Death Comes to Durham

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Alan raised his eyebrows. ‘“Claiming”?’

  ‘Truthfully, so far as I know, but I thought I heard a hint of scepticism in the director’s voice when he said that. But Dr Armstrong is – was – a wealthy man, and sent several of his patients to the home, so they accepted what he said.’

  Alan nodded a ‘go on’.

  ‘He was a popular resident, mingling well with the others, even those who, like Aunt Amanda, have limited cognitive skills.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Aunt Amanda.’ Alan leaned forward, listening intently.

  ‘Great-aunt, actually, but I usually call her Aunt. My grandmother’s sister, and nearly a hundred. You know my mother hailed from these parts, but no one of her mother’s generation is still living, save Amanda, who was the youngest of her family, actually not much older than my mother. She was once a lively, funny person, and she’s still sweet, even though she’s almost completely gaga. Many victims of dementia get crabby and impossible to live with as their disease gradually destroys their brain. Not Amanda. She’s always very glad to see me, always welcoming, even though I know she hasn’t the slightest idea who I am. We can’t have much of a conversation anymore, as her memory won’t hold from one sentence to the next. She never married, so I’m really the only one left. She asks me about the family, and I tell her comforting lies, and the next moment she asks the same question, and I answer.’

  His voice broke and he sipped at his drink.

  ‘Oh, David, that’s so hard! I do think Alzheimer’s is one of the cruellest of diseases, taking away those we love a little at a time while their bodies sometimes live on for a long time. I remember a cousin of mine, back in Indiana …’ I rambled on for long enough for David to regain his composure.

  ‘Yes, well.’ He put down his glass. ‘That’s Aunt Amanda. She had become a friend of Dr Armstrong. She was heartbroken, for a moment or two, to hear of his death.’

  ‘Yes, now we’re coming to it.’ Alan sounded like a policeman. ‘What can you tell us about his death?’

  ‘Very little. No one knows exactly when it happened. He was discovered mid-afternoon and had been dead long enough for rigor to begin in the hands and fingers.’

  ‘And that means – how long?’ I asked.

  Alan and David exchanged a grim smile. ‘Dorothy, love, rigor is one of the most variable of post-mortem changes. Anything can affect it: room temperature, medications the victim has been taking, the means of death – dozens of things. That’s why the police always try not to introduce it in court as evidence. If one medical man says one thing as prosecution witness, the doctor hired by the defence will say something quite different. But at a rough guess, perhaps three to four hours, wouldn’t you say, David?’

  ‘About that. But as you say …’ He lifted his arms in a large shrug. ‘Useless for all practical purposes. It would be nice if we could use time of death to eliminate possible suspects, but we can’t. It would be hard even if we could pin down the time to the minute.’ He sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘You have to understand the sort of home this is. It’s small, for one thing, and is not run according to rigid rules. There are only about a dozen residents, and they’re not held to any set schedule. No herding from one place to another. Meals are served individually, when the resident wants to eat, within reasonable limits. There is a dining room, and anyone who wants can eat there, but they can also eat in their rooms if they prefer, alone or with a friend, as they like.’

  I frowned. ‘Activities? Meds? There must surely be some plan for the day.’

  ‘There are many things to keep residents’ minds busy, but on their own schedules. There are plenty of games available for those who wish to play, and a fine library for those who wish to read. Television, of course. Some of the residents have been active gardeners; a plot of fertile soil has been set aside for those who still wish to potter about in a garden, and tools of every sort are available. As for medications, of course they must be given at regular intervals, but again, flexibility is allowed. The home doesn’t accept patients who require close and careful nursing. There are other institutions for that. The Milton Home is designed for elderly people with very few medical problems, but with varying degrees of dementia. It’s meant to be a place where they can live out their lives safely and peacefully in as homelike an atmosphere as possible.’

  ‘So long,’ I sniped, ‘as they have plenty of money.’

  Alan frowned at me, but David gave me a rueful smile. ‘Yes, it is extremely expensive. The families of the residents expect the very best treatment for their relations. That’s why this murder is such a huge disaster, and not just for the victim.’

  ‘But how on earth does your aunt figure in all this? She sounds like a sweet lady, not at all the murderous type. And the dead man was a friend.’

  ‘You may well ask, Dorothy. They have lighted on her for two reasons, neither very creditable. She was, as you say, a good friend of the victim. And before you say that makes her even less likely, you need to know that they had a bad quarrel yesterday. No one seems to have heard enough to know what it was about, but she was visiting in his room, and he was heard shouting at her. She left sobbing, and cried for some time in one of the common rooms before a nurse could persuade her back to her own room. That incident has left the management with the impression that she had a grudge against him.’

  ‘And what does Aunt Amanda say about that?’ There was an odd edge to Alan’s voice.

  ‘As I think you’ve guessed, Alan, she has no memory of the episode. When the man’s name is mentioned, she smiles and gets up to go and see him. When she’s told she can’t because he’s dead, she is hearing it for the first time. Every time. It’s … heartbreaking.’ David had to clear his throat and look away for a moment.

  ‘May God preserve me from ever losing my mind!’ I said fervently. ‘I’d rather lose my limbs, my eyesight, anything, so long as my mind still functions.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Alan, reaching for my hand. ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t our choice to make. In many ways I’m glad my Helen died young, before either of us had to go through that ordeal. But David, you said there was another reason why the bigwigs are trying to blame Amanda.’

  ‘This one is even worse, as cold-blooded as a motive can be. Of all the residents, Amanda has slid the furthest down the damnable slope of Alzheimer’s. She is the least able to defend herself. It’s easy to make her the scapegoat.’

  ‘That’s – that’s unforgiveable!’ I thumped my glass down on the table. ‘And besides, surely someone in her condition could never be convicted of a crime? Why, she couldn’t even testify in court!’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. She would be deemed incapable of standing trial. Probably, lacking any admissible evidence to decide that matter either way, the case would be dismissed. Aunt Amanda would be condemned in the court of public opinion and allowed to go on peacefully living as she has been, without her good friend.’

  ‘And all the other residents, the ones who still have memories anyway, would treat her like a pariah. Some happy, peaceful atmosphere!’ I glared at David.

  ‘Dorothy, love, don’t shoot the messenger.’ Alan turned to his friend. ‘I gather you think there’s some way we could help with all this.’

  ‘You’re on holiday, and I hate to ask. But you’ve both worked on some worrisome problems in the past. This one will, I fear, never get to an official investigation. Do you suppose you could delve into it a bit, unofficially? I – I’m fond of Aunt Amanda, and even though she’ll never know she’s under a cloud, I can’t quite leave it at that.’

  ‘Not to mention the little question of justice.’ I was still furious. ‘Somebody killed that man, and it wasn’t Aunt Amanda. The guilty person deserves to be identified.’

  ‘Dorothy,’ said Alan patiently, ‘you don’t know it wasn’t Amanda. You’re on her side, as you’re always on the side of the underdog, but there’s actually no evidence either way.’

  ‘You’re looking at it
like a policeman. I’m looking at it like a human being, and one who isn’t young herself. If there’s a chance that old lady is going to be railroaded, I intend to head that train in another direction.’

  The two men looked at each other, united in their system of male logic.

  ‘And Alan Nesbitt, don’t put on that face! I will not have you humouring me like a silly child. I’m as entitled to my opinion as you are. And David, you have even less reason to dismiss my reasoning. You don’t think Amanda is guilty, either.’

  ‘No. I don’t. There’s no proof, except for what I know about her character, and that’s a good deal. No, I don’t think she could have done such a thing. But I don’t know how we’re going to prove it. The Milton people aren’t going to cooperate willingly. They’ve decided that matter is solved and can be neatly swept under the rug.’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to let them get by with that! David, let us sleep on it, and first thing in the morning we’re going to map out a plan of action.’

  Alan raised his hands in surrender. ‘When my wife makes up her mind to do something, I’ve learned not to stand in her way. She’s not always right, but often enough that I’ve learned to respect her will. Right after breakfast tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Good. I’ll pick you up at the top of Owengate – that’s the one leading down to the market square – and take you out to the home. Is half past nine too early? I hope by then our heads will be clearer. Good night, and I thank you more than I can say.’

  THREE

  David had explained that he couldn’t drive on the peninsula from ten in the morning till four in the afternoon without incurring the congestion charge, which had to be paid the same day. ‘And if one forgets, the fee mounts to fifty pounds, which is a great nuisance.’ And he was not allowed to drive into the cathedral or castle precincts at all; those areas were closed to all but buses, taxis, and delivery vehicles.

  Which meant we rose rather early, went down to the Great Hall for our excellent breakfast, and took the short walk to our meeting place. ‘At least it’s not raining,’ I commented. ‘I understand why they have to restrict traffic, but this bit of walking everywhere would get a little old in the rain.’

  ‘The price of living in a medieval city,’ said Alan with a grin. ‘The antiquity you so love, my dear.’

  ‘Yes, well. It’s lovely, but I’m glad Sherebury is somewhat more convenient.’

  ‘We don’t have an encircling river to contend with. Ah, here’s David.’

  We hopped in as smartly as we could; traffic behind David’s car was building. Plainly drivers took advantage of the morning and evening free times. He headed down a street so steep, and so clogged with pedestrians, that I had to close my eyes until Alan nudged me and murmured ‘Better now’.

  And then we were out of the city and into lovely open countryside, with lush fields of bright green wheat and even brighter yellow rapeseed. Where the earth was somewhat less fertile, farmers had let it go to pastureland where sheep grazed steadily. The lambs were growing up a bit, not quite as lively as a few weeks ago, but still adorable.

  I sighed contentedly. ‘I do love the English countryside. Of course, all the rain that I complain about is the reason it’s so lush and beautiful.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said David, passing a large lorry. ‘Dorothy, I hate to spoil the beautiful view for you, but I’d like to tell you a little more about the situation at the Milton Home.’

  ‘Of course. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Well, first of all, you know it’s an expensive and rather exclusive institution. I actually hate to use that word, because they do try to run it more like an actual home. None of the staff wear uniforms, and they’ve somehow managed to keep the place free of disagreeable odours. I imagine a fair number of the residents are incontinent, so I give them great credit for that accomplishment. I’ve told you there are few regulations. The residents are allowed, and encouraged, to go where they wish, and all are mobile; those who can’t walk have scooters, and doorways are wide, floors smooth.’

  ‘What about stairs?’ I asked. ‘If it’s an old house …’

  ‘It’s a large and beautiful Georgian manor house with a modern wing at the back. All the residents’ rooms are on the ground floor. The kitchen and larder are secured by a keypad lock. The first floor is used for offices, storage, that sort of thing. There are lifts for the convenience of the staff, but they are kept locked so that no resident can stray upstairs. The stairs themselves are shut off by metal gates, very lovely wrought-iron ones, again with keypad locks.’

  ‘You’ve said many of the residents have dementia. What keeps them from wandering away? My mother, in her late years, had to be watched every minute for fear she would disappear.’ I shook my head, remembering. ‘She hated it.’

  ‘That is of course a genuine difficulty. The exit doors cannot be kept locked, for fear of fire. They’ve dealt with the problem rather neatly. There’s a lovely garden, and sunrooms, and porches, many places where the residents can go to enjoy the out-of-doors. All of them, of course, are sealed off from the rest of the world. The actual entry doors to the house itself have been reduced to two, the gracious front entry and the staff door at the back, and both of those open into foyers accessible only when a code is entered on a keypad. So you see, the security is very good.’

  ‘Yes, in terms of residents getting out. What about people getting in?’

  ‘There are no restrictions on visitors; they may come in as they wish. It’s all part of the effort to make the atmosphere as home-like as possible. They are asked to sign in when they come, and when they leave, though very few remember to do that last. The staff know those of us who visit regularly. It’s – you must understand – it’s a pleasant place. The residents are treated like family, and indeed become like family to the staff. This terrible thing mustn’t be allowed to ruin that!’

  I could understand and sympathize with that point of view. His dearly loved Aunt Amanda had found a haven for her last days on this earth, and he quailed at the idea of that peace being disturbed. All the same … ‘David, a man is dead. Murdered. That can’t be ignored.’

  ‘No.’ He was silent for the rest of the journey.

  The house, when we approached it, looked entirely serene. As David had said, it was a substantial house in Georgian style, solid, beautiful in an austere way. The addition he had mentioned was tucked away at the back, invisible from the drive. A few cars sat in the car park, again discreetly screened from the bulk of the house. No police cars were in evidence.

  I looked at Alan and raised my eyes to heaven. He shook his head and helped me out of the car.

  We went up the gracious, shallow steps to the impressive front door and went inside. No locked door, no one to stop us. When we got to the second door, however, and went into the foyer, a guardian was in evidence, ready to challenge any incomers.

  When she saw David, she relaxed.

  ‘Oh, Mr Tregarth! Your aunt will be very glad to see you. She’s been a little upset this morning. Her friend …’ The young woman made an ambiguous gesture.

  ‘Yes,’ said David, utterly noncommittal. ‘I’ve brought some visitors to see her. Is she in her room, do you know?’

  ‘I think so. She didn’t go in for family breakfast.’

  ‘Family?’ I queried when we had moved on into the main part of the house.

  ‘They try to treat everyone as family,’ David replied. ‘I think, myself, that it’s sometimes a little forced, but on the whole it’s better than the nameless, faceless institutional approach.’

  Great-aunt Amanda’s room was the first one in the addition, just off the spacious sun porch that was part of the original house. Once the dining room, I guessed, and it seemed to serve that function still at mealtimes. Small tables were scattered about, all decorated with tasteful flower arrangements. A couple of elderly men were sitting in easy chairs, reading the paper or snoozing behind its shelter. We didn’t need David’s finger-to-lips to keep u
s silent.

  David had said Amanda was close to a hundred, so I was surprised to see a woman with the soft pink face of a baby. She was dozing in her wheelchair by a window that looked out on a lovely garden, full of roses at this time of year. Knick-knacks stood here and there, bits of lovely china, a photo or two, a pretty little cushion on the loveseat: mementoes of a life that was past.

  Amanda was small, with wrinkled neck and arms, but her face was virtually unlined. Her silver hair was beautifully cut and arranged, and she was dressed with care in what looked like a cashmere sweater set and tweed skirt.

  ‘Wool at this time of year?’ I whispered.

  ‘The elderly are often cold, love. Our time will come.’

  Our whispers, soft as they were, wakened the lady. She opened her eyes and sat up straighter in her chair. ‘Good morning,’ she said in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘Are you going to take me for a ride? It’s a beautiful day, and I promised the children we’d go to the seaside today.’

  I looked at David for guidance. ‘Maybe a little later, Aunt Amanda. Today I thought we’d go out into the garden. These are my friends Dorothy and Alan, come to pay you a visit.’

  ‘How nice! Do you live here?’

  ‘No,’ said Alan, ‘we live in Sherebury, in Belleshire.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said Amanda decisively. ‘I want to go to the seaside. When are we leaving?’

  David was used to coping. ‘We’ll have a little time in the garden first, I think. I’ve been driving for quite a while this morning and I’d like a little rest.’

  ‘Don’t you live here? I know I’ve seen you here before.’

  He let that one go unanswered. ‘Will you be warm enough outside, Aunt Amanda?’

  ‘You’re very sweet, dear. Are you my son?’ She smiled lovingly at him.

  ‘You’re like a mother to me, darling. Here we go.’

  He wheeled her deftly down the hallway to the end, where an automatic door opened for them onto a cement pathway through the garden. There was a spot under trees, beside a small pool where fish frolicked among the lily pads. David parked her there and asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Aunt Amanda?’