6 - Superfluous Death

by Hazel Holt

  ‘It’s no good,’ I said to Tris, who had taken up his customary position at my feet under the desk, ‘I really can’t be doing with it any more today!’

  Recognizing a tone in my voice that indicated a cessation of work, Tris got up, shook himself and barked several times, which brought Tessa into the room through the half-open door. She stood with her head on one side considering the possibility of some sort of action on my part. I regarded the appealing spaniel eyes with some asperity and then said, ‘It’s a miserable day, but all right, we’ll go for a walk.’

  At the magic word they both raced out into the hall where I could hear Tris scratching impatiently at the front door.

  The weather really was thoroughly depressing, grey, overcast and cold with a biting wind and the imminent threat of rain, but I forced myself to get out of the car on the Promenade and joined the dogs on the beach, where they were rushing about madly as though released from months of rigorous incarceration. It seemed that I was the only person silly enough to venture out on such a day since I had the beach entirely to myself, except for a few seabirds disconsolately pecking away at microscopic organisms at the water’s edge. Looking up from the beach I could see one or two people walking briskly along the Promenade, not pausing today to lean on the sea wall and contemplate the grey-brown waters of the Bristol Channel, flecked here and there with dirty white foam whipped up by the wind.

  The dogs seemed oblivious to the weather and ran, barking deliriously, in circles in and out of the rock pools while I, made miserable by the cold wind stinging my ears (I’d come out in such a hurry that I’d forgotten my hat and scarf), thought sourly of having to dry them and brush off the damp sand. I trudged along with my head down until I felt I’d had enough and, calling the dogs, I turned to make my way back to where I’d left the car, but they were in the sort of mad mood that N, c wind sometimes induces in animals and, seemingly deaf to my cries, raced away down the beach. Hurrying as best I could against the wind, I finally caught up with them and clipped on their leads, scolding them as I did so.

  As I stood for a moment, getting back my breath, I was relieved to feel that the wind had abated a little, but, even as I noted this moderation, the first heavy drops of rain were falling and within seconds I was caught in a torrential downpour. Dragging the dogs behind me I ran as quickly as I could along the beach, up the steps and into one of the shelters on the Promenade, where I collapsed, extremely wet and breathless, on to the green painted seat, carved with the initials of long-gone young vandals. The floor was unpleasantly littered with sodden scraps of paper, cigarette ends and the odd bread crust, brought by some animal lover to feed the seagulls and blown in here, disregarded.

  I sat there miserably, my wet hair dripping uncomfortably down my neck with two very damp dogs shaking themselves over my legs, watching the rain streaming down the glass walls of the shelter. The rain outside was heavy, like a curtain pulled down between me and the sea, which was almost invisible.

  I was just trying ineffectually to dry my hair with a couple of tissues I’d found in my pocket when there was a sudden flurry and another person came into the shelter, trying to right a blown-inside-out umbrella. It was Dr Cowley. For a moment he was too busy wrestling with his umbrella to notice that there was another occupant of the shelter. Then, as he sat down gingerly on the seat, removed his glasses and wiped the rain off them, he became aware of my presence.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Good afternoon. What dreadful weather.’ Then, putting his glasses back on, he recognized me and continued, ‘Mrs Malory, is it not?’

  I had known Dr Cowley for many years by sight and had, indeed, met him briefly on various social occasions. However, it was somehow disconcerting to be addressed by name, perhaps feeling that my wet and bedraggled appearance might have served in some way as a disguise.

  ‘Yes,’ I said stiffly. ‘Good afternoon.’

  Dr Cowley stood his dripping umbrella in a corner of the shelter and wiped his hands on a white handkerchief.

  ‘I usually take a brief walk after lunch,’ he said, ‘when I am able to do so. I find it aids the digestion. But today, alas, I miscalculated the inclemency of the weather.’

  ‘It is very wet,’ I replied formally.

  He looked at me enquiringly and then continued: ‘I am glad to have this opportunity of saying how distressed I am about the unhappy business of poor Miss Graham. It must have been most upsetting for you, finding her like that. And the shocking result of the post-mortem!’

  ‘That she was murdered, you mean?’ I brought out the word deliberately and he looked away, as if by avoiding my eye he could disassociate himself from the brutal fact.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘ S het.

  A sudden gust of wind rattled the glass panes of the shelter and blew a scurry of rain inside. Tessa moved over and cowered against Dr Cowley’s legs and he pushed the wet animal aside with an impatient exclamation. Irritated by this I suddenly found myself saying, ‘You were on West Hill just before she was killed, weren’t you?’

  He turned his head quickly and gave me a searching stare.

  ‘That is not so,’ he said sharply. ‘I was in Dulverton all morning.’

  Feeling that I had somehow burned my boats and had nothing to lose, I persisted. ‘Sybil Jacobs saw you, at about eleven o’clock.’

  ‘She was mistaken,’ he replied.

  I looked at him steadily. ‘Sybil Jacobs isn’t the sort of person who makes that kind of mistake. She said you nearly ran her over.’

  He didn’t reply and for a few moments we were both silent, listening to the sound of the storm outside. Tess moved over to me and I stroked her wet head mechanically while Tris gave little whining noises indicative of discontent.

  Dr Cowley took out the white handkerchief again and wiped his face.

  ‘I am aware,’ he said, ‘of the rumours that are circulating in the town. It seems that there are certain people who think that I killed Miss Graham.’

  ‘No one else,’ I replied, ‘had a motive for wishing her dead. You wanted her out of Kimberley Lodge so that you could go ahead with your plans for a nursing home.’

  ‘That is true. But you must know that I did try to arrange alternative accommodation for her—’

  ‘She wouldn’t have taken it,’ I broke in. ‘She didn’t want to move. You realized that. You knew you’d never get her out that way.’

  ‘And so you think I killed her?’

  Tris whined again and I gave a shiver, not entirely due to my cold and wet condition.

  ‘It would have suited you to have her dead,’ I replied, ‘and if you were seen near Kimberley Lodge at just the time she was killed—’

  ‘The police accept that I was in Dulverton.’ Dr Cowley’s voice was steely and I had some difficulty in keeping mine steady as I said, ‘No, I don’t think they do. The patients you said you saw that morning were pretty vague. I think the police are keeping a fairly open mind.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Dr Cowley said smoothly, Said

  ‘No, of course Roger doesn’t discuss police business with me,’ I said quickly. ‘But he has asked for my help on several occasions, since I knew Miss Graham well, and, of course, finding the body and everything.’

  ‘I see.’

  He seemed to be debating something in his mind and his hand holding the handkerchief clenched and unclenched upon it. Finally he gave a sigh and said, ‘I think I must tell you something. Whether you choose to pass it on to the police is up to you.’

  He looked at me and I nodded assent.

  ‘Very well. First of all I must admit that I was indeed in the area of West Hill at the time you have mentioned, but I swear to you that my presence there had nothing whatever to do with Miss Graham’s death.’

  I sat very still, anxious that no movement on my part should disturb his narrative.

  ‘Some years ago,’ he went on, ‘I had an assistant, a nurse attached to my practice. Her name was June Hargreaves. Our relationship was, in fact, not
simply professional, if you understand my meaning.’ He paused and I murmured something that might be taken as comprehension.

  ‘One of my patients,’ he continued, ‘an old lady, died and left me quite a considerable sum of money. She had no relatives and, towards the end of her life she had come to rely upon me, not simply as a doctor but as a friend. One of the things she consulted me about was her will. She hadn’t made one and was concerned about what she should do. Of course I said that she should see her solicitor, but she was unwilling to do so, having a dislike of anything to do with the legal profession—apparently her father had had some unfortunate experience ... So I drew up for her a simple form of a will and Nurse Hargreaves and her daily woman both witnessed it.’

  I shifted slightly on the uncomfortable wooden seat.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It was perfectly legal,’ Dr Cowley said quickly, ‘and was passed for probate with no problems.’

  ‘But?’ I enquired.

  ‘But when the will had been proved and she realized the extent of the legacy, Nurse Hargreaves implied that I had used undue influence to persuade a patient to make me her legatee. Unfortunately, she—Nurse Hargreaves, that is—had misunderstood our relationship. She had some idea of marriage—absolutely out of the question; although I was a widower it would have been quite unsuitable—and when I told her that marriage was impossible she threatened to make a scandal—the papers, the BMA, everyone.’

  ‘But if you’d done nothing wrong,’ I said maliciously, ‘why should you have been worried?’

  I could imagine only too well. Dr Cowley’s oleaginous approach to his elderly patient, the old-world charm and courtesy, the attentive visits—influence, certainly, whether or not it might be called undue—nothing criminal, exactly, but not within the ethics of his profession.

  ‘And of course,’ I said, remembering Mrs Dudley’s disapprobation, ‘there was the business of old Miss Benson. All that would have been brought up again.’

  He started slightly at Miss Benson’s name and said bitterly, ‘I cannot think why I ever came back to this town, where all people ever do is indulge in unfounded gossip. I should have stayed in Rome after my wife died, except—’

  He broke off and I remembered hearing that there had also been gossip about his wife’s death and the large sum of money she had left him.

  ‘People have long memories,’ I said, ‘and not only in Taviscombe.’

  He appeared disconcerted by my remark and, for a moment, made no reply. Then he went on, ‘I gave Nurse Hargreaves a sum of money—quite a large amount—on condition that she went abroad. She emigrated to Australia, Queensland, I believe, and married out there. However,’ he sighed, ‘that was not the end of it. I suppose I was foolish to believe that it could be. A short while ago I heard from her. She is now a widow and had returned to England. She wanted to see me; she was very insistent about that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She was staying in one of those small hotels on West Hill and insisted that I visit her at eleven o’clock on that Monday morning, the day Miss Graham Sy Mse smal was killed. I explained that it was my day for going to Dulverton and that I would see her some other time, but she seemed to think that I was fobbing her off, as she put it, and became quite hysterical. Since she was apparently using a public telephone in the hall of the hotel I simply couldn’t take the risk of letting her go on—someone might have heard her—so I agreed to see her then.’

  Tris was moving restlessly (Tessa had gone resignedly to sleep by my feet) and I put a hand on his head to quieten him. I didn’t want to miss any of this.

  ‘It was awkward. I had to rearrange things at Dulverton, though fortunately there were only house visits to be done, no one in the surgery. Anyway, I picked her up at her hotel and we drove over West Hill, out along the old military road, where I hoped no one would see us. I tried to reason with her, but in the end I was obliged to part with a large sum of money to keep her quiet and she promised to go back to Leamington, which is apparently where she is now living with her sister.’

  He broke off and, removing his glasses again, rubbed his eyes. He looked weary and under strain, an old man, and just for a moment I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Then I remembered Miss Graham and how he had harassed her—if nothing worse. But had there been anything worse? I was uncertain now.

  As if scenting my uncertainty, he said abruptly, ‘Do you believe me? That is where I was on the morning that Miss Graham was killed. You see how I couldn’t tell the police what I had been doing? I couldn’t risk it all coming out, even after all this time.’

  I hesitated, reluctant to let go of what seemed to be the only suspect in this sad case. ‘Do you have that address in Leamington?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then, she, this Nurse Hargreaves, will be able to give you an alibi, won’t she?’

  He shrugged hopelessly. ‘I don’t know. I can hardly expect her to admit that she was blackmailing me, can I? The police may not believe me. Do you?’

  He put the question to me suddenly and I was taken off balance. It is always difficult to admit that someone you dislike, someone really unpleasant, unscrupulous, an opportunist, thoroughly vile, as my friend Linda would say, that someone like that, could, perhaps, on this particular occasion be telling the truth.

  ‘Yes,’ I said reluctantly, ‘yes, I think I do.’

  Chapter Ten

  gn="justify">Strangely enough, when I telephoned Roger that evening he seemed to believe Dr Cowley’s story too.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would certainly explain why he felt the need to lie about his movements that morning. It’s certainly not a thing he’d want to get about. I wonder,’ Roger went on thoughtfully, ‘why he told you, out of the blue, as it were.’

  ‘I think it was the weather, really,’ I said. ‘It was such a dreadful day and there we both were, so wet and miserable—you know how you feel at your lowest ebb at times like that—and then I suddenly faced him with having been seen by Sybil Jacobs ... I was rather fierce with him, I suppose, and he just came out with it.’

  ‘Well, whatever,’ Roger said. ‘It’s certainly worth pursuing. I’ll get that address in Leamington from him and go down and see this June Hargreaves. If I suddenly appear on her doorstep and ask her about seeing him that day she might just tell me the truth.’

  ‘She sounds pretty vindictive,’ I said, ‘from what Dr Cowley said—a woman scorned and all that.’

  ‘Oh well, even if she does deny all knowledge, if I see her face to face I’ll probably be able to tell if she’s lying.’

  Whether it was the result of getting so wet and sitting in that shelter in damp clothes I don’t know, but I woke the following morning with a beastly sore throat and by the next day it was a roaring cold, a streaming, sneezing, feverish horror. I dragged myself out of bed and tottered downstairs, but by the time I’d let the dogs out and given Foss a saucer of tinned food (rejected) I was obliged to collapse on to a kitchen chair, unable to contemplate any thought of breakfast.

  ‘Ma, what on earth are you doing down here?’ Michael said, coming in with the daily paper. ‘You look ghastly. Go right back to bed and I’ll bring you something up.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I replied croakily. ‘You’ll make yourself late for work. Anyway, what about your breakfast?’ I said as Michael shooed me upstairs. ‘And can you feed the dogs when they come in and perhaps you could cut up a bit of that cooked rabbit for Foss, he doesn’t like tinned stuff ...’

  I flopped back into bed and after a while Michael brought up a cup of coffee and a piece of toast.

  ‘Yes, I know you don’t want anything to eat but you can’t take aspirin on an empty stomach. Here. Sorry the coffee’s slopped into the saucer—it’s coming up the stairs that [e sspa does it. Can you sit up? Mind the coffee doesn’t drip on to the duvet. Yes, I’ve fed the animals and cooked my breakfast—bacon and fried egg, very nourishing. Right, now lie back and enjoy being an invalid.
I’ll come home at lunchtime and see how you’re going on. Bye.’

  Resolutely trying not to think of the chaos Michael had probably created in the kitchen, I lay back on my pillow and drifted off to sleep.

  I was awoken by Foss landing heavily on my chest. Animals, of course, love people being ill in bed, helpless and entirely at their mercy. A large, loving Siamese face peered into mine, assessed the situation and then settled down happily on the pillow beside me in such a way that I couldn’t turn my head without getting fur in my face, and began his usual raucous purring. I suppose it must have lulled me to sleep because when I woke again it was lunchtime and Michael was standing beside the bed waving a tin of soup in either hand.

  ‘Scotch broth or pea and ham? And don’t say you don’t want anything, because you always used to tell me that you had to feed a cold.’

  ‘Oh, pea and ham, please,’ I said weakly. ‘I don’t think I can cope with all the bits in Scotch broth. What are you going to have? There’s a pizza in the freezer, or one of those things you can heat up in the microwave ...’

  But Michael had gone. Foss, realizing that there was now a source of food downstairs, followed him. After a while Michael reappeared with the soup and some toast cut neatly into triangles.

  ‘I’ve poured you a glass of orange juice because of the Vitamin C.’ He set the tray down. ‘And, yes, it’s all right, I’ve got a pizza in the oven. Now then, I’ll nip into the market on my way back and get you a bit of fish for this evening—suitable invalid diet. And, if you’re good and are feeling better, I’ve got a most peculiar story to tell you. No, not a hint now. Eat up your soup and all will be revealed this evening!’

  I didn’t pay much attention to Michael’s promise of a strange story, thinking it was merely a ploy to cheer me up, but when he had cleared away the supper things (‘Yes, I brought in some fish and chips for me and, yes, I’ve done all the washing up, this morning’s as well’) he sat down in a chair beside my bed with a cup of coffee and said, ‘Well, now. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’