Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  ‘The night you found Jacky's body, had that packet of pads been opened?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does. Please try and think back. Did you hand her a full packet when she came over?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I went to the cupboard and reached up … yes … yes it was a full packet, the plastic handle was still intact.’

  ‘And when you found Jacky?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can't remember, really I can't …’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ I suggested. ‘See her body lying there and the pads beside her. Were her arms out in front or by her side?’

  Claudette closed her eyes and sat silent for a moment. ‘They were out in front,’ she began. ‘I remember that, it was as if she had fallen flat on her face and the pads … the pads were still in her hand. She was holding on to them … and one of them was sticking out … just a corner.’ Opening her eyes Claudette smiled. ‘Fancy me remembering that.’

  ‘Thanks, Claudette. Just one more thing. The rubbish bags, with the soiled pads in, what do you do with them on this ward?’

  ‘Tie them up and put them outside. Usually that's done by the auxiliary.’

  ‘And on Harper?’

  ‘There's a rubbish skip there at the back. So the black bags get thrown in there.’

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘About seven thirty the porter collects it all and takes it to the incinerator.’

  ‘And when Margaret's on duty she takes out the rubbish?’

  ‘Well, yes. About eleven, after the evening change.’

  ‘What's all this about, Kate?’ asked Claudette.

  I started to reply when Hubert walked in. My hand flew to my mouth to stifle the laughter. His nightie came below his knees and his pastel striped dressing-gown way above.

  ‘Don't you dare laugh,’ he said. ‘I've never been so humiliated in all my life.’

  That did it. Claudette, no longer able to keep a straight face, started first.

  ‘Call yourselves nurses,’ stormed Hubert. ‘You're a disgrace!’ The angrier he got the more we laughed, but I did notice that after a while the corners of his mouth began to twitch just a little.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hubert sulked all of the next day or, if he wasn't sulking, it seemed like it, because he managed to avoid me. So the day after, I'd gone out early to buy cream cakes to sweeten his mood and went down to his office.

  He sat behind a large, highly polished, mahogany desk, a potted fern at each side of him, and in front of the desk two dark brown leather chairs. The slatted blinds were closed and in one corner a standard lamp sported a puce shade, its red glow giving the room a cosy womb-like feel. It was an office, but without any impediments, no filing cabinets, no typewriter, no stacks of files, and no telephone.

  ‘You don't look busy,’ I said without tact, and regretted it immediately.

  ‘This room isn't meant to look busy,’ he said. ‘It's so that grieving relatives can talk to me in restful surroundings.’

  ‘You're quite a psychologist, Hubert. I didn't realise funeral directing was such an art.’

  ‘No one ever does,’ he said, giving me a wary glance, as if wondering what I was up to.

  Before he could ask I said, ‘I've come to creep and grovel, Hubert. I've bought cream cakes to prove it.’

  ‘Well, we can't eat them here – too messy. I'll come up to your office. Yours is always a mess.’

  I ignored the insult and Hubert followed me up. I'd worn my highest heels especially, but he didn't comment, although I was aware of his appreciation.

  ‘I'll sit at the desk,’ he said. ‘You can sit on that chair for a change.’

  I smiled. ‘Landlord's privilege,’ I said. ‘Because I'm still grovelling.’

  I sank down into the chair and experienced instantly the feeling I might never rise from it again. Hubert's responding smile showed he knew exactly the thought that crossed my mind.

  Halfway through a cream slice, as I paused to lick the cream from my fingers, I asked Hubert how he thought I could get Margaret to confess.

  ‘Take her out with you on a cold, wet, dark night, she'd confess to murders she hadn't even done,’ he said.

  ‘Be serious, Hubert. I have apologised. I'll never ask you to do another reconstruction again …’

  ‘Reconstruction! Huh! It was a complete fiasco.’

  ‘I know,’ I said soothingly. ‘You don't have to help me ever again if you don't want to.’

  A worried frown creased his forehead. ‘I didn't say I wouldn't help you. I'll just be a bit more choosy about the weather next time.’

  ‘You're a real sport, Hubert,’ I said, and his cheerful smile told me his usual humour was once more returning. I tried to capitalise on that by asking him again how he thought I should work the confession angle.

  ‘Well, if you are sure it's her, it's no good sitting there on your backside eating cream cakes. You'll have to go and see her. She won't confess by post, will she?’

  ‘I'm still not absolutely sure, that's the point, but unless I go to her house I'll never be sure … anyway, Hubert,’ I said, surprised at his tone, ‘I thought you'd forgiven me?’

  ‘I have, Kate. But I think you should get on with it before the police move in.’

  I nodded. He was right, of course, but I didn't like admitting it. I swallowed the rest of my cream cake hurriedly and struggled to my feet. ‘I'm going this very minute, Hubert,’ I said, taking my coat from the hook.

  ‘I didn't mean …’ he began.

  ‘It's okay, you were quite right.’

  At the door I turned back dramatically. ‘It's a far, far, better thing I do now than I've ever done before.’

  ‘You make sure it's not a far, far, better rest that you'll be going to.’

  I waved my hand in salute. ‘Clever clogs!’ I called as I shut the door.

  I stopped on the way to Margaret's to buy a clipboard and paper and one of those pens you hang round your neck, which I always think look businesslike. But what business was I supposed to be on? I had to have a pretext, otherwise I had the feeling she would give me very short shrift.

  Margaret took so long to answer the door I had time to think something up and to look round for the bike. It had obviously been returned to the hospital.

  ‘Yes,’ she said coldly, when she eventually came to the door. She looked exhausted; her dark hair hung limply from her head as though just washed, and on her forehead tiny beads of sweat glistened.

  I had been about to explain I was doing a survey of home carers, but I could see something was wrong. ‘What on earth's the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘You'd better come in,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Mother's fallen out of bed and I can't lift her back in. I've been trying for ages.’

  I followed Margaret upstairs. On her feet she wore pink mules with a high wedge heel. They seemed like an act of defiance, because otherwise she was dressed drably in a navy jumper with frayed sleeves and a navy skirt which looked a little less than clean.

  Mrs Tonbridge lay on the floor, a pillow under her head and covered up to her chin with a rug. Like Margaret she had changed greatly since I last saw her. Her face had grown gaunt and her tongue protruded slightly from a lopsided mouth. When she saw us she began to make grunting noises.

  ‘It's all right, Mother,’ said Margaret, kneeling down on the floor to pat her mother's hand. ‘Kate will help me to get you back to bed.’

  Mrs Tonbridge's eyes flickered with either fear or distaste at her daughter's touch, but somehow the slight retraction of her hand from Margaret's indicated distaste.

  For a slim woman she was remarkably heavy but together we lifted her on to the bed.

  ‘There, Mother, you'll feel better soon. I should have put the chair by the bed, shouldn't I? It's all my fault. I'll make you a nice cup of tea now.’ As Margaret spoke she tidied the top sheet, pulled up the pink eiderdown and smoothed a stray grey hair from her mo
ther's forehead. Again at her touch there was that flicker of emotion reflected in the pinched expression and the eyes like mean, flat pebbles.

  Margaret signalled to me to go downstairs and then turned to look down at her patient. ‘Don't worry, Mother, I'll bring Kate up again before she goes,’ she said.

  Mrs Tonbridge's mouth moved slightly as if in response but again the sound was strangled by the useless tongue that lay between her thin lips like a growth.

  At the bottom of the stairs Margaret turned to me and spoke in what I think was meant to be a whisper but sounded more like a hiss. ‘Why have you come here today? Haven't I got enough problems without private detectives snooping around?’

  ‘I haven't come to snoop,’ I said. ‘The nursing agency asked me to do a survey of carers in the area, with a view to loaning out private nurses to social services. I've been asked to assess needs in general. Just a few questions about how you're coping and exactly what sort of help you need.’ What an awful lie! If I wasn't careful I'd be the one to break down and confess.

  ‘I suppose that will be all right,’ she said after a protracted silence. ‘It can't do any harm.’

  ‘No, of course not, and it may bring you some benefits,’ I said quietly.

  We were interrupted at that moment by the nerve-jangling noise of a bell being rung. Margaret shuddered at the continuing trill.

  ‘It's her hand-bell. She keeps it beside her in the bed. I expect she wants her tea. You sit down in the front room, I've lit the fire. I'll be ages, she can't hold a cup properly. And then I'll have to take her to the loo. There's no end to it, you know, not since she had the stroke.’

  I nodded. ‘Give me a shout if you need any help.’

  When I heard Margaret go upstairs with the tea I began to have a proper look round. The fire flamed feebly, as if in this weary, tired house, it too had trouble staying alive. A bookcase in one corner of the room interested me; perhaps I would find the overdue library book. There were a few elderly nursing textbooks, several historical novels and romances, but nothing on diabetes. One of the nursing books stuck out a little bit more than the others, and as I removed it, something wedged at the back fell with a metallic tinkle: an inhaler – Kennie's inhaler. At least I assumed it was. I stared at it for a moment, not wanting to get my fingerprints on it and wondering how to pocket it without actually touching it.

  I didn't hear Margaret come into the room. She was nearly by my side, her face angry, her eyes glittering.

  Before she could speak I said, ‘Oh, there you are! I was a bit bored so I picked up one of your nursing books to read. They haven't changed much really have they – when was this one printed?’ I flicked open the cover to find the publication date. In my haste I had opened it to the very front page. There was a sticker inside, inscribed in gold relief:

  PRESENTED TO

  MARGARET TONBRIDGE

  PRACTICAL NURSING PRIZE

  ST MONICA'S GENERAL HOSPITAL

  1962.

  ‘Give it back,’ she said, snatching it from me and holding it to her breasts.

  ‘I didn't realise you had done your nurse training, Margaret.’

  ‘I didn't finish,’ she said sharply. ‘I completed two years.’

  For a moment Margaret still clutched the book, then she straightened up, moved over to the bookcase and, without seeming to hesitate at the sight of the inhaler, placed the book back.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Happened?’ she echoed. ‘Oh, yes. My father died. My mother became ill and I had to come home to look after her.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘How was I supposed to feel? Resentful, I suppose. But that was a long, long time ago.’

  ‘What about now?’

  ‘Now? What about now?’

  ‘Do you still feel resentful?’

  Margaret stared at me warily for a moment, then, as if realising what she was saying was innocuous enough, said, ‘Sometimes I do. But everyone has a cross to bear, don't they?’

  I shrugged. ‘Some seem lighter than others – depends on how well you cope.’

  Passing a hand through her greasy hair Margaret pointed to the armchair. ‘Let's sit down, shall we, before we fall down.’

  We sat either side of the fading fire. Margaret sighed as she eased herself into the chair. I guessed her back was aching and she closed her eyes for so long that I thought she was dropping off to sleep.

  Presently though, she said, ‘I really miss work. I don't see a soul, you know. The day seems to last forever. Mother wakes about five; that is, if she's slept at all. Since the stroke she moans a lot in the night. Sometimes I guess what's wrong, sometimes I don't. She misses the church of course. When she used to go I'd take her in the wheelchair and leave her there and then I could have a walk on my own. That was a real treat. But now … there's no break from it and whatever I do, doesn't please her. It's always been the same. I've spent my life trying to please her. She doesn't like me very much, you see.’

  ‘I'm sure that's not true, Margaret. When I came to see her, she said how hard you worked and how much she appreciated it.’

  A sudden smile animated her face. ‘Did she? Did she really?’ she asked with pathetic eagerness.

  It was a lie that I felt was more than justified. ‘Yes, she did. Why are you so surprised?’ I asked gently.

  Margaret grimaced. ‘I've tried so hard to make my mother happy. Everything I've done has been with her in mind. Sometimes I've wondered if it's all been worth it.’

  ‘You've done your duty,’ I said.

  ‘Duty! Oh, I've done my duty,’ she said bitterly.

  From upstairs the bell sounded again. Shuddering, Margaret's face contorted with anxiety. ‘I can't take much more,’ she said. ‘That bloody bell never stops …’

  ‘I'll go,’ I said.

  In the bedroom Mrs Tonbridge lay groaning. I went through the nurse's litany: pain? thirsty? toilet? too hot? too cold? Finally, I worked out what she wanted was a cardigan around her shoulders. There was no smiling response when I'd done as she required, just a cold stare, but her eyes seemed slightly brighter, as though she enjoyed the discomfiture of those struggling to understand her.

  When I returned, Margaret was gazing into the feeble flames of the fire and tears ran down her cheeks, slowly and effortlessly. She brushed the tears away with her hand as if they were as irritating as flies.

  ‘I don't think I can go on,’ she said. ‘I'm so tired, even crying is too much trouble. I thought things would improve when I—’ ‘When you killed Jacky?’ I said bluntly.

  The surprise in Margaret's face was only momentary. ‘I was going to say, when I killed my father.’

  It was my turn to be surprised. ‘What did you say, Margaret?’ ‘You heard,’ she said. And then she laughed. A chilling, hollow laugh and as she laughed she continued to stare at me. And I felt fear creep up my spine like a centipede with cold feet and I knew I had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, in coming here alone. ‘You're surprised, aren't you?’ she asked, as her laughter died, to be replaced by a tight, hard smile.

  ‘I am. Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘What's to tell? I killed my father … the drunken bastard.’

  ‘How did you kill him?’ I asked.

  ‘It was easy. He was drunk. He'd gone upstairs to vomit in the bathroom and when he came out I just gave him a little shove. I didn't expect it to be so easy. He lay at the bottom of the stairs, vomited again and within minutes he was dead. A mixture of fracturing his skull and alcoholic poisoning. I was so pleased with myself. I thought Mum would be free and she wouldn't get beaten up any more. I'd finish my training and move back home and the two of us would be happy. What a joke!’

  ‘What went wrong?’ I asked.

  Margaret sighed. ‘Everything went wrong. My mother, it seemed, loved him; can you believe it? We got on so well when he was alive. We were sort of friends. When he died all that changed. She got depressed, serious
ly depressed, almost suicidal. Then she had one physical illness after another. I gave up my nurse training and came home, but from then on I think she wished I'd been the one to die.’

  ‘I see,’ I murmured.

  ‘Oh, no, you don't. How could you possibly understand? When I was younger I so longed to marry, to have children. All I got was my mother's misery and faultfinding. My job was all I had and now I've lost that too.’

  ‘Why didn't you leave years ago? Make a fresh start.’

  She looked at me incredulously.

  ‘You just don't understand, do you? I love my mother. I thought that one day she'd love me as she used to. And now I can see that nothing will ever change. I have to stay with her to the end. The very end.’

  ‘Where did Jacky fit in?’

  Margaret smiled slyly. ‘Strange survey this. You didn't have to lie to me. I know why you came here today. As for Jacky, she didn't fit in, did she? The little bitch. She tried to take my place. My mother was always praising her. And then … and then …’ Margaret's voice began to crack with threatened tears. ‘She admired them you see, came in one day and admired my mother's porcelain figurines. They sat on top of the television. Two of them, china children with a puppy beside them. I'd bought them in my first year of nursing, took me months to save up for them. And Mother was so pleased. She hugged me and said they were the prettiest ones she'd ever seen. Every time my father went out drinking she hid them away so that he wouldn't smash them. They survived all that, and then little Miss Perfect comes along. “You have them, dear,” said my mother. “I'd like you to have them.” And she took them.’

  Margaret paused and stared at me as if trying to judge the effect on me.

  I nodded. ‘Go on,’ I said softly.

  ‘She's stolen something from me so I stole something from her. One night when she went for her break I searched through her bag. And then I found it …’

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘The pass book.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Do you? I don't think so. Can you imagine the shock I got? I sat there looking at the figures – twenty-five thousand pounds! Imagine what that sort of money could have done for us, for me. And suddenly it was all mine …’