by Hazel Holt
“Serves him right! So you managed to gather all this from the letters?”
“Yes, they were long rambling letters, explaining how he’d got into the mess, half trying to excuse himself and half complaining about what he called John’s holier-than-thou attitude. Pathetic really.”
“And John kept the letters.”
“I suppose he thought they were a sort of insurance against Francis going to the bad again.”
“Written proof about what had happened.”
“Well, yes, I suppose they were.”
“Which gives Francis a pretty good reason for killing John, don’t you think?”
Nora nodded. “It’s certainly a motive. But,” she continued, “why now? I mean they’ve both been down in the West Country for some time, so why has he waited so long.” She was silent for a moment then she said, “I think I told you that Francis married someone half his age. He also married well – professionally speaking, that is, his father-in-law is a top consultant and has quite a bit of influence, I believe. Perhaps Francis was planning to move up a step, go back to London even.”
“That’s possible.”
“Even if it wasn’t that,” Nora said, “he might be nervous that one day John might reveal his nasty little secret. That wouldn’t go down well with his wife’s family.”
“True.”
“It really is a pretty powerful motive.”
“Especially since he was in Taviscombe on the day John died and he was late for the clinic at the hospital,” I said.
“Good heavens – how did you find out all this?”
I told her about my conversation with Lyn Varley. “So you see,” I said, “it all mounts up, doesn’t it?”
“So you think I should get in touch with your nice policeman?”
“I don’t think you’ve any choice,” I said.
The weather, which had been dull and wet, suddenly became hot and sunny again. It was stifling indoors and even in the garden the air was still and heavy. Trailing from shop to shop in Taviscombe was really enervating and I went into the air-conditioned comfort of the supermarket with some relief. I was lingering by the frozen food cabinets, enjoying the cold air that came up from them, when I saw Alan and Susan. I noticed with envy that, although every other female in the store was slopping about in brief tops or sundresses, Susan looked her usual elegant self in a neat shirtwaister.
“Hello,” I greeted them, “isn’t it hot! How do you manage to look so cool, Susan? Though I suppose after Canada you’re used to hot weather.”
She smiled. “Both the summers and the winters are more extreme over there.”
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
“Sometimes, though I do love being back home again.”
“She’s always thought of England as home,” Alan said fondly, “that’s what she called it in her letters.”
“I suppose I was always something of an ex-pat,” Susan said. “It’s different for the next generation.”
“Still,” Alan said, “Fiona’s settled down so well, you’d never think she wasn’t born and bred over here. Actually, Sheila, I’m glad we bumped into you; I’ve been meaning to ring you. I’ve had an idea I’d like your opinion on.”
“Really?”
“It occurred to me that it would be nice to have some sort of memorial to John Morrison.”
“A memorial?”
“Yes, he was such a wonderful doctor and he died in such tragic circumstances that I thought it would be an appropriate gesture.”
“What sort of thing did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Oh, some kind of medical equipment for the hospital, don’t you think? That’s why I wanted to have a word with you to ask you to put it to the Hospital Friends’ committee.”
“Well yes, I think that would be really nice. What do you think, Susan?”
“I agree with Alan, and I’m sure the committee will be able to come up with something the hospital needs.”
“Goodness yes, there’ll be plenty of ideas, I’m sure. I’ll certainly put it to them.”
“Susan and I will organise a subscription,” Alan said. “I daresay a lot of people will want to contribute. Mind you, I don’t suppose we’ll be able to raise enough for anything really big. It’s just a gesture really.”
“And a very good one too,” I said warmly. “Actually there’s a meeting of the committee next week so I’ll let you know what they come up with. Come to think of it, why don’t we use the money you raise to go with what’s already been found for that new digital X-ray machine, you know the one John Morrison came to talk to the committee about. Then it could be given to the hospital in his name.”
“That’s a really excellent idea,” Alan said. “Don’t you agree, Susan?”
“Yes I do, it would be very suitable.”
“The main thing will be to get Brian Norris on side,” I said. “He’s always difficult and objects to things on principle! I don’t think the others will raise any objections – oh, except Maureen Dawson, who took umbrage when Dr Morrison wouldn’t stay to have coffee with us that time. No, I’m sure there’ll be a majority in favour.”
Alan laughed. “Well, let me know how it goes and then we can get cracking. Fiona said she’d do some leaflet things for it on her computer – she’s an absolute wonder with it, that girl. I don’t know how young people keep up with things like that!”
When I got home I was about to call Nora to tell her about Alan’s idea, when the phone rang. It was Thea asking if I’d babysit that evening as they were going to supper with Jilly and Roger. So by the time I’d got myself ready, found a small gift for Alice from the store I always keep for such occasions, and seen to the animals, there was no time to get in touch with Nora.
I enjoyed my evening with Alice who was, fortunately, in a compliant mood and willing to be entertained, eating up all her supper, going up to bed without protest (after receiving the small gift) and even falling asleep before I’d finished my second reading of Cinderella. I settled down with the delicious food Thea had left for me and was so absorbed by the new biography she had also left, that I was quite surprised to see them back.
“How was she?” Thea asked.
“Good as gold. No problems. How was your evening?”
“Lovely,” Thea said, “Jilly did a splendid thing with halibut and a really gorgeous mango ice cream.”
“Oh, by the way,” Michael said, coming into the room, “Roger said he’d like to come round and see you tomorrow morning, if that’s all right. Something to do with the Morrison case. I don’t need to ask if you’ve been – how shall I put it – taking an interest in it?”
“Well, considering I was actually there when it happened,” I said with dignity, “I don’t think it’s strange that Roger would want my input.”
Michael laughed. “Input – well, that’s one way of describing it. Anyway, it seems there’s something he wants to talk to you about.”
Roger arrived quite early the next morning. I was all behind-hand anyway because Tris had upset his water bowl in the night and Foss had (probably deliberately) walked about in the resultant flood and jumped up on the work-top and cooker, leaving muddy footprints everywhere. By the time I’d finished mopping and wiping and had my breakfast, and fed the miscreants and sketchily tidied up the sitting room, Roger had arrived before I’d had time to put the coffee on.
“Sorry,” I said, “I’ll just go and see to it now, it won’t take long.”
“No thanks,” Roger said, “I mustn’t stay, I’ve got a meeting at 11.00 and I must see to a few things before then.”
“Well, sit down anyway and tell me what this is all about.”
“Right. As you will no doubt know, I had a call from your friend Nora. She told me all about the letters she’d found from Francis Wheeler and she filled me in on the background, all the past history with John Morrison.”
“Oh good.”
“I must say it was pretty damning.”
�
��That’s what we thought,” I said.
“And I gather that you did your Miss Marple stuff at the hospital?”
“Yes, well, I just happened to be in there talking to Lyn Varley in Reception…”
Roger smiled. “I am fully aware of your methods, Sheila.”
“Anyway, Francis Wheeler was in Taviscombe on the day of the murder and he was late for his clinic.”
“Absolutely. All that is perfectly true. Nevertheless, in spite of all that, I’m afraid he couldn’t possibly have murdered John Morrison.”
Chapter Fifteen
For a moment I stared at Roger, not really having taken in what he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m afraid your case against Francis Wheeler, beautifully worked out I must say, simply doesn’t hold up.”
“But why?”
“Well, after you said that he had a puncture I started to think – a consultant or surgeon would need to be careful of his hands. Changing a wheel is a tricky business, could damage his hands. So I got in touch with the Rescue Services – they keep timed records of all their call-outs and, guess what?”
“What?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“At the time John Morrison was being murdered in Taviscombe,” Roger said, “Francis Wheeler was having his tyre changed by a nice RAC man just outside Crowcombe on the A358.”
I sighed. “Oh well, I suppose it was too good to be true, it all fitted so perfectly.”
Roger smiled. “Life, dear Sheila, as you very well know, is not perfect.”
“So have you any suspects, perfect or otherwise?” I asked crossly.
“Not really.”
“What about alibis then? If Francis Wheeler has one, what about all the other doctors?”
“Dr Macdonald’s in the clear. He was in his room talking to a pharmaceuticals rep. He escorted him to the door when they’d finished and he’d just gone straight into Reception when that girl – Lorna – came back and told them that John Morrison was dead. The other girl, Valerie Carter and one of the nurses were there all the time, so they’re all right.”
“I’m glad. Though I never had Alec Macdonald down as a killer! What about the other doctors?”
“Dr Porter was out on a call, but neither of the Stevensons have any sort of alibi. She was in her room, just come on duty and hadn’t got round to seeing her patients yet, and he says he wasn’t on duty and was alone in his room working on some sort of research stuff he was doing.”
“The nurses?”
“As I said, one was in Reception at the relevant time and the other one was with a patient. The nurse practitioner, what’s her name?”
“Nancy Williams.”
“She’d just seen one patient and she says she was checking her next patient’s details on her computer when they rang through to tell her what had happened. So no alibi.”
“Oh I’m sure it couldn’t have been Nancy! She’s really nice.”
“Niceness wouldn’t necessarily be admissible in a court of law,” Roger laughed.
“All right! But what motive could she possibly have had?”
“Who knows? Anyway she has to stay on the list.”
I thought for a moment. “What about the people in the alternative medicine side? They could perfectly well have come through to the surgery.”
Roger shook his head. “No. All those that were in that day were with patients.”
“Oh.”
“However, their receptionist wasn’t in that morning, she’d called in sick. Everyone was complaining about how difficult it made things for them – so that means the murderer could have come in that way.”
“So it could have been someone from outside and not necessarily someone already in the surgery?”
“Exactly.”
“Sergeant Harris did say, when he first came to see me, how difficult it was to keep track of people, given the layout of the place.”
“You can say that again. No, I’m afraid the field’s wide open. It’s a great pity we don’t know more about John Morrison’s life – apart from his work, that is.” He paused and gave me a sideways glance. “I don’t suppose you feel like having another chat with your friend Nora? She’s about the only contact we have who could fill us in on the background, give us a few names, perhaps.”
“There’s his ex-wife, Virginia,” I said.
“Not really. She’s in London. Yes, I know she could have come down to Taviscombe, but as far as I can tell she’s happily married to someone else and hasn’t been in touch with Morrison for ages.”
“The man she married knew him – did him a very bad turn, in fact, when they all worked together, not to mention having an affair with his wife.” I told him what Nora had told me about that particular situation.
“Mm yes, but surely it’s Morrison who’d have a motive for killing his wife and this other man, rather than the other way round.”
“I suppose so,” I said reluctantly.
“Anyway, she has an alibi, well, an alibi of sorts. She was in a seminar at a London hospital the afternoon of that day and it would have been very difficult for her to have made it back from Taviscombe in time.”
“Oh well, that’s that.”
“Cheer up, Sheila, I’m sure you’ll come up with something when you’ve had a chat with your friend.”
I didn’t ring Nora straight away after he’d gone. I felt a bit uncomfortable about it. Usually I approach Roger with anything I may have gleaned in the way of information, he doesn’t often actually suggest that I should approach someone.
I turned out the animals’ baskets, put their blankets in the washing machine, and took their baskets and cushions out of doors to give them a good shake. Foss, who had been industriously digging in one of the flower beds, came up and regarded his basket suspiciously and sniffed at an old bone that Tris had hidden under his cushion and which had been dislodged by my vigorous action. Deciding that it wasn’t worth investigating he went away and sat in the sun on the lid of the cold frame at the top of the garden. Tris, however, came rushing up and claimed his hidden treasure, which he took away, with a reproachful look in my direction, to secrete it elsewhere.
Deciding I couldn’t put it off any longer I rang Nora.
“Hello,” I said rather too brightly, “how are you? It’s such a glorious day, I wondered if you’d like to drive out to Exford and have lunch there?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Splendid. I’ll pick you up at about twelve, if that’s all right.”
Having actually made the arrangement I felt a bit nervous until I remembered I had the good news to tell her about Alan’s memorial fund. Somehow that made me feel rather better and I drove out to Porlock in a more cheerful frame of mind.
“Oh this is nice,” Nora said when we were settled in the pub. “I was feeling a bit dismal today – this is just what I needed to cheer me up.”
“Well, there is something I think you’ll really find cheerful,” I said, and told her about Alan’s proposal.
“What a nice idea,” she said gratefully.
“And I thought we could put the money raised towards the special X-ray machine he wanted for the hospital and it could be in his name.”
“That would be really splendid. It’s something he was very keen on, in fact it was his idea that the hospital should try and get one. It would please him very much.”
We had a pleasant leisurely lunch and I suggested that we should drive back over Porlock Common. The heather and the gorse were fully out and just at that peak of perfection before the first hint of brown indicates that summer is nearly over. I stopped the car on the high point from which you have a panoramic view of the surrounding purple-covered hills and a glimpse of the sea far below. A few sheep, newly released from their heavy fleeces, were industriously nibbling away at the short grass.
“Wouldn’t it be awful,” I said looking at them, “if we had to forage for every mouthful of food like that – th
ink how your jaws would ache!”
Nora laughed. “They probably have different jaws from us – like cows with three stomachs.” She undid her seat belt and opened her window. “It smells so good up here. I know I have the sea and I love the smell of that, but on a day like this up here you get that wonderful honey smell from the heather when the sun is on it. Perfect!”
“I know,” I said. “Smells in certain places at certain times. It’s only for a week or so that I get that wonderful smell from my balsam tree – in the spring when the leaves first come out and there’s just a hint of rain in the air, that’s magic.”
“John always loved the spring,” Nora said. “We used to go to Kew Gardens for the lilacs. I know it’s a cliché, but it seemed miraculous every time.” She stared out of the window, but appeared to be seeing something quite different than the scene before her. “Oh I do miss him, Sheila. I thought it would get better, but it seems to be worse every day. Sometimes I don’t know if I can bear it.”
“Nora, my dear, I had no idea it was as bad as that. I mean, I knew you were fond of him…”
“He was everything to me,” she said. The desolation in her voice silenced any sort of comforting remark I might have thought to make. We sat quietly for a while then she said, “He was such an amazing person. I can’t begin to describe to you just how amazing.”
“I know he was very brilliant…”
She shook her head. “It’s not just that,” she said. “It wasn’t just his work, though he was beginning to get back properly into his research again – he was in touch with several people in the field of genetics, people who’d always thought highly of him. He had plans…” She broke off. “I think he might have been going to America. There was an offer he was interested in. It was wonderful to see him coming alive again It was as if he’d been in a sort of limbo and was getting back to his old self, the John I first knew. And then this terrible thing happened. Oh Sheila, the waste!”
