6 - Superfluous Death

by Hazel Holt

  ‘Oh. Not much help there, either! So have you seen Dr Cowley again?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Roger replied. ‘But he stuck by his original story, that he went to the deaf woman at eleven o’clock and when he couldn’t make her hear he went back to the surgery to catch up on some paperwork and went on to see the old man at twelve o’clock.’

  ‘Did you tell him that someone had seen him in Taviscombe at eleven o’clock?’ I asked.

  ‘I did. All I could get out of him was that whoever thought they saw him was mistaken.’

  ‘So it would be Sybil’s word against his?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Oh, bother. I thought we’d really got him there! But, honestly, I really would trust Sybil’s story rather than his. I mean, she’s got nothing to gain by saying she saw him, but he’s got everything to gain by denying it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll certainly bear it in mind. I really don’t have many leads yet. Oh, by the way, that stain on the carpet by her chair was coffee. She must have had the cup in her hand when she died and dropped it. It wouldn’t have broken on the carpet, so the murderer just picked it up and washed it and put it on the draining board.’

  d i="+0" face="Times New Roman">‘How beastly,’ I said. ‘Horrible, calculating and cruel.’

  I used the same words later that evening when Michael and Jenny were discussing the murder over supper.

  ‘It was such a mean thing to do,’ I said, ‘taking cakes as a present and poisoning her with them! The sort of thing the Borgias might have done!’

  ‘They’ve definitely decided that was how she was killed, then?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Yes, Roger’s had the results of the autopsy. He rang today to tell me when the inquest’s to be. I shall have to go, I suppose, because of finding the body.’

  ‘She was a nice old lady,’ Jenny said. ‘I met her once when I had to take some papers for her to sign. I thought she was very sweet. She insisted on giving me tea and cake although it was just after lunch. She said I was much too thin and needed building up. Just like my grandmother!’

  ‘I shall miss her,’ I said. ‘There aren’t many of her generation left now, people my mother used to know, who knew me as a child. It feels odd, somehow, to know that you’re the older generation now!’

  ‘That sounds very metaphysical, Ma,’ Michael said. ‘Would you like some more of that lemon tart, Jenny? No? Oh well, I’ll just finish it off, then. Save putting that little bit back in the fridge. Well, I suppose,’ he went on, scooping the last of the cream from the dish, ‘Dr Cowley has to be the murderer. He was the only person with any possible motive and,’ he said, licking the cream spoon, ‘if he was seen actually near the flat at the time of the murder—well, there you are!’

  Jenny looked startled. ‘Was he really?’ she asked. ‘That does seem conclusive. So what will the police do?’

  ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘it’s his word against Sybil Jacobs’. She’s the person who saw him, but I suppose they’ll need a bit more than that. Proof of some kind. Though I don’t quite know how they’re going to get that, unless someone actually saw him at Kimberley Lodge.’

  ‘You didn’t see anything?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘No, but then I didn’t get there till the afternoon. She’d been dead for a little while then.’

  ‘It must have been awful for you,’ Jenny said. ‘Finding her like that. I’ve never seen anyone dead, it must be—I don’t know—frightening.’

  ‘She looked quite peaceful,’ I replied, ‘but it was a dreadful shock. I’ve been trying not to think about it too much.’

  Jenny flushed and looked confused. ‘I’m so sorry. It was silly of me to remind you like that.’

  I smiled at her. ‘It’s all right, I’m more or less over it now. Well now,’ I said, briskly getting up from the table, ‘you two go into the sitting room and I’ll get the coffee.’

  ‘Can I help you wash up?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘No, it’s fine, I’ll just stack them in the dishwasher. You go on through.’

  I took quite a little time fiddling about in the kitchen, putting things away, feeding Foss and the dogs and various little jobs that didn’t really need doing just to fill in time, but when I took the coffee into the sitting room Michael and Jenny were simply holding a post-mortem on the badminton matches they’d played that evening.

  ‘Never mind,’ I told the dogs later that evening as I let them out into the garden for a last run round, ‘there’s plenty of time. They’ve only known each other for a little while and they do seem to get on very well together.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Ma!’ A plaintive voice from the kitchen arrested me when I was halfway up the stairs on my way to make the beds. ‘Ma! Have we any proper cheese?’

  Resignedly I came down again and went to see what was the matter. The worktop was covered in slices of bread, butter (now encrusted with crumbs) still in its paper, a selection of jars of pickle and a large piece of Brie, which Michael was regarding with some distaste.

  ‘I can only find this squishy stuff,’ he said, ‘and it’s no earthly good for making cheese and pickle sandwiches.’

  ‘Michael, what on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Making sandwiches,’ he said, ‘or I would be if I could find the cheese.’

  ‘There’s some Cheddar in the other fridge in the larder,’ I said, ‘but why are you making sandwiches? And do you have to make such a mess?’

  ‘I was trying to save you the bother,’ he replied reproachfully.

  < F"Tieres Nfont size="+0" face="Times New Roman">I went into the larder to get the cheese. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Let me do it. You’ll cut great chunks and crumble the rest of it. Anyway,’ I added, as I got out the cheese slicer, ‘what do you want sandwiches for?’

  ‘I’m going bird-watching.’

  ‘Bird-watching!’ I exclaimed. ‘Who with?’

  ‘The Naturalists. They meet every other Saturday. Jenny asked me to come the other evening. We’re all meeting at Five Barrows Head. Apparently there’s a good chance of seeing a hobby there.’

  ‘A hobby?’ I echoed.

  A bird, Ma, a kind of falcon. Jolly interesting.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It sounds very nice,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you were keen on birds.’

  ‘Well, I’m not dotty about them, like some of that Naturalist lot, but it sounded quite fun and Jenny needed someone to give her a lift—her car’s in for a service or something—so I said I’d go along.’

  I fitted the last sandwich into the tin, wedged in an apple and a bar of fruit and nut chocolate, and passed it over to him.

  ‘There’s a can of something in the larder, or do you want a flask of coffee?’

  ‘A can’ll be fine. Thanks, Ma. I don’t know when I’ll be back. See you.’ Gathering up the sandwiches and the can, he was gone.

  As I began the task of clearing away the debris and sweeping up the crumbs from the floor I smiled slightly to myself. If Michael was prepared to spend the day hanging about the moor on the offchance of spotting (or more likely not spotting) some bird, simply to be with Jenny, then perhaps he was more serious than I had imagined. Or maybe he was just being friendly and helpful. Either way, the fresh air would do him good.

  When he returned that evening, rather damp but in good spirits, he seemed to have taken in more than the fresh air.

  ‘It was super. We saw a hobby and a bittern. Have you ever seen a bittern? Most peculiar thing; very odd beak and makes an appalling noise.’

  ‘ “The bittern boometh”,’ I said vaguely. ‘What does that come from?’

  ‘Some poem,’ Michael said. ‘Anyway, it was prett K itfont>

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘he’s a great bird-watcher, isn’t he? How do you mean, awful?’

  ‘Sort of grey and thin. He looked,’ Michael paused, looking for the right word, ‘harassed.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s properly over that flu,’ I said, ‘and he was very upset about his au
nt’s death. She was his only relative, after all. There’s always a lot to do when someone dies, anyway, and so much worse after a murder. I mean, he can’t even arrange the funeral yet, not until the body’s been released.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Michael said doubtfully. ‘And being married to Carol can’t be a picnic!’

  As it happened, I heard from Ronnie the very next day.

  ‘The funeral’s on Friday,’ he said in that low, hesitant voice I always have difficulty in hearing properly on the phone. ‘At St James’s, two-thirty, and then the cemetery—she didn’t want to be cremated. And there’ll be a cup of tea here afterwards, if you’d like to come.’

  I thanked him and said that I would be there.

  There was a pause and then he said, ‘I’ve been meaning to get in touch, to say how sorry I was—you finding her and everything—but I haven’t been very well and it was such a shock ...’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I quite understand. It must have been a difficult time for you. And then there’s all the clearing up to do and sorting out—it always takes ages.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘there’s all that to be done. Actually Dr Cowley’s been very good. He said to take as long as we need to clear the flat.’

  I gave a little snort of indignation. ‘If he’d been as thoughtful to your aunt when she was alive,’ I said, ‘she’d have been spared a great deal of worry and upset in the last weeks of her life!’

  There weren’t many people at the funeral. St James’s, which is an old and rather beautiful church, felt cold and empty and our footsteps seem Koot Roed to echo as we walked to our places. Apart from Ronnie and his wife Carol sitting at the front, there were a couple of elderly ladies, who made their way down the aisle with some difficulty, one with a walking frame and the other with two sticks, friends of Miss Graham from her youth, come to pay their respects to one more of their generation gone for ever. Rosemary had come with me (‘Jack’s awfully sorry but he’s got this meeting in Bristol and Mother has a bad cold’), and Michael was there as the representative of his firm. Roger was there too, in his official capacity, and I recognized the reporter from the West Somerset Gazette—being murdered does, I suppose, mean that your funeral gets a mention in the local press.

  I was glad that the vicar, who does tend to be rather consciously ‘modern’, seemed quite subdued and the words of the 23rd Psalm, ‘the valley of the shadow of death’ seemed, given the circumstances of Miss Graham’s death, even more poignant than usual. It was as we were singing ‘The day thou gavest Lord is ended’ and I was half turned, watching the coffin being carried back up the aisle, that I noticed Dr Cowley sitting near the back of the church. Rosemary noticed too because she nudged me and whispered in my ear, ‘Can you believe it? The nerve of some people!’

  But Dr Cowley was not at the cemetery, nor was he at Ronnie and Carol’s house.

  ‘You saw that awful man was at the church!’ Rosemary said to Roger. ‘How he had the nerve!’

  ‘He was her doctor, I suppose,’ Roger said.

  ‘Yes, but when you think that he probably murdered her—’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Roger said firmly, putting down his tea cup on a small and rather elegant Victorian table, ‘so really, Rosemary, you’d better not go around saying so!’

  I’d never been inside the Grahams’ house before so I looked around with some interest. From the outside it was a perfectly ordinary semi-detached house on the outskirts of Taviscombe, with a neat, unimaginatively laid-out garden and a view of the hills beyond the town. Inside, however, it was furnished with good taste, with white walls and doors and plain curtains and carpets to show off the pieces of excellently proportioned furniture (mostly Victorian or Edwardian, though there were a few earlier pieces) and some fine prints in Hogarth frames. I don’t know why I should have been surprised, but I was certainly impressed.

  Carol came towards us, bearing a plate of sandwiches. We all dutifully took one, though I don’t imagine anyone felt much like eating. She was dressed in a navy skirt and cardigan with a white blouse, the nearest most of us seem to get to Keemly mourning nowadays, and the dark clothes made her look washed out and tired. Her short fairish hair was going grey and she wore no make-up.

  ‘It must be a very difficult time for you,’ I said, realizing that I was repeating my remark to Ronnie, but, quite honestly, what else is there to say at such a time?

  ‘It’s certainly been a nuisance not being able to arrange the funeral or move anything at the flat.’ Carol spoke sharply, in her usual, rather abrupt manner. She looked doubtfully at Roger as if uncertain in what capacity he was there. ‘I know the police have to do their duty, but it’s been very awkward, not knowing when we can get on and get things sorted. I haven’t got a lot of time to do it. I have to spend all day in the shop and then there’s all the book-keeping ... It hasn’t helped, having Ronnie ill like this.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘he seems to have had a really bad go of this awful flu. I do hope you didn’t catch it too.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no time to be ill,’ Carol replied brusquely. She looked tired and harassed and, in spite of her ungracious reply, I felt sorry for her, knowing that it would be she who would have to do the clearing up and sorting out of Ronnie’s aunt’s belongings, and, though I knew she wouldn’t be emotionally affected by the pathos of the final dispersal of Miss Graham’s little world, she would have the sheer hard work of it all. I recalled similar moments in my own life and remembered vividly the aching back from bending over for hours sorting out objects, wrapping china and putting things into cardboard boxes and suitcases, debating what should be kept, what sent to the charity shop, clearing out the cupboards—the half-used packets of cornflour, the never-opened tin of asparagus kept for a special occasion.

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help,’ I said, ‘do please let me know.’

  Carol gave me a brief smile. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I expect I’ll manage. But thanks for offering.’

  There was a slightly constrained silence and to break it I said, ‘What a beautiful little cabinet you have, that one on the sideboard, all that gorgeous ormolu! Is it French?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have to ask Ronnie,’ Carol said dismissively. ‘It’s one of his things, he’s mad about old pieces. Dreadful things for catching the dust. He has to look after them himself; I haven’t time to fiddle with them.’ She waved the plate of sandwiches in my direction and I took one meekly. ‘He’s picked them up at sales over the years; the furniture, too. He says they’re an investment, but he’ll never sell them. Much better to put your money into a building society, or back in the business; it needs it, God knows. Oh, excuse me, Miss Gibbons is leaving and I’d better give her a hand, else she’ll have something over with that walking frame! Ronnie! Miss Gibbons wants to go home—you said you’d drive her.’

  Ronnie, who had been talking to the vicar, came over to us.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sheila,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to take Miss Gibbons home. I did want to have a little chat about Aunt Mabel ... Michael, Rosemary ...’ He acknowledged their presence with a little wave of his hand and moved over to Miss Gibbons. I had the feeling he’d been avoiding me, a feeling that was strengthened by the fact that when I turned to look after him I found that he too had turned and was regarding me with a curiously nervous expression. Our eyes met and he looked away hastily, leaving me feeling puzzled and rather annoyed.

  ‘Poor old Ronnie!’ Rosemary said as we got into the car. ‘I know he’s a bit wet but, honestly, Carol is so—I don’t know—so difficult. Aggressive, almost, quite rude, really, and dreadfully bossy.’

  ‘I suppose she’s always had to be,’ I replied as I gave my seat belt a tug to free it. ‘Ronnie would have made a terrible failure of the shop if she hadn’t taken him in hand. You remember how awful it was after old Mr Graham died. I mean, it was a thriving little business in his day but Ronnie let it get really run down, never anything in the size you wanted, or the colour. Dreadful!
It was only after he married Carol that things got back to normal again and now I should think they do pretty well.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Rosemary said grudgingly, ‘but she’s lost several customers to my certain knowledge by that manner of hers.’

  ‘I always think that grovelling about at people’s feet, fitting shoes on to them, might bring out the revolutionary in the mildest person,’ I said reflectively, ‘not to mention having to trek back and forth to the stock room to bring out yet another pair of shoes that the customer won’t buy anyway!’

  ‘What always maddens me,’ Rosemary said, ‘is the way when you’ve said a size 6B court shoe in navy they invariably bring you a 6C black walking shoe or something equally irrelevant.’

  I slowed down to avoid a cat that suddenly darted across the road. ‘I thought Ronnie looked pretty awful, didn’t you?’

  ‘Terribly thin—I don’t suppose Carol feeds him properly,’ Rosemary replied. ‘And didn’t you think it was a bit odd that he didn’t speak to anyone except the vicar all the time we were K ti pr there? Didn’t thank us for coming, or anything. I mean, it’s not that one wants to be thanked, but it is usual!’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that. Still, I suppose the circumstances are a bit out of the ordinary—poor Miss Graham being murdered. I don’t suppose any of us would know quite how we’d react if someone close to us died like that.’

  Chapter Nine

  The days went by, apparently busy and full of events, and yet, when one looked back, nothing much was accomplished. I was reviewing an American book on Mrs Oliphant and was torn between admiration for the author’s scholarship and research and fury at the jargon-ridden writing in which she had presented it.