by Hazel Holt
Foss, who had somehow insinuated himself into the room, came to assist me by sitting on the table and hooking out cards from the pile and sweeping them onto the floor.
“Oh Foss,” I exclaimed, “don’t do that! You’re as bad as Toby!”
I got up and put him outside again, but after I’d done so a thought struck me so that I sat motionless, Rosemary’s card (a view of the Taviscombe lifeboat at sea) still held in my hand.
Was it possible, I thought, that for an as yet undiscovered reason, Malcolm Hardy had in some form or other administered the insulin to himself? No phial or syringe had been found, of course, but what if Toby, in his usual way, had leapt up on the desk and knocked it onto the floor? It might easily have rolled underneath something where it could have lain undiscovered, and, indeed, might be there still. I racked my brains to think of some reason for Malcolm Hardy to have done such a thing but my medical knowledge wasn’t great enough for me to hazard even a guess. I put the thought away from me and went on with my list but the idea kept nagging away so that eventually I picked up the phone and spoke to Roger. I told him my theory very tentatively expecting a polite but sceptical reply but to my surprise he seemed to think it worth consideration.
“The fact is,” he said ruefully, “we’ve been getting nowhere. All our lines of enquiry seem to come to nothing. To be honest I’m really clutching at straws.”
“You know about Julie and the baby, I suppose?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. I suppose she might have killed him for revenge or something melodramatic like that, but, from what I can gather, she wasn’t the sort of girl who’d have the initiative to do anything about it!”
I smiled at his choice of words and said, “So you think that it might be possible that for some reason, he took it himself?”
“It’s worth considering. I’ll have to get a medical opinion, of course. But one thing I can do,” he added with sudden resolution, “is to go and have another look at that surgery.”
Roger came round to see me late the following afternoon.
“You were right,” he said.
“Really?”
“Well, insofar as there was something there. It wasn’t a phial or a syringe, but something almost as good.”
“Come on tell me!” I exclaimed.
“There wasn’t anything in any of the examination rooms or whatever they’re called,” Roger said, “but we did have more luck in Malcolm Hardy’s office. Fortunately one of the people who do the general cleaning has been off sick for a while so this particular office has been left pretty well untouched.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a large rather heavy desk in there and when we moved it we found a hip flask. Presumably,” he added giving me a quizzical look, “put there by that cat.”
“I expect,” I said, “Toby jumped onto the desk and batted it onto the floor and then pushed it underneath.”
“It would seem likely. Anyway, the flask is silver with his initials on so it is definitely his – quite lightweight when empty, which it was when we found it.”
“So?”
“So I don’t think we have to look any further for the source of the alcohol that was found in his body.”
“What did it have in it?”
“Just a few drains of liquid, probably whisky – at least that’s what it smelled like. I’ve sent it off to be analysed.”
“Does it help?” I asked.
Roger smiled. “It means that we don’t have to go round any more pubs looking for where he had his last drink, and it clears up a loose end, but no, I suppose it doesn’t get the actual investigation any further forward.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it was a good thought on your part and if by any chance there’s anything other than whisky found in the flask that may help, though it’s not likely that they’ll find traces of insulin in there now after all this time.”
“Oh dear, what a pity. Maddening to have found something and then it’s no use! Oh well, have you got time for a cup of tea?”
“No, I’d better be getting back, I only called in because I was passing the end of your lane.”
“You’ll let me know if the forensic people find anything in the flask?”
“Of course.”
“Give my love to Delia and the children.”
As I stood on the step waving goodbye I had mixed feelings. A sort of triumph that I had been right about Toby and a distinct feeling of let-down over what had actually been found. A muffled miaow made me look down and I saw Foss, who had been off hunting, coming across the front lawn with a mouse in his mouth. Since, like all Siamese, he feels that he has the inalienable right to eat anything he catches on his own dish in the kitchen, I shut the door hurriedly on him before he could bring his trophy indoors. I knew that when I opened the door again I would find nothing left of the mouse but a pathetic little gall bladder (presumably inedible) laid out on the door mat. Wishing, once more, that cats were herbivores, I went into the kitchen to make myself the cup of tea I now felt I needed.
* * *
Michael phoned a little later on.
“I’ve picked up your computer from Dave so, if you like, I’ll come round after work and set it up for you.”
“That would be marvellous,” I said thankfully.
When Michael arrived with the computer I left him to it. I find that anyone with more knowledge of computers than I have (which is more or less everybody) has this irresistible urge to explain things to me. The fact is, I just want the thing to work – I really don’t care how it does it. Also Michael is always wanting to put refinements on mine (“I’ve given you this new screen saver, I thought you’d like it better than the other one, and I’ve put some new icons for you so that you’ve got short cuts…”) and if I’m there in the room I have to stand patiently beside him while he fiddles with lists of things that flash up and down the screen, inducing dizziness and, finally, a splitting headache. It isn’t that I’m not grateful. I am. But I just want the end result not the detail.
“There now,” Michael said, coming back into the kitchen. “I’ve set it up for you and everything seems to be fine. Dave’s given you a lot more memory and a new modem and tidied things up a bit, so you should be all right now.”
“Did you manage to get an invoice out of him?” I asked. Dave is always reluctant to accept payment because he is so passionate about what he does. He obviously he feels that he should pay his customers for providing him with lovely problems to work on.
“Yes – far too little of course. I’ve left it by the computer.”
“Oh good, I’ll send him a cheque. Would you like a cup of tea or a drink or anything?”
“No, I’d better be getting back – Alice’s bedtime and all that.”
I smiled fondly. “She’s a lucky child to have such doting parents. Not like Julie’s baby, poor little thing. Is there any more news on that front?”
“Not really. One thing, though. We felt we had to tell June Hardy about the baby.”
“Really?”
“It only seemed fair.”
“So how did she take it?”
“She seemed more stunned than anything. We explained that nothing would be done until the baby had actually been born – so of course probate will be delayed – and she understood that.”
“Poor June, it seems so wretched that she should get nothing yet again. It must have been a blow when her father died, but this time it seems doubly unfair. I mean, that someone like Julie, not even connected to the family, someone who was with Malcolm Hardy for such a short time, should get the lot. Isn’t there any way she could get something?”
“Well, she could contest the will of course, but it’s a long and unsatisfactory business and we wouldn’t advise her (as friends as well as solicitors) to go along that course.”
“Oh well, she’s got a job that she loves and no one to leave the money to when she goes, so I suppose it’s all right.”
>
“June’s a sensible person, I’m sure she’ll settle for the life she’s got.”
“At least,” I said, “she won’t have to decide what stuff to keep and what to get rid of in that ghastly house. I told you, didn’t I, what a mammoth task that will be. I suppose Julie will have to do all that now. Do you think she’ll want to live there?”
“Surely not. It’ll fetch a good round sum – there’s all that ground as well.”
“I expect her horrible father will expect to live off the proceeds for the rest of his life. She doesn’t sound like the sort of girl who’ll stand up to him.”
“Probably not. Well, that’s all in the future. Oh, by the way, Thea said would you mind coming to us for Christmas? I know we usually come here, but with Alice and all her stuff it would be easier with us. She said it was time you had a rest from cooking Christmas lunch after all these years!”
“Yes, of course, it’ll be lovely. I’ll give her a ring tomorrow.”
When Michael had gone I poured myself a glass of sherry although it was earlier than my usual time. Of course it made sense for me to go to the children for Christmas and it was silly to feel just a little bit sad that I wouldn’t be making the puddings (it was nearly Stir-up Sunday), stuffing the turkey while I listened to Carols from Kings’ or decorating the big Christmas tree. On an impulse I got up and went to fetch the box of decorations from on top of the wardrobe and lifted out, one by one, the ornaments we have always had on the tree. I lingered especially over a pair of glass reindeer. I remembered Michael, aged two, exclaiming with delight as he saw them glittering as the fairy lights went on and off, and stretching out his tiny hands as if he could catch the reflections from them. I sat there for quite a while remembering. Then I pulled myself together, put the ornaments away and finished my glass of sherry.
“Oh dear,” I said to Tris who had come to sit by my feet in front of the fire. “It’s silly to keep thinking about the past. Perhaps Dave could take away some of my memory!”
Tris raised his head and looked at me, but deciding that no reply was called for, rested it again on my foot and went back to sleep.
I saw June Hardy a few days later and we stopped for a little chat. I wasn’t going to say anything about Julie and the will but she mentioned it. She told me briefly what had happened and went on, “So I’m afraid all the splendid work you and Anthea did, sorting things out and putting labels on them, was all wasted.”
“Perhaps not,” I said tentatively. “Perhaps this girl will want to get rid of some of them.”
She gave a short laugh. “Oh, I’m sure she will, but I don’t imagine she’ll give them to the Red Cross auction, do you?”
“Probably not. Actually, I don’t know the girl – at least I’ve seen her briefly at the surgery, but that’s about all. What’s she like?”
“I don’t really know. I’ve never met her, but from what I’ve gathered she was completely under Malcolm’s thumb. You probably know that his mother was very possessive and he didn’t have any serious girlfriends whilst she was alive. I suppose he felt obliged to make up for it after she was dead. He certainly went off the rails then, anyway!”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, this Julie was the last of a long line of girls. I imagine he would have got rid of her just as he got rid of all the others if he’d lived long enough”
“Well, from what I heard he did. He didn’t want her to keep the baby because he’d already started a relationship with someone else. Claudia Drummond – do you know her?”
June gave an exclamation of disgust. “But she’s a married woman! Her husband’s Sir Robert Drummond, he’s very distinguished. I worked with him at Bristol when I was a theatre sister there.”
“Did you?”
“Oh yes.” Her face softened. “Such a nice man, always so courteous – not all consultants are you know – and so considerate. I remember we were all very upset when we heard about his marriage. It was obviously never going to work, she was so much younger than he was. They met in South Africa. I suppose things seem different when you’re abroad.”
“Actually it seems that she had also finished with Malcolm, on the day that he died.”
She seemed not to have heard me and said, “Poor Sir Robert, he deserved better than that.”
Since it appeared that in her eyes Sir Robert could do no wrong I didn’t mention his apparent complaisance about his wife’s affairs but returned to the subject I found more interesting.
“When’s Julie’s baby due, do you know?” I asked.
“Sometime in the spring, I believe. I don’t know exactly.”
“I’m so sorry. It must be awful for you.”
She gave me a brief smile. “I would have liked to think that justice had been done after the iniquity of my father’s will, but, obviously that was not to be.”
“Still…”
“It’s very kind of you to be concerned, Sheila, but it is not a subject I wish to dwell on.”
“No, of course not.”
“I must be getting on. I have to take Mr Lindsay to see about his hearing aid and I’ve got a mass of paperwork waiting for me at the Larches. We’re having a few problems at the moment and it all needs sorting out.”
“Yes of course. Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how is Ben Turner’s wife?”
“Elizabeth Turner? Well, actually, I’m a little worried about her. It’s her heart, you know? Basically angina but she did have a nasty attack last week. Dr Macdonald says she should be all right but we have to monitor her very carefully – check her medication and so forth. With Alzheimers, as you can imagine, you have to keep a very sharp eye on things, make sure that she actually takes everything when she should.”
“Goodness,” I said. “I do think you’re wonderful!”
June smiled. “It’s a job,” she said, “and it’s one that I enjoy. Now I must be getting on.”
I crossed the road and went into the library because I’d got quite cold standing talking to June. As I stood in the biography section staring mindlessly at the shelves I thought of Elizabeth Turner, locked into her solitary world of Alzheimers, and wondered if perhaps it would be the kindest thing for a heart attack to carry her off. And I wondered how many times Ben and Kathy might have had the same thought, and, good souls that they were, how many times they must have felt guilty about having felt just a glimmer of hope.
When I got back the phone was ringing. It was Thea.
“Sheila,” she said, “could I ask you a great favour? Could you very kindly make one of your Christmas puddings for us all – and the Christmas cake too? I’m sorry to bother you – I did want you to have a good rest this year, but what with Alice…”
“Of course,” I said. “I’d love to!”
“Oh thank you, that’s marvellous. There is something else. Michael said would you mind bringing over the Christmas tree ornaments? It seems that he won’t feel it’s a proper Christmas without them! He said something about two glass reindeer…”
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
In a way I quite like Christmas shopping; that is in the early stages while I’m still relatively fresh and not in a last minute panic. I’d made a sort of tentative list (nothing set in stone, I could change my mind if I saw something nicer) for Michael, Thea and Alice. This year everyone else, I had decided, would be having flowers or something to eat sent by post.
We’re not really very well off for shops in Taviscombe. Of course we’re lucky to have two supermarkets for food and so on and we’ve got a couple of marvellous butchers and a farm shop, but an awful lot of the shops, as in most seaside towns, just have stuff for holiday makers, either ‘fancy’ gift shops or basic stores full of tat that are, in any case, boarded up for the winter.
I rang up Rosemary.
“How do you feel about a day’s shopping in Taunton?” I asked.
“Won’t it be a bit crowded with Christmas shoppers?”
“Probably, but
the longer we leave it the worse it’ll be. And there are some things I want that I simply can’t get here.”
“All right. Will tomorrow be all right? It’s a Tuesday – surely not many people shop on a Tuesday.”
Unfortunately everyone else seemed to have the same view of that particular day of the week and I had a dreadful time trying to find somewhere to park, but we both managed to find things we wanted so the expedition and the hassle was worthwhile.
“Let’s not have lunch in the town,” Rosemary said after we had looked for ages in the usual cafes and found them uncomfortably full of weary shoppers, the floor space around each table cluttered with large carrier bags. “Let’s try a pub on the way home.”
When we got to The Farmers Arms that was quite crowded too, but we found a table at the back and ordered some food. I had just embarked on my paté when Rosemary nudged me.
“That alcove at the back,” she whispered. “Look who’s there!”
I tried to turn unobtrusively and saw Keith and Julie Barnes. Actually I could have had a good stare and they wouldn’t have noticed since they were very much occupied with each other.
“Goodness,” I said. “Who’d have thought it!”
“It must be serious,” Rosemary said. “After all she’s quite noticeably pregnant.”
“Keith always struck me as a nice boy,” I said. “Perhaps he’s just sorry for her.”
“It looks like a bit more than sorry. Anyway, I thought no one at the surgery liked her.”
“Apparently she’s been quite different since she split up with Malcolm Hardy – even before he died, I think. Kathy says she was really a nice girl but entirely under his influence and sort of dazzled by what she took to be his sophisticated lifestyle.”
“Good heavens. I didn’t think there were any girls like that around anymore.”
“And from what I can gather Keith’s always been a bit shy and hasn’t had a serious girlfriend. I think it’s rather sweet.”
“Perhaps they don’t want people to know,” Rosemary said thoughtfully. “I mean, they’re pretty well tucked away out of sight back there, aren’t they?”