Death in Practice

by Hazel Holt

  Then the line went dead and I knew that Rosemary had put down the phone and was feeling foolish at not being able to adjust to a simple piece of technology. I feel the same myself; just launching one’s remarks into the void, as it were, remains for both of us an unnerving experience and one that we avoid whenever possible. I knew that Rosemary had only nerved herself to leave a message on the machine and not waited until I got home because her mother had told her to ring Right Away, and Mrs Dudley was not the sort of person whose instructions could be deviated from or modified by anyone, especially her daughter.

  I immediately picked up the phone and rang.

  “Oh hello,” Rosemary said apologetically. “Sorry about the message, but you know how I hate those things. And I’m sorry about Mother. Only old Mrs Weston died last week – that’s the second of her friends to go this year so she’s feeling a bit down, well, you can imagine. So if you wouldn’t mind…”

  “Yes of course I’ll go. It is a while since I’ve seen her. I was beginning to feel a bit guilty about it.”

  Rosemary laughed. “You see! She does that to everyone!”

  “I know – but it must be awful to be really old and see your friends dropping off one by one.”

  “I suppose. Thanks anyway. Incidentally, I heard something that I think you’d be interested in, but I don’t think I’d better tell you on the phone.”

  “Goodness, how intriguing. Come and have coffee – when?”

  “Can’t manage tomorrow, the children are coming to lunch, then Monday you’re seeing Mother – so, Tuesday?”

  “Fine. I’ll try and possess my soul in patience until then!”

  The next day, Sunday, I went to Morning Service. I don’t go every week, but I knew that, since I was seeing Mrs Dudley the next day, she would expect me to give her not only a full account of the Vicar’s sermon but also a detailed list of who had attended, what they were wearing and any other germane information.

  St James’s was quite full; well, relatively speaking. That is, a fair proportion of the central block of pews was occupied by the regulars, while those who came only occasionally perched uncertainly in the pews at the back of the church, obviously not wanting to occupy a place which might ‘belong’ to a regular communicant.

  I sat where I usually do – three rows back, near enough to hear the Vicar’s sermon (he speaks very softly – there have been several complaints about it) but not near enough to catch his eye as sometimes happens when I feel the whole force of his remarks is, uncomfortably, directed at me. Just as the minute bell was tolling, June Hardy came in and sat down in the pew in front of me. She looked harassed and slightly flustered, though that could simply have been because she had been nearly late for the service. But as we sang the first hymn (“All things bright and beautiful”, omitting the third verse) she seemed to recover herself and become calmer. The vicar preached an excellent sermon on humility, illustrated by the story of Tobit, though I didn’t feel that would be a subject that would appeal greatly to Mrs Dudley.

  I wondered idly what it was that had agitated June Hardy and if it was something to do with her step-brother’s death. It seemed suitable that the final hymn should be “God moves in a mysterious way”, and, as we sang Cowper’s fine words, I wondered if the final lines (“God is his own interpreter/And he will make it plain”) were a sign to me that I should stop fretting over the problem and leave well alone. But as I made my way out of the church at the end of the service I couldn’t help catching up with June – who was just ahead of me – and having a word.

  “Hello, how are you? Is everything all right?”

  “All right – what do you mean?”

  “It’s just that I thought you looked a bit upset as you came in.”

  “Oh – well, yes, as a matter of fact I am a bit.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing really; something and nothing, probably. There was a message for me from Edward Drayton, he’s Michael’s senior partner, isn’t he? He wants to see me – apparently some problem has arisen, I don’t know what.”

  “About the estate?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “How distressing,” I said. “The whole thing must have been so unpleasant for you.”

  “Well, it hasn’t been easy. The Inspector has been asking so many questions – I know he’s only doing his job, but, really, it is a very disagreeable experience and it does upset my old people to have the police around the place. Alot of them get very anxious about anything out of the ordinary. It’s something that happens with extreme old age, of course, but I don’t like them to be disturbed like that.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well,” she said, pulling on her gloves, “I must get on – I like to supervise their Sunday lunch myself. I always try to make it a special meal for them.”

  She gave me a brief smile and hurried away.

  It occurred to me, as I drove home, that she must have had Edward’s message on Friday. If she was still agitated by it on Sunday, then it was obviously more important to her than she led me to believe.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  I was early for my lunch with Mrs Dudley and, since she always expects one exactly on time, I sat for a while in the car. Not, of course, outside the house, since there I would be visible to Mrs Dudley who always sits by the window the better to observe the world outside, but round the corner. As I sat there Anthea came by and tapped on the window of the car.

  “What on earth are you doing there?”

  I explained the situation and she said, “Lunch? With Mrs Dudley? Goodness, you are honoured!”

  I laughed. “A mixed blessing.”

  Anthea leaned in at the window and said confidentially, “I know you’ll be pleased to hear that Kathy seems much brighter now. It must have been that dreadful man, so really, although I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I can’t help but being pleased that he’s gone.”

  “I think that’s the general feeling.”

  “Mind you, it’s still very unpleasant for them all at the surgery. I mean, it’s awful to think that one of them might be a murderer.”

  “The police haven’t any other leads then?”

  “Oh, the police,” Anthea said scornfully. “They don’t seem to have any idea, except harassing those poor girls.”

  “Still,” I said cautiously, “it’s unlikely to be anyone from outside.”

  “I don’t see why not,” she replied. “Kathy said that that man was out at lunchtime. It could have happened then.”

  “Would the timing have been right?”

  “Oh I don’t know about that sort of thing!” Anthea brushed this aside. “All I know is they don’t seem to have thought about anything or anyone not connected with the practice. I’m sure a person like that must have had a lot of enemies.”

  I was about to agree when I caught sight of the time and realised that now I would be five minutes late. I said a hasty goodbye to Anthea and drove round the corner.

  “Ah Sheila,” Mrs Dudley said, “better late than never.”

  By way of apology I proffered the sheaf of flowers that I had brought.

  “How kind,” Mrs Dudley said, inspecting them. “Chrysanthemums – I always think of them as funeral flowers. However, it was very good of you to think of me. Elsie will put them in water.”

  Having put me in my place, as it were, she became more affable and questioned me about Michael and Thea.

  “I was delighted that they called the baby Alice after your dear mother. That is what I call a proper name. So many children nowadays, even from quite good families, are given such unsuitable names. Tracy!” she exclaimed. “Jason! Can you imagine a respectable elderly person with a name like that?”

  I was obliged to agree that I couldn’t.

  “It’s all fashion, whatever they mean by fashion nowadays; pictures of half-starved girls in their underwear. I cannot believe what the world is coming to. However, thankfully, at m
y age I shall not be required to put up with it much longer.” I made little ineffectual protesting noises which she rightly ignored. “I am only grateful that my dear father is not alive today to see what has happened to this town. Have you seen the way the trippers go about half naked, in shops, even in the post office?”

  “I know it’s awful…”

  “It’s an affront to common decency. I cannot think what the police are doing to allow it.”

  I tentatively suggested that the police had quite a lot of other things to cope with.

  “Well, they certainly don’t seem to have made much progress in that Hardy affair – I was mentioning it to Roger only the other day.”

  Unfortunately at this moment Elsie came in to say that lunch was ready and I was afraid that any information Mrs Dudley might have had would be lost. However, I underestimated my hostess’s determination to pursue her chosen topic to the bitter end, and as soon as we were settled with our delicious lemon sole she continued.

  “I cannot believe that anyone will grieve for that dreadful Hardy boy,” she said sticking her fork with some violence into the quarter of lemon and squeezing the juice onto her fish. “Nevertheless, it has been some time since he was killed and no one has been apprehended yet.”

  “What did Roger have to say?” I asked.

  “Oh, some nonsense about investigations being under way and alibis being checked – bureaucratic nonsense. It’s perfectly obvious to me who killed him.”

  I sat riveted, my fork half-way to my lips.

  “No! Really? Who?”

  “That half-sister of his, of course. She’s his only surviving relative and stands to inherit a great deal of money.”

  “Oh,” I said deflated. “No, it can’t be June. She was in Taunton all that day, she had to take one of her old people to Musgrove for an endoscopy.”

  Mrs Dudley, who is passionately interested in illness, was instantly diverted. “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She made an exclamation of annoyance at my incompetence. “I expect it was Major Lister – I did hear that he was having some sort of trouble with his throat.” She spread a piece of her roll lavishly with butter. “He was always a heavy smoker and see what it has brought him to.”

  “So you see it couldn’t have been June.”

  “Possibly not. Unless,” she added dramatically, “she had an accomplice.”

  “An accomplice?”

  “Exactly.” Mrs Dudley took a sip of her wine and looked at me triumphantly. “Someone who was in the position to administer the poison.”

  I stared at her in amazement. “Who on earth…?”

  “Ben Turner.”

  “What!”

  “People have seen them together – indeed I saw them myself in deep conversation the last time I was in my bank.”

  “But surely…?”

  “And of course his wife is a patient at The Larches – Alzheimers, you know, quite tragic.”

  “Well, there you are,” I said, “they were obviously talking about her condition…”

  Mrs Dudley ignored my interruption. “The whole sad business has drawn them together. Elizabeth Turner was always a difficult woman; he can’t have had an easy life. So what would be more natural,” (Mrs Dudley occasionally liked to take what she would have called in other people A Shocking Point of View to establish her liberal credentials) “that he should turn to someone sympathetic at such a time.”

  “Well…”

  “And June Hardy is a clever woman. Once she’d got him twisted round her little finger she could have got him to do anything.”

  I considered this view of June as a sort of femme fatale.

  “But they’re neither of them like that. I mean, Ben is a really nice man and June does such good work for the hospital.”

  Mrs Dudley gave what in someone less refined would have been a snort of contempt.

  “June’s father, Leonard Hardy, was always giving money to good causes, but that didn’t make him a good man. Quite the contrary.”

  “Really? He always seemed quite nice when he came to see my parents.”

  “Not at home!” Mrs Dudley said with authority. “He was a terrible bully, drove that wretched first wife of his to an early grave. Mind you, Edith Procter was a poor sort of creature who never stood up for herself. Her sister Maud used to tell me some dreadful things.” She lowered her voice “Violence and goodness knows what else!”

  “Why didn’t she leave him?”

  Mrs Dudley looked at me pityingly. “Wives stuck with their husbands in those days,” she said. “It was their duty.”

  “Poor June,” I said, “it must have been awful for her.”

  “She did try to stand up for her mother,” Mrs Dudley said, “but, of course, she was only a girl then. But when Edith died and he married again it was even worse. Leonard Hardy always wanted a son, someone to hand the business on to. So when Geraldine Miller got hold of him and married him, and when she had this boy, Malcolm, then June’s nose was quite out of joint.”

  “But she got out, didn’t she. She went to Bristol and trained as a nurse.”

  “Yes,” Mrs Dudley said disapprovingly. “That was very foolish of her. She should have stayed and stuck up for herself. As it was, she was virtually disinherited. When her father died she only got a few thousand – Geraldine Hardy saw to that. She was a most unpleasant woman, stupid too – I used to sit on the Hospital Committee with her and she was forever interrupting and contradicting. She kept that son of hers tied to her apron strings until the day she died – some sort of kidney trouble I believe – so no wonder he went really wild after her death; spending money like water; a series of unsuitable attachments – most unsatisfactory.”

  She placed her knife and fork neatly in the centre of her plate and rang the little handbell she used to summon Elsie.

  “Really,” she said as Elsie brought in a perfect lemon soufflé. “One could hardly blame June Hardy for getting rid of her half-brother.” She spooned a generous portion of the pudding onto her plate and poured on some cream. “Now Sheila, take plenty – are you eating properly now you’re on your own? You’re starting to look quite haggard.”

  As I drove home I thought about what Mrs Dudley had said. At first I dismissed it out of hand, but the more I considered it the more I began to wonder if Mrs Dudley might be right. True, they were the last two people I would have ever considered as a couple, but they were of an age and had known each other for some time, and adversity and circumstance often draw the most unlikely people together. But whilst I could just about envisage them brought together in friendship, or even something stronger, I really couldn’t believe that they would be capable of murder. Well, certainly not Ben Turner – but perhaps, just possibly, June. She was a strong-minded woman and if she was labouring under a sense of injustice at being cut out of her father’s will, then she might, I suppose, have been tempted to do something about it.

  “Well,” said Rosemary, “how did it go with Mother?”

  “She said I looked haggard.”

  “Oh dear, she will keep on saying things like that – thank goodness it was you!”

  “No, it was fine, it meant I was positively encouraged to have a second helping of Elsie’s gorgeous lemon souffle.”

  “Oh, I know, doesn’t she do them well – and they come out like that every single time! Anything else?”

  “She thinks that June Hardy and Ben Turner are having an affair and that June played Lady Macbeth to Ben’s Macbeth and got him to murder Malcolm Hardy!”

  “Oh for goodness sake!”

  “Yes, well, I suppose it’s possible. It would give Ben another reason for getting rid of Malcolm apart from having got the sack.”

  “But, honestly, can you see Ben doing something like that?”

  “No, you’re probably right…”

  Rosemary pushed the plate of bourbons towards me. “Here, have another biscuit – stop you looking so haggard! No, actually,
the thing I was going to tell you – you know, the thing I couldn’t talk about when you rang – that was about the murder. Well, not the murder itself, but something that might have something to do with it.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s all very confidential – something I overheard Jack saying on the phone.”

  “I won’t breathe a word.”

  “I only heard his side of the conversation of course so I may have got it all wrong, but it was to do with Diana’s accounts at the practice. You know that Jack’s firm does the audit? Well, because of Malcolm Hardy dying suddenly like that someone had to go and look at the books straight away. It sounds as though Diana hadn’t expected that and so they found some sort of discrepancy – quite a large sum of money missing. Apparently she’d borrowed it to help her husband (you know he’s got that small engineering firm) who’s had a cash flow problem or whatever it is they call it. She was going to put it back when he’d got his new bank loan, it was only temporary, but still…”

  “You mean if Malcolm Hardy had found out he might have made things very difficult for her?”

  “Well, you know what sort of person he was – he’d have been awful!”

  “Poor Diana. Still,” I said absently biting into another bourbon, “she wouldn’t have wanted him dead if that meant Jack’s firm would go through the books and it would all come out.”

  “Unless,” Rosemary said, “he’d found out already – before he died, I mean – and was going to do something about it.”

  “Something?”

  “Oh, I don’t know – some sort of legal action perhaps.”

  “So Diana might have had a real motive for killing him, not just dislike.”

  “It looks like it.”

  “So that means that all three vets had good reasons for wanting Malcolm Hardy dead.

  “All three?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Because of that wretched man, poor Keith had a couple of enquiries hanging over him.” And I told her what Kathy had told me.

  “Oh dear. Still, I can’t see any of them killing anyone, can you? I mean, they’re so good with all the animals.”