‘I certainly would,’ said Mrs Henderson, opening her work-bag and taking out her knitting needles and a ball of navy-blue wool. Her eyes were bright with excitement. ‘What’s more, I know why.’
There was a collective gasp and the ladies craned forward.
‘She’s going,’ said Dorothy Henderson, with the pleasurable anticipation of one about to drop a bombshell, ‘to find her son.’
She couldn’t complain about the lack of reaction. There was a stunned silence as the ladies froze in their seats.
Agnes Beeding was the first to recover. ‘But Mrs Paxton hasn’t got a son,’ she said blankly.
‘Oh yes, she has,’ said Dorothy Henderson, lowering her voice still further. ‘But I’m not surprised she kept it quiet. In the circumstances she would.’
Winifred Bilborough’s eyes bulged at the possible implications of this remark. ‘What circumstances?’ she demanded, horrified. ‘Surely you cannot mean –’ her voice became virtually inaudible – ‘immorality!’
‘Really, Mrs Bilborough,’ said Edith Henshaw, shocked. ‘How can you imagine such a thing? I must say, Mrs Henderson, I think you have been misinformed. Mrs Paxton’s son died on the Somme. She told me as much. And,’ she added grimly, ‘sad as it was for Mrs Paxton, he doesn’t sound any great loss. He was a little too free with other people’s possessions, if you see what I mean. A great friend of my sister-in-law’s came across him, years ago. Pleasant enough, but, to call a spade a spade, he never ran straight. That’s why Mrs Paxton’s never talked about him.’
‘He didn’t die in the war,’ said Dorothy Henderson. ‘He went missing. And why?’ The ladies waited in breathless anticipation. ‘He was a deserter!’
A pool of silence widened round Dorothy Henderson.
‘Are you sure?’ demanded Agnes Beeding eventually.
Dorothy Henderson nodded vigorously. ‘Absolutely. She said as much to Dr Mountford. She swore him to secrecy and I’m not surprised. This Terence Napier came across him in Paris and he’s taking Mrs Paxton over there to find him.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ boomed Winifred Bilborough. She was feeling very put out that the most red-hot piece of news ever voiced at the sewing circle had not fallen to her to announce. ‘A likely tale! I don’t believe a word of it! You mark my words, Mrs Henderson, there’s more to this than meets the eye! If you want my opinion, Terence Napier has made up the whole story in order to ingratiate himself.’
The vicar’s wife, who had caught snatches of the conversation, thought it was time to intervene. ‘Why, you’ve nearly finished that crocheted trim, Mrs Bilborough! Well done! Those stitches are perfect. I want to put together a parcel of baby linen for Mrs Meddon. It’s her fourth, you know, and it could be any time now. And Mrs Beeding, do you think that hat would be suitable for Wally Lightfoot? His mother would be very grateful for it.’ And, much to the collective ladies’ seething annoyance, she firmly steered the conversation towards clothing.
‘I know what I said earlier, Douglas,’ she remarked to her husband that evening, ‘and I take it all back. Who on earth is this Terence Napier they were talking about?’
‘I haven’t a clue, my dear,’ remarked the vicar absently. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
Two weeks later, everyone who bought that morning’s newspaper had heard of Terence Napier. His name was headline news.
TWO
Mrs Paxton and Terence Napier, much to Topfordham’s collective disappointment, returned from Paris alone.
That evening, Mrs Welbeck, Mrs Paxton’s housekeeper, called at Doctor Mountford’s to request a bottle of her mistress’ sleeping-draught and to ask the doctor to attend Mrs Paxton the following day.
Dr Mountford delicately enquired of Mrs Welbeck if Mrs Paxton’s trip had been a success.
She looked at him blankly. ‘I don’t know,’ she said in her flat Northern accent. ‘She’s not said nothing to me. I don’t like to talk about other folk’s affairs, especially them as pay me.’
Which was laudable, thought Dr Mountford, but frustrating all the same.
Mrs Welbeck, said Milly Mountford, who had heard the exchange, was as close as wax, adding, with a sniff, in her opinion, she gave herself airs.
That, Dr Mountford argued, had a lot to do with Mrs Welbeck’s appearance. She was skinny, with sallow skin, rabbit teeth, goggling spectacles and a curiously colourless personality. In Dr Mountford’s experience, everyone wanted to be recognised for something. If a woman wasn’t good looking, intelligent or kindly, she would fall back on arrogance. It was her way of saying to the world that she simply didn’t care what it thought.
Mrs Paxton’s mysterious nephew and Mrs Paxton’s still more mysterious son had, naturally enough, been the chief topic of conversation in the village for the last fortnight. Of all the inhabitants of Topfordham, Doctor Mountford was, as far as he knew, the only one who knew the reason for Mrs Paxton’s trip to Paris.
It said a lot for his wife’s tact that she let him continue in this state of blissful ignorance. She had, of course, raised the subject, but Dr Mountford had looked away, coloured, muttered ethics, dear and refused to discuss it.
The next morning, Dr Mountford rang the front doorbell of The Larches with a feeling of anticipation. He might not listen to gossip but he wasn’t immune from curiosity, and he was looking forward to hearing Mrs Paxton’s account of the search for her son.
There were footsteps in the hall in answer to his ring on the doorbell. Hurried footsteps, the doctor noted, with a feeling of surprise, then, with a rattle of bolts, the door was flung open by the housekeeper.
Dr Mountford took a step back in alarm. When Mrs Welbeck had called at the surgery the previous evening, she had been coldly reserved. Now she was a badly frightened woman and anything but reserved. Her face was flushed and her cap askew, with grizzled grey hair escaping in strands down her face. She clasped her hands together at the sight of him and sagged in such heartfelt relief that Dr Mountford couldn’t help but warm to her.
‘Doctor! I’m that glad you’re here!’ She nervously glanced up the stairs behind her. ‘I ... We ... don’t know what to do.’
‘There, there, my good woman, don’t take on so,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Whatever is it?’ he asked, coming into the hallway.
She twisted her hands together once more. ‘It’s Mrs Paxton. I can’t wake her and the door’s locked. She never locks the door, doctor. Both me and Florence have knocked and called, but can’t get any answer.’ There was mounting panic in her voice. ‘I’ve tried. We both have. Florence and I looked through the keyhole, but the curtains are drawn and the room’s very dark. I thought of breaking the door down, but I didn’t like to. It’s Mrs Paxton’s bedroom, after all and it doesn’t seem right. Then I saw you coming up the path and I knew you’d know what to do.’
Dr Mountford, although his mind was on Mrs Paxton, couldn’t help feeling flattered by Mrs Welbeck’s complete confidence in him. He put his hat on the sideboard – Mrs Welbeck was too flustered to take it – and, unconsciously bracing himself, slipped into the language of the consulting-room. ‘Never mind, my dear. Don’t worry. We’ll soon see what the problem appears to be.’
He strode up the stairs, Mrs Welbeck following in his footsteps.
Florence, the maid, a sharp-looking girl of about eighteen, was standing awkwardly outside the bedroom. ‘I’m that glad to see you, sir. We haven’t heard a peep from the mistress’ room and we couldn’t think what to do for the best. Mrs Welbeck said maybe we should force the door.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘I screamed at the idea. I did, true as I’m stood here.’
Florence’s bulging eyes made Dr Mountford fearful she was about to repeat the performance. He hastily reached out a hand to comfort her. ‘There, there. Don’t upset yourself unduly. There’s no need to panic, I’m quite sure.’
‘But the notion of forcing the door worried me so!’ Dr Mountford became aware that Florence was rather enjoying the drama. ‘The mistress
is always so particular. Terrible particular. She wouldn’t like it if Mrs Welbeck or I took the law into our own hands, as you might say.’
‘I knew you’d know what to do, sir,’ said Mrs Welbeck.
Dr Mountford felt encouraged.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said. He rapped on the door, then, when there was no answer, knelt down and looked through the keyhole. ‘I can’t see a thing.’ He stood up and dusted off the knees of his trousers, then put his shoulder to the door and pushed hard. Nothing happened. ‘Is there another key to this room?’
Mrs Welbeck shook her head. ‘No, sir.’ She glanced nervously at the door. ‘It ... It doesn’t seem right, does it?’
‘No,’ said Dr Mountford, stepping back. ‘No, it doesn’t seem right at all.’ He stepped away from the door. ‘I think I’ll have to break the door down.’
Both Mrs Welbeck and Florence gave a little shriek in unison. Dr Mountford held his hand up sternly. ‘Don’t argue. It’s all for the best.’ He thought for a moment. Another man would be useful. ‘Is Mr Napier here?’
Florence’s eyes circled. ‘No, sir. He’s gone. Last night, it was. Packed his bags and gone, he has.’
Dr Mountford dismissed the disappearing Terence Napier and eyed the door appraisingly. He’d been a keen rugby player in his youth and was still a powerful, well-built man. He braced himself and, taking a run up, thudded shoulder first, into the door. The door creaked but remained closed. That had nearly done it.
He gathered up all his strength and ran at the door once more. Under the force of the blow, the wood splintered and broke and the door was flung back.
Dr Mountford smacked his hands together in satisfaction. With Florence tagging along and Mrs Welbeck bringing up the rear, he stepped gingerly into the room.
‘Mrs Paxton?’ he called hesitantly. ‘Mrs Paxton?’ The curtains were closed and it was difficult to see in the velvet-induced gloom.
Mrs Welbeck walked to the window, drew back the curtains, then turned and gave a gasp, her hand to her mouth.
Constance Paxton was sitting in the chair by the fireplace in her nightclothes and dressing gown. Her mouth had fallen open and her arm dangled by the side of the chair.
Florence stared at her. ‘She’s a corpse,’ she said with the unconscious brutality of a country-bred girl. ‘My Gran looked like that when she passed on,’ she added knowledgeably. ‘She’s a corpse.’
Dr Mountford swallowed. Mrs Paxton was indeed a corpse but he found Florence’s willing acceptance of grim reality a little hard to take.
‘There, there, don’t upset yourself, my dear,’ he said, knowing it was a completely redundant statement. Florence gazed at him and he looked back to Mrs Paxton, not knowing what to say.
More to reassert his authority than with any real purpose in mind, he walked to the body. He tried to lay Mrs Paxton’s arm back on her knee, but she was stiff and unyielding. ‘Rigor mortis,’ he muttered.
‘She’s stiff, isn’t she?’ said Florence. ‘My Gran was stiff. We had to sit on her knees to straighten her out.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Dr Mountford hastily. Again, he looked for an excuse to show he was in charge. An empty brandy glass, a small jug, and a brown medicine bottle were on the table beside Mrs Paxton. Dr Mountford picked up the bottle. His face altered. ‘Bless my soul!’ He was struggling for words. ‘God bless my soul! This is the bottle I prescribed yesterday. It’s empty!’
‘She must’ve drunk it all,’ said Florence. ‘Shouldn’t she have done?’
Doctor Mountford had gone pale. ‘Of course she shouldn’t, girl!’
Mrs Welbeck gave a muffled cry and slumped against the wall. Dr Mountford quickly strode across the room, put his arm round her and sat her gently on the bed. ‘Easy now. Easy.’
‘What happened, doctor?’ asked Mrs Welbeck fearfully.
Dr Mountford took a deep, ragged breath. ‘I’m afraid she must have taken the entire bottle.’
There was a little whimper from Mrs Welbeck. ‘The poor thing must’ve made a mistake.’
That was the kindest theory. For a brief moment Dr Mountford nearly agreed, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so. The dose is written on the bottle. One teaspoonful, that’s all, not the entire bottle.’
‘Could she have got it wrong?’ whispered Mrs Welbeck.
‘I’m afraid not. Facts are facts, and we must face them.’ He turned to look at Constance Paxton and sighed deeply. ‘The poor, silly woman. I’d have said she was the last person in the world to do such a thing.’
Mrs Welbeck covered her face with her apron and broke into hard, dry sobs. Dr Mountford squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.
‘I’m sorry, doctor,’ she said after a little while. ‘I was dreading something like this, but this is worse than I thought. Poor lady! To see her there and in her night things, too! She’d have been absolutely mortified, at the thought of you seeing her like this. There doesn’t seem to be any sense to it!’ She gulped noisily, gathered up her apron in her hands once more and buried her face in the cloth.
Dr Mountford glanced up to see Florence staring at him.
‘Did she do it herself? Deliberate, like? Are you saying she killed herself?’ asked Florence with goggling eyes.
‘That’s enough from you, my girl,’ said Mrs Welbeck with an attempt at sharpness. ‘Can’t it be a mistake, doctor?’
‘I honestly can’t see it can,’ said Dr Mountford. ‘Did you see her take the sleeping-draught?’
Mrs Welbeck shook her head slowly. ‘I’m trying to remember. No, I don’t think I did. As often as not, she liked me to get everything ready and then she’d sit for a while, reading or what have you. That’s what happened last night.’
‘Fancy her doing herself in,’ said Florence with barely suppressed excitement.
‘Will you be hushed, girl!’ snapped Mrs Welbeck.
Florence tossed her head petulantly, then gave a little cry. ‘Why! There’s the key. It’s on the floor, look!’ She picked it up and handed it to the doctor. ‘She must’ve locked herself in. She’d want some peace and quiet if she was going to do herself in. She shouldn’t have done it, should she? It’s wrong, that. She went to church regular, too. She should’ve known it was wrong.’
Dr Mountford had a sudden mental picture of Mrs Paxton in her Sunday best and off to communion service.
‘It’ll be in the News of the World,’ said Florence. ‘It always is when someone does themselves in.’
‘It’ll be nothing of the sort!’ said Mrs Welbeck in a harried way. ‘Tell, her, doctor.’
‘As a matter of fact, she’s right,’ said Dr Mountford reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid there will have to be an inquest.’
‘An inquest?’ repeated Mrs Welbeck, horrified. ‘Surely not. Mrs Paxton wouldn’t have approved of that at all.’
‘It’s necessary, my dear lady, I’m afraid. The coroner will have to be informed.’
Mrs Welbeck made a choking noise. ‘Why? What’s it got to do with him?’
Dr Mountford sighed. ‘I have to inform the coroner so he can ascertain the cause of death. I can’t possibly give a certificate in these circumstances.’
‘It’s none of his business,’ muttered Mrs Welbeck.
‘It’s a matter of law. I am obliged to inform the coroner in all causes of violent or suspicious deaths, such as suicide or murder.’
‘Murder?’ echoed Florence. ‘Cor! Was she murdered? That’ll be in the papers for sure. Who did it? I bet it was that Mr Napier, weren’t it? You said they’d had a right old barney, Mrs Welbeck, didn’t you? And she sent him packing. I bet he sneaked back and seen her off. Murder,’ she said happily.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl,’ began Dr Mountford, then stopped.
As a matter of fact, despite the sensational nature of the word, there was nothing inherently improbable about murder.
In fact, he admitted to himself, granted Mrs Paxton’s character, of the
three possibilities of accident, murder or suicide, murder was actually the most probable. Mrs Paxton wasn’t careless or given to emotional highs or lows and he couldn’t honestly say that she had ever displayed the slightest suicidal tendency.
He bit his lip, worrying the thought to its conclusion. Murder meant the police and the police, in Topfordham, meant Constable George Upton. His heart sank.
Crime, as such, hardly occurred in Topfordham. Constable Upton was well versed in the various misdemeanours of village life, such as Drunk and Disorderly, poaching, kids scrumping apples, keeping an eye on any tramp or vagrant, infringement of livestock regulations and pulling up the odd speeding motorist, but he wasn’t up to murder.
He had a good idea that Constable Upton would find the very idea of murder in Topfordham so utterly bizarre that he’d have to be bullied into taking it further. Dr Mountford was sensitive enough to shrink at the thought of Constable Upton’s bovine incredulity. If he could assemble enough facts he could insist that Upton take the matter seriously from the start.
He looked at Florence thoughtfully. She was a bright girl. Maybe she’d put her finger on it right away.
‘Mrs Welbeck,’ he said questioningly. ‘What was Mrs Paxton’s quarrel with Napier about?’
She looked at him, startled. ‘Why?’
‘Just tell me what it was about.’
Mrs Welbeck shrugged. ‘I couldn’t follow properly. There were some foreign names I couldn’t catch. I do remember one word though. Very distinct, it was.’ She hesitated. ‘Fraud.’
Dr Mountford felt a thrill of discovery. ‘Did you catch what was said about this fraud?’
Mrs Welbeck shook her head slowly. ‘No, doctor. It was to do with money, I do know that. She was upset, though, I could tell. It must have been something that came up sudden, like. She was friendly enough with Mr Napier when they got back.
She was never one for showing her feelings but she was all over him, as you might say, at first. I know that for a fact. Then they had words. The mistress mentioned her will but I couldn’t follow what she was saying.’
Blood From a Stone Page 3
