by Angela Arney
‘Frequently.’ This was true. The gallery job, although exciting, did not pay well. ‘But you’ve never asked to stay before.’
Louise laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m solvent at the moment. But you’ve never lived in the country before. So now I’ve got two reasons to visit. No, three reasons. You, the new house, and Christina.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘One thing I’ll say for you and that is you take after me. Subtlety is not your forte.’
‘Then I can come?’
‘Of course. Would I say no to my own daughter? The spare bedroom is a bit of a tip, but you’re very welcome. I’ll enjoy the company, always assuming you’ve got time to spare for me, although I must warn you I’ve got surgeries morning and evening, and visits during the day.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I’m going to see Christina tomorrow evening anyway. Perhaps we can go out together for dinner on Thursday night before I go back. Book up somewhere nice. See you tomorrow. I’ll catch the 5.30 train from Waterloo. And don’t worry about picking me up; I’ll get a taxi.’ Louise rattled off her instructions without pausing for breath and then rang off.
So the country and the old school friend was the attraction. But Lizzie was pretty certain that Louise wouldn’t have visited if she’d still been living with Mike. Louise had given the parental home a miss these last few years, preferring to share apartments and be in the company of their friends. Nothing had ever been mentioned and only now, with hindsight, did Lizzie realize that the atmosphere between her and Mike had been brittle for some time. But nothing comes from nothing, Lizzie reflected now, and if the break-up brought her closer to Louise then so much the better. Her company would be a nice change. Silver Cottage was a little lonely. Strange how when she was in London she’d always hated the ever-present roar of traffic, but now she was in the country she found the silence rather disturbing.
Her stomach reminded her again that it was empty. From her parking spot she could see the swinging sign of Antonio’s Delicatessen. It was just the place to buy a snack for now, and something for supper. Locking the car she hurried towards it.
House visits that afternoon were carried out between bites of a stilton and broccoli pasty; crumbs brushed off each time before hauling the laptop and black bag out of the Alfa and trudging up the path to the next patient. The ailments were various and mostly minor, causing Lizzie to become increasingly disgruntled as the afternoon wore on. Practically all the patients could easily have come to the surgery, instead of calling out a doctor for a visit. But she bit her tongue, dealt with them efficiently, if rather brusquely, politely informing them that visiting the surgery enabled doctors to see more people, more quickly, which saved time and money and was better for everyone.
The weak winter sun, which had struggled through the ever-threatening rain clouds, began to sink down, and a glance at her watch told Lizzie that she’d have to get a move on if she was to get back in time to see Tarquin and give him instructions about the garden.
One visit to go: Furzey Cottage. It would have to be a quick visit as she was now way behind schedule, but she couldn’t find it on the sat nav. However, she eventually managed to find it on her large-scale Ordnance Survey map; it appeared to be in the middle of the forest at the end of a dirt track.
The map was quite correct. It was in the middle of a particularly dense patch of the New Forest and the track was gravel, heavily overgrown with moss, indicating that not much traffic passed that way.
Parking the car outside the house, which was wooden and painted dark brown, Lizzie fished out the patient’s notes. They informed her that a Mrs Mills lived here alone, and that she was eighty-seven.
All thoughts of making it a quick visit vanished when she saw Mrs Mills. Riddled with arthritis, the old woman had shuffled, with the help of a Zimmer frame, to answer the door. Wizened and bent double by age and arthritis, she had the appearance of a witch straight out of one of Grimms’ fairy tales. But the smile, which beamed from ear to ear when she saw Lizzie, transformed her face into that of a vulnerable child.
‘Dick Jamieson told me he’d send me the new lady doctor,’ she said, ‘so I’ve made some fresh bread and a fruit cake especially. Come in, come in.’ She waved a mittened hand in welcome. ‘Sit by the fire and have a cup of tea. It’s a miserable day out there. These dark winter days seem to go on for ever and ever.’
So Lizzie sat by the open log fire watching the flames leap orange and red, and gave up trying to hurry. How did an old woman manage to exist in such a remote part of the forest? She couldn’t throw the old lady’s hospitality back in her face. Watching her bent figure struggle back into the kitchen Lizzie could only guess at the determination and will power which gave her the strength to make bread and cakes, and keep the cottage as clean and bright as it was. Outside, the towering trees crowded in on the little house, but inside the brass ornaments sparkled, and the lace doilies on the sideboard were starched a stiff snowy white.
Mrs Mills re-entered after a few minutes, having discarded her Zimmer frame for a wooden trolley, the top of which was laden with a teapot, milk jug, cups and saucers. The bottom level had plates of fruit cake and thick cut slices of bread and jam.
Thinking it best to dispense with the medical problems before the tea, Lizzie said, ‘Before we relax perhaps you’d better tell me why you needed a visit, Mrs Mills. What is the problem?’
Mrs Mills nodded towards the wedge of notes on Lizzie’s lap. ‘As you can see I’m the proverbial creaking gate post,’ she said. ‘But it’s none of those things written down there, except that I could do with some stronger pain killers for the arthritis if you will prescribe them. But nothing that makes me constipated, mind. I don’t want that. No, this time, it’s this.’ She held out a leg, which was bandaged and clad in a stocking cut off at the knee and held up by an elastic band. ‘I’ve looked in my medical book and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve got a varicose ulcer.’
After peeling her way through layers of stocking and bandage Lizzie looked. It was a very nasty ulcer. She dressed it and said, ‘I think we’d better get the district nurse to come in every day to dress it for you until it has healed.’
Mrs Mills’ smile positively glistened with delight. ‘Someone to visit every day! Oh, that’ll be nice. I do like a bit of company.’
Later over a cup of tea, and bread and butter spread thickly with home-made blackberry jam, Lizzie learned that Mrs Mills had been headmistress at Stibbington’s one and only primary school.
‘You’ve lived here for a long time, then.’
‘Born here,’ said Mrs Mills. ‘Went away to train as a teacher but came back, got married, and stayed ever since. I can’t tell you how much I miss my days at school. Harry and I never had any children of our own, but there was a time when I knew every child in Stibbington by name, and they all knew me. I taught that boy Darren Evans, you know. The one they found dead, poor lamb.’
Lizzie thought it unlikely that anyone else would have called Darren Evans a lamb. She accepted another cup of tea and progressed to the fruit cake. Rich, dark, and sticky, she munched her way through it, ignoring all thoughts of the calories. It tasted delicious. ‘How long have you been here on your own?’ she asked, surreptitiously dropping a few crumbs for the ancient cairn sitting by the fire and looking up at her with imploring eyes.
‘Oh, for nigh on ten years now. I lost my Harry one December night. A night such as this it was.’
For one wild moment Lizzie imagined the said Mr Mills wandering off into the forest all alone and never returning, then reined in her recalcitrant thoughts. The different ways in which people referred to death was something she’d never got used to. According to her patients their loved ones rarely died. They passed over, got lost, passed away, popped their clogs, but never actually died or were dead.
But it was Mrs Mills’ words, ‘a night such as this,’ that made her cast an instinctive glance out of the window. One look confirmed she was late. Very late. She looked at her watc
h. If she hurried she might catch Tarquin. He could still be working in the greenhouse potting out the plants he was bringing; it was a possibility as he’d be able to see because of the outside light on the wall at the end of the cottage.
Leaving Mrs Mills with a promise of coming again soon, which she meant to keep, and that a district nurse would be arranged for the next day, Lizzie put the Alfa in gear and roared off down the gravel track at a speed which would have earned her pole position on the starting grid of any Grand Prix.
Leaving the denseness of Mrs Mills’ particular patch of forest, she rejoined a tarmac road and drove around the outskirts of Stibbington towards Silver Cottage. It was when all other signs of civilization were behind her and the darkness was again almost total that Lizzie saw a strange glow in the sky. Not constant, but flickering. A worrying premonition lodged cold and hard in her throat. Speeding towards it, she rounded the last corner of the bend in the lane and saw the fire. Scarlet and golden flames were shooting skywards, clothing the sides of Silver Cottage in a coat of brilliant colours. For one split second she thought it was the house itself on fire, then realized it was the greenhouse and the wooden shed that stood beside it. Her first thought was that Tarquin had lit the heater, and then gone and left it before making certain it was safe. Silly boy. Lucky for him it wasn’t the house burning.
Without even realizing that she had actually done it, Lizzie punched out the emergency number on her mobile phone, then stood waiting until a high-pitched wail announced the arrival of the fire engine.
It didn’t take the fire team long to douse the flames. The chief fire officer walked towards her, illuminated against the steaming smoke still spiralling towards the night sky by the powerful lights on the fire appliance.
‘Thank you,’ said Lizzie. ‘I was afraid the cottage might go up as well. I suppose I ought to offer you a cup of tea or something. I’ve never had a fire before; I’m not sure what to do next.’
The chief fire officer, a man of considerable bulk and middle years named George Beeson, took off his helmet. ‘What we’ve got to do next, Dr Browne,’ he said, ‘is wait for the police and ambulance.’
‘Wait for the police and ambulance,’ repeated Lizzie.
‘Yes. There’s a charred body in there. Any idea as to who it might be?’
‘Oh no.’ Lizzie felt sick. ‘It can’t be him. Surely not.’ She started to run towards the blackened ruins of the greenhouse, and on reaching it knelt, oblivious of the mess, by the body. The clothes had been burned away; just sticky remnants remained clinging to the charred remains. The smell of burnt flesh made her gag, but she had to do it. She reached out and felt in vain for any sign of life.
‘Can’t be who?’ Out of breath, George Beeson caught up and stood over her.
Lizzie looked up. For a moment she couldn’t speak. Mouth dry. Heart hammering. All she could think of was that a man had died on her property.
‘Can’t be who? George Beeson repeated.
‘Tarquin Girling. He was working in my garden this afternoon.’
But her words were lost in the dual scream of sirens as, with blue lights flashing and engines revving, the ambulance and police car arrived almost simultaneously at the scene.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The call came through late Monday afternoon. Another body found in suspicious circumstances. Maguire didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that matters at Stibbington police station had suddenly taken another dramatic turn. This time, according to the fire officer, George Beeson, the body was burned beyond recognition, and had been found at the new doctor’s cottage. Maguire reflected wryly that Dr Browne was certainly coming in for more than her fair share of excitement since moving to Stibbington.
When the call came he had been going through what they’d got on Darren Evans, trying to tie in something with the Brockett-Smythes but without much success. A gut feeling that there was something made Maguire persist; although the major was insisting that Darren Evans had merely helped out in the garden and done a few other odd jobs, Maguire did not believe him. There was something weird about their connection. Darren Evans was not the type the major would normally have employed for any odd jobs. Why hadn’t he chosen any one of the number of retired men who did such work? There were plenty of adverts in the local paper; all respectable elderly men; the type of man the major would naturally gravitate towards. What was more, Phineas had stated quite categorically that Darren’s hands were not those of a man who did manual labour. And everyone else who’d had dealings with Darren all confirmed that he had expended as little physical effort as possible for as long as anyone could remember. He was the archetypal dropout.
At least the visit to Brockett Hall had solved the mystery of Melinda Brockett-Smythe, the daughter. Nothing sinister there, just a tragedy. She, apparently, was suffering from a severe mental illness, and needed constant care and medication for relief of her symptoms, which consisted of aggressive and anti-social behaviour. Maguire felt sorry for the Brockett-Smythes. It was at times like this that he told himself it was a blessing not to have children. At least he had nothing and no one to worry about. The major and his wife, his second wife it transpired during the conversation, his first having died before the daughter developed the illness, cared for Melinda on their own, apart from two mornings a week when a local woman, Ivy James, came in to care for her to enable them to take a break. It was then that they usually went to the Royal Oak for lunch, where they had met Maguire.
Maguire now thought he knew why Mrs Brockett-Smythe looked so drained and exhausted. She was being dragged down by caring for a child who was not even her own. Maguire wondered how he’d feel in that situation. Was it worse because the child was not your own, or would you feel the same if it were your own flesh and blood?
Switching off the computer, he closed the slim folder containing his notes. He still recorded everything by hand as well as logging it on the computer. Somehow he couldn’t entirely trust computers, and was resisting becoming paperless as County Headquarters had instructed. He shoved the notes in the bottom drawer of his desk.
‘Come on, Steve,’ he called across to Grayson. ‘We’ve got another body on our hands.’
Grayson, who’d been playing with a pile of paper clips and counting the minutes to when he could reasonable ask Maguire if he could leave to go home to Ann and the son they were expecting, groaned. The scan had clearly shown it was a boy, and Steve was longing to tell Maguire. He’d told everyone else in the station who was willing to listen, but as Maguire had never enquired, he’d kept silent. You could never be sure with Maguire; he might say congratulations, or he might bite his head off and tell him to concentrate on his work. Something which Steve was finding very difficult to do this particular afternoon. The trail to and from Darren Evans had petered out, and with it so had his enthusiasm. Normally, he would have been thrilled with the thought of additional excitement, but another body to be investigated late on Monday, which would inevitably spill over into the evening, had not featured in his plans, and failed to enthuse him.
‘Where is it, sir?’ he said, trying to sound alert.
‘At Dr Browne’s place. Silver Cottage in Deer Leap Lane.’
Steve sat up and whistled. ‘Perhaps she’s our murderer.’
Maguire snorted. ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. Let’s get going. I’ll drive tonight.’
As they ploughed through the darkness Steve worried about Ann. She’d been expecting him back for supper, a casserole, she’d said. He’d have to ask Maguire if he could phone her in a moment and tell her he’d be late. But not now. One glance at Maguire’s profile told him this would not be an appropriate moment. He tried texting by holding the phone down between his knees, but Maguire glanced over as soon as the faint light shone from the keyboard. He switched it off. He’d have to wait, and so would Ann.
Maguire thought about Tess. She’d been left alone since lunch time. A long time for an old dog. He hoped her bladder and bowels lasted, and there wo
uldn’t be a mess to clear up. It had never been a problem when Rosemary had been alive. Then she had walked the dog when he’d been delayed, and Tess had never made a mess. It wasn’t fair keeping a dog when one lived alone, but, and for a moment his expression softened, he wouldn’t be without her. Life would be unbearably lonely.
At Silver Cottage Lizzie stood in numb disbelief watching the nightmarish scene unfold. Maguire and Grayson arrived, siren wailing. Hardly necessary, thought Lizzie, they were too late to help whoever it was lying in the remains of the greenhouse. She was refusing to let herself think it was Tarquin. She had to keep the body anonymous in her mind for as long as possible. The ambulance arrived, sirens screeching, blue lights flashing. Why hadn’t someone told them he, it, was dead. Dead! There was no need to make a noise. The ambulance decanted two paramedics glowing eerily in their white and green jackets. They rushed across to the greenhouse carrying with them a box of resuscitation equipment. You won’t need that, thought Lizzie grimly, but said nothing.
More and more people arrived, arc lights were set up. The cottage and garden was fenced off from prying eyes by blue and white plastic tape, and a tarpaulin was erected over the debris of the greenhouse to protect the human remains. The paramedics packed up their box of tricks, hung about for a few minutes and chatted, then went off, hopefully to find a more rewarding customer who might respond to their administrations. Maguire walked back to where Lizzie was standing. ‘Did you touch the body?’
She swallowed. ‘I had to.’ The memory of the repulsive feel of the seared flesh against her fingertips and the sickly smell was still vivid. It hadn’t seemed like a human being at all, more like a piece of barbecued meat. She swallowed again. ‘As a doctor it was my duty to feel for any vital signs, although common sense told me there would be none.’
‘I shall need a statement, as you were the first doctor on the scene. You can pronounce him dead.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘What do you mean, “suppose so”?’
