderer, people do strange things when under stress.

  Alison and Kathy had also been badly affected by the new regime – Kathy in particular seemed to have been taking it very badly – but obviously I could rule them out. Julia, though, was another matter. If Malcolm Hardy had broken off their affair because he was now involved with Claudia Drummond, she would be deeply resentful – well, the brief scene between them that I had overheard bore witness to that. It was possible that her expectations had been high, marriage even. A rich man like that would be quite a catch for the daughter of an up-country hill farmer, and, unlikely as it might seem to me, she was probably in love with him. But would that make her want to kill him? A woman scorned and all that.

  Looked at rationally like that, it didn’t seem likely that anyone at the surgery, however much they might have hated Malcolm Hardy, would coolly and carefully (for that’s how it had been done) plan his murder.

  “It’s no good Tris,” I said as I brushed the worst of the sand off his paws and sat him on his rug on the back seat, “it really doesn’t seem very likely.”

  Tris, feeling that some sort of response was demanded of him, put his head on one side, regarded me fixedly and barked twice.

  “You’re quite right,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  But, as these things do, even when we got home the problem continued to go round in my head. If the people at the surgery didn’t have sufficient motive and if his sister (who did) had an unbreakable alibi, then there had to someone else with a reason to kill him. Not, presumably, Claudia Drummond, who was just starting up an affair with him. Her husband, perhaps? He seemed to have been a fairly complaisant husband for most of their married life, but it was just possible that for him this might be one affair too far. But then he could divorce her. And, anyway, how could he have possibly administered the insulin or known what dosage would be fatal given Malcolm Hardy’s medical condition? No, he had to be a non-starter.

  I was going over this ground again next day with Rosemary when she came round to borrow my River Café Cookbook (“Some clients of Jack’s are coming to dinner on Friday – they’re supposed to be terrific foodies!”) and she had to agree with me.

  “Of course!” I said out loud. “How idiotic of me! Apart from the Julie girl and Claudia Drummond we don’t know anything about his private life. Someone like him could well have all sorts of enemies that we know nothing about.”

  “What sort of enemies?” Rosemary asked.

  “Oh, people he’s upset in some way or other,” I replied vaguely.

  “It’d have to be something pretty bad for someone to want to kill him.”

  “Yes – but look, perhaps in the practice he was in before he came here, he killed someone’s animal, through inefficiency, carelessness, something like that. We know from what Keith said that an animal here died unnecessarily because of him. It could easily have happened before.”

  “The owner would be upset, of course, but don’t you think murder would be going a bit far?”

  “I don’t know. Think of someone like Nora Lisle; she’s absolutely obsessed with that spaniel of hers, it’s the child she never had. I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of anyone who harmed it.”

  “Oh well, Nora Lisle’s absolutely crazy, everyone knows that.”

  “Exactly, that’s why she’d be so dangerous – she doesn’t play by the rules like everyone else. There are probably lots of people like that, and if one of them thought that Malcolm Hardy was responsible for the death of their beloved pet, then they might do something about it.”

  “But how could they have given him the insulin at the surgery?”

  “Not at the surgery perhaps, but there’s nothing to say that he wasn’t poisoned that lunchtime.”

  “But nobody knows who he had lunch with.”

  “I know. It’s maddening – I’m sure it’s the clue to the whole business.”

  “Well, I don’t see how you can find out,” Rosemary said, picking up the cookbook and flicking through the pages. “Goodness, this is pretty high-powered stuff. Some of these ingredients I’ve never even heard of – I don’t suppose I’ll ever find them in Taviscombe and I can’t face going into Taunton.”

  “Perhaps you could adapt one of the recipes,” I suggested.

  “I know what would happen if I did. I’ve tried that before – total disaster. No, I think this is right out of my league. Oh well, back to Delia, I suppose. I could do that pepper, tomato and anchovy thing for starters, but what about the main course?”

  “Fish?”

  “I always overcook fish. No, it’ll have to be the old faithful chicken and lemon.” She thought for a moment, then she brightened up. “Do you know, I think I’m going to make Jack take us all out to dinner – that new place at Porlock Weir’s supposed to be terrifically good.” />
  “There you are,” I said. “There’s always an answer to every problem if you think constructively! Even,” I added hopefully, “to the problem of Malcolm Hardy’s murder.”

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  There’s been a glut of apples this year. Last year all I got were half a dozen small Worcester Pearmains and no cooking apples at all, but this year every single tree in the garden has been bowed down with fruit in a Keatsian abundance. Michael and Thea, bless them, helped to pick them (I’m useless up ladders) and took away half a dozen boxes full to the brim. I spent several days wrapping apples and putting them on the shelves of an old, ratproof cupboard that I keep in the outhouse for that purpose, but still there seemed to be an awful lot left. I made apple puree for the freezer and pots and pots of apple chutney so that the house smelled of boiling vinegar for days; I lived on apple tarts and apple crumble and Eve’s pudding, but the boxes seemed as full as ever. I tried to give them away to friends, but they were in the same boat and laughed hollowly when I tentatively introduced the subject. Even holders of the produce stalls of any Bring and Buy sale I could track down gave me a polite but distinct refusal.

  I had just decided to go against the frugal principles of a lifetime and chuck the whole lot on the compost heap when I thought of Kathy, living in a flat with no garden and perhaps not yet inundated with offers of surplus fruit. I rang her at the weekend when I was fairly sure she’d be at home and, to my great delight, she said she’d love to have some.

  “I’ll bring them round, shall I? When would be convenient?” I asked eagerly.

  “Now would be fine.”

  I filled two large boxes with assorted apples and drove round to the flat. Kathy lived on the ground floor and had obviously been watching for me because she opened the door even before I had time to ring the bell.

  “I’ll just get the apples out of the car. Is it all right to park there?”

  “It’s fine – I’ll come and help you.”

  I think she was slightly taken aback at the size of the boxes but nobly carried one of them into the flat.

  “Just bring them into the kitchen,” she said, “and put them on the table.”

  I looked around with interest. It was an old fashioned kitchen with a dresser full of handsome china, lots of cupboards, a large scrubbed kitchen table and a modern sink by the window, looking out onto a paved courtyard with terracotta pots still bright with flowers.

  “What a lovely kitchen!” I exclaimed. “So cosy.”

  “I don’t really like modern fitted kitchens – I get enough of that clinical look at the surgery.”

  She looked at the boxes of apples. “Thank you very much,” she said. “They’re marvellous.”

  “I’m afraid I brought rather a lot, but they keep very well,” I said defensively.

  Kathy laughed. “No, really, I love apples in all shapes and forms. I’m delighted. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  She made the tea and put out some biscuits then led the way back along the hall into the sitting-room. It was a large room, comfortably furnished (I recognised a few pieces that had come from Anthea’s) with a window looking out across the road, beyond a municipal flowerbed, to the sea.

  “This is splendid!” I said. “What a marvellous view.”

  “It is good, isn’t it? And because the house is set well back we don’t get tourists peering into the windows.”

  “I can see why you’re so happy here.” I looked at her. “You do seem to be happier now, Kathy. Are things better for you now? You were so miserable that day when I saw you.”

  She smiled. “Yes, things are better. Not absolutely all right, but better than they were.”

  “That’s good. How are things at the surgery now? Has Diana found someone to replace Malcolm Hardy?”

  “Not yet. She’s taking her time, I imagine.”

  “Not surprising, if you think about it! How’s the practice doing – financially, I mean?”

  “Not too bad, as far as I can tell. We’re very busy, but we can just about cope. Everyone’s trying very hard, even Julie.”

  “Really? Is she still there? I wondered if she might have left now that…”

  “No, actually she seems quite subdued, not a bit like how she was.”

  “Oh well, a job is still a job, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Kathy said slowly, “but I don’t think it’s just that. She seems to want to be part of the practice, to fit in, if you know what I mean.”

  “How strange. Still, good for you all if she’s being helpful. How about Keith?”

  She hesitated.“He’s obviously relieved not to have Malcolm bullying him all the time, but …”

  “But?”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this, but I know you won’t tell anyone. Poor Keith may be going to face quite a few problems.”

  “Really?”

  “The fact is that there were several unnecessary deaths of animals and there are going to be enquiries from the owner and from the insurance people. “

  “He told me about one of those, but he said it was Malcolm Hardy’s fault.”

  “That’s right. They were Malcolm’s fault, but the thing is, he blamed Keith for all of them.”

  “Could he do that?” I asked.

  “He is – he was – the senior partner and during the operations, apart from the two of them, the only other person present was Julie, and she’d obviously back up what he said.”

  “How awful!”

  “It would have been. Keith would have been dismissed and he’d have found it very hard to get another reasonable job with all that in his references.”

  “That’s dreadful! But now that Malcolm Hardy’s dead, can’t something be done?”

  “Fortunately yes. Diana’s backing him all the way and Julie’s now saying that none of it was Keith’s fault and Malcolm forced her to lie for him. It was quite brave of her, really, to admit that she lied. We’re all very glad for Keith. He’s a good vet and a really nice person.”

  “I wonder what brought about this change of heart in Julie?”

  “I think she’d finally found out, even before he died, what a ghastly person Malcolm really was.”

  “That quarrel – the one I heard at the surgery that day?”

  “That and several others.”

  “Do you know what it was all about?”

  “I imagine it was because he’d dumped her. She was very resentful and he was furious at the way she was making scenes. I expect he’d have sacked her in the end.”

  “Well, no wonder she’s doing her best to be cooperative. She must know what a bad impression she made on you all before.”

  “Yes. We’ve been glad to have her around now we’re so busy, especially now she’s working hard and is more reliable. Alittle while ago, just before she and Malcolm had that bust-up, she was always having the morning off and turning up at any old time.”

  Kathy picked up the teapot. “Will you have another cup?”

  “No, thank you, dear, but if I may I’ll just pop into your loo before I go.”

  “Of course. The bathroom’s just down the passage on the right.”

  The bathroom too was slightly old fashioned with a big bath, several cupboards and a large mirrored cabinet over the washbasin. While I was washing my hands I accidentally knocked the corner of the cabinet and it swung open. As I went to close it again I saw that on the shelf inside there was an electric razor, a man’s hairbrush and bottles of aftershave and hair-stuff.

  I moved the bottle of aftershave slightly so that I could see the label and found that it was a very expensive one, often featured in fashion magazines, which gave me a totally new and unexpected idea of Kathy’s young man. Feeling slightly guilty at prying, I closed the cabinet and went back into the sitting-room.

  “Well,” I said as I gathered up my handbag. “I’m really looking forward to Iolanthe. How are rehearsals going?”

&nb
sp; She pulled a face.“Oh you know how it is – terribly difficult to get everyone together at the same time. People are so busy. Jerry – he’s playing Strephon – very nearly had to pull out because his firm was going to send him to Canada for a year. We were all in despair, because it would have been impossible to find another tenor at that stage, but fortunately the people at his head office changed their minds and he’s not going after all.”

  “That must have been a relief for you.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, “it would have been absolutely awful!”

  Seeing my look of surprise at her vehemence she said, “Most of my scenes and duets are with him. It would have been very difficult to do them with someone else at such a late stage.”

  “I’m sure it would be. That’s something I’ve never understood – how famous opera singers can just go and slot into a performance at any old opera house, at a moment’s notice sometimes.”

  Kathy laughed. “The difference between amateurs and professionals.”

  As I made my way home I wondered if perhaps this Jerry was the man in Kathy’s life. Perhaps playing young lovers on stage had sparked a real romance. It would fit. If Kathy had thought her young man was going to be sent to Canada for a year then of course she would be miserable – especially if he was married and would be going with his wife. And now the fact that he wasn’t going after all was the obvious reason for her to be happy again. Also, I thought, perhaps naively, someone who worked for the sort of firm liable to send him abroad might well have a lifestyle that involved using expensive aftershave.

  When I got home there was a message on my answerphone, an instrument Michael insisted on installing for me and which I regard as I might a coiled serpent. For some time I didn’t switch it on, but Michael was so hurt I felt I had to persevere. I managed to play back this message without wiping the whole thing and found that it was from Rosemary who is as bad about these wretched instruments as I am. An agitated voice said, “Oh. Hello. Hello, this is Rosemary. Is this thing working? Mother said would you go to lunch with her on Monday? Sorry about that, but she said she hasn’t seen you for a long time – you know how she is… Look, I’ll ring later when you’re in.”