“Ah, that’s better,” Maurice said. He pressed her hand for an instant “What’s wrong, my dear? Aren’t the police satisfied?”
Phyllis shook her head.
“Phyllis, I’m completely in the dark. I only have the very confused account of what has happened that you gave me on the telephone.”
“I’m sorry, Maurice. It’s too risky to say more,” said Phyllis. She sighed. “I expect the Fennersham Gazette will have something about it on Friday. But the less you know the better.” She looked anxiously around her as she spoke. “Besides, someone might hear us.”
“Well, come back to the bungalow, where we can’t be overheard,” he said.
“I can’t, I must get home. My new sister-in-law and my niece are looking after Mother, and she’ll play them up.”
“You can’t go on like this, my dear,” said Maurice. He looked at her in a concerned way. “I’ll come up and see you this afternoon.”
“No, don’t!” she exclaimed. “How could I explain about you?”
“You could say I am a friend,” he said mildly. “Surely you can have your friends to visit you?”
How could she tell him that she no longer invited anyone to Pantons, because her mother was either offensive to her in front of them, or mocked at them when they had gone? One by one she had lost the few friends of her youth so that apart from her visits to the library and her weekly art classes - a recent venture - she had no outside contacts until now.
“You’ll think me very stupid,” she said. “But Mother wants to know everything that happens to any of us. If you came to the house she’d be dreadfully curious and rude. It wouldn’t be worthwhile. In fact it might be easiest if we never met again,” she added wildly. “I don’t want to involve you in my problems.”
“You don’t mean that,” Maurice told her gravely. “Friendship means helping out with troubles.”
“Oh, I know, but it’s all so difficult,” said Phyllis. How could he understand that if her mother knew she occasionally had tea in Fennersham with a retired, widowed bank manager, sometimes went for walks with him in the park or had a glass of sherry at his bungalow, and met him for coffee every Wednesday morning when she did the shopping, she would be taunted in the crudest way?
“You can’t go on under this strain, my dear,” he now said firmly. “You’ll have to shed some of it.”
“I’ll sort it out when this business about Mrs Mackenzie is all over,” Phyllis said. “I can’t start looking for another housekeeper till then. Who would want to come, knowing what has happened?”
“I wish you’d tell me what it is,” said Maurice. “You make it sound so mysterious.”
“It is mysterious,” Phyllis said. She lowered her voice. “Some of mother’s pills have vanished. No one knows quite whether Mrs Mackenzie meant to kill herself, or if it was even worse than that. I can’t say any more. Don’t ask me to.”
He stared at her, appalled. Then he accepted what she said.
“Promise to ring me up at any hour, day or night, if I can help you,” he said.
She nodded. It was easy to agree.
“We’ll talk about something else now,” she said, and asked about his married daughter.
When they had finished their coffee he carried her shopping to the car, which was parked near the market square. Then he watched her drive away, back to shoulder all her burdens.
And someone else watched both of them, a nondescript man in a shabby raincoat, who followed Maurice home and then walked quickly off towards the nearest telephone kiosk.
II
“But Tim, what are you going to do about it?” Cathy asked.
They were sitting on the low wall that divided the rose garden from the long lawn; this was a place where they could safely talk without being overheard, for they could see if anyone approached. It had been raining earlier, and the air still held a misty dampness that was typical of autumn.
“You’ll have to get the money,” Cathy went on. “I’ve got twelve pounds in the post office; you can borrow that, and perhaps we could pawn our christening presents or something, silver’s pretty valuable just now.”
“Thanks, Cath, but twelve pounds would be only a drop in the ocean,” said Tim gloomily. He swung his legs to and fro, kicking the moss-covered wall with his rubber heels. “I’ve got to get hold of two hundred and fifty.”
“Couldn’t you pay in instalments?” Cathy said. She sniffed. “Tim, don’t you ever have a bath? You positively stink. What’s come over you? You never used to be like this.” She looked distastefully at her cousin. His hair reached well below his ears, and hung in greasy rats’ tails; he wore a grubby sweater and torn jeans, and canvas shoes through one of which a dirty toe protruded.
“Lay off me, Cathy, can’t you? I’ve been travelling all night. You can’t keep clean when you’re hitching lifts in lorries,” Tim said sulkily.
“It’s not only what you look like. You’ve got so messy altogether. Fancy getting into a scrape like this,” said Cathy. “It’s all so unnecessary. Can’t you pull yourself together? We’ve got enough worry to face without you behaving like a delinquent.”
“Oh hark at our virtuous prefect,” Tim said in a jeering voice. “You’ve left school now. Grow up, Cathy. There are worse problems in the world than those in your St Trinian’s code.”
“Yes, there are,” said Cathy hotly. “And Mrs Mackenzie’s murder is one of them.”
As soon as the words were said she put her hand across her mouth, but it was too late.
“Murder! Did you say murder?” Tim gasped.
She nodded.
“You’d have to know eventually,” she said. “If you hadn’t gone rushing off like a lunatic you’d have known all about it.”
“But she had a heart attack.”
“She didn’t. She had some of Gran’s sleeping pills. Quite a lot of them, in fact. And they were really meant for Gran,” Cathy said. “There. Perhaps that’ll shake you, Timothy Ludlow. Maybe you’ll get your priorities a bit sorted out now.”
“But I don’t understand,” Tim said. “How could it be like that?”
He listened meekly while Cathy explained what had happened: how Grandmother had not eaten her pudding and how the powder from the capsules could have been mixed into the meringue.
“Dr Grant says it’s got a very bitter taste, but lemon meringue has contrasting flavours anyway. You might scarcely realise until you’d swallowed it,” she said.
“But who would want to do Gran in?”
Cathy shrugged.
“Dr Grant thinks it may be someone from the past, with a grudge,” she said. “But I don’t. I don’t see how an outsider would have known she’d be alone with Mrs Mack that night, or where to find the pudding. I think it must be one of the family. Isn’t it awful, Tim?”
“My God, it is,” he said. Under its grime, his face turned pale. “Cathy, are you sure you couldn’t find that letter?” he said, and seized her wrist.
She pulled free.
“Keep your mitts off me,” she said. “I’ve told you already, I looked everywhere for it after you asked me about it on Sunday, including hunting through three dustbins, and it isn’t here. You must have lost it somewhere else.”
“But I must have dropped it here,” Tim said. “I came up on Saturday to ask Aunt Phyl if she’d lend me the money. I knew she would if she’d got it. She let me have a cheque for thirty pounds, that’s all she could manage. She hasn’t any money of her own. Did you know that? Not a bean, and Gran doesn’t give her any for herself.”
Cathy stared.
“I know Gran pays all the bills and things,” she said. “But how does Aunt Phyl buy clothes, and the presents she gives us?”
“Your father makes her an allowance. It’s because she’s always looked after you,” Tim told her. “You didn’t know about it?”
Cathy shook her head.
“Poor Aunt Phyl. She could have had a job and earned a proper salary. She does more for
Gran than three paid people would,” said Cathy.
“I think Uncle Gerald gives her quite a bit, really, but not so that she could suddenly produce over two hundred pounds,” said Tim. “She said she could give me some more next month, but it will be too late then. None of my friends can help. That’s where I’ve been, seeing if anyone could.”
“Well, you must tell your parents. They’ll lend you the rest,” said Cathy.
“I can’t. I tried. Dad thought I just wanted my allowance early, but he said things have gone wrong at the office and he may not be able to let me have anything at all. Not even my allowance for next term.”
“Oh, no!”
“It’s true. Mother stumped up twenty, but that was her limit,” Tim said. “I didn’t tell them why I wanted it Dad didn’t give me a chance, actually. He seems to be in rather a fix. I may not be able to go back to Mark’s.”
“Oh Tim! What can have happened?”
Tim shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Cathy, do you think the police found that letter? They were here on Sunday, weren’t they? Before I asked you to look?”
“They may have. If so, you’ll be hearing from them,” Cathy said.
“Oh, you don’t care,” Tim said bitterly.
“Since you mention it, I don’t. I think you’re a silly idiot and you deserve a lesson, but your mother doesn’t, and neither does poor Uncle Derek, especially if he’s in some other trouble.”
“But don’t you see, if the police found that letter, they’ll guess I was here on Saturday, and they’ll know I wanted money. They may suspect me of wanting to murder Gran,” Tim said. “We all know we’ll get something when she dies, and Gran is loaded.”
“Our parents will get it.”
“There’s some in trust for us. You must know that.”
“I never think about it,” Cathy said. “It’s vile, waiting for dead men’s shoes.” She turned and gave him a sharp look. “Did you see Gran that night?” she asked.
He did not answer.
“Tim, did you?”
“I decided to try her when I drew blank with Aunt Phyl,” he admitted at last.
“She wouldn’t help you,” Cathy stated.
“No. She gave me a fearful rocket,” Tim said.
“Good for her,” said Cathy. “But when was all this? I never heard you.”
“You were having a bath,” Tim said.
“Aunt Phyl never told me you’d been to the house.”
“She wouldn’t. She’s a brick,” Tim said. “And the chances are she won’t have told the police either. But they’ll know, if they found that letter.”
“Oh, you make me sick,” stormed Cathy. “Can’t you think of anyone but yourself? Mrs Mack is dead. She had everything to live for, children who loved her, and grandchildren too. She was knitting a cardigan for one of the little girls. And we were fond of her, as well. And she’s dead, because someone, one of the family, wanted to kill Gran.”
“But the police may think it was me,” Tim said.
“Well, you’ll just have to talk them out of it, won’t you?” Cathy said. She sprang off the wall and ran away from him across the garden, her feet in sandals squeaking on the damp grass and her hair streaming out behind her as she went.
Tim got off the wall too. Head down, hands in his pockets, he slouched away over the lawn towards the drive.
III
Martin Ludlow awoke with a splitting headache and a sour taste in his mouth. He lay very still in bed, listening to the throbbing in his head, while the events of the past days, culminating with the previous evening, came back to him. He thought about Sandra, and reached across the bed to see if she had changed her mind, as had happened once before, but he was alone. It was over, then.
After a while, groaning, he got out of bed and tottered into the bathroom. He had managed to get as far as the kitchen, and was sitting in front of a cup of inky coffee and four aspirins, when the doorbell rang.
On the doorstep stood a tall, well-built man with heavy-rimmed spectacles. He looked vaguely familiar, even when seen through half-closed, peering, bloodshot eyes.
“Good morning, Mr Ludlow,” said Patrick briskly. “I am Patrick Grant, Dean of St Mark’s. Can you spare me a few minutes? I’m glad to have caught you before you leave for your office.”
His vigorous tones struck at Martin’s pounding head like hammer blows.
“What’s that young idiot Tim done now?” he mumbled. “Come in, won’t you? I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad moment.”
This was obvious. Apart from his own condition, the place was in a chaotic state, with empty bottles, loaded ashtrays, and dirty glasses everywhere, and the air was stale with tobacco fumes.
“There was a party. I’m a bit hung-over,” Martin confessed.
“You do look a bit green,” Patrick said, regarding him with some sympathy and an experienced eye.
“I was just going to swig down some coffee and some aspirins,” Martin said. “Can I offer you a cup?”
“Thank you,” Patrick said. “But let me get it.” He looked at the younger man consideringly. “I suppose you haven’t any Fernet Branca?” he asked, and when Martin shook his head, said, “Pity. It’s good for your condition. Never mind. There are other remedies. How about letting me mix something for you, if you’ve got the ingredients? A little of the hair of the dog, plus a few things from the kitchen cupboard. May I look ? My scout’s a dab hand at a prairie oyster.”
“Help yourself,” said Martin, sinking down into a chair.
Patrick bustled about, finding eggs, brandy and Worcester sauce readily to hand. He spared a thought for his room at Mark’s, where cartons of tiny Underberg bottles were always in stock for these emergencies. Still, what was here would do. He stirred the mixture and gave it to the patient.
Presently, Martin began to look a little better.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “I’m not often in this state.”
“Don’t worry. It happens to us all,” said Patrick. “In any case this is an unreasonable hour to call, but I don’t know where you work and I didn’t want to ask your mother. This has nothing to do with Timothy, or only indirectly. It’s about the late Mrs Mackenzie.”
“Oh, that’s where I saw you! At the inquest yesterday. I’ve been trying to remember,” Martin said.
“I was there,” Patrick said. “Have the police been to see you yet?”
“No. Why should they?”
“You were at Pantons on Saturday night,” Patrick said. “I was in the drive when you left, at about nine-fifteen.”
There was a silence.
“Oh,” said Martin, at last.
“It is ‘oh,’ isn’t it?” Patrick said. “Why were you there?”
Martin groaned and clasped his head.
“Do the police know?” he asked.
“I’m sure they do,” said Patrick untruthfully. “What will you tell them? They’re certain to inquire.”
“The truth, I suppose,” said Martin. “That I wanted to borrow some money from my grandmother.”
“Did she lend you what you wanted?”
“Not she. Read me a lecture instead,” said Martin ruefully. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. Sandra’s gone. I don’t suppose it would have stopped her.”
“Hm.” Patrick looked consideringly at the young man. “You know where Alec Mackenzie lives, don’t you? You brought him down yesterday. Why was that?”
Martin looked surprised at the question.
“Well, poor chap, it would be a bit tough for him to have to fend for himself, wouldn’t it? I thought one of us should rally round,” he said.
“I want to see young Mackenzie,” said Patrick. “I know he has a tobacconist’s shop in Clapham, and he may be in the yellow pages, but it will save me a lot of time if you’ll tell me where, to find him, or better still, come with me and vouch for me.”
“Why do you want to see him? What is all this?” asked Martin.
“Not a lot. It was very sudden, and it wasn’t due to a heart attack or anything like that. Mackenzie is sure she wouldn’t have committed suicide. It seems to be a thorough puzzle,” Martin said.
“I suppose you haven’t seen your parents since the inquest?”
“No. I brought Mackenzie back - he was pretty cut up, and I had a few drinks with him. Then I got involved with my own troubles and I forgot about it,” Martin said.
“I don’t know how fit you’re feeling now,” said Patrick, “and what you can manage to take in.”
“Oh, I’m better,” Martin assured him. “That brew of yours was magical.” He gave Patrick a twisted grin. “I don’t know why you’re so bothered about poor Mrs Mackenzie, but I might have gassed myself or jumped in the river if you hadn’t turned up. So thanks for coming.”
“Oh no,” said Patrick firmly. “You were in far too fragile a state to have done either. By the time you felt stronger, you would no longer have wanted to take such a step.” He fixed the young man with a steady gaze from behind his spectacles and added, “Don’t feast on despair. There’s always a more positive alternative. You can do something, ‘hope, wish day come, not choose not to be’. I suggest that now you listen while I tell you what has been discovered about the events leading up to the death of Mrs Mackenzie. Then, if you agree, we will go and see Alec Mackenzie. I’ll tell you why on the way, and after that you can tell me about your own misfortunes, if you would care to do so.” By that time they will have shrunk to much more endurable proportions, Patrick thought to himself.
“Why are you so interested?” Martin asked.
“Because I’m insatiably curious,” Patrick replied. “And also, more creditably, I’m concerned for your cousin Cathy, for whom all this is being a shattering experience. I want to hurry things on a bit, if I can. The police, inevitably, have to move slowly to build up their case.”
“Their case?”
“Their case,” Patrick repeated. “This is murder.”
Dead In The Morning Page 11
