Dead In The Morning

by Margaret Yorke

  “And yesterday you went to church? At what time?”

  “I left the house at twenty minutes to eight,” Phyllis said.

  “And the sodium amytal capsules were on the hall chest then? You did not open the bottle?”

  “No. There were still three left in the previous one. I had meant to take the new ones upstairs, but what with my brother’s arrival and one thing and another, I forgot,” Phyllis said. “It was careless, I admit. But we are used to having drugs about; my mother has pills for her heart, and for other purposes. There aren’t any children here who might take them by mistake.”

  “Tell me what happened when you got back from church,” said the Inspector. “The time first.”

  “It was twenty-five past nine. I was very late,” Phyllis said.

  “Why was that?”

  “The vicar detained me. He had a message for my mother.”

  It was true, but she had talked to someone else too, for to her amazement Maurice had been among the scanty congregation, but this was no one’s business but her own.

  “What did you do when you got in?”

  “I went upstairs to take off my hat. Cathy was with my mother. There was no sign of Mrs Mackenzie,” Phyllis said.

  “What did you think had happened?”

  “I agreed with Cathy that she must have overslept. She was never ill,” said Phyllis.

  “Did it surprise you? Had she overslept before?”

  “No. But people do oversleep,” Phyllis said tartly.

  “Did you know that Mrs Mackenzie liked a nightcap on retiring?”

  “Certainly I knew.”

  “It would not surprise you if she had several whiskies?”

  “Not at all. I often have several myself. But if you mean she drank, and I assumed yesterday that she had a hangover, you’re wrong,” said Phyllis.

  “Anyway, you sent your niece to wake her?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “I see. Well, Mrs Medhurst, we’ll get your statement typed, and then we’ll ask you to sign it, if you don’t mind. Now I should like to see Mrs Ludlow, please, and your niece,” said the Inspector.

  “Is that really necessary? Must you distress my mother? This has been an awful shock to her; to all of us, in fact. She can’t help you.”

  “She was probably the last person to see Mrs Mackenzie alive,” said the Inspector. “I’m sorry, but I must insist. I did as you asked yesterday, and did not trouble her, to give her time to recover, but I must see her today.”

  “It’s not convenient. She isn’t dressed yet.”

  “But she’s coming down?”

  “Of course, when she’s ready.”

  “Then I’ll wait,” said the Inspector. “And in the meanwhile, please, I’ll see your niece.”

  “Oh, very well.” It was clearly useless to protest. Phyllis gave in, with ill grace. “I’ll send Cathy to you,” she said, and left the room.

  When Cathy came, the Inspector had moved from the low leather chair to the seat by the desk. He was a short man with a pallid face and a small, grizzled moustache; not a very inspiring figure, she thought.

  “Ah, good morning, Miss Ludlow,” he began, much gratifying Cathy by awarding her this adult mode of address.

  As he had done with Phyllis, he checked Cathy’s account of what had happened on Saturday night and on Sunday morning against what she had already told him.

  “And you didn’t move anything in Mrs Mackenzie’s room?”

  “No. I touched her, to shake her, you know,” Cathy said. “She seemed to be sleeping so heavily and did not answer me. I called her, of course, to begin with. Then I put my hand on her shoulder.” She could feel again the horror of the moment. “I knew at once,” she said.

  “It must have been a shock for you,” said the Inspector, who had a daughter of his own.

  “It was,” said Cathy.

  There was nothing much that she could add in the way of enlightenment. She was more vague about the time she and Phyllis left the house and returned, on Saturday evening, than her aunt had been, but she confirmed her Sunday timings.

  “Gran kept on so about what time it was, that’s why I’m sure,” she said.

  “Your aunt was normally back from church sooner?”

  “Yes, but she had this chat with the vicar,” Cathy said. “He’s a bit of an old windbag, you know. And I expect she talked to some other people too. It can be quite social in the churchyard after the service, depending on who’s there. Aunt Phyl would be thinking that Mrs Mack had everything under control here, because she always did.”

  “How’s your grandmother taking all this?” asked the Inspector, closing his book.

  “Very well. Better than any of the rest of us,” Cathy said. “She’s tough. I suppose she’s seen so much sadness in her life that she’s hardened to it.”

  “I’m waiting to see her now,” said the Inspector. “I understand from your aunt that she isn’t prepared yet for the day.”

  “She doesn’t usually come down till ten. Then she goes round the garden, right away, unless it’s pouring. If it’s drizzling, she goes round under oilskins and an umbrella. She’ll be livid if you delay her,” Cathy said. “Must you bother her, Inspector? Can’t Aunt Phyl and I tell you what you want to know?”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Miss Ludlow. But I must see your grandmother, I’m afraid. I’ll not harass her”.

  “I suppose it can’t be helped,” said Cathy. She stood up. “Is that all? If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go, then. There’s an awful lot to do.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said the Inspector. “I’ll just wait here for your grandmother.”

  “You’d like some coffee, wouldn’t you? I’ll make some for you both,” Cathy said, with a smile for the young Sergeant, who became instantly less self-effacing and beamed at her.

  “That would be very agreeable,” said the Inspector primly. “Smithers, go with the young lady and save her the trouble of bringing it out to us.”

  He gave the young man a meaning look. In chat over the kettle, Cathy might let fall some casual comment of a revealing nature. To have produced a situation of this kind, Pantons must be a house full of festering hate.

  Mrs Ludlow kept him waiting some time. He and Smithers had finished their coffee and ginger nuts, and the Sergeant had removed the cups and washed them up for Cathy, who was preparing the vegetables for lunch and seemed to have done the family washing too, judging by the evidence around. Inspector Foster spent some time studying the library of the late Mr Ludlow and the sporting prints on the walls, before the widow appeared.

  He heard the faint hum that the lift made as it brought her down, and then the swishing sound of the wheelchair on the linoleum that covered the kitchen passage. Smithers opened the study door as wide as possible to admit her, and the Inspector, seated in the swivel chair, swung it round so that he faced Mrs Ludlow as she came into the room, propelled by Phyllis.

  She was dressed in some soft blue woollen garment against which her skin looked pink, and her short, cropped hair very white. Over her knees was draped a mohair rug in shades of pink and mauve, and between them she held, clasped upright, a silver-headed stick. She glowered at the Inspector, who hastily stood up, to loom above her tiny figure.

  “What is all this nonsense?” she demanded, before he had time to utter.

  “Good morning, madam. I am sorry to bother you, but it is my duty to make certain inquiries into matters concerning the death of Mrs Joyce Mackenzie,” he said portentously.

  “The matter is perfectly plain. She had a heart attack,” said Mrs Ludlow.

  “Very probably,” agreed the Inspector. It would not help to complicate things at this stage. He sat down again, anxious to diminish the angle of the fierce glare burning up at him from Mrs Ludlow’s eye-level to his own.

  “Leave us, Phyllis,” commanded Mrs Ludlow.

  “Oh Mother, is that wise?” Phyllis asked.

  “Leave us, I said,”
Mrs Ludlow repeated. “Tell Bludgen to wait.” For by now the gardener would have reported at the kitchen door, ready to take her round the garden.

  Phyllis went from the room, and Mrs Ludlow subjected the Inspector to a discomfiting scrutiny. He was in some incomprehensible manner compelled to remain silent while it lasted. Finally she opened the discussion.

  “Inspector, that is my late husband’s chair,” she said. “Kindly vacate it.”

  The Inspector stood up as suddenly as if he had been shot from a gun. Smithers sprang up too, and surrendered his own chair immediately, so that the Inspector ended by facing Mrs Ludlow on a hard upright seat with his notebook awkwardly balanced on his knee. The Sergeant retreated into a corner by the wall; it would not do for either of them to sink into the recesses of the leather armchair in the presence of this formidable person.

  “I apologise, madam, if I have caused offence,” the Inspector managed to remark.

  Mrs Ludlow inclined her head. She sat composed.

  “Well?” she said.

  Inspector Foster cleared his throat.

  “On Saturday night, madam, you were alone in the house with Mrs Mackenzie, as Mrs Medhurst and Miss Ludlow had gone down to the Stable House,” he said.

  “That is correct.”

  “According to Mrs Medhurst, you had dinner in your room. When she and the young lady left you had not finished your meal?”

  “Quite right. They rushed out. Asking for digestive trouble,” Mrs Ludlow said.

  “Mrs Mackenzie removed your tray? When was that?”

  “At half-past eight precisely,” Mrs Ludlow said. “I know, because I had just turned on my wireless to listen to the play. Saturday night theatre, you know.”

  “Ah yes. What did you have for your meal, madam? Can you remember?”

  “Of course I can remember. I’m not in my dotage, young man,” snapped Mrs Ludlow. “I had cold cucumber soup, chicken fricassee with rice and runner beans - from the garden, the only way. We eat none of your processed foodstuffs here.”

  “Quite so. And for sweet?”

  “The pudding was lemon meringue pie. I did not eat it,” Mrs Ludlow said.

  “Why was that? Don’t you care for it?”

  “I would not be served with a pudding I do not care for in my own house,” said Mrs Ludlow repressively. “But I was not as well as usual, that evening. I had had a tiring time the night before, greeting my new daughter-in-law.”

  “I’m sorry you should have this shock to face now,” said the Inspector.

  “So am I,” said Mrs Ludlow. “But nevertheless I shall manage to do it. My generation has more mettle than yours,” she added, regarding the Inspector with disfavour.

  “How did Mrs Mackenzie seem when she removed your tray?”

  “Perfectly well. We did not converse, as I was listening to the wireless.”

  “And was that the last time you saw her?”

  “No. She brought me a glass of hot milk - I always have one at night - and assisted me to prepare finally for bed at the conclusion of the play,” said Mrs Ludlow.

  “Her manner was in no way strange?”

  Mrs Ludlow frowned.

  “She had been drinking,” she said. “I could smell the whisky on her breath. But there was nothing amiss with her deportment.”

  “Did these final preparations of yours take long?”

  “Five minutes or so,” said Mrs Ludlow, primping her lips. No policeman of whatever rank would extract more details from her.

  “And did Mrs Mackenzie retire to bed after that?”

  “I presume so.”

  “What about yourself, madam?”

  “I listened to the wireless for some time. I heard my daughter and my granddaughter return. My daughter saw that my light was on and she came in to make sure that I was comfortable,” said Mrs Ludlow.

  “And you had a good night’s sleep?”

  “As good as I can hope for nowadays.”

  “I see. In fact, the routine that evening was quite normal?”

  “Perfectly. My daughter seldom goes out, she knows her duty to her mother, but if she does, Mrs Mackenzie has always been a satisfactory substitute.”

  “You’ll miss her,” stated the Inspector.

  Mrs Ludlow bowed her head again.

  “And yesterday morning? Was that normal too?”

  “You must already be aware, young man, that it was not,” said Mrs Ludlow frostily. “My breakfast was late. My granddaughter and I concluded that Mrs Mackenzie must have overslept.”

  “You knew that Mrs Medhurst had gone to church?”

  “She mentioned it the night before.” Mrs Ludlow had forgotten this by morning, but there was no point in revealing her small failure to the policeman.

  “So your granddaughter went to rouse Mrs Mackenzie?”

  “Phyllis should have gone herself. I told her to.”

  “Mrs Ludlow, forgive this personal note, but I take it that you are on good terms with your family?”

  “What an extraordinary question,” exclaimed the old lady.

  The Inspector searched unhappily for better phrasing.

  “You approved of your son’s marriage?” he hazarded.

  “Why not? He’s old enough to know what he is doing, I should hope. And what has this to do with Mrs Mackenzie?”

  It was no good. He would have to get at this angle from the other side; no useful purpose would be served if Mrs Ludlow learned about the missing pills and guessed the pie had been intended for another victim. He retreated.

  “I won’t detain you any longer, madam,” he said, putting away his notebook. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your morning.”

  “I should think so too,” Mrs Ludlow said. She added, more tolerantly, “I expect you have your forms to fill. It’s all forms nowadays.”

  “Quite, madam. Smithers, fetch Mrs Medhurst, would you?” Inspector Foster said.

  Mrs Ludlow turned her head stiffly to look at the Sergeant as he obeyed. She called him back.

  “You look a well set-up young man,” she said, causing him to blush furiously under his thatch of carroty hair. “You may wheel me out.”

  Sergeant Smithers cast a glance at the Inspector, took the handles of her chair, and turned her round. Mrs Ludlow directed him into the hall, and as they reached it Phyllis and the gardener appeared from the kitchen and took charge. Smithers was graciously dismissed by Mrs Ludlow. He returned to the study mopping his brow.

  “Phew,” he said. “Some character, that one, sir.”

  “Yes,” agreed the Inspector. “Not many left like her these days. Just as well, perhaps.”

  “I don’t know. Total conformity is very dull,” said the Sergeant. He had enjoyed seeing his superior being routed.

  “Hm. We’ll give her time to get out into the garden, then we’ll take another look round upstairs,” said the Inspector. He frowned. “I should be very surprised if her relationship with her family is as good as she implies,” he said.

  “She’s not an easy individual at all,” agreed the Sergeant, meditating. “Mrs Medhurst rather resembles her mother, doesn’t she, sir? Same tart manner. There’s not much filial love about in this house.”

  Inspector Foster glanced sharply at him. Really, Sergeant Smithers was an odd young man; he used the most extraordinary phrases.

  When Patrick called at the home of his charge Tim Ludlow on Monday afternoon, he saw as he approached the house the figure of a sturdy, square woman wearing a shapeless skirt standing in a large flower bed in the middle of the lawn. A barrow filled with dead shoots was near her, and she was struggling to uproot some tough plant that was defying all her efforts. Patrick got out of the car and walked across the grass towards her.

  Betty saw him coming and stuck her fork in the ground. She wiped her hands on her skirt and stepped out of the border on to the grass. She wore short Wellington boots and patterned stockings that had caught on brambles and were laddered.

  “I know, don’t
tell me, you’re another policeman,” she said, rubbing a hand over her forehead and leaving a grimy mark. “Two were here this morning.”

  “I’m not a policeman, Mrs Ludlow,” Patrick said. “I’m Patrick Grant, the Dean of St Mark’s.”

  “Oh God! What’s happened now?” said Betty, and her face turned white. If he had not put out a hand to steady her, Patrick thought she might have stumbled. “It’s Tim. Where is he?”

  “Isn’t he here?” asked Patrick. “I came to see him, as I’m staying in the neighbourhood.”

  “You mean he’s all right? He hasn’t got into trouble again?”

  “As far as the university is concerned, I know of nothing wrong,” Patrick said. “My visit is merely social. I apologise if I startled you. Of course, I’ve heard about the sad event in Winterswick. I’ve met your niece.”

  “You must think me very silly, Dr Grant,” said Betty, able to speak more calmly now that her immediate panic had been dispelled. “I felt sure Tim must be in trouble of some sort.”

  He is, thought Patrick, but his mother need not know about it yet. The apprehensive devotion which Betty Ludlow clearly felt for her worrying child was no new manifestation to Patrick.

  “We’ve never met when you’ve been visiting Timothy at Mark’s,” he prompted her.

  “No, we haven’t. Oh, how rude of me, do come into the house, Dr Grant,” Betty said, recollecting herself.

  “Well, if you’re sure I won’t be interrupting,” Patrick said, with every intention of doing just that.

  “Not at all. It will do me good to stop,” said Betty. “I find gardening such a relaxation, don’t you?”

  This was a contradictory statement, and anything less relaxed than her own late occupation it would be hard to find, Patrick thought.

  “I’m afraid I don’t do much of it,” he said. “But you must let me show you the Fellows’ Garden when you come to Mark’s next term; we have some very rare autumn-flowering shrubs.”

  “I’d like that,” Betty said vaguely. She was not really listening.

  She led the way into the house, apologising for taking him in by the back door, and paused in the lobby to shed her boots, exchanging them for a pair of shabby pumps.