‘What about Doctor?’ I asked hopefully. I didn’t like this at all and would have preferred to be left out of it.
‘Surgery?’
‘Of course!’
I could hear amusement in his voice as John said, ‘You don’t want to come, do you?’
‘Frankly—no. But I’ll meet you outside Sarah’s house in half an hour.’
We met as planned. Sarah had seen us and ran to meet us, declaring that she would be coming with us. It took all my persuasion and John’s heavier tones to impress upon her that it was no job for a lady like her. The term ‘lady’ did the trick and she returned with dignity to stand at her doorway.
The caravan curtains were drawn. We could see that the summer grass was already climbing the wheels of both car and caravan and that there were scratch marks on the door, presumably made by Martin’s dog.
John approached and rapped briskly on the door. No reply and no sound from within. He tried again. ‘Police here,’ he shouted. Still no reply. He glanced at the window; there was a slight gap where the curtains met. Fishing a torch from his pocket, he peered inside.
‘I think there is someone there but I can’t see much. I’ll have to break in.’
He went back to his car, returning with a hefty screwdriver, which he inserted behind the door handle. The flimsy metal of the door bent, and with a grating sound it flew open.
We both took a step backwards, as there was an ominous buzzing and a dozen or so flies zoomed past us.
‘Ugh! I’ll go in first,’ said John. ‘I think we both know what we are going to find.’
He re-emerged, his face a greenish hue, and I was not surprised when he turned away and was very sick.
‘Sorry.’ He looked at me, wiping his mouth. ‘I’m sorry but I need you to have a look, too.’
I held a handkerchief to my nose and gingerly entered the fetid area.
Two people, a middle-aged man and woman, lay together, partially dressed, on the bed. They must have been dead for most of the three days that the van had been there, judging by the general pallor and blue extremities, but I knew I would be asked if I had ascertained life to be extinct (although it was very evident that it was), so I reluctantly felt the necks of the two. Of course, there was no pulse. John was watching from the door.
‘What about Doctor?’ I asked. ‘I am not qualified to pronounce them dead.’
‘I’ll need help from the mainland for this and they will send the police surgeon. We had better not touch anything else.’
I was overcoming some of my revulsion and looking round. An unmarked bottle, still containing a few white tablets, stood on the table among the remains of what had been a steak dinner. An empty wine bottle was beside the only glass, which was half full. With reluctance, I looked again at the couple on the bed. Something had struck me as being very odd—not fitting. The man, even in death, appeared to be well dressed and had a groomed appearance, and there was a pair of polished leather shoes on the floor. The woman, by contrast, was in cheap underwear and a floral cotton skirt which was frayed at the hem. Her high-heeled shoes, on the floor beside his, were scuffed and dirty.
On the shelf above the bed was a folded piece of paper.
‘John, a suicide note, I think. Should I pick it up? Fingerprints … ?’
‘Plenty of other stuff for fingerprints. Yes, please. Bring it out here.’
I noticed that John did not enter to fetch it, but waited by the door as I gingerly picked up the note and, glancing once more at the pathetic scene, went out into the blessedly fresh atmosphere. As the cold air hit me, my legs felt distinctly wobbly and I closed my eyes for a moment to try to rid myself of a belated feeling of nausea. What a terrible scene!
What had persuaded two middle-aged people to kill themselves? Out here, the birds were singing and I could smell the resin in the pine trees. The sky was blue, with lazy clouds floating nonchalantly past the heather-clad hill behind the forest. A white butterfly fluttered gently back and forth. It was all so beautiful, so fresh and normal, and yet in that caravan, two people lay dead, putrefying among decaying food, dirty dishes, and flies.
Outside, we sat a little way off on a fallen tree and looked at the note.
‘No envelope,’ said John. He unfolded the single sheet. There were two letters, each in very different writing.
‘My Dear Gerald, I am sorry for the hurt that I have caused you. I can’t continue our lives together. Tell Ellen that I love her. Margery.’ This was in a neat, rather childish hand.
The second was in bold, rather sprawling writing. ‘Dear Jennifer, I find it impossible to carry on. Life has been a nightmare for a long time. Bernard.’
I thought about the letters for a moment.
‘John, these are not exactly suicide notes are they? One says that she ‘can’t continue our lives together’ and the man just says he ‘finds it impossible to carry on.’ But neither actually says that they are going to kill themselves, do they?’
John nodded. ‘This might make things very complicated. But that is for the team from the mainland to sort out, I’m glad to say. I haven’t had anything quite like this to deal with before.’
‘Neither have I, John. What happens now?’
‘I need to stay here because I can’t secure the door. So can you ring this number and give them the gist of things?’ He handed me a card.
I nodded. ‘I’ll ring from home. If there is a return message, I’ll bring it along to you.’
Leaving the forlorn-looking figure, I hurried off.
Once home, I shooed Andy off while I made the call, explaining to the mainland police that our local constable would remain at the scene until they arrived. They hoped to be there in an hour or so. Had I ascertained that life was extinct? (I knew it!) Yes, both were dead. Was the scene secure? While John stayed there—yes. Was there a suicide note? This was more difficult.
‘Well, there is a note—of sorts. It will be up to you to say if it is a suicide note or not. John has it.’
‘Hmm. Sounds intriguing. Do you not think it is a case of suicide, then, Nurse?’
I was not going to be drawn into this! ‘I do not have an opinion,’ I replied. ‘I will tell our constable that you are on your way, shall I?’
He gave me his name and assured me that they would be there as soon as possible.
Andy and I set off to give John the message and to continue to the steamer to collect Nick and the rest of the Dhubaig pupils, as it was Friday.
At Sarah’s cottage, I turned up the track and gave a bored-looking John the news that the police would be here in about an hour.
‘Can you give my wife a ring? She will be wondering what is happening.’
‘Of course. Can Moira bring you a drink or anything?’
‘No—because of the wee one. No matter.’
‘If you are still here when I get back, I’ll bring you something.’ I paused and added with a smile, ‘You could always ask Sarah, if you don’t mind furniture polish all over your mug.’
‘Thank you—I think not!’
The boys were agog when I told them what had happened, and when we passed Sarah’s cottage on our way back, we could see two police cars, flood lights, yards of red and white tape, several police, and a sombre black van which we assumed would bear the bodies away—probably to the mainland. I was just accelerating away when a wild figure in long flowing clothes leaped into the road.
‘Sarah!’ I only just avoided her. ‘You’ll get yourself killed!’
‘Nurse! I’m no liking all these policemen here. It’s no right to disturb those two folk like this. Like I said, they are quiet folk.’ She was very distressed.
Neither John nor I had told Sarah anything about the deaths and obviously the police had not either. How do you tell someone as deranged as Sarah that two people are lying dead in a caravan a few yards from her house?
I asked the boys to talk to her while I walked over to the police.
‘And say what, Mum?’
>
‘Use your imagination.’ I realised I was being rather unfair.
A large uniformed policeman approached me and, well within Sarah’s hearing, said, ‘Just get that batty old woman out of here, will you?’
I resented being ordered around, but more important was the way in which he referred to Sarah.
‘I shall talk to Miss Sarah Burn on your behalf, but you will treat her with respect, if you please.’ I was glad I was in uniform. That uniform was a blessing in many ways—giving me dignity and credibility in situations like this.
He had the decency to look abashed. ‘I’m sorry. But we can’t have her interfering here, possibly destroying evidence, etc. We shall be out of here in about an hour, but the area will remain cordoned off until tomorrow.’
‘I think I will tell her that they are ill and that you are all helping them and will be taking them to hospital, and that she had better keep away because … because … ’ I thought rapidly. ‘Because they are infectious! That might do it—but I can’t be sure. She is very confused.’
‘Worth a try.’ The policeman nodded. ‘If that does not work, I shall have to escort her to her cottage and put a constable, perhaps your own John, on the door to ensure she stays inside.’
I returned to where the boys were actually making Sarah laugh. I walked her back to her house, telling her the myth that I hoped would persuade her to keep out of the way.
Judging by the look of concern on her old face, I thought I had won, but then she said: ‘But I could always give those nice policemen a cuppie.’
Oh Sarah! What are we to do with you?
‘No, Sarah. No.’ I had a sudden inspiration. ‘Sarah, Doctor Mac said you must stay inside and not go anywhere near. He will be cross if you do not do what he says.’
It worked! At the mention of her beloved Doctor Mac, Sarah became compliant.
‘Right, Nurse. I’ll be doin’ what the doctor says.’
With a sigh of relief, but still wondering if she would remember what the doctor was supposed to have said, I departed, promising to call the next day.
When I went into the surgery the next morning, a harassed John was talking to Doctor Mac. Apparently, all my so-called clever ideas had failed and just a few minutes after my departure, Sarah had emerged from her cottage and tottered into the middle of the investigation, bearing a mug of tea for Doctor Mac. Somehow she had arrived at the conclusion that the doctor was actually there. The senior officer had ordered John to take her inside and stay with her. Later he sent for a female officer (who had to come from Fort William) who stayed with Sarah for the remainder of the night and was still there this morning. John was at his wit’s end, as the officer wanted to leave, the police needed to ensure that Sarah stayed out of the way, and John had other duties to attend to.
‘They will be finished by midday they say,’ said John.
I could guess what was coming.
Doctor Mac turned. ‘Nurse … ’
‘Yes, of course,’ I answered his unspoken request and hurried off to do the essential insulins and then make my way to Sarah’s cottage. A weary policewoman greeted me with her finger pressed to her lips. Sarah was asleep on the old couch. With scarcely a nod, the officer departed at speed.
There was still a lot of activity in the little clearing, but the car had gone and the caravan was being winched onto a low-loader ready for departure. Several police were still examining the surrounding area. For what, I wondered? To me, it certainly looked like suicide but I suppose those letters were not conclusive, so they must be investigating every possibility.
I sat quietly with Sarah as she slept. I wondered how long we would be able to let her stay at home. She was getting rapidly more confused and forgetful and I could think that she might start to wander off, maybe get lost, stay out all night, get hypothermia … the possibilities were horrifying. But apart from the odd time, she was happy in the home she had lived in all her life, managed to wash and feed herself after a fashion, and pottered to and from her chickens. All the excitement had undoubtedly upset her, so she might be better when everyone had gone away. Doctor Mac and I would have to have a talk. I, too, had great faith in the wisdom of the good doctor.
In sharp contrast with the hectic two days, we heard nothing at all of the investigation for some time. Even John heard nothing. Then a tiny paragraph appeared in the local paper in the ‘deaths’ column to the effect that Margery would be ‘sorely missed by her loving husband and her daughter, Ellen.’ Why in the local paper, we wondered? The police had said that the couple were from London.
Then, a few weeks later, I had a visit from Detective Inspector Bligh, asking me to go over what I had already told them. Yes, I had felt the pulses—absent. Yes, I had seen the bottle with tablets in. How many? No idea. No, I had not touched it—in fact, nothing except the note and the necks of the two deceased. So it went on. I felt it to be pointless repetition, but I suppose they had to check every possibility and he was probably comparing my story with John’s.
But after a cup of tea (bribery), he gave me an account of the investigation. Should he have done that, I wondered, but I was too curious to question his decision.
The identification of both parties had been easy as there had been no attempt at concealment. The man was a fifty-six-year-old successful business man, living in West London. The inspector had visited the beautiful house and broken the news to an equally beautiful wife. Although shocked, she did not display grief and was unsurprised to hear the he was with a woman. She had been aware that he was depressed and on medication, but had not thought him to be suicidal. There were no financial problems, but she had thought for a while that he was trying to make up his mind to leave her.
Then the Inspector had visited a very different address. The woman, Margery, had lived with her husband, who was a taxi driver, in a little semi in a dingy street near Bernard’s more opulent avenue. The little man was devastated when the news was broken and refused to believe that his wife had been with a man. He also fiercely resisted all suggestion of suicide. His wife was a staunch Methodist, believing that life was God-given. (At this point in the narrative, I remembered the single wine glass—as a Methodist, she would be unlikely to drink.) So what did he make of the fact that they were in bed together in a caravan, far from home? He maintained that she would not have been unfaithful to him unless … And here, apparently another most interesting fact emerged. She had been the cleaning lady for Bernard and his wife (who was outraged when told her identity) and had mentioned to her husband that she was concerned about her employer’s depressed state. He must have played on this in order to gain her sympathy, having none from his wife.
The Inspector went on to tell me that she was a very impressionable lady, not at all intelligent, gullible, perhaps, and naïve. She was also being treated for a very bad menopause. By piecing everything together, he concluded that she had been persuaded to go on holiday with Bernard ‘for the sake of his health.’ She thought that her husband would stop her (!) so it had all been arranged in secret. So far as she was concerned, it seemed that she was not expecting to sleep with him. Could a woman be this naïve?
When he forced himself on her (evidence showed this to have been the case), she was probably overcome by guilt and was persuaded to join him in a suicide pact. The notes implied something like that.
‘Are you sure of all this? How can you know what went on in her mind and between them when they were alone?’ I was very sceptical.
‘As with many rather feeble-minded women of that age, she had inflated ideas of her own intelligence and allure and kept a somewhat fragmented diary full of all sorts of romantic notions. In spite of her capacity for self-delusion, it seems unbelievable that she had no idea that he wanted sex with her. She thought their relationship was “beautiful.’’’ He shook his head. ‘Incredible.’
‘What did she think he wanted, if not sex?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine what went on in her head. I’m ver
y sorry for that nice little man, her husband.’
And that was the end of it all.
I could not help thinking that Sarah’s dementia was far more understandable than the selfish, manipulative, depressive behaviour of the man and the unimaginable rubbish that must have washed around in that poor woman’s head.
But it was not quite the end of it all.
Some months later, Margery’s husband made his way to Papavray to see where his wife had died. He called on me to thank me for what I had done (actually very little). I felt overwhelmed and very humble. Why, oh why did Margery turn her back on such a thoughtful man, who obviously loved her dearly?
Yes, indeed. What a tangled web …
SIXTEEN
Eggs, Eggs, and More Eggs
The wind was howling ever louder by the minute. We could scarcely see out of the window, it was so thick with salt. The sea was throwing up huge spindrift which was flung inland on the cusp of the pugnacious gusts. The wind and the lashing rain assaulted the bruised hillsides, uprooting bushes and sweeping bits of hay and thatch, tree branches, and other detritus past the house at a furious rate.
But we were snug: the chickens shut in their hut, two cats and two dogs asleep in front of the Rayburn while the family sat before the fire which belched peaty smoke into the room with every squall. Even Sunshine was safely tucked up in the hay shed. This weather had been forecast so I had had time to bring her home from her field, where her shelter was showing signs of rot and might well take flight in such weather as this.
Secure in our sturdy—if smoky—home, George and I dozed while Nick and Andy played crabble. I think some strange words were being added to the English language. All was peaceful.
Suddenly, all the lights went out. We were used to power failures in such weather but, looking from the window, I could see lights still on in the croft houses in the village, so this was obviously not general. There must be something wrong here. And there was! As we peered out, we watched in fascination as the electricity pole with the big, metal transformer at the top began slowly to bend, creak, and finally break. The top half, with its burden, fell slowly to earth. It bounced twice and we could hear the sound of shattering metal. A few sparks added to the spectacle.
Nurse, Come You Here! Page 12
