Six Feet Under

by Dorothy Simpson

  At once, as though Fate were giving him a pat on the head for Cultivating Correct Attitudes, the phone rang.

  “Thanet here.”

  “DS Lineham, sir.” Thanet grinned. Trust Mike already to be out on the job. “I’m at the house of a suicide, reported this morning. A Doctor Pettifer.”

  “It’s Dr Pettifer himself who’s committed suicide?” Thanet’s tone betrayed something of the sense of shock, betrayal almost, which he experienced whenever he heard of a member of the medical profession killing himself.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was, Thanet thought, something almost obscene about the suicide of any man who had taken the Hippocratic Oath and dedicated himself to the saving of life. Unfortunately, the stress experienced these days by overworked, over-burdened doctors took a heavy toll; the suicide rate in the profession, like alcoholism, was high.

  “Apparently,” added Lineham.

  “What d’you mean, apparently?”

  “Well, it all looks straightforward enough—an overdose helped on by alcohol, by the look of it. There’s even a suicide note. But his wife’s away and his housekeeper, well, she’s hysterical, been with him since the year dot and swears he had no reason to do it …”

  “That’s what they all say,” said Thanet. He knew only too well that the disbelief initially experienced by those closest to a suicide frequently equals and sometimes even exceeds their grief.

  “Anyway, I thought I’d better give you a ring.”

  “I’ll come along. I was just hoping for an excuse to get out of the office. It’s that big Victorian house at the end of Brompton Lane, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Pine Lodge. The one with the entrance pillars painted white.”

  “I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Have you called a doctor?”

  “The housekeeper says she doesn’t know who his personal doctor was.”

  “Even though she’s been with him for years?”

  “I know it sounds odd, sir, but that’s what she said. He was very healthy, apparently and I suppose doctors tend to treat themselves for minor ailments … Anyway, I didn’t feel it would be right to ring one of his partners. I thought we might give Doc Mallard a ring.” Mallard was the local police surgeon.

  “It’s not usual, with a suicide,” said Thanet. “But in the circumstances, yes, it’s the best thing to do. I’ll see if I can get hold of him. If not, I’ll arrange something else from this end. See you shortly.”

  Mallard was soon contacted and Thanet arranged to meet him at Pine Lodge. Brompton Lane was in the prime residential area on the far side of Sturrenden, which was a thriving market town in the heart of Kent. Thanet had been born and brought up here, so naturally he knew most of the prominent people by sight. In the car he tried to recall what he knew of Pettifer, who was—had been—a striking figure: tall, thin, with a beaky nose and jutting chin, a distinctive, bony face. He hadn’t looked an approachable man and had had the reputation of being a first-rate doctor whose patients were for that reason prepared to overlook his lack of a bedside manner.

  And of course, Thanet thought, with a spurt of interest—he had been married to the actress, Gemma Shade! She was his second wife and much younger than he. Their marriage had been the talk of Sturrenden last year—or was it the year before? Thanet wasn’t sure. Miss Shade’s reputation as a serious actress was high and everyone had been astounded when she had chosen to marry a country GP. It had not fitted her somewhat exotic public image. Thanet wondered where she was this morning.

  He was now nearing Brompton Lane and was aware of the growing knot of tension in his stomach; aware, too, that he was deliberately making his mind work in order to prevent himself thinking of the ordeal ahead. Not one of Thanet’s colleagues knew how he dreaded the first sight of a corpse. There was something about that initial glimpse of the recently dead which moved him unbearably, especially when the death had been unnatural. Perhaps it was regret at the waste, perhaps a sense of being closer at this time than at any other to that central mystery of life, the moment when a living being loses his individuality, his identity, and becomes no more than a collection of discarded bones and flesh. At one time Thanet had been ashamed of such feelings, seeing them as unmanly, inappropriate to his calling; but slowly he had come to recognise that, paradoxically, they were one of his strengths, acting as a spur to his subsequent efforts. Acknowledging the value of what had been destroyed, he replenished his own sense of purpose.

  There were the gateposts which Lineham had mentioned, painted white no doubt to act as landmarks for a tired GP trying to find his driveway in the dark after a night call.

  Well, there would be no more night calls for Pettifer, Thanet reflected as he swung into the drive of neatly-raked gravel and parked beside Lineham’s Renault 5.

  Pettifer’s sleep would never be disturbed again.

  2

  The Pettifer house was typical of so many Victorian family homes built towards the end of the nineteenth century. Constructed of rather ugly red brick it boasted large, square bay windows on either side of a shallow entrance porch and radiated an air of solidity and respectability. The figure of the uniformed constable planted outside the front door struck an incongruous note.

  “Morning, Andrews,” said Thanet. “DS Lineham inside?”

  “In the kitchen I believe, sir, with the housekeeper.” He stood aside for Thanet to pass.

  Thanet nodded and stepped into the house, closing the door behind him. The hall was wide, with doors to right and left and a broad staircase straight ahead rising to a half-landing illuminated by a stained-glass window similar to the panels on either side of the front door. A corridor alongside the staircase led presumably to the kitchen. The floor was patterned in black and white ceramic tiles and adorned by a truly magnificent Persian rug whose reds and blues gleamed in the dim light like semi-precious stones. On a carved antique oak blanket chest against the right-hand wall stood a deep pink bowl filled with Michaelmas daisies of all hues from pink to dark red, pale blue to indigo, echoing the rich colours of the carpet. The walls were hung with oil paintings, each with its own individual spotlight.

  Thanet stood quite still, absorbing the atmosphere of the house. The place was well-ordered, no doubt about that, and there was both taste and money. Whose taste and whose money, he wondered. GPs didn’t exactly starve, but neither did their incomes run to furnishings of this quality. And although Mrs Pettifer was well known, Thanet wouldn’t have thought she was enough of a show-biz personality to be earning huge sums.

  A door at the back of the house opened and closed and Detective Sergeant Lineham appeared, advancing along the narrow corridor beside the staircase.

  “Ah, there you are, Mike,” said Thanet. “Where is he?”

  “In his bedroom. Are you ready to go up?” Lineham had worked with Thanet for several years now and was accustomed to Thanet’s slow initial approach to a case, had even come to agree that those vital first impressions could be lost for ever if there was too much haste.

  “Lead the way,” said Thanet, standing back to allow Lineham to precede him.

  As he climbed the stairs he was aware of that knot in his stomach again, of the dryness in his mouth, his quickened breathing. He braced himself.

  Lineham led the way not into one of the principal bedrooms but into a small room above the front door. It was simply furnished, spartan even, with a single bed, a bedside table and one small upright chair over the back of which Pettifer’s dressing gown was neatly folded. There were no ornaments, no pictures, no concessions to luxury apart from one meagre bedside rug on the polished floorboards. Later, Thanet was to realise that this had originally been a dressing room for one of the principal bedrooms; one wall consisted entirely of built-in cupboards and there was a communicating door. For the moment, however, his attention was entirely focused on the occupant of the bed.

  Doctor Pettifer had died peacefully—indeed it was difficult to believe that he was not simply asleep. He
lay comfortably curled on his right side, chin resting on right hand, only his stillness and the unnatural pallor of his skin betraying his true condition.

  “No doubt that he’s dead?” Thanet murmured.

  “None, sir. He’s been gone for some hours. He’s cooling fast.”

  Thanet laid his hand against Pettifer’s cheek and found that is was cold, clammy to the touch. Lineham was right. Some time last night, then. He stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back. Better to be safe than sorry, touch nothing, just in case. Though he had to admit, everything looked innocuous enough, if suicide can ever be so described. Already his own tension was beginning to ease and he noted the empty pill container on the bedside table, the stained tumbler, the half-empty wine bottle. He stooped to peer at the label: Taylor’s 1908 Vintage Port.

  “Looks as though he went out in style,” he said. “There was a note, you said?”

  Lineham reached into his breast pocket, passed Thanet an envelope, handling it with care. “Addressed to his wife. Seems clear enough.”

  On the envelope was one word, Gemma. The letter was brief and to the point.

  Darling,

  Forgive me for letting you down like this. Please, try and make it up to Andy for me, will you?

  Ever yours,

  Arnold

  Thanet stared at the piece of paper. It seemed so … inadequate a message. But then no letter, no matter how long and tender, could possibly console a wife for being left in this way. The act of suicide was in itself explicit enough, the message inescapable: You don’t matter enough to me to make my life worth living.

  “Who’s Andy?”

  “Doctor Pettifer’s son by his first marriage. He’s away at boarding school.”

  Thanet frowned. “Poor kid. He’ll have to be told, of course. Where is Mrs Pettifer?”

  “In London, apparently. She’s due back any minute, according to the housekeeper. Went up last evening, to have dinner with her agent and discuss a new play. She’s Gemma Shade, the actress.”

  “Yes, I know. She stayed the night, then?”

  “That was the arrangement.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Mrs Price—the housekeeper—doesn’t know. She was away last night too. It was her day off yesterday and she left soon after breakfast, to spend it with her sister out at Merrisham. When she came back this morning she found the curtains still drawn everywhere, no sign of Dr Pettifer having had breakfast, so she came up to investigate and found him like this. She’s very upset. As I said, she’s been with him for years.”

  “Bit odd, wasn’t it, being away overnight? I’d have thought she’d have had to be back in time to prepare his breakfast, especially if Mrs Pettifer was away.”

  “In the normal way of things, she would have been. But she had special permission to spend the night at her sister’s. There was something on in the village that they both particularly wanted to go to.”

  “Pity.”

  A car crunched on the gravel outside.

  “That’ll be Doc Mallard,” said Thanet, crossing to the window. “Yes, there he is. Go down and meet him, will you?”

  While Lineham was out of the room Thanet glanced around once more, noting for the first time the little pile of personal possessions on the seat of the upright chair. He moved across and glanced through them: wallet, thermometer, two bunches of keys, a couple of pens, some loose change and a diary. Thanet picked the latter up, found yesterday’s date. G London, he read. Mrs P to sister. These were the only entries for this week. He flicked quickly through the rest of the diary but found nothing of interest. Most of the pages were blank, the few entries consisting chiefly of social engagements and Andy’s beginning- and end-of-term dates.

  Thanet put the diary back on the chair thoughtfully. It was interesting that Mrs Price’s visit to her sister had been entered. Would a man normally note down the fact that his housekeeper was going to be away for the night? Surely not, unless he had a special reason for doing so—wanting the house to himself, for example. No, this had been no dramatic gesture carefully staged so that the suicide attempt would be discovered in time, Pettifer hauled back from the brink of death. Pettifer had meant to die, had timed the whole thing carefully. With both wife and housekeeper away until morning there would have been little chance of an unwelcome last-minute reprieve.

  What a waste, Thanet thought, moving back to gaze down on the peaceful face of the dead man, what a waste. What could drive a man like Pettifer to kill himself? Despair, presumably, but over what? Thanet had met despair in many guises and in the most unexpected places, but suicide was something he had always found difficult to accept with equanimity. Was it not, after all, a form of murder—self-murder—surely no less heinous a crime than murder itself, if more understandable. And in one way, far more damaging to others: the murder victim is less likely to leave behind such a burden of guilt and self-reproach on his nearest and dearest. How close had Pettifer been to his wife, Thanet wondered. How significant was the fact that they had had separate bedrooms?

  Mallard and Lineham entered the room, breaking into Thanet’s train of thought. Mallard brushed his hand uneasily across his bald head as they greeted each other. He looked unusually grim. That was understandable. If Thanet found it hard to accept that a doctor had killed himself, how much more difficult it must be for a colleague. And, for all Thanet knew, the two men might have been friends. A tactful withdrawal was indicated.

  “We’ll wait downstairs,” Thanet said. “There’s not much room in here.”

  Mrs Price was huddled at the kitchen table, both hands clasped around a mug of steaming liquid, seeking comfort. The room was large, high-ceilinged and had an old-fashioned air, with a tall built-in dresser, a row of servants’ bells labelled with the names of the different rooms and glass-fronted wall-cupboards painted institution green. Mrs Price matched her kingdom both in her ample proportions and in her slight dowdiness; her patterned crimplene dress and neatly waved brown hair would have passed unnoticed anywhere. She was, Thanet guessed, in her early sixties. As the two men entered the room she turned a dazed, tear-stained face towards them.

  Thanet advanced, introduced himself, apologised for having to ask more questions. Courtesy paid off with all but the very few, he found. Mrs Price clearly found it reassuring. Thanet quickly learned that she had left the house at nine-thirty the previous morning and had travelled to her sister’s by bus, arriving just before eleven-thirty. They had spent the afternoon at home and in the evening had attended a meeting in the village. This morning she had caught the workmen’s bus at six-twenty in order to be back in time to clear up the breakfast dishes.

  “I gather you don’t usually spend the night away, on your day off?”

  “No, but I specially wanted to go to this meeting and Doctor Pettifer said I could. If only I’d stayed at home …”

  “When did you ask him?”

  “About three months ago.” Mrs Price’s cheeks were pink. “I didn’t often ask,” she said defensively. “The last time was when …”

  “Nobody’s questioning your right to the occasional night off,” Thanet said soothingly. “How did Dr Pettifer seem before you left, yesterday morning?”

  “Fine. Real cheerful, he was,” the housekeeper said promptly. “That’s why I can’t believe …” Her lips began to quiver and she dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose. “I don’t believe it,” she said vehemently, recovering herself. “The doctor would never’ve done it, never. Happy as a sandboy he was, yesterday. Well, I suppose that’s putting it a bit strong. He never is … was … one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but I knew him and I could tell.”

  “How long have you been with him, Mrs Price?”

  “Fifteen years,” she said proudly. “Ever since Andy—that’s his son—was a baby. And very happy I’ve been.”

  But there was a hint of reservation in that last statement. “So you must have run the house alone after the first Mrs Pettifer’s death,” he sai
d, hazarding a guess as to where the trouble lay.

  “That’s right. For five years. Managed fine I did, too.”

  So he was right. Mrs Price had resented having to hand over the reins to a second Mrs Pettifer.

  “Did you know that Mrs Pettifer was going up to London yesterday?”

  “Yes, because of the meals. ‘We’ll both be out to lunch, and dinner’ll just be for one,’ she says to me, after breakfast yesterday morning. ‘I’m going up to town this evening to see my agent and I shan’t be back till tomorrow.’ Well, I was a bit annoyed. I mean, I’d had this trip to my sister’s arranged for months, like I said. ‘But I’m going to be away tonight too,’ I says. ‘What about the doctor’s breakfast tomorrow morning?’ ‘I expect he’ll survive,’ she says, as cool as you please. And now …” Mrs Price’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh come, Mrs Price,” Thanet said gently. “You surely can’t be saying that the doctor did what he did because you weren’t here to cook his breakfast?”

  The deliberate absurdity of the question made her smile. “No, but if I hadn’t stayed away …”

  “Mrs Price,” Thanet said firmly. “Even if you had been here, what could you have done? I don’t suppose that in the normal way of things you would see Dr Pettifer after he retired for the night?” He waited for her shake of the head. “There you are, then. And besides, you must remember this. If someone is really determined to kill himself, nothing will stop him. If anyone prevents him, he’ll just try again. And from the way in which Dr Pettifer selected a night when he knew that both you and Mrs Pettifer would be away …” He paused to allow the point to sink in.

  “It’s no good, I still can’t believe it,” she said stubbornly. “He just wasn’t the sort to give up, no matter what it was. When the first Mrs Pettifer was dying—she had cancer, and you know what that’s like, she was ill for two years before she died—well, he never gave up hope, never gave up trying to save her. And just now, what with Mrs Pettifer being pregnant and all …”