Death in Practice

by Hazel Holt

  I sat there mechanically stroking Foss’s head and trying to work out which of those two was most likely to be the murderer and if, indeed, either of them had sufficient motive to resort to murder. I suppose motive is relative. What might be a powerful enough reason for one person to commit a crime might not be sufficient for another. Did Claudia care enough about her marriage to worry if Malcolm Hardy, in a fit of fury at being rejected, told her husband about their affair? Was Donald Gillespie sufficiently obsessed about the picture and the wrong he felt had been done to his mother, or did he need money so desperately that he would risk killing his cousin? Since I didn’t actually know the two people concerned I had no way of telling.

  “But then…” I said out loud, causing Tris to wake suddenly and look at me in surprise,

  “…but then there’s the larder window.” Tris lowered his head onto his paws again and I continued my thoughts in silence. The larder window, which might have provided a way for the murderer to get into the house, threw the whole thing wide open again. It meant that anyone, people from the surgery too, might have got into the house to put the insulin in the whisky bottle. Well, perhaps not anyone. Presumably Julie, whatever her stage of pregnancy, wouldn’t have been rash enough to go climbing through windows. And who would have known about the window anyway? I very much doubted if anyone from the practice would have been invited to the house. Possibly the murderer might have prowled around when Malcolm Hardy was away (it would be easy enough to do that without being seen) and discovered the window by chance.

  The telephone rang, causing Foss to leap suddenly off my lap, digging his claws in as he went.

  “Sheila.” It was Roger. “Sorry to ring you so late, but I thought you might like to know that forensics have said that no one got in through that larder window. There were absolutely no traces at all.”

  “Oh,” I said flatly.

  “And really,” he continued, “it was very stiff – I had to really shove it to get it open. I expect that’s why they didn’t consider it worth mentioning in their report in the first place.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “You sound very disappointed.”

  “I am rather. It did seem a possibility.”

  “Well, you can’t be right every time.”

  “So where does it leave us?”

  “There wasn’t any sign of a forced entry, so the person who put the insulin in the whisky must have been invited into the house by Malcolm Hardy himself.”

  “Julie, Claudia, the cousin?” I suggested. “Though I suppose if someone from the practice arrived on the doorstep he’d have invited them in. They could perfectly well have invented a plausible excuse for calling.”

  “Which leaves the field wide open again,” Roger said. “I can see we’ll have to go right back to first principles and start all over again.”

  “Not quite right back,” I said. “Not now you’ve found out about the whisky being changed, and the hip flask and everything.”

  Roger sighed. “Not necessarily,” he said. “All those things are just possibilities. The insulin could still have been administered in the black coffee by someone at the surgery. The whole thing is still wide open.”

  “But the different whisky?” I persisted.

  “There could be other explanations for that. He could perfectly well have filled up an empty Glenfiddich bottle with a cheaper kind – perhaps to catch someone out – I don’t know, but he could have done that himself.”

  “But what about the blurred fingerprints on the bottle?” I asked.

  There was a moment’s silence then Roger said, “He might have come in from outside and still been wearing his gloves when he picked up the bottle. It is winter, after all, and people do wear gloves.”

  “Oh, come on Roger, you don’t believe that!”

  “I really don’t know what to believe at the moment,” he said.

  “And, as we said,” I continued, “even if Malcolm did let someone in and they put something in the bottle, they’d still have had to get back into the house after he was dead to change the whisky.”

  Roger groaned. “Don’t, Sheila,” he said, “please don’t remind me how complicated things are! I’m beginning to think that this murder couldn’t have happened, or that it was suicide after all.”

  “Not possible.”

  “I suppose not, but wouldn’t it be nice if it could be?“

  In the silence that followed this remark I heard a wailing sound over the telephone and Roger said, “Oh dear that’s Alex. I’m babysitting – it’s Jilly’s yoga night. I’d better go. Don’t stay awake all night trying to puzzle things out!”

  After such an eventful day I was really tired and so I didn’t stay awake brooding about the Hardy case. Still, just before I fell asleep I heard in my head Kathy’s voice saying ‘If only we’d known!’

  Chapter Twenty

  * * *

  If ever you feel the urge to buy a picturesque country cottage, don’t, I implore you, be seduced by the picture postcard qualities of a thatched roof. Slate, yes; tiles, admirable; but thatch – no. You might just as well pour all your money down the nearest drain. The temptation, when you’ve just had it “done” is to look at the neat, golden surface and think “well that’s it”, but it isn’t, because in no time at all one bit or another will become thin, ragged and generally deplorable and you’ll have to call the thatcher in all over again. This isn’t helped by the depredations of the surrounding wildlife. Squirrels, of course, and woodpeckers are a particular menace. I used to know, when I saw Peter jumping up and down, shaking his fists and shouting with rage, that one of our local woodpeckers had deserted the adjacent telegraph pole and was seeking bigger and better insects in our thatch, pulling out the straw with careless abandon.

  Our thatcher, Jim, is almost at retiring age, but fortunately he has an assistant who we hope will carry on the business. Luke is one of those young men who have retired from the rat race (he used to work in a bank) to work at a Craft in the countryside. There are an increasing number of such idealists who have exchanged city offices for run-down old cottages where they set up as potters, blacksmiths and so forth. Actually Luke is a very good thatcher and totally dedicated to his work. I used to worry about him up on the roof in all winds and weathers, his hands and arms red and sore from banging the sections of thatch into place, but he is obviously blissfully happy doing it.

  A sweet, very innocent person, he is a vegetarian and passionate about conservation and wildlife. I always remember how horrified he was when he first saw Foss meditatively chewing the head of a baby rabbit he’d caught.

  “Does he often do that?” he asked anxiously.

  I tried to explain to him about Nature being red in tooth and claw, but although he made a fuss of Foss and stroked him (one of God’s creatures after all) I could see he was profoundly disappointed in him.

  The day he arrived to re-thatch a section of the roof was fortunately fine and he unloaded the straw from his pick-up truck in a great pile. Tris decided this was a haven for rats and crouched beside it hopefully, while Foss leapt onto the top, regarding it (I saw with a sinking heart) as a good vantage point to leap out at unwary blackbirds.

  “I’m afraid the wheat straw wasn’t too good this year,” Luke said as I took him out a cup of (herbal) tea. “So I’m having to use Polish rye.”

  “Oh well,” I said, “as long as it keeps the rain out!”

  Luke gave me a perfunctory smile though he obviously thought I wasn’t taking the subject seriously.

  I left him and the animals to their various activities and went out. I had a few things I had to do at the post office and the bank so it was quite late in the morning when I finally got into the supermarket. It was one of those mornings when practically every person I know seemed to be shopping there as well, so my progress was slow and when I finally got to the checkout I found the person behind me was June Hardy.

  “Hello,” I said, “everyone seems to be shopping today!�
��

  “What? Oh yes,” she said absently, thrusting her purchases into the carrier bags.

  Most unusually she seemed flustered and uncertain so I felt I should help her take things out to the car.

  “Are you all right?” I asked as she opened the boot of her old blue Renault and put the packages away.

  “Yes, perfectly all right really, it’s just that I need to be back at The Larches – the chiropodist is coming just after lunch and I do like to make sure that all the people on the list have remembered and are ready for him. But I seem to have got so behindhand today. Do forgive me, Sheila, if I dash off now – thank you so much for your help…”

  She got into the car and drove away before I could reply.

  “Was that June?” Anthea had come up beside me. “I wanted to have a word with her about the carol concert at the hospital.”

  “Yes, she was in a bit of a hurry, I think. She seemed in rather a state, which is not like her at all.”

  “I know,” Anthea agreed. “I thought that when I saw her last week at the opticians. She had one of her old people in tow as usual – she really does too much. I thought she looked very tired.”

  “That place and those old people are her life, I suppose. But yes, I think she’s been overdoing it.”

  “And all this business about Malcolm Hardy’s death and then the will – ”

  “It must all have been a strain,” I agreed, not wishing to enter into any discussion of Malcolm Hardy’s will since I wasn’t sure how much Anthea knew about it.

  “That house!” Anthea said. “I still can’t get over it!”

  “It was weird,” I agreed.

  “Downright disgraceful, if you ask me. But I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised – such a disagreeable young man. Very like his mother in many ways – Geraldine was always very difficult.”

  “Did you know her sister Dorothy at all?” I asked, hoping for possible new information. “Or Dorothy’s son, Donald?”

  “No, they lived somewhere in Scotland, right up in the north, a place no one’s heard of. Though I believe the son went to live in London. Why?”

  “No reason. Anyway, I must dash. I don’t know where this morning’s gone.”

  When I got back home a fine rain was falling though Luke was still on the roof pulling out the old thatch which fell in dusty heaps onto the flower bed below.

  “Oh Luke,” I called up, “you’re getting so wet. Do come down and have a hot drink or something.”

  “I’ll just finish this bit, Mrs Malory, and then I’ll come and have my sandwiches.”

  “All right, but do come and have a cup of something when you’re ready.”

  It was always tacitly understood that Luke preferred to eat his lunch (some sort of salad sandwich I thought and an organic yoghurt) sitting on a seat in the front porch, though he would allow himself to be coaxed into the kitchen for a cup of something, rather like a timid animal venturing into unfamiliar territory.

  I had finished my own lunch and had the kettle on when he appeared in the doorway.

  “Do come in,” I said, indicating a row of cartons. “What would you like, peppermint, elderflower or camomile?”

  “Oh, camomile please, Mrs Malory, that would be lovely.”

  He took off his wet donkey jacket and hung it carefully on a hook behind the door. I made the tea for him and coffee for me and we sat and talked cosily for a while. He never tired of telling me how wonderful it was being a thatcher, how good it felt handling natural materials, how good to work out in the fresh air instead of in a centrally heated office.

  “But so cold at this time of the year!” I said.

  “Very healthy. I like to feel the wind.”

  “I can’t think how you can work that high up.”

  Luke used ladders and not scaffolding and walked across the roof on a series of boards with prongs that he drove into the thatch.

  “I love being high up above the world. It’s a funny thing, you know, how people never look up; they’re always so busy looking straight ahead or down at their feet, they miss so much.”

  He broke off to sip his camomile tea. Luke was a great one for telling me little anecdotes to illustrate some semi-philosophical point he wanted to make. “For example,” he went on, “a funny thing happened a while ago. I was working on a house in West Street. It was not a very nice day and there weren’t many people about, but I heard a car stop and a lady got out and went round the corner to that big house in Holloway Road.”

  “The Willows?” I asked, startled.

  “Is that what it’s called? It’s the big one on the corner. Anyway, she seemed very anxious not to be seen, looking around her before she went into the drive. Not that anyone could have seen her from the road though I could see the house and all the grounds from where I was – you see, that’s what I mean, she didn’t look up.”

  He stopped, obviously pleased to have made his point.

  “But what happened next?” I asked.

  “Oh, she just let herself into the house.”

  “With a key?”

  “Yes. I thought that was funny – I mean, if she had a key why was she being so secretive?”

  “She had a key to the front door?”

  “Oh no, she went into a door at the side.”

  I was silent for a moment then I said, “You don’t happen to remember when this happened, do you?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I do. It was October the eighth – I know it was then because that was the day I had to finish early because I was going to Taunton that evening; someone had given me a ticket for a folk concert at the Brewhouse. It was quite good, though of course a lot of the stuff is very commercialised nowadays.”

  He put his mug back on the table and got up.

  “Thank you for the tea, Mrs Malory. I’ll just get those spars cut while it’s raining.”

  “Luke,” I said as he was putting on his jacket. “What did the lady look like – the one who went into The Willows?”

  He thought for a moment. “Ordinary looking, really. Middle-aged. Nothing special about her.”

  “And what sort of car was she driving?”

  “Oh dear, I’m not very good at cars. It was an old one – blue, I think.” He looked at me curiously. “Excuse me asking, but why do you want to know?”

  “You’ve helped me solve a mystery.”

  “Oh,” he said, obviously still mystified but not wishing to seem impolite. “I see.”

  I gave myself the rest of that day and a very disturbed night before I did anything, then I got out the car and drove to The Larches. Nowadays residential homes all have security systems so that you have to wait to be let in. As I stood there waiting I looked around and admired the trim flowerbeds, now planted with winter-flowering pansies and heathers, the seats where in summer the residents could sit out of doors under the trees, the fresh paintwork and the bright curtains at the windows, and I thought what a good job June had done. One of the care workers let me in and I asked if I could see Miss Hardy.

  “I think she’s free – I’ll just pop along and see, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here. What name shall I say?”

  “Malory, Mrs Malory.”

  There were comfortable chairs in the hall and several large vases of flowers giving the place a cheerful air.

  The care worker reappeared and said, “If you’d like to come this way, Mrs Malory,” ushering me into June’s office.

  It was a pleasant room with french windows leading out into the gardens. The walls and paintwork were white, and on this bright winter’s morning seemed to flood the room with light. June was sitting at a large desk but she got up when I came into the room and, motioning me to a large, chintz-covered sofa, sat down beside me.

  “Sheila, what a pleasant surprise,” she said. “Maisie, would you bring some coffee please.”

  “No, really, not for me,” I said. “Thank you all the same.”

  June nodded and Maisie left the room.

  �
��Now then,” June said. “What can I do for you?”

  Somehow I hadn’t actually worked out what I was going to say to June, my thoughts had been so confused, so I simply burst out, “I know how you did it – what I simply can’t understand is why!”

  Not surprisingly I suppose June looked at me in bewilderment.

  “Sheila, what are you talking about?”

  “Malcolm Hardy – his murder. I know that you did it.”

  June, who had been leaning towards me on the sofa, drew back. She had gone perfectly white.

  “Malcolm, yes. You say you know?”

  “Someone saw you going into The Willows, letting yourself in by the side door with a key.”

  “But there was no one –” she broke off.

  “My thatcher was doing a job just around the corner, he was up on the roof there – you didn’t see him, but he saw you.”

  “I see.”

  She sat, upright, her hands folded in her lap.

  “The police know that the insulin was in that whisky bottle,” I said. “Once that was established then anyone’s alibi for the day he died was irrelevant.”

  “What I don’t understand,” June said, “is how he came to die at the surgery. It was meant to happen at home.”

  “He filled a hip flask from that bottle of whisky and drank it while he was at work.”