by Celina Grace
I had my bath but I didn’t much enjoy it. I felt too jumpy, too upset to really relax. Wrapped up again in my dressing gown, I contemplated the thought of food. I wasn’t really hungry but I hadn’t eaten all day… I really should eat something. I decided on scrambled eggs on toast – comforting food. The long, grey evening stretched ahead of me. It pulled me back to how I’d been feeling before I started work at the manor; that horrible, depressive fog that used to close over me as I sat staring at the fire, night after night, the photograph of Sidney and me on our wedding day on the mantelpiece a constant reminder of what I had lost. In the picture, Sidney and I were standing on the beach in Dover, the famous white cliffs behind us. I remembered how we’d slipped and slid on the pebbles in our good shoes, giggling all the time, happy and carefree. I heard myself sob. The war had taken all of that; it had robbed me of my husband, my future happiness, my chance of having children. I’d been on the verge of falling deep into the abyss before I started work at the manor – looking back now, I saw that quite clearly. I’d been lost. Norman and my work at the manor had changed that – it had given me hope and purpose and a reason for getting out of bed in the morning. And now Norman was gone, and Sidney was gone, and I didn’t, at that moment, see how I could carry on. The wound in my heart that had finally, finally started to heal after those awful months after Sidney’s death had been ripped open again, raw and bleeding.
By this time I was on my knees by the sofa, my face buried in the cushions. I cried ferociously, a storm of tears that passed as quickly as a winter squall, leaving me drained and gasping. I sat up slowly, my head thudding and my face wet.
After a moment, I got up shakily and made my way to the kitchen. I made a cup of tea, rejecting the scrambled eggs – I couldn’t have touched a mouthful. I had to do something to keep my mind off of what had happened but I didn’t want to read and I couldn’t bear the wireless. I would write to my sister Gladys, I decided. She lived with her family up in Scotland and it had been at least a year since I had seen her. At least I would have the comfort of addressing a loved one, even if it was just words on paper.
I fairly gulped down my tea and poured another cup. Then, sipping it more slowly, I wiped my face again and sat down at the writing desk. I looked for my pen in the ceramic pot on top of the desk. Not there. I found my handbag and looked through that. Not there. Had I lost it? I felt a stab of pain at the thought. Sidney had given me that pen as a birthday present.
Memory resurfaced and I sighed a little with relief. Of course, I’d lent my pen to Norman to write his letter last night. The letter he’d been so anxious to write that he couldn’t wait for me to bring him some more ink. Had that been his suicide note? I felt my eyes sting with tears again and then a thought occurred to me that took my breath away.
Hang on, Vivian. Just hang on.
Norman’s suicide note had been in his normal blue-black ink. I knew it had, that had been part of what was so devastating. But Norman had run out of ink by the time I’d left him last night, hence my lending him my precious pen. I always used grey ink in my pen, always. Sidney used to laugh at me about it and call it an affectation, but he meant it affectionately. So how had Norman written his suicide note in his normal ink last night?
I put my tea cup down in suddenly shaking hands. What did it mean? Had Norman found someone else to bring him some of his normal ink? I tried to think back to my last glimpse of him, head bent over the paper. He’d already started writing his letter; I could see him now, head down and intent on the blank sheet before him. So did that mean that the letter he was writing when I left him last night wasn’t actually his suicide note? And if not, then how the hell had he managed to write it in his usual ink when he’d run out?
I got up and walked about the room, unable to keep still. I could feel my heart thudding. Someone must have found Norman some more of his usual ink. That was the simplest explanation. Between me lending him my pen and him writing the suicide note, someone must have given him some of his usual blue-black ink. That must be it. I sat down again on the sofa and put my head in my hands. This was exactly what it had been like after Sidney died; I found myself obsessing over the smallest details of something that wasn’t actually that important. With Sidney, I’d wound myself up into a frenzy over the funeral wreath. Of course, he’d been buried overseas, but I’d wanted something to display at the local church, something to commemorate him. What size, what sort of flowers? Should it reflect his life as a soldier? Would roses be inappropriate? The endless questions had reverberated around my brain until I thought I were going mad.
Looking back, it was so obviously my mind trying to deal with the overwhelming emotional impact of his death by giving me something else to focus on. And now, here it was, happening again. What did it matter whether Norman had used his own ink in writing his suicide note? I got up suddenly, impatient with myself. Even though I’d been in bed for most of the day, I decided that a good night’s sleep was what was needed. I made myself a mug of hot milk, stirred two tablespoons of whiskey into it, and carried it up the stairs to my bedroom.
The rain had ceased the next morning but it was still grey, still and overcast. I cycled rather more slowly towards the manor, wanting to put off the moment that I saw Norman’s empty bed for the first time. The shock of his death had abated a little, but I still found myself catching my breath sometimes in disbelief. How could he have killed himself?
Celia was at her station in the hallway, flicking through a pile of medical report cards. She looked up as I came in.
“Hello, Vivian. You are a brick, I must say, coming back so soon.”
I smiled wanly. “Is there any more news?”
“About poor Norman? No, why would there be?”
I dropped my gaze. “I don’t know. I just wondered…”
“Well of course you did,” said Celia. “Thank you for coming back to help out. We do appreciate it.”
I nodded and made my way to Ballroom Ward. Setting my teeth, I pushed open the door.
Because I’d braced myself, the sight of Norman’s stripped bed wasn’t quite as bad as I’d feared, although a sharp pain went through me at the sight of his locker, with his books still piled on top of it. Averting my eyes, I walked down the centre of the ward, nodding and trying to smile at the remaining soldiers, who called out to me with expressions of sympathy.
Nurse Bennett was quite kind to me that day, in a crabbed sort of way. She asked me, in the gentlest tone I’d yet received from her, whether I would be up to sorting out Norman’s possessions.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’d like to do it.”
“Thank you.”
I was just turning away when something reoccurred to me. “Nurse, did you give Norman some more of that ink that he normally uses on the night – on the night he died?”
Nurse Bennett frowned. “Ink? No, not that I recall.”
“Did anyone else, that you know of?”
“No, I don’t believe so. Why is that, Mrs. Holt?” I had never become ‘Vivian’ to her.
“Oh, it’s not important,” I said. “I just wondered.” I hesitated for a moment and then asked, “When did you realise that Norman had – had done what he did?”
Nurse Bennett’s frown melted into an expression of pinched sympathy. “I’m afraid there was something of an emergency on Blue Ward and I was summoned there to help. One of the patients there had a seizure. I believe Mr. Winter must have taken advantage of my absence to take the tablets.”
I could feel a sob rise up in my throat. “I see,” I said, when I could speak.
Nurse Bennett actually patted my hand. “Now, don’t be distressed, Mrs. Holt. It’s my belief that it wouldn’t have made any difference if I had been here or not. Mr. Winter would have found a way to do what he did. Suicides always do, in my opinion.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Oh yes,” Nurse Bennett said crisply. “I’ve known quite a few soldiers take their own lives. War can be a ter
rible thing and the repercussions are sometimes felt long afterwards.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
We parted then and I took a basket and went to clear Norman’s locker. Once I’d put his few belongings into the basket, I shut the door of the locker neatly and carried the basket through to the store room at the back. I didn’t want to sort Norman’s things out in view of the ward, in case I started to cry.
I folded the few clothes he’d had neatly into a pile. He hadn’t had many possessions and that was more painful than anything, before I realised that he had probably only been able to bring a few things with him when he came to hospital. I wondered about where he would have gone on his release. I knew his wife had died of breast cancer when she was forty-five and his only daughter had been killed in the Blitz. Enough tragedy for one man for a lifetime, really. Thinking of that, it was perhaps not surprising that he hadn’t wanted to live. Had he thought about the approaching day when he would leave the familiarity of the manor and realised that he had nobody left to care for him? My throat thickened and I felt tears sting my eyes.
Blinking, I bent to my task. I retrieved my pen, half full of grey ink. The riddle of the note occurred to me again and this time I shook my head impatiently. I couldn’t start thinking about that again now. I carefully wrapped a pair of cufflinks in some paper, folded a couple of handkerchiefs and stacked Norman’s precious books in a small tower and tied them into a bundle with string. He’d become a firm fan of Joan Hart, since I’d given him one of her books to read, and there were several of her mystery novels in the pile. I hoped they had given him a lot of enjoyment.
After all too short a time, the task was finished. I carefully put all of Norman’s belongings into a cardboard box, which would be stored for collection by whomever might want it. Maybe no one would come and collect it. Perhaps one of his old army buddies might come? I realised I didn’t know when his funeral would be. Of course, I would go. I must ask Celia if she knew. I folded the top flaps of the box closed, preparing to tape them up. Then I opened them up again. Would anyone mind if I took something myself, to remember Norman by? Suddenly, I knew exactly what I wanted to keep – that photograph of the nineteen year old Norman at the Front, with his two best pals either side of him. I began lifting things out again, looking for the frame. My hands slowed and I frowned. I didn’t remember seeing it when I was packing the box.
Could that be right? Could I have missed it? I pulled everything out of the box and my eyes hadn’t deceived me. It wasn’t there. I spread everything out on the table in front of me, piece by piece. The photograph had gone.
Why? What could have happened to it?
I hurried back to Norman’s locker and looked within it again, beneath it, behind it and beneath the bed.
“What’s up, Viv?” asked Tommy, the man who had the bed next to Norman. “Lost something?”
“You didn’t see anyone take a photograph out of Norman’s locker, did you, Tommy?”
Tommy looked surprised. He shook his head. “No, sorry. Didn’t see anyone take anything. What’s the problem?”
“Did you see anyone give him a bottle of ink, by any chance?”
Tommy looked even more puzzled. “No.” He repeated himself. “What’s the problem, Viv?”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry.” I gave him a quick smile as I hurried away, back to the storeroom. Back there, I slowly put each thing back into the cardboard box, as if the photograph might have magically materialised in my absence and I didn’t want to miss it. Of course, it wasn’t there. I taped up the box and stored it away in the appropriate cupboard.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, I found myself puzzling over the missing photograph. I knew I’d put it back in Norman’s locker after he’d asked me to. As I carried trays, and collected prescriptions from Rose, and slotted books back onto their shelves in the library, and played cards with Harry, and read to Stanley, I was thinking of what could have happened. But I was kept so busy it wasn’t until I was home again, curled on the sofa and staring at the fire, that the awful truth started falling into place.
Fact one. No one had given Norman any of his usual ink after I left that night. So he couldn’t have written that suicide note – or if he had written it, he’d written it before that evening. So had it really been intended to be a suicide note? I tried to remember what it had said, something like I’m sorry for the trouble and I hope you can forgive me. Yes, an apology that Norman had written, but he’d been a prolific letter writer. Could it have been the start of an apology to someone for something quite other?
Fact two. The photograph of Norman as a young man had disappeared. Why? I knew I’d put it back in the locker and Tommy hadn’t seen anyone remove it. Why would anyone take an old photograph, worth nothing except in sentimental value to its owner?
Fact three. Something had happened that evening to give Norman a shock. I thought back to what he’d said and he’d almost admitted as such. What had given him that shock? Had he seen something? If what he’d seen was something that someone didn’t want him to see, then…
Then…
Then maybe he didn’t commit suicide after all.
I closed my eyes briefly, sickened at what I was thinking. But it was true, wasn’t it? If Norman hadn’t committed suicide, then someone had wanted to make people believe that he had. They wanted to make people believe that to cover up the fact of…murder.
As my thoughts wound to this inescapable conclusion, I jumped up off the sofa. I almost ran to get my coat and handbag and keys and quickly locked up. I wheeled out my trusty old bike, hopped on, and was soon pedalling quickly towards the centre of the village. The police station in Midford was small and I think I half expected it to be closed – after all, it was past seven o’clock in the evening. But the little blue lantern above the door was still lit, and I could see the windows were also illuminated. I leant my bicycle up against the wall and went inside.
Constable Chivers listened to my story quite respectfully. I tried to be as calm and as rational as I could be. I was glad I had put on my good coat and that my hair was quite neat and tidy, for a change. Surely the more respectable I looked, the more they would be likely to believe me?
After I’d explained myself as concisely and as clearly as I could, the constable was quiet for a moment. He was clearly thinking. Then he indicated I was to have a seat.
“I won’t be a moment, madam. Please just wait here for a minute.”
I did as I was asked, holding my handbag on my lap between my gloved hands. He seemed to be gone for a long time and I began to feel nervous. Surely it wasn’t illegal to report your suspicions? It wasn’t as though I had mentioned any names; I didn’t have a clue who might have done this terrible thing, if indeed I was even correct in my assumptions.
After another few long minutes, another man came back who, unlike the constable who was accompanying him, was dressed in a smart, dark suit.
“Mrs. Holt?” he asked and I stood hastily. “I’m Inspector Clegg. Would you mind coming this way?”
We walked through a door at the back of the station. I was growing increasingly nervous, wondering if I were being taken to a cell or something, when the inspector showed me through into a pleasant office. I breathed a sigh of relief as he courteously showed me to a chair.
After offering me coffee and cigarettes, both of which I refused, he seated himself behind his desk. “Now, Mrs. Holt,” he said. “Would you mind repeating to me what you’ve told my colleague?”
I did so. This time, I allowed myself to go into a little more detail. The inspector didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was listening keenly.
“So you see,” I said, a little breathlessly, as I came to the end of my story, “I had to come to you. I don’t believe I could have lived with myself if I hadn’t at least reported my suspicions.”
The inspector nodded. “You did the right thing, Mrs. Holt. You can be assured that we’ll certainly be looking into
things. It may be that there is a perfectly innocent explanation for all this, though.”
“Oh, I do realise that,” I said. “I hope very much that I’m wrong. I do hope that.”
“Of course.”
I shifted a little in my chair. “I do have one question of my own.” The inspector nodded encouragingly. “Well, I just wondered how it was known that Norman took sleeping tablets? Was an autopsy carried out?”
The inspector frowned a little. “No. No I don’t believe there was an autopsy. The medical staff who discovered the body—“ I winced and he went on hurriedly, “I mean, who discovered Mr. Winter, found an empty bottle of tablets underneath his pillow and one dropped on the floor beneath his bed.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything,” I protested. “Surely anyone who could have left a fake suicide note could have left an empty pill bottle behind as well.” I recollected myself. “I’m sorry, inspector, I don’t mean to tell you your job.”
Inspector Clegg inclined his head graciously. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Holt. Rest assured, you can leave this with us. We’ll certainly look into your concerns.”
Our eyes met and I felt a little comfort. I could tell he was taking me seriously.
I thanked him and said goodbye. Cycling away from the station, I felt a tumultuous mix of emotions: sadness and guilt and anger and satisfaction. Satisfaction because if someone had killed Norman – and I was increasingly convinced that was the case – then at least I was doing something about it. They wouldn’t get away with it, not if I had anything to do with it. I felt quite the avenging angel as I furiously pedalled home, gripping the handlebars as though they were the reins of a warrior steed.
It wasn’t until a few days later that I managed to catch Celia as she hurried past and asked her when Norman’s funeral would be. She looked surprised.
“Oh, haven’t you heard? It’s been postponed.”
