Treated as Murder

by Noreen Wainwright

  “Edith was a bit better, I thought. Not so sedated, still far from well, poor darling.”

  “Yes, well, funny notions they get, these single women…of a certain age…missed opportunities, that sort of thing.”

  Julia stared at him, furious, but unable to express it. When had he become so horribly smug and spiteful?

  * * *

  Edith walked in the spreading gardens of the hospital. Of course, a nurse wasn’t far away. They didn’t quite trust her, yet. They could. She wasn’t going to do away with herself, and she wasn’t going to run off. Where would she go?

  They called these places asylums, which meant places of safety. There was a wooden bench, pink paint peeling a little, in the shade of an oak tree, near a walled garden. She could see the canes and smell an earthy mix of soil and growing onions.

  Edith sat, hands on her lap. She had a meeting later with Dr. Uxbridge. She must try to get the better of her nerves. It was rude to sit in silence while the poor man struggled to help.

  She fought the feelings of guilt plaguing her more and more. Why had she given way, like this when others had suffered more? Look at Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot in the village. Rumour had it he drank. But what about Dorothea? You met her in the village. She was always well turned out, smiling and interested in what you were doing. Whereas she, Edith, without chick or child to worry about, let alone to lose, had given way like this.

  One particular incident haunted her now as it had haunted her down the years, coming into her mind, intruding, every time she felt low. She had visited Alastair’s mother, soon…too soon, after the killed in action, news. Alastair’s mother, bowed in grief, had been so pleased to have her there, insisted on showing her things, including the unbearable copy of the list of belongings found on Alastair’s body. One metal watch, one notebook, letter, photos, one postcard, one prayer book. Sometime later, she had seen the words of Siegfried Sasson’s…

  “They leave their trenches, going over the top

  While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists”

  Edith remembered the hot helplessness of the paper in her hand and Alastair’s mother in her sitting room. She tried to be still now, but could not. She walked back into the asylum for her meeting with Dr. Uxbridge.

  * * *

  She knew now about strait jackets, horrible white things that strapped your arms—not straight out, but close to your body so you were trussed up and helpless like a wild animal. One way or another, they would subdue you. She also knew the padded cell, where there was nothing to distract you from the horror inside of you. Where the only sort of merciful release was exhaustion.

  Eventually, the screams and the wails stopped, and with tiredness and medicine, you slept. Not a refreshing, nice sleep, but a half-dead, heavy unconsciousness hard to drag yourself out of. That was all in the past. She had left the darkest of the dark days behind. She’d thawed out of her frozen state and reformed, more malleable. She didn’t know whether that was because it made life a lot easier, or whether it was because of a new doctor, Doctor Webster who had come to this place some years ago now.

  Many of the other doctors and nurses didn’t like him. He wanted to change things, and though they did a grim job, one most people would run a mile from, in some ways, they had it cosy, too. There was the odd bit of trouble, but everyone knew who was in charge and that kept things nice and regular and safe.

  This Dr. Webster began to question the cold baths and the sleeping treatment and a lot of other things too. Most worryingly, he began to listen to what the patients or at least to those still capable of holding any sort of a conversation said.

  Chapter 2

  Odd, these pathology men. In Greene’s view, well, there had to be something very peculiar about spending your time with the dead. Police did from time to time. But not morning, noon and night like Dr. Inglethorpe, the county’s pathologist. “So, no doubt then?”

  “No room for doubt.” Inglethorpe answered. “The amount of digitalis is well beyond the therapeutic levels, more even than a cumulative effect of the prescribed dose.”

  Greene nodded and began to get up from the old-fashioned carver chair in Inglethorpe’s office.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but digitalis in its medicinal form slows down and steadies the heart?”

  Inglethorpe nodded. “Yes, given for an irregular heartbeat. Too much of it will stop the heart.”

  “And what would be the most likely way it could be given to an elderly lady, say?”

  Inglethorpe shrugged and played with a fountain pen, turning it on the blotting pad in front of him. “Well, it’s given in tablet form, usually in the morning. Did she have a live-in nurse? The doctor usually recommends that someone check the patient’s pulse before administering the drug. If it is lower than sixty beats a minute, the next dose should be omitted. I suppose it could be ground up. Say, if it was given in a strong-tasting or a very sweet drink, it wouldn’t be easy at all to detect.”

  Greene left the office in a brown study, oblivious of the building, the people he passed, or the weather as he went to his car. He could see ground tablets, see a hand deliberately handing the elderly woman a drink. Waiting for her heart to stop.

  * * *

  “Brown, I want to drop in at the doctor’s again, this evening, round the time he finishes for the evening, just as he is thinking about a stiffener and a pipe full of baccy. Also, take a constable and get out there today, to the village. Talk to the folks of Ellbeck and find out exactly what the set-up at Mrs. Butler’s House was. Who worked there, who lived in and so on. Someone saw the old dear off and we need to stop him or her, before anyone else meets an untimely end.

  “I don’t trust that doctor, not as far as I could bloody throw him. But we need something else to nail him and we need to watch our step. These medicos are not without power and influence. Yes, the beggars stick up for each other and throw their noble calling at your head, if you dare to question them. Wonder what Horton did in the war?”

  Sergeant Brown gave a slight shake of his head, to indicate he didn’t know. He knew his superior officer well enough to know it wasn’t an opinion he wanted, as much as a sounding board.

  * * *

  “I brought you a few bits and pieces in, Miss Edith…and look,” she indicated a brown paper bag.

  “A few of your favourites, the ginger ones—made a batch today.”

  Once again, Edith had no control over the tears that welled up. But, I can stop it. She clenched her fists. She needed to get a grip on her emotions. What had happened to the tough young VAD she had once been? She had rarely shed tears; it would have been self-indulgent. So what had happened to her now?

  “Is he eating, Archie, I mean?” She couldn’t help herself, knew he was a grown man, and wouldn’t appreciate her clucking over him like a mother hen.

  Mrs. Braithwaite looked at her, hesitated. Edith could read her mind. She’s wondering how much reality I can take.

  “He’s turned in on ‘isself a bit, like, Miss Edith. Hasn’t got much to say. And that police inspector chap came round again yesterday.” She lifted the cloth shopping bag onto her lap and began smoothing it. Edith sighed. She should be at home. She should be supporting him, not in here. She was better now, anyway, wasn’t she? She dared ask a further question. “I don’t suppose there’s been a telephone call or anything like that…”

  “From Mr. Matthew?” Mrs. Braithwaite helped her. “I’m afraid not, Miss Edith.”

  She had tested it out, like grinding a sore tooth. It still hurt like hell. Mrs. Braithwaite was fumbling now in her bag, kind woman, giving Edith a moment.

  “I nearly forgot, Miss Edith. I called at the library, got you two new detective stories. I might borrow them myself, when you’ve finished. Pass these autumn nights.”

  Edith made a huge effort and smiled against the low feeling in the pit of her stomach and in her heart. “How are things at home, your own home, I mean?” As soon as the words were out, she knew it wasn’
t the right thing to ask.

  A tight line of strain appeared all around Mrs. Braithwaite’s mouth and she folded the strap of the bag, into a concertina shape.” “Not so great. Miss Edith, but God is good. We have us ‘ealth and Cathy is happy in the shop with the Misses Sowerby.”

  It gave Edith something to think about, even if it wasn’t cheerful. Mrs. Braithwaite’s husband is a smarmy lout, one of those who would have been no great loss to anyone had he been killed in place of any one of the decent men who hadn’t survived, men like Alastair or the Arbuthnot boys.

  She pulled her thoughts sharply away. She couldn’t play God or blame Him. What did she know about anything? Clearly, not even enough to keep her out of a place like this.

  * * *

  It took her a long time to learn how to behave herself in that place. She was demented when they first brought her in. Her heart and soul had been ripped away from her and she didn’t know what she should do to try and cling to life—so she gave up. She did all the things women should never do-ladies should be seen and not heard. All of that decorum went for nothing.

  She screamed and cursed—a litany of words she must have heard somewhere, though she didn’t even know she knew some of them. She supposed they must have been dredged deep from her cesspit of a mind—because that’s what her mind must have been by this stage. It was as if all the niceties had been stripped away, along with her heart and her soul. It was terrifying losing control like this. But it felt free, too.

  Then Dr. Webster came and things slowly changed. He didn’t say many words, but somehow the words changed everything. The most important thing he said to her was, “You are not to blame.” No one had ever said those words to her before in her life and it made all the difference in the world.

  * * *

  “You’d know all about most of the local folk, in the village like and roundabouts?”

  Sergeant Brown leaned back on the kitchen chair and carefully picked up the delicate china cup, after casually asking the question. This was a bit more like it, out from under old Greene’s nose. Yes, tea and a big slice of dark, rich fruitcake. Not a bad job this, sometimes.

  One of the maiden ladies began to speak. At least Sergeant Brown supposed they were maiden ladies. He coughed. For goodness sake, he had forgotten their names. Well, it was Prudence and Marjorie, but which was which?

  “Both of them came in here from time to time, didn’t they Marjorie?” Good, he had them now. Marjorie was the one with the glasses on a chain, and the mix of colours and vast, floating, highly coloured garments. The one speaking, Prudence, was for all the world like Miss Pierce, his old teacher-crisp, white blouse, neat and tailored costumes in grey, navy blue and black.

  “Yes, that’s right. Not so much Mrs. Butler, latterly. Poor woman wasn’t in the best of health. But that companion woman, Esther, rather a quiet woman, she came regularly a couple of times a week, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And where has she gone now, this companion?”

  “Well, the vicar, the Reverend Wilkes sorted her out. As luck would have it, there was another old lady…I should say there is another elderly lady, Miss Alicia Horton, who was looking for someone, a companion. Where she lives, you see, off the beaten track—hard to keep anyone living-in, particularly the younger ones. So, Esther Kirk suited.”

  “Miss Horton, would she be?”

  Prudence nodded. “Yes, she’s the doctor’s aunt and poor Miss Edith’s. Both heads shook in unison. “Such a terrible shame,” said Marjorie, with another shake of the head.

  Sergeant Brown took his time over the niceties, praising the cake and thanking them for the tea. He got up, retrieved his hat, and made his way to the door dividing the shop from living area. “Tell me, with the post office here and customers coming and going, you’re bound to have heard something about these anonymous letters going around?” The atmosphere in the room changed.

  The atmosphere in the room changed. It was as if he’d sworn, shouted out a stream of obscenities.

  “We know nothing at all about that sort of thing, Sergeant. We don’t encourage gossip. As you can imagine, in a village shop, running a village shop, I should say, not to mention His Majesty’s Royal Mail, discretion is essential. Our customers know better than to spread gossip, Marjorie and I would give them short shrift were they to attempt it.”

  Prudence had flushed. It suited her; put a bit of fire into her. Marjorie began stacking china in a bustling way.

  “Thanks very much for your help, ladies. I’ll leave you in peace. If there is anything that either of you remember…”

  Prudence cut him short.

  “As we said, Sergeant, my sister and I do not deal in gossip and speculation.”

  Her face was set, the expression closed.

  “Ah, Miss,” he hailed the young girl, busy dusting a shelf behind the counter.

  She jumped. She hadn’t heard him come through from the back. She would be tuned-in only to the sound of the shop doorbell.

  She turned, smiled, put down her duster, and gave her hands a quick wipe on the voluminous white apron that almost hid the gingham frock. “Sorry, sir, I mean…erm…officer. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you?”

  “I’ll have ten Gold Flake, Flake, please Miss. It’s Cathy, isn’t it? Cathy Braithwaite? Have you worked here, long?”

  Cathy smiled, an open guileless smile, but Billy Brown, though he didn’t credit himself as the most sensitive of men, thought he saw a sadness there.

  “About a year now. It’s good they’re ever so nice to work for, the Miss Sowerby’s.”

  “And your mam and dad, are they working local too?”

  A shadow crossed her face. “Me mam works, as ‘ousekeeper for Miss Edith Horton, and her brother, the doctor. Me dad works for the Arbuthnots, and John, that’s my brother, he’s still at school, for time being anyway, though dad says, it’s time ‘e…”

  “Cathy, get on with serving the sergeant, there’s a good girl. Miss Marjorie and I want to run through a few things with you, for next Thursday.”

  She looked at the sergeant. “My sister and I have an appointment in Harrogate next week, so Cathy will have sole charge. We have every confidence in her. But there’s a lot to tell her.”

  Cathy gave him his change and he took his cue to leave.

  * * *

  “A visitor for you, Edith.”

  She was sitting in the dayroom helping a sad, older lady with her knitting. Unable to concentrate on her reading, and unwilling to do any more thinking, she had come in here, for what purpose she knew not. It wasn’t as though she really, deep down, had grasped she was a patient. She could imagine Archie’s take on it. “Still doing your nursing bit, eh Edie?” He would say it a bit sarcastically.

  She had failed, not only in her own eyes, but also in his.

  “We’ve put him in your room,” said the nurse. “Bit more private there. Edith glanced quickly round the dayroom, heavy with cigarette smoke and sadness.

  To Edith’s surprise it wasn’t Archie at all standing looking out the window. It was, possibly the last person she expected to see…Henry Wilkes, vicar of Ellbeck and the surrounding dale.

  Her heart quickened and the flight or fight mechanism took hold. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. He’s a friend, no matter what sort of a fool I made of myself the last time we met. It’s his job. He will be used to seeing people in extreme states.

  She swallowed, went forward, and put her hand out awkwardly.

  But he took her hand instead, in both of hers. “How are you, Edith? Well, maybe I don’t need to ask, you look a lot better.”

  “It’s the tablets they are giving me,” she tried to joke, but perhaps it didn’t quite come off.

  * * *

  They were right, to bring her into this place. She never would have believed that before now. There was a danger she could have harmed herself. They were worried too, that she might harm him. But, she would never have done that. She walked away from the place
where she was living, far away, when the fever had come on her.

  She had felt that it was like a fever—a rush of heat, all across her body and a feeling she was in a bubble, mouths were opening and closing and sounds were outside somewhere, all merging together, all making no sense. She had to get away, so she gave them all the slip.

  The river drew her. She kept thinking about it…the darkness, the cold. The cold would be awful. But for how long? She told herself she wouldn’t feel it for long. She would be away from this feeling, the dark, the heat, and the feeling of being in a bubble.

  And, he would be better off. Then nobody could have convinced her any different—he would be better off. It was the only thing she could do for him.

  Chapter 3

  Inspector Greene looked at the woman sitting in the kitchen chair. She had offered him a cup of tea in a monotone and he accepted, as much as anything else to observe her in motion. She reminded him, of that housekeeper in a film his wife had dragged him to Harrogate to see, one of those frightening pictures that women seemed to like so they could act all terrified. He had enough of that type of thing in the daytime, thank you very much. Not that Ellbeck was a den of iniquity, but all the same, in this job, you did see all sorts.

  What on earth was Miss Horton, who had struck him as a lively, cheerful soul doing with this long drink of cold water living in the house? It was just the pair of them too, with other domestic help coming in only during the day.

  “You used to work for Mrs. Butler?”

  He hadn’t given her a chance to do anything other than hand him the cup and saucer, before launching into his questions.

  “Yes, for seven years, until her death. I found myself out of a job. I had no wish to leave the dales, and the Reverend Wilkes was kind enough to recommend me to Miss Horton.”

  She spoke quite formally, and still in that dull tone. However, she was proving more forthcoming than he had expected. “What kind of lady was Mrs. Butler? Easy to get along with, and all that? You were a companion, I believe?”