Puppet for a Corpse

by Dorothy Simpson

  “Yes, I know. She stayed the night, then?”

  “That was the arrangement.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Mrs Price—the housekeeper—doesn’t know. She was away last night too. It was her day off yesterday and she left soon after breakfast, to spend it with her sister out at Merrisham. When she came back this morning she found the curtains still drawn everywhere, no sign of Dr Pettifer having had breakfast, so she came up to investigate and found him like this. She’s very upset. As I said, she’s been with him for years.”

  “Bit odd, wasn’t it, being away overnight? I’d have thought she’d have had to be back in time to prepare his breakfast, especially if Mrs Pettifer was away.”

  “In the normal way of things, she would have been. But she had special permission to spend the night at her sister’s. There was something on in the village that they both particularly wanted to go to.”

  “Pity.”

  A car crunched on the gravel outside.

  “That’ll be Doc Mallard,” said Thanet, crossing to the window. “Yes, there he is. Go down and meet him, will you?”

  While Lineham was out of the room Thanet glanced around once more, noting for the first time the little pile of personal possessions on the seat of the upright chair. He moved across and glanced through them: wallet, thermometer, two bunches of keys, a couple of pens, some loose change and a diary. Thanet picked the latter up, found yesterday’s date. G London, he read. Mrs P to sister. These were the only entries for this week. He flicked quickly through the rest of the diary but found nothing of interest. Most of the pages were blank, the few entries consisting chiefly of social engagements and Andy’s beginning- and end-of-term dates.

  Thanet put the diary back on the chair thoughtfully. It was interesting that Mrs Price’s visit to her sister had been entered. Would a man normally note down the fact that his housekeeper was going to be away for the night? Surely not, unless he had a special reason for doing so—wanting the house to himself, for example. No, this had been no dramatic gesture carefully staged so that the suicide attempt would be discovered in time, Pettifer hauled back from the brink of death. Pettifer had meant to die, had timed the whole thing carefully. With both wife and housekeeper away until morning there would have been little chance of an unwelcome last-minute reprieve.

  What a waste, Thanet thought, moving back to gaze down on the peaceful face of the dead man, what a waste. What could drive a man like Pettifer to kill himself? Despair, presumably, but over what? Thanet had met despair in many guises and in the most unexpected places, but suicide was something he had always found difficult to accept with equanimity. Was it not, after all, a form of murder—self-murder—surely no less heinous a crime than murder itself, if more understandable. And in one way, far more damaging to others: the murder victim is less likely to leave behind such a burden of guilt and self-reproach on his nearest and dearest. How close had Pettifer been to his wife, Thanet wondered. How significant was the fact that they had had separate bedrooms?

  Mallard and Lineham entered the room, breaking into Thanet’s train of thought. Mallard brushed his hand uneasily across his bald head as they greeted each other. He looked unusually grim. That was understandable. If Thanet found it hard to accept that a doctor had killed himself, how much more difficult it must be for a colleague. And, for all Thanet knew, the two men might have been friends. A tactful withdrawal was indicated.

  “We’ll wait downstairs,” Thanet said. “There’s not much room in here.”

  Mrs Price was huddled at the kitchen table, both hands clasped around a mug of steaming liquid, seeking comfort. The room was large, high-ceilinged and had an old-fashioned air, with a tall built-in dresser, a row of servants’ bells labelled with the names of the different rooms and glass-fronted wall-cupboards painted institution green. Mrs Price matched her kingdom both in her ample proportions and in her slight dowdiness; her patterned crimplene dress and neatly waved brown hair would have passed unnoticed anywhere. She was, Thanet guessed, in her early sixties. As the two men entered the room she turned a dazed, tear-stained face towards them.

  Thanet advanced, introduced himself, apologised for having to ask more questions. Courtesy paid off with all but the very few, he found. Mrs Price clearly found it reassuring. Thanet quickly learned that she had left the house at nine-thirty the previous morning and had travelled to her sister’s by bus, arriving just before eleven-thirty. They had spent the afternoon at home and in the evening had attended a meeting in the village. This morning she had caught the workmen’s bus at six-twenty in order to be back in time to clear up the breakfast dishes.

  “I gather you don’t usually spend the night away, on your day off?”

  “No, but I specially wanted to go to this meeting and Doctor Pettifer said I could. If only I’d stayed at home …”

  “When did you ask him?”

  “About three months ago.” Mrs Price’s cheeks were pink. “I didn’t often ask,” she said defensively. “The last time was when …”

  “Nobody’s questioning your right to the occasional night off,” Thanet said soothingly. “How did Dr Pettifer seem before you left, yesterday morning?”

  “Fine. Real cheerful, he was,” the housekeeper said promptly. “That’s why I can’t believe …” Her lips began to quiver and she dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose. “I don’t believe it,” she said vehemently, recovering herself. “The doctor would never’ve done it, never. Happy as a sandboy he was, yesterday. Well, I suppose that’s putting it a bit strong. He never is … was … one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but I knew him and I could tell.”

  “How long have you been with him, Mrs Price?”

  “Fifteen years,” she said proudly. “Ever since Andy—that’s his son—was a baby. And very happy I’ve been.”

  But there was a hint of reservation in that last statement. “So you must have run the house alone after the first Mrs Pettifer’s death,” he said, hazarding a guess as to where the trouble lay.

  “That’s right. For five years. Managed fine I did, too.”

  So he was right. Mrs Price had resented having to hand over the reins to a second Mrs Pettifer.

  “Did you know that Mrs Pettifer was going up to London yesterday?”

  “Yes, because of the meals. ‘We’ll both be out to lunch, and dinner’ll just be for one,’ she says to me, after breakfast yesterday morning. ‘I’m going up to town this evening to see my agent and I shan’t be back till tomorrow.’ Well, I was a bit annoyed. I mean, I’d had this trip to my sister’s arranged for months, like I said. ‘But I’m going to be away tonight too,’ I says. ‘What about the doctor’s breakfast tomorrow morning?’ ‘I expect he’ll survive,’ she says, as cool as you please. And now …” Mrs Price’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh come, Mrs Price,” Thanet said gently. “You surely can’t be saying that the doctor did what he did because you weren’t here to cook his breakfast?”

  The deliberate absurdity of the question made her smile. “No, but if I hadn’t stayed away …”

  “Mrs Price,” Thanet said firmly. “Even if you had been here, what could you have done? I don’t suppose that in the normal way of things you would see Dr Pettifer after he retired for the night?” He waited for her shake of the head. “There you are, then. And besides, you must remember this. If someone is really determined to kill himself, nothing will stop him. If anyone prevents him, he’ll just try again. And from the way in which Dr Pettifer selected a night when he knew that both you and Mrs Pettifer would be away …” He paused to allow the point to sink in.

  “It’s no good, I still can’t believe it,” she said stubbornly. “He just wasn’t the sort to give up, no matter what it was. When the first Mrs Pettifer was dying—she had cancer, and you know what that’s like, she was ill for two years before she died—well, he never gave up hope, never gave up trying to save her. And just now, what with Mrs Pettifer being pregnant and all …”


  “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.”