Death Comes to Durham

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Oh, dear. I … that is, I’d hoped to make a few discreet inquiries – sometimes people will talk to me when they won’t to the police. I’m not really a detective at all, you know, just … Oh, I suppose you could call me a Paul Pry, except I prefer to think I’m a person who’s interested in other people and cares about them, and …’ I ran down.

  ‘Yes, we know. Judith has told us. All done with kindness.’ Velma’s waspishness was still slightly in evidence. ‘You don’t have to justify yourself to us. We won’t stand in your way. Speaking for myself, I haven’t the slightest idea who did in the old … gentleman, but I’m not especially sorry he’s gone. He was upsetting the place, and he didn’t belong here anyway. If you ask me, he was hiding from something. Emotional exhaustion, my foot! He was no more ill than I am, and I’m strong as an ox.’

  ‘I had already gotten the impression that the staff weren’t terribly fond of him,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘No,’ replied Dharani. ‘And as long as we’re unbuttoning, you might as well know that we weren’t the only ones. His sweet old lady patients adored him, but their families weren’t always so pleased. Oh, he was good to them, and treated their maladies properly, but their kids seemed to think that he charged a good deal for very little. Many of them didn’t have much wrong with them except loneliness and hypochondria, but he was in private practice and could charge what the traffic would bear.’

  ‘Now, Dhar,’ said one of the men. ‘That’s rumour and speculation, and we shouldn’t be spreading that sort of thing.’

  Dharani tossed her head of handsome black hair. ‘With the police nosing into everything, it will come out anyway. Akbar, you know this place isn’t run along conventional lines. Strict professionalism takes a back seat to loving care for the residents. Anyway, I’m neither a nurse nor a doctor, so I don’t have some set of rules to live by, except the rules of decency and empathy. And for the sake of decency, and the sake of our residents, I want this mess cleared up as soon as possible. If that means speaking out of turn, then get out of my way!’

  I had recovered my composure. ‘Well, now that my cover is well and truly blown, I want to ask the silly question that the police will certainly ask: did any of you see anyone going in or out of Dr Armstrong’s room at the relevant time?’

  ‘Ah, but what time is that? No one seems to know. Did anyone serve him breakfast that morning?’

  Dharani’s question hung in the air. No one spoke until a young man, an aide I would guess, spoke up. ‘He didn’t usually eat in his room. He liked being with the others in the sun porch.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘So did anyone notice him there that morning? That would at least establish that he was alive then.’

  But no one had. ‘You’ve been told about our free-for-all scheduling?’ asked Velma.

  ‘Yes. I thought it must make things more difficult for you all, never knowing where anyone would be at any given time.’

  ‘It does. Or it would, except that we have only a few old dears to look after, and plenty of staff, so it all goes relatively smoothly.’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ I said hesitantly, ‘that people suffering from dementia sometimes do better in a carefully-structured environment.’

  That raised a babble of comment. Everyone in the room, it seemed, had a point of view. It was a plump, middle-aged woman who prevailed.

  ‘That was what I was always taught,’ she said, ‘and I’ve been nursing quite a while. But after working here, I have to say: better for whom? It’s true that some patients function at a higher level, for a longer time, when they’re rigidly controlled. But are they happier? And isn’t their happiness and well-being our goal? I find that our residents are quite content with the regime here, encouraged to do what they want when they want.’

  ‘That’s true for some, Alice, but not for all. You can’t lump people together in a category called “demented” and expect them all to be alike.’

  ‘That’s true, but—’

  ‘Don’t you think—’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The director had walked in unnoticed. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, representatives of the police are here and would like to speak with each of you, individually. And I believe some of our residents are awake and in need of your attention.’

  With startled cries and glances at watches, the gathering broke up, checking with the police officers at the door, presumably making appointments. I was left with Mr Williams, David, and Alan, everyone looking as disgruntled as I felt.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Alan.

  I shook my head. ‘Not much.’

  ‘Then we might as well repair to someplace more comfortable, where we can talk more freely and see if we can work out some plan of action.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said the director grudgingly, ‘that it was really necessary to bring the authorities into this.’

  David just looked at him. ‘A case of murder? Yes, it was necessary. We’ll stay in touch.’

  FIVE

  ‘I can’t believe that man thought he could write off a case of murder as a minor disruption.’

  David drained his glass and set it down with a thump.

  We’d found that, with the students out of town, yesterday’s friendly pub was still quiet and an ideal place for a conference.

  ‘Well, David, we promised we’d help, in the hopes of getting it all worked out quickly. But I’m not sure that’s going to be possible. Alan, I’d like the other half, please.’

  He got refills for all of us, and a few packets of crisps, and we settled down to it.

  I began. ‘I may as well say right up front that I made almost no headway. There was a woman in the kitchen who might have been forthcoming, but I was too direct in my approach, and I scared her off. She did tell me that none of the staff cared much for Dr Armstrong, and the caregivers in the staff room said the same. They also, or some of them anyway, thought his reason for being here was somewhat suspect. At least one of them thought he was hiding from someone or something. They know about the rumours of “undue influence”, by the way, and implied that some families of his patients weren’t very happy with him.’

  ‘Nothing definitive, then,’ David said with a sigh.

  ‘No smoking gun. I’m sorry. It begins to look as though almost anyone in the place could have done it. And I’m loath to say it, but I’m not sure you’ll find any willing witnesses, if that’s the case. They all adore Amanda, and they know he made her unhappy that one time, and I don’t see them putting themselves out to be cooperative.’

  ‘An inside job, you think?’ Alan frowned. ‘But why? Simple dislike isn’t enough to drive someone to murder.’

  ‘Aha! Motive! I knew you’d admit it in the end. I said it before. You already know the means, and anybody could have had the opportunity. Anybody in the building, that is. That tight security system would make it very difficult for someone from outside to actually get in, find his room, smother him, and get out again, without being noticed. They couldn’t, in this case, even use the simple disguise of a white lab coat, because—’

  ‘Because nobody in the place wears a uniform.’

  ‘And another thing. The free-and-easy way the place is run would make it easy for any staff member to go to anyone’s room at any time. There’d be no busybody to say that So-and-so was supposed to be looking after Mrs Whosis just then. I’m sure the police are asking the staff that sort of thing, even as we speak, but I think it’s futile. There are far more staff than patients, and no time clocks to punch, so to speak. As for the residents, they don’t have much to do except watch what’s going on, but how reliable are they as witnesses?’

  ‘Not very, most of them,’ said David sadly. ‘I was waylaid the other day by one sweet old woman who wanted to tell me all about her recent trip to the Taj Mahal. Her caregiver said later that she hadn’t been away from the Milton Home since she moved in some years ago, and had certainly never in her life been farther from England than Boulogne.’

  ‘Dorothy, y
ou’re not thinking a resident could have done this?’ Alan sounded shocked.

  ‘I don’t think it’s likely, but you of all people shouldn’t be shocked by the idea. We’re getting to an age, all three of us, when we understand what young people don’t always know: the passions of the old can run just as strong and deep as those of the young. And some of us have become very adept at hiding our feelings. Oh, it’s possible all right. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I like it.’

  David was the one to look horrified this time.

  ‘I don’t mean that the way it sounds, David. Of course, I don’t like the idea that one of the residents might be a murderer. It’s frightening, and of course you’re worried about Aunt Amanda. But as a hypothesis, it has its points.’ I thought for a long moment, sipping my beer. ‘Consider this: a man has an old grudge against Armstrong. Or a woman, but I’m suggesting a man, partly because men are said to have been less impressed by his charm. All right. Said man with a grudge comes to a point in his life when caring for himself becomes burdensome. He has plenty of money and few serious health conditions beyond the normal irritations common to old age. So he moves into the Milton in expectation of a slow, idyllic decline. For a while his expectations are fulfilled. He has a pleasant home, plenty to keep him busy if he wants, long stretches of idleness when that’s what he prefers, excellent food. What more could a man want?

  ‘But one day a serpent comes hissing into his paradise. He comes across Blake Armstrong in the sun porch, where he (the man with the grudge) has come to sit and enjoy the view. There sits the man he detests, basking in the very chair he has marked out as his own.’

  ‘Wait, I’m confused. Who has marked out?’

  ‘The man with the grudge. We can call him X, if you want. Anyway, there’s Armstrong in the chair X thinks of as his very own, apparently dozing peacefully. X can hardly believe it. His newly won peace is utterly destroyed. His anger, long damped, breaks out with new force. He talks a bit to the staff, tries to find out why the man is here and how long he’s going to stay, but he – X – is cagey about it. He doesn’t want to reveal his fury to anyone.’

  ‘What is it that he’s furious about? What has Armstrong done?’

  ‘I have no idea. It doesn’t matter. It might have been something quite trivial that X has built up into an irremediable evil. It’s what it has done to X’s mind that matters. He tries to hold onto the hope that the man will soon leave, as the staff have implied.

  ‘But one day there is some incident. Again, it doesn’t much matter what, but it touches a match to the fuse, the very short fuse, of X’s obsession. Armstrong must go. X lays his plans. He complains to the staff that he hasn’t been sleeping well, which is the simple truth. He saves up the sedatives he is given until he thinks he has enough, finds an opportunity to put them in Armstrong’s tea or coffee or whatever, goes in when Armstrong is sound asleep, picks up a pillow, and voilà.’ I dusted my hands and sat back to await their reactions.

  ‘It’s plausible,’ said Alan at last. ‘Given the way the home is organized, it’s possible. Of course, it’s all a fairy tale, spun from air.’

  ‘Spun from many, many years of dealing with people,’ I retorted. ‘If you have a better hypothesis, tell us.’

  Alan groaned. ‘We’re policemen, Dorothy. We don’t want fairy tales, we want facts. Good, solid, verifiable facts. Show me any facts that bolster up your little fable, and I’ll consider it more seriously.’

  ‘You know, though,’ said David thoughtfully, ‘it might be possible to check on a few of her ideas. The staff at the home are very observant, very alert to any changes in their charges. If someone changed his— You’re still positing a man?’

  ‘Strength,’ I said briefly. ‘Even under sedation, Armstrong would have fought back. In fact, we know he did. The torn pillowcase.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Very well, if someone changed his behaviour shortly after Armstrong came into residence, the staff will know. That would give us a place to begin nosing around, Alan. Look into his background, see if there was any trouble with Armstrong, that sort of thing. It would still be hypothetical, but it would begin to look more like a lead.’

  Alan sighed. ‘I’d be a lot happier about the whole thing if we had a really solid time of death.’

  ‘And you know quite well we’re not going to get one.’ David shook his head in frustration. ‘It’s hard enough when a body is discovered immediately and the forensics people get to work at once. After all the time that’s been wasted, we’ll be lucky if the coroner agrees that the man’s dead!’

  I glanced at Alan; we silently agreed not to remind David that he had collaborated in the time-wasting. ‘At least they can tell us what drugs, if any, were in his system. If they find any kind of sedative, something that wasn’t prescribed for him, that would be a definite pointer.’

  ‘We’ll hope, then, that he was given something, and that it’s detectable with the usual tests, and that it’s rare and easily traceable to X.’

  I frequently remind my dear husband of the old adage about sarcasm being the tool of the devil. I decided not to say it this time.

  David took us out to dinner, not at the fancy hotel he had promised earlier. We were none of us feeling festive, so a modest meal at a modest little place near the Market Square served us nicely. Then we walked back to the castle, the rain having abated to a drizzle. We asked David to come up for coffee.

  ‘No, no, it’s very kind of you, but Susan worries if I’m out too late.’ He sighed. ‘She’s a dear girl, but …’ And he was off to his granddaughter’s house.

  ‘How long do you think he’s going to be content to go on living with her?’ I asked as we climbed the many steps to our room. ‘I know she spoils him dreadfully, but doesn’t he miss his freedom?’

  ‘He’s said as much to me, from time to time. But he was very lonely in Exeter after his wife died.’

  ‘Yes, but he could live in Durham, near his family, without actually living with them. Unless money is a problem. As you’ve said, housing here is probably pretty expensive; it’s a big tourist town, and of course there’s the university.’

  ‘I don’t get the impression David’s hurting. We don’t discuss it, of course.’

  Of course not. That’s not the kind of thing men say to each other, especially English men. Women aren’t as squeamish about money. I made a mental note to have a little talk with the granddaughter at the next opportunity.

  ‘What’s on the docket for tomorrow?’ I asked as we climbed wearily into bed.

  ‘Don’t know. I’m sure David will call as soon as he knows anything. Meanwhile, how about a tour of the castle? And/or the cathedral? They’re both well worth seeing in more detail than we’ve yet had time for.’

  ‘Mmm. Sounds good. Especially’ – I yawned widely – ‘if it goes on raining.’

  ‘Go to sleep, love.’ Alan gave me a quick peck on the cheek and turned out the light.

  Sometime in the night I woke to the rush of rain against our window. I got up to lower it, and go to the bathroom, and went back to sleep with the cosy lullaby of falling water.

  We woke early, having gone to bed early, and looked out on a depressing sort of day. The cobbled courtyard shone with water. The sky was a uniform grey with no blue to be seen anywhere. ‘I should have appreciated the hot sun while it lasted,’ I said with a sigh as I made coffee. Instant is not our favourite, but when it’s the only form of caffeine available, we’re not picky. ‘Definitely a tour day, unless David calls early.’

  He called Alan just as we were heading down for breakfast. ‘Nothing to report,’ Alan said, pocketing his phone. ‘By afternoon, he hopes. Meanwhile he suggested a tour of the castle or the cathedral.’

  I laughed. ‘Great minds. Which one first, would you say?’

  ‘If we hurry through our breakfast we can take in morning prayer and then tour the cathedral. Then we can rest our feet for a while and find out when the castle tours are scheduled.’


  I didn’t mind rushing through breakfast. The food provided for castle guests was very good, and plentiful, but I was getting tired of an endless succession of bacon and eggs and hash browns. At home we often prefer cereal or toast and fruit. This morning I sliced a banana into a bowl of what I’ve learned to call muesli (granola, to my Hoosier mind), gulped a quick second cup of coffee, and was headed down the steps into the courtyard as the bells for morning prayer began to ring. I’d forgotten my walking stick, helpful on slick cobbles, but Alan’s arm was strong and steady, and we made it with a minute or two to spare.

  The congregation was sparse, mostly cathedral volunteers, I guessed, but the peace and calm were just what we needed after a stressful yesterday. The tour of the building was the same. Our guide was well-versed in Norman architecture, of which I knew little, and he pointed out features I would never have noticed: the elaborate detailing of the arches, the decorative carving on the massive piers that support the vast weight of the roof. The decorations were, our guide said, carved into the individual stones that made up the piers, not added when the huge columns were assembled. If I’d had any idea that twelfth-century stonemasons were primitive craftsmen, I was disabused of the notion. Their tools might have been extremely primitive by modern standards, but there was nothing wrong with the artistic eye or the net effect. They knew exactly what they were doing and how to do it, these men who had been laid to their well-earned rest centuries before any European even thought of going to what we now call America, much less construct any magnificent building. And now, after hundreds, thousands of buildings erected since have crumbled to dust, Durham Cathedral stands, essentially unchanged since its completion in 1133.

  I listened politely as the guide explained that the cathedral was the shrine of St Cuthbert (of whom I had never heard) and the most-visited shrine in England until the martyrdom of Thomas à Becket at Canterbury led to his popular shrine in the thirteenth century. Becket’s shrine was long ago destroyed; Cuthbert’s is still in Durham. I didn’t go to see it; several more stairs were involved, and I’d about had it with stairs. Alan and I did stop for a moment of reverence before the tomb of Bede. Yes, ‘the Venerable Bede’, the first English historian.