Six Feet Under

by Dorothy Simpson

  “Mrs Pettifer is pregnant?”

  “Six months gone, she is. The baby’s due in the new year. He was that thrilled about it … And then there’s Andy … Oh, who’s going to tell Andy? Doted on his father, he did.” And she dissolved into tears again.

  “I think I can hear Doc Mallard coming down,” said Lineham softly.

  Thanet nodded, patted Mrs Price on the shoulder and went out into the hall, followed by Lineham. They met Mallard at the foot of the stairs. The police surgeon shook his head, his mouth tucked down at the corners.

  “Doesn’t seem much doubt about it, does there? The post mortem will verify it, of course, but that combination of alcohol and drugs … pretty typical of how a doctor would choose to go, if he wanted to. By far the most comfortable way to kill yourself, if you’re set on it. Was there a note?”

  Thanet nodded.

  “That clinches it then, I should think. Why was I called in, by the way?”

  “The housekeeper didn’t know who his own doctor was and Mrs Pettifer is away. She’s due back shortly.”

  “What a mess. She’s pregnant, I believe.”

  “So the housekeeper said. Did you know him well?”

  “Pettifer?” Mallard pursed his lips, shook his head. “Not really. I knew him, of course. Most doctors in a place the size of Sturrenden run into each other from time to time, at meetings and so on.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Medically, his reputation was excellent. As a man, well, you’d have to ask his wife, or his partners. They operate from the Health Centre on the Maidstone Road.”

  So Mallard hadn’t liked Pettifer, or at least had had reservations about him. Interesting, Thanet thought. “Have you heard of any reason why he might have done this? Rumours of depression, poor health, marital troubles, financial worries?”

  “None. Truly, not a whisper. I won’t say it’s incomprehensible, because no one ever knows just what’s going on inside someone else’s mind, but in this case … Anyway,” Mallard said, more briskly, “that’s it, for the moment, as far as I’m concerned. I must get on.”

  “What time do you think he must have taken the overdose?” Thanet asked as he escorted Mallard to the car.

  “Difficult to estimate exactly. Death would probably have been pretty swift. He would have known the appropriate dosage of whatever drug he used, of course, and the alcohol would have speeded things up enormously. He’d probably be dead within an hour or two. But there are various factors which would have delayed the cooling of the body—the fact that he was warmly tucked up in bed, that it was a mild night anyway … I’d guess he took it between ten and twelve last night.”

  Mallard’s guess was good enough for him, Thanet thought as he watched the police surgeon drive away. Mallard’s integrity and acumen were widely respected in the force. Thanet was fond of the older man, had known him since childhood. Pettifer’s death had shaken Mallard, Thanet reflected as he returned to the house. The doctor’s usual dry humour and testiness had been conspicuous by their absence.

  Back in the kitchen he accepted the mug of coffee which Mrs Price had made while he was away. She looked calmer now, had perhaps found the tiny chore therapeutic.

  “Well now, Mrs Price,” Thanet said carefully, “the police surgeon has examined Dr Pettifer and I’m afraid it really does look as though he committed suicide. He even left a note, for Mrs Pettifer. Are you absolutely certain that you can’t think of any reason why he should have done this?”

  Mrs Price shook her head, her lips compressed in a stubborn line.

  “No money worries?”

  A vehement shake of the head this time. “There’s never been any shortage of money in this house. Doctor Pettifer had a good practice and I’ve always understood that the first Mrs Pettifer left him everything when she died. And I believe she wasn’t short of a penny.”

  “No … difficulties in his second marriage?”

  Mrs Price folded her arms and glared at him. “No. Not that I’d tell you if there had been, I’m not one to gossip, but you can take it from me there weren’t. I’d have been the first to know, living in the house. No, he worshipped the ground she walked on.”

  “And Mrs Pettifer?”

  “She treated him well, I can’t say different.”

  And, thought Thanet, it was clear that she would have liked to. It sounded as though there had been no problem there. All the same … “I did notice,” he said delicately, “that Dr and Mrs Pettifer did not share a bedroom …”

  “That,” said Mrs Price, with an air of putting someone in his place, “was simply out of consideration for Mrs Pettifer. He didn’t like her being disturbed at night. He was often called out, you know. So, ever since he knew she was expecting he’s insisted on sleeping in the dressing room. So polite and considerate, he always was …”

  Tears were imminent again and Thanet intervened quickly. “What about health? Did he have any problems there?”

  “As strong as a horse, he was. Never a day’s illness as long as I’ve been here. That’s why I don’t know who his doctor is, or if he’s got one, even. Perhaps it’s one of his partners. Oh, I’m not saying he didn’t have the odd cold, that sort of thing, but he used to dose himself and there was never anything serious. I can’t recall him ever being off work for more than a day or two in the last fifteen years. No, I tell a lie. He was laid up for a few days last year. He tripped over something and tore a muscle in his leg. But he didn’t make a fuss about it. He put a lot of store by keeping fit. Didn’t smoke, didn’t drink—except at a dinner party, perhaps—and took regular exercise.”

  Dr Pettifer, Thanet thought, sounded dauntingly self-disciplined. “Any family worries? Parents? Son?”

  “His parents are dead and Andy’s as nice a boy as you’d hope to find, specially these days with all the tales you hear about youngsters. No,” and Mrs Price sat down suddenly, her eyes filling with tears yet again, “there’s no reason, no reason at all, I tell you. It must have been an accident.”

  Thanet and Lineham said nothing. Who better qualified or more aware than a doctor, of the dangers of taking drugs and alcohol together? And there was the note. But there seemed little point in saying so. Mrs Price would have to come to terms with the tragedy in her own time.

  “What time is Mrs Pettifer due back?” Thanet said.

  “Around a quarter to ten. She’s got an ante-natal appointment at ten-thirty this morning.”

  They all looked at the clock. Ten to ten. And, as if she had timed this entrance as carefully as one of her appearances on stage, the front door slammed and a woman’s voice could be heard in the hall. Thanet and Lineham rose in unison.

  It sounded as though Gemma Pettifer was home.

  3

  Thanet turned hurriedly to Mrs Price. “What is the name of Mrs Pettifer’s doctor?” Six months pregnant, I should have thought of this before.

  “Dr Barson.”

  “Get in touch with him right away,” Thanet said to Lineham. “Mrs Pettifer will need him.”

  “There’s a phone on the wall over there,” said Mrs Price. “And if there’s anything I can do …”

  “Make some tea,” Thanet said on his way to the door. “I expect she could do with some.” Tea, he thought. The English panacea for all ills. What would this nation do without it?

  Mrs Pettifer—or Gemma Shade, as her many fans would call her—was standing in the entrance hall facing an uncomfortable Constable Andrews.

  “Accident?” she was saying. “What sort of an accident?”

  “Ah, Inspector Thanet,” Andrews said with relief. “This is …”

  “Inspector?” she said, turning.

  Thanet wondered if he had caught a hint of wariness in the questioning look she gave him. He had never seen her off-stage or at close quarters before and his immediate reaction was one of surprise that she should look so ordinary. She was small and slight, with long brown hair caught back in an elastic band, and she was wearing a flowing
Indian cotton dress which effectively concealed her fairly advanced state of pregnancy. He managed to manoeuvre her into a chair in the drawing room before breaking the news to her.

  “Dead?” she said, staring up at him. “Of an overdose? Arnold?”

  She was, he now saw, older than he had thought, in her mid-thirties, perhaps, but still a good ten years or so younger than her husband. Her one outstanding feature was her eyes, which were a clear willow green with very distinct irises. Thanet was conscious of an unusually strong surge of compassion.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said.

  Her eyes slid away from his and she folded her hands protectively across her swollen belly, as if to reassure the child within that she at least had no intention of abandoning it. He could almost feel her trying to assimilate the facts of her husband’s death and the significance of the word “overdose”—Pettifer’s medical knowledge, the near-impossibility of its having been an accident …

  “Suicide, you mean, then,” she said at last.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. There’ll have to be an inquest, I’m afraid.” He took out the note. “Your husband left a letter for you.”

  She stared at the proffered envelope for a moment before reaching out to take it between the tips of two fingers, warily. Then she glanced up at him, the green eyes accusing. “It’s been opened,” she said.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s what one might call standard procedure in these circumstances.”

  “Standard procedure,” she breathed scornfully as she took out the single sheet of paper. Her eyes took in the brief message in one single sweep. “And this is … all?” she said.

  Thanet understood at once what she meant. She was echoing what he had felt when he first read it and she was right. Those pitifully few words did seem a totally inadequate valediction. “I’m afraid so. And I shall have to ask for it back, temporarily.”

  She returned it to him, then shook her head. “It’s no good. I still can’t believe it.”

  “Why not?” said Thanet gently.

  She frowned and stared down at her hands as if they held the answer. “All sorts of reasons,” she said slowly. “As far as I knew he had no health problems—and surely I would have known, if there had been anything sufficiently serious for him to … And then, he was so looking forward to the baby’s arrival.” She bit her lip. “Only yesterday, at breakfast, we were discussing names …”

  “Was that when you last saw him? At breakfast?”

  The door opened and Lineham entered, bearing a cup of tea. Dr Barson, he announced, would be here shortly. Thanet repeated his question.

  “No, that was at about six o’clock last night,” she said, accepting the tea with a grateful nod, “when I tucked him up in bed, so to speak, with a hot drink and a couple of paracetamol. He said he thought he had a cold coming on … and whenever that happened, which was rarely, he’d always have a hot bath, take a couple of paracetamol and put himself to bed.”

  She was still calm, remarkably calm really, Thanet thought. But he had seen this kind of reaction before. He guessed that at the moment she was being cushioned by a sense of unreality. Later on, when it hit her … He sat down and said gently, “Do you feel up to telling me briefly about yesterday?”

  “What do you want to know, exactly?”

  “If you could run through the day, so that I could have some idea of your husband’s movements …”

  Yesterday, it seemed, had been a day like any other, with no hint of the tragedy to come. Dr Pettifer had left for the Health Centre immediately after breakfast. After taking surgery he had done his usual round of late-morning visits before returning home to lunch, when he had behaved just as usual.

  “He didn’t seem at all depressed?”

  “Not in the least, no.”

  “You really wouldn’t say that there was anything out of the ordinary in his behaviour or his attitude?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “And after lunch?”

  After lunch Mrs Pettifer had gone up to her room for the afternoon rest upon which her husband had insisted during her pregnancy. Pettifer had returned from his second round of visits at around five-thirty. This was when he had first said that he thought he had an incipient cold. As his wife was going to be out for the evening he had decided to take a hot bath right away and go to bed early. Mrs Pettifer had waited until he was in bed and had then taken up the hot drink and paracetamol.

  “And that was at about six o’clock, you say?”

  “Yes, just before I left. My taxi was due at ten past six. I was supposed to be catching the six twenty-seven and when I went up I asked if he’d like me to cancel my engagement and stay at home. But he said no, that was quite unnecessary, that in any case it would be silly for me to keep him company in case I caught his cold. I suppose he knew I’d be disappointed if I didn’t go. You see, I stopped work a couple of months ago, because of the baby, and he knew I’d found it difficult to adjust. I was so excited when my agent sent me this new part to consider, but then I simply couldn’t make up my mind whether to accept it or not. That’s why I was meeting him, to discuss it with him. So my husband …” She stopped.

  “Yes?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. As I say, he just said it was unnecessary for me to stay, that no doubt he’d be right as rain by morning.”

  This wasn’t what she had been going to say, Thanet was certain of it, but he didn’t feel he could press her at the moment. He let it pass. “You gave him a hot drink, you say?”

  “Yes. Cocoa.” Her eyes widened. “He didn’t … it wasn’t in the cocoa that he took the …”

  “No. You left the drink with him, then?”

  “Yes. It was very hot and he was still sipping it when I left.”

  “And you also gave him some paracetamol, you said?”

  “That’s right. Two tablets. That’s all he’d ever take.”

  “And you left the container on the bedside table?”

  “No. The paracetamol are kept in the cabinet, in the bathroom. I took two out, put the container back.”

  “And you’re sure they were paracetamol?”

  “Certain.”

  “It’s labelled, the container?”

  “Of course. But there couldn’t have been any mistake anyway. Both of us have … had a bit of a thing about drugs. Neither of us ever used anything but paracetamol, unless it was absolutely essential to take an antibiotic, perhaps, and we never keep any other drugs in that cabinet.”

  “Could you tell me if your husband would ever take a drink before he went to bed, to help him sleep, perhaps?”

  “Alcohol d’you mean? Good heavens, no! Never!”

  Her astonishment was genuine, Thanet was sure of it. But remember, she’s an actress, and a first-rate one at that, whispered the voice of caution. All the same, he could see no reason to disbelieve her. Mrs Price had said much the same thing. By now he thought he had a clear picture of what had happened. Pettifer had waited until he was certain that there was no possibility of his wife returning and had then disposed of the cocoa mug. (But why bother? And where was it now?) Then he had fetched the bottle of port, the glass and the necessary quantity of drugs and had returned to bed to seek eternal oblivion.

  But why?

  He must have had his reasons and they must have been cogent, powerful indeed—and yet, both wife and housekeeper had been blissfully unaware of their existence. What was more, Pettifer had played into that ignorance, had fostered and encouraged it, had kept the charade up right to the end. And why the fuss about something as trivial as a cold, if he had intended suicide? To enjoy, one last time, the luxury of being cosseted by his wife? Surely, someone who intended committing suicide would be past caring about such things?

  “Oh, I don’t understand it,” Mrs Pettifer burst out. “I just don’t understand it. He was so cheerful yesterday. How can he have … I know that by evening he thought he was getting a cold, but that was nothing, such a … trivial thing. He insisted that I sho
uld still go to London … I simply can’t believe that all the time he was planning to …” She was becoming more and more agitated and now she stopped abruptly, blinked.

  Here it comes, Thanet thought.

  She struggled clumsily to her feet. “No!” she said, her voice rising. “It’s not possible! Not Arnold. He’d never do such a thing. Never. He’d never leave me all alone, like this …” She sounded near panic now and with one brief gesture at her belly somehow managed to evoke all the bleak and lonely years ahead, bringing up the child alone.

  Thanet rose as Lineham jumped up and took one or two uncertain steps towards her. The front door banged and voices could be heard outside in the hall. Lineham swung around and made for the door with evident relief. “That’s probably the doctor.”

  Barson was tall, balding and wore pebble-lensed spectacles. One sweeping glance told him the situation. “Gemma,” he said, hurrying across the room to take both her hands. “I am so very sorry.”

  His use of Mrs Pettifer’s Christian name surprised Thanet a little, but he realised at once that it was only to be expected. Pettifer had no doubt known Barson well—he would, after all, scarcely have entrusted the health of his wife and coming child to a mere acquaintance.

  “I think Mrs Pettifer should rest,” Barson said, with a hostile glance at Thanet. “She can’t afford to take risks at this stage. So if you don’t mind …”

  “By all means.” Thanet watched them go, Barson solicitously supporting her. The doctor’s arrival had been fortuitously well-timed, coming as it had just at the moment when Mrs Pettifer’s self-control had begun to crack.

  The thought slid insidiously into his mind: too fortuitous? Had Mrs Pettifer heard the doctor’s car, in the drive?

  Somehow, with her going, Thanet felt a curious shift in his attitude towards her. Compassion for her plight was natural in the circumstances, but now, thinking back over the interview, it occured to him that the strength of his reaction had been surprising. One of the hall-marks of a first-rate actor is the degree of response he is able to arouse in his audience. Had he, Thanet, just witnessed a truly superb performance, so carefully calculated, so understated that at no point had it crossed his mind that it could be anything other than genuine? Or was he being less than fair to Gemma Pettifer?