Jones, the landlord of the Dalesman, was one of the better pub owners. He kept an orderly house, but was not adverse to the odd bit of gossip, without being a big mouth. Greene’s sort of man. Tonight, after ordering his pint, Greene went straight into the snug, seeing, with relief that it was empty. He had his paper for company and sincerely hoped that he would be undisturbed. He wanted to do a bit of thinking. It was obvious from the tension in the place, though, that something was up. He sighed; they had better not involve him. Whatever the trouble that was brewing, Jones could deal with it.
“Mr. Arbuthnot, very drunk, I’m afraid,” said Jones, out of the corner of his mouth, passing Greene his second pint.
Greene sighed again. What does he expect me to do about it? By now, he could hear for himself the fruity tones of the representative of the local gentry.
“My dear chap…you’ll have a drink with me, old chap…” His voice came through clear in the hushed air of the bar.
“I’ll ‘ave one with ye, sir. A drink to old comrades and all that,” said in uxorious tones.
“Yes, of course you were there too, old chap. Sad business. Young chaps, died with honour, eh? Eh?” There was a murmur of agreement.
Greene’s fury rose. He wasn’t even sure where to direct it. But he didn’t like what was going on.” He recognised Braithwaite’s voice, the one agreeing to have a drink with Arbuthnot.
I bet Braithwaite never says no to a drink, especially if it’s free. Trying to block it out, he leaned back on the wooden bench and took a long swallow from his pint. He shook his paper out and attempted to read. It was no good. Singing had broken out…some forsaken patriotic rubbish. He’d go and take the old boy home. No, he wouldn’t. Arbuthnot had lost two sons in the War—maybe it consoled him to listen to this sort of thing. Maybe it was easier than reading Dulche et Decorum Est and the other more realistic accounts from the front line.
It was no good. He found himself drinking his beer too quickly and unable to take in what it said in the newspaper. He put his pipe back into his pocket and strolled through to the public bar. “You’ve had enough, I’d say, sir,” he directed his comment at Arbuthnot, ignoring the other men, seated around the fire and on the high stools. Braithwaite was leaning against the bar, a cigarette in hand, cap at an angle on the thick, curly brown hair, and lean and mean looking.
“Oh, Inspector, my good man. Didn’t see you there. Can I get you a snifter?”
“Not now, Mr. Arbuthnot, but I can give you a lift home. I happen to be going in that direction.”
Something must have struck even the man’s befuddled brain as he frowned and said, “I say, you wouldn’t be coming to the house to see myself, would you? Surely not? Or my good lady?”
There was a suppressed laugh.
Greene looked at the men in turn, but said nothing. “As a matter of fact, we are doing the rounds, and yes, I was going out to have a word with yourself and your wife. So, you are welcome to come with me.” The air in the pub changed when he said the bit about doing the rounds. A couple of backsides shifted on their stools, attention was paid to the lighting of pipes and cigarettes.
The smell of whisky emanating from the man was enough to ignite the place, should a spark be struck. Greene concentrated on his driving. In fact, the smell was sickly, with an undercurrent of vomit. He cast a sidelong glance at Arbuthnot who was slumped, into the collar of his tweed coat. What a state to get into and more pity the man’s wife, and himself for being the one delivering this specimen to her doorstep.
A maid opened the door, white cap and apron, the lot. Greene had left Arbuthnot in the car, thinking it judicious to prepare the ground
“Is Mrs. Arbuthnot at home?” he asked the girl.
“Would you like to step inside?” she said.
Bloody hell. Next thing is she’ll be asking me for a calling card and I’ll be shown into the drawing room, to await her ladyship. “My name is Inspector Greene and I need to see Mrs. Arbuthnot, sharpish, if you please. Like a good girl,” he added.
With that, she looked frightened and backed into the corridor, far enough for him to step into the hallway. It was unremarkable, what you would expect from a house this size apart from the stained window, large and beautiful on the half-landing ahead of him. The late evening autumn sunlight coming through it lit the hallway and the stairwell. Beautiful, thought Greene, in a moment of aesthetic appreciation.
The woman coming towards him, from the other end of the corridor was familiar to him. She presented the prizes at the school, the usual sort of lady of the manor thing. Her face was pinched with worry and regret pierced him. He was a prize idiot and no mistake. This woman had had her share of bad news brought to her door. No wonder she would think the worse when told an inspector had come knocking on the door.
Oh well, cursing himself for a fool wasn’t going to do any good now. “There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Arbuthnot. It’s a bit awkward, but I’m afraid your husband was in the Dalesman, and is the worse for wear. Seemed it would be the wisest thing to bring him home.”
Her shoulders slumped and her mouth tightened, but only for a few seconds.
Then she pulled herself together. You could almost see her square her shoulders. “Oh dear, I’m sorry you have been troubled inspector. Is he outside in your car?”
Something told Greene this was not the first time he had been brought home in this state. “He is. I thought it best to warn you first.”
“Thank you. Well, Dunne, the gardener and handyman, lives in, I mean in the lodge. But, I know he is in the kitchen. He is married, you see, to the cook. Sorry inspector. All this is irrelevant. Chattering on to cover my embarrassment…I’ll go and get him to give you a hand with my husband, if you would be good enough…”
“Yes, yes, of course Mrs. Arbuthnot.”
She was waiting at the foot of the stairs when he came down, having delivered the old man to his bedroom with the help of the handyman and left him to it. Dunne. He looked capable and probably well used to putting his boss to bed. Wonder what that does to the master, servant relationship? “Inspector Greene, you’ll have a cup of tea?”
Back to the Dalesman for a quiet pint, more like. But, the truth was he had no appetite for it anymore or the bone-headed dolts that were in there, this evening. “That would be nice, Mrs. Arbuthnot, thank you.”
She led him into what seemed to be her sitting room, not grand but classy, with photographs, books and flowers detracting from what might need a bit of redecorating. Still, from what he gathered, these coves didn’t go in a lot for redecorating their houses. They worried about the roof, the danger of dry rot, and their gardens.
“I’m sorry about that, Inspector Greene and very grateful to you for ensuring that Arthur got home safely.”
He liked her. There was no bluster or shilly-shallying. She knew he knew and that was all there was to it. Must be awkward for her though, in a place like this. And, the Dalesman? Whatever possessed Arbuthnot? Talk about doing it on your own doorstep.
She seemed to read his mind. “Arthur normally does his drinking at home, Inspector. But every now and then, he takes himself off into the village. I don’t know why. I wonder if it is because of the boys…an association with some of the village lads in the ranks you know, who were sent off at the same time as Charles and Edward.
“But, no doubt that is fanciful. Maybe it’s that he wants a bit of lively company? The longer I live, Inspector, the more I am surprised by human nature.”
She hesitated and Greene was sure as eggs are eggs there was something she wanted to tell him. Then the girl came through with a trolley of tea and china and so on. He saw there were what looked like homemade biscuits and dark fruitcake. Mrs. Dunne, the cook’s handiwork no doubt.
“Were you acquainted with Mrs. Butler?”
She smiled and despite her age, it was a remarkably beautiful smile.
“Elizabeth? Yes. She was like a breath of fresh air in Ellbeck, Inspector. Well travelled, y
ou know. She had lived in London, America, gone out to work. Had a wonderful sense of humour. She was, Inspector, one of the happiest people I knew.”
“I am hearing all good things about the lady, I have to say,”
“That sounds like you are making enquiries. You don’t mean to tell me there was something not right about the way she died? She had a heart problem, you know…didn’t make a lot of it, but her colour wasn’t too good sometimes, that bluish tinge and I know she took tablets. We went on outings together on occasion, visited local gardens, stopped for lunch, that sort of thing.”
“And who would drive you both on occasions, like that.”
She gave him a look. “I would Inspector, I’m fully licensed and insured.”
“Yes. I suppose I wondered if your handyman, or Braithwaite, who worked for her might have driven you.
She shook her head and calmly poured out the tea. “No, Inspector. Dunne will drive me if there is a particular reason; otherwise I like to drive myself. Keep it up, you know, it stops one getting isolated and so forth.
“And Mrs. Butler never spoke about being troubled in any way, especially in recent times?”
“No, you’re talking as though someone killed her,”
“Well, it’s looking like it, unless she took an overdose of her heart tablets, which seems unlikely taking into account what you and other people have told me about her.”
“But, how?”
“We had to exhume the body,” he interjected swiftly. Mrs. Arbuthnot, I’m amazed that you haven’t heard about this?”
She shook her head. “I discourage gossip amongst the servants, Inspector and a lot of my time is taken up with Arthur, and the estate.”
She must be lying Not one of her friends rang up and told her this? And her husband in the Dalesman? Surely, he would have heard the talk? Then remembering the man’s befuddled state, well, maybe not. But suddenly Greene was no longer quite so sure about Mrs. Arbuthnot. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. “The police were tipped off about Mrs. Butler’s death not being as straightforward as it seemed. Not the only anonymous letter to have been received in the area, by all accounts, mentioning no names obviously.”
He looked at her. She was deep in thought.
“Please excuse me for a minute, Inspector.”
She left the room. Greene drank his tea and ate a piece of the fruitcake and waited.
She came back, crossed to where he was sitting in an armchair he found a bit too low for his back and handed him the white envelope. After he read the letter, he looked at her. “So, you had one too.” He was stating the obvious.
“I suppose I should have shown it to you before now.”
“You should have, yes. Has anyone else seen it?”
She shook her head.
“Not a soul, and before you ask, yes that does include my husband. I’ve got used to shielding him from things. He cannot deal with pressures like this—at least since the loss of our sons. Before that, he was the strong, male figure in the household. After these losses, Inspector, you carry on, but it takes its toll. In Arthur’s case, as you see, it takes the form of the bottle.”
And you? He felt like asking, but desisted. Instead, he said, “The letter refers to your sons, or one of them, as well as your daughter. The writer clearly knows something.”
“Yes, but not anything that has any bearing on Elizabeth Butler’s death. It’s something I do not want to discuss. Not now. Possibly, at a later stage, but not now. Let’s say, every family has its skeletons in the closet, Inspector, its secrets.”
“But you don’t feel that this is something you can reveal, even if it could cast some light on the writer of these letters? You must recognise that this person is causing a lot of misery in the area, and who knows what else if he or she sends the wrong letter or to the wrong person?”
Dorothea Arbuthnot shrugged, but her expression belied the dismissive gesture. “I see what you are trying to do, Inspector. You have your job to do, but not at the expense of my family. In some cases, people who are no longer alive. I’ve examined my conscience and can swear to you that I cannot see any possible connection between what was in that letter and Elizabeth’s death. What you’ve told me is shocking. I liked her very much. If I thought I knew anything that would give you any help, I would tell you. But, I don’t.”
And that was as far as he was going to get, at least, to use her own words, for now.
* * *
Edith felt awful when she woke up. Her eyes were heavy and her limbs leaden. The headache started in her face and forehead and throbbed each time she moved. But the headache was almost a relief because it stopped her thinking.
There was a tap on the door.
Breakfast. That meant going to the patients’ dining room. Could she skip that just for one morning? Better not. It would be seen as a sign of something or other and regardless of how terrible she was feeling. She didn’t want anything to delay her prospects of discharge, though to where she wasn’t sure. But, even that didn’t matter as much as getting out.
I’m not ready, though. The evil little thought hit her out of nowhere and jolted her. Last night had happened—the panic, the terror of what she did not know. But, whatever the case it felt like she was back at square one. Was any hint of recovery so fickle, so fragile, the least thing could put her back again? Could she live the rest of her life like this? She honestly didn’t think so. What was the alternative?
“Do you think it might be possible for me to see Doctor Uxbridge?” she asked the nurse who was dishing out the tablets at breakfast time.
Chapter 11
“What I want to know, Dr. Uxbridge is whether I will ever get better, or will I go through my life having these feelings of fear, anxiety, whatever you may call it. I suppose mental illness?”
“Do you think these feelings will get better?”
“Please, Dr. Uxbridge. I’ve read a little about the Freudians. Don’t throw it back onto me. I’m out of my depth here. If I’m expected to find the answers within myself, then I am in deep trouble.”
He smiled, crinkle eyed and warm. “Touché,” he said, “but I’m afraid that asking you questions is a vital part of you getting better. This illness…breakdown isn’t like a broken leg. You can’t put yourself into the hands of the experts. We are all experts when it comes to ourselves. The trouble is that often we do not know it, and it certainly isn’t easy to access it.”
“So, you believe I won’t get better with just rest and medication, and maybe some changes at home…you believe I have to do some delving into the past?”
“Honestly, Edith, yes I do. It’s a long process and you will have setbacks, but I am of the opinion that when it comes to what we call the neuroses, as opposed to the psychoses, permanent change can only be brought about by some intense exploration. We know from Freud and his followers, and sadly, we know because of the men who were damaged in the war, that some things cannot be buried. You can try, but they have a way of coming after you again.
“So what do you suggest?”
“You’re lucky. Well, perhaps you’ll decide that for yourself. But, I’m interested in analysis and I am furthering my own studies into the area. I have a particular interest in people who were victims of the war in another way apart from the obvious way—medical staff, survivors, fire fighters, the bereaved. I would be prepared to see you here, on a weekly basis. Maybe you would think about it.”
“But, does that mean having to stay here for a long time then? I don’t want that. I wanted to talk to you about going home.”
He made a quick note on the pad on his desk and looked at her over the top of his spectacles.
“Do you feel ready to go home?”
She sighed, so it was up to her again. “It’s awkward. I did want to get out of here. I do want to get out, but a part of me thinks that I’m not quite ready.”
“You were home for the weekend. Did it go well?”
She didn’t answer immediately,
because out of nowhere, a wave of sleepiness overtook her and she had to struggle to think straight. “I went to stay with my aunt at her house. I suppose it went well. There were no real crises or anything like that.”
“But, you normally live with your brother?”
She’d been dreading this. “Yes, I don’t think he wanted me to come home.” It was out and it felt huge.
“Did that disappoint you, upset you?”
“Yes. He tried to pass it off by saying that he didn’t believe in the whole weekend pass approach. You are either well enough to be discharged, or you are not, in which case you should be kept in hospital.”
He nodded but did not speak.
“Then he tried to say that home—that is where we both live, the same house as his doctor’s practice was the wrong place for me to be, too much going on, people calling…”
“But, you felt it was an excuse?”
She nodded. That feeling of tiredness was back again. She supposed it was something to do with the excitement of the weekend and the disturbance last night.
“Is it all right if I go back to the ward, Dr. Uxbridge? I’m feeling a bit tired. The ward was noisy last night…”
He nodded. “I will see you as usual during my ward rounds in a few days’ time, on Thursday. Have a think about what I was saying.”
“It will involve looking back, my childhood, that sort of thing?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
She was glad she had asked to see him. Going back over things sounded daunting, but within her was a glimmer of something else. Maybe all these awful few months happened for a reason. Maybe she did need to change things. She was terrified, yes, but there was another feeling that she recognised as a glimmer of hope.
* * *
It all began to change in the laundry when a new patient joined them. Her name was Phyllis and there was something about her right from the start. The wardens in this place sometimes used to have a little joke that they didn’t think the patients knew about. It wasn’t altogether a joke, and it also probably had some truth in it. It was when they referred to the women as being either “sad, bad or mad.”
Treated as Murder Page 9
