Puppet for a Corpse

by Dorothy Simpson

  “Why not?” said Thanet gently.

  She frowned and stared down at her hands as if they held the answer. “All sorts of reasons,” she said slowly. “As far as I knew he had no health problems—and surely I would have known, if there had been anything sufficiently serious for him to … And then, he was so looking forward to the baby’s arrival.” She bit her lip. “Only yesterday, at breakfast, we were discussing names …”

  “Was that when you last saw him? At breakfast?”

  The door opened and Lineham entered, bearing a cup of tea. Dr Barson, he announced, would be here shortly. Thanet repeated his question.

  “No, that was at about six o’clock last night,” she said, accepting the tea with a grateful nod, “when I tucked him up in bed, so to speak, with a hot drink and a couple of paracetamol. He said he thought he had a cold coming on … and whenever that happened, which was rarely, he’d always have a hot bath, take a couple of paracetamol and put himself to bed.”

  She was still calm, remarkably calm really, Thanet thought. But he had seen this kind of reaction before. He guessed that at the moment she was being cushioned by a sense of unreality. Later on, when it hit her … He sat down and said gently, “Do you feel up to telling me briefly about yesterday?”

  “What do you want to know, exactly?”

  “If you could run through the day, so that I could have some idea of your husband’s movements …”

  Yesterday, it seemed, had been a day like any other, with no hint of the tragedy to come. Dr Pettifer had left for the Health Centre immediately after breakfast. After taking surgery he had done his usual round of late-morning visits before returning home to lunch, when he had behaved just as usual.

  “He didn’t seem at all depressed?”

  “Not in the least, no.”

  “You really wouldn’t say that there was anything out of the ordinary in his behaviour or his attitude?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “And after lunch?”

  After lunch Mrs Pettifer had gone up to her room for the afternoon rest upon which her husband had insisted during her pregnancy. Pettifer had returned from his second round of visits at around five-thirty. This was when he had first said that he thought he had an incipient cold. As his wife was going to be out for the evening he had decided to take a hot bath right away and go to bed early. Mrs Pettifer had waited until he was in bed and had then taken up the hot drink and paracetamol.

  “And that was at about six o’clock, you say?”

  “Yes, just before I left. My taxi was due at ten past six. I was supposed to be catching the six twenty-seven and when I went up I asked if he’d like me to cancel my engagement and stay at home. But he said no, that was quite unnecessary, that in any case it would be silly for me to keep him company in case I caught his cold. I suppose he knew I’d be disappointed if I didn’t go. You see, I stopped work a couple of months ago, because of the baby, and he knew I’d found it difficult to adjust. I was so excited when my agent sent me this new part to consider, but then I simply couldn’t make up my mind whether to accept it or not. That’s why I was meeting him, to discuss it with him. So my husband …” She stopped.

  “Yes?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. As I say, he just said it was unnecessary for me to stay, that no doubt he’d be right as rain by morning.”

  This wasn’t what she had been going to say, Thanet was certain of it, but he didn’t feel he could press her at the moment. He let it pass. “You gave him a hot drink, you say?”

  “Yes. Cocoa.” Her eyes widened. “He didn’t … it wasn’t in the cocoa that he took the …”

  “No. You left the drink with him, then?”

  “Yes. It was very hot and he was still sipping it when I left.”

  “And you also gave him some paracetamol, you said?”

  “That’s right. Two tablets. That’s all he’d ever take.”

  “And you left the container on the bedside table?”

  “No. The paracetamol are kept in the cabinet, in the bathroom. I took two out, put the container back.”

  “And you’re sure they were paracetamol?”

  “Certain.”

  “It’s labelled, the container?”

  “Of course. But there couldn’t have been any mistake anyway. Both of us have … had a bit of a thing about drugs. Neither of us ever used anything but paracetamol, unless it was absolutely essential to take an antibiotic, perhaps, and we never keep any other drugs in that cabinet.”

  “Could you tell me if your husband would ever take a drink before he went to bed, to help him sleep, perhaps?”

  “Alcohol d’you mean? Good heavens, no! Never!”

  Her astonishment was genuine, Thanet was sure of it. But remember, she’s an actress, and a first-rate one at that, whispered the voice of caution. All the same, he could see no reason to disbelieve her. Mrs Price had said much the same thing. By now he thought he had a clear picture of what had happened. Pettifer had waited until he was certain that there was no possibility of his wife returning and had then disposed of the cocoa mug. (But why bother? And where was it now?) Then he had fetched the bottle of port, the glass and the necessary quantity of drugs and had returned to bed to seek eternal oblivion.

  But why?

  He must have had his reasons and they must have been cogent, powerful indeed—and yet, both wife and housekeeper had been blissfully unaware of their existence. What was more, Pettifer had played into that ignorance, had fostered and encouraged it, had kept the charade up right to the end. And why the fuss about something as trivial as a cold, if he had intended suicide? To enjoy, one last time, the luxury of being cosseted by his wife? Surely, someone who intended committing suicide would be past caring about such things?

  “Oh, I don’t understand it,” Mrs Pettifer burst out. “I just don’t understand it. He was so cheerful yesterday. How can he have … I know that by evening he thought he was getting a cold, but that was nothing, such a … trivial thing. He insisted that I should still go to London … I simply can’t believe that all the time he was planning to …” She was becoming more and more agitated and now she stopped abruptly, blinked.

  Here it comes, Thanet thought.

  She struggled clumsily to her feet. “No!” she said, her voice rising. “It’s not possible! Not Arnold. He’d never do such a thing. Never. He’d never leave me all alone, like this …” She sounded near panic now and with one brief gesture at her belly somehow managed to evoke all the bleak and lonely years ahead, bringing up the child alone.

  Thanet rose as Lineham jumped up and took one or two uncertain steps towards her. The front door banged and voices could be heard outside in the hall. Lineham swung around and made for the door with evident relief. “That’s probably the doctor.”

  Barson was tall, balding and wore pebble-lensed spectacles. One sweeping glance told him the situation. “Gemma,” he said, hurrying across the room to take both her hands. “I am so very sorry.”

  His use of Mrs Pettifer’s Christian name surprised Thanet a little, but he realised at once that it was only to be expected. Pettifer had no doubt known Barson well—he would, after all, scarcely have entrusted the health of his wife and coming child to a mere acquaintance.

  “I think Mrs Pettifer should rest,” Barson said, with a hostile glance at Thanet. “She can’t afford to take risks at this stage. So if you don’t mind …”

  “By all means.” Thanet watched them go, Barson solicitously supporting her. The doctor’s arrival had been fortuitously well-timed, coming as it had just at the moment when Mrs Pettifer’s self-control had begun to crack.

  The thought slid insidiously into his mind: too fortuitous? Had Mrs Pettifer heard the doctor’s car, in the drive?

  Somehow, with her going, Thanet felt a curious shift in his attitude towards her. Compassion for her plight was natural in the circumstances, but now, thinking back over the interview, it occured to him that the strength of his reaction had been surpr
ising. One of the hall-marks of a first-rate actor is the degree of response he is able to arouse in his audience. Had he, Thanet, just witnessed a truly superb performance, so carefully calculated, so understated that at no point had it crossed his mind that it could be anything other than genuine? Or was he being less than fair to Gemma Pettifer?

  “Poor woman,” said Lineham, as the door closed behind them.

  “You think so?”

  Lineham looked at him sharply. “Yes. Why, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Thanet said doubtfully. “Well, yes, of course I do. No one could help feeling sorry for her, in this situation.”

  “But?”

  “But I’ve just got this niggling feeling … perhaps I’m being unfair. Perhaps being an actress means that in a situation like this people will constantly be questioning whether the emotions you display are genuine.”

  Experience had tempered Lineham’s former naivety, the susceptibility to feminine charm which had on at least one occasion seriously impaired his judgement and impeded the progress of a case. And by now he had worked with Thanet long enough to have a healthy respect for his opinion. Whereas once he would have leaped to Gemma Pettifer’s defence, now he simply said, “Don’t you think she was genuine, then?”

  “I’m just not one-hundred-per-cent convinced, that’s all.”

  “Did she say anything specific that makes you doubtful?”

  “No, nothing. Though she was evasive at one point, you’ll have noticed.”

  “When she switched what she was going to say? Yes, I did notice that. I wondered why you didn’t press the point.”

  “Things were going smoothly. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I was concerned that if I put any pressure on her she might crack.”

  “Just as well you didn’t, in view of the way it suddenly hit her.”

  “Mm, just as the doctor arrived.” Thanet tried to sound neutral and failed. Lineham picked up the implication at once.

  “You mean, that sudden breaking-up was deliberate? A performance, put on for our benefit?”

  Thanet shook his head. “Let’s leave it for the moment, Mike. It’s all speculation really, so there’s no point in wasting time discussing it.” He grinned. “I think Dr Barson thought I’d been giving her the third degree. Anyway, let’s see what we have to do now. We’ll have to chase up that cocoa mug, check on the paracetamol container in the bathroom …”

  “We’re not just leaving it, then?”

  “I don’t see how we can, not until we get at least a glimmer of a reason why he did it. I agree, all the circumstantial evidence points to a clear-cut case of suicide—the method he chose, the suicide note, the way he carefully timed it to coincide with the absence of both wife and housekeeper … But I’m just not happy about it. If he did kill himself, he must have had a reason, and it’s possible that it simply hasn’t come to light yet. He might just have found out that he had cancer, for example. If so, anything of that nature will show up in the post mortem. Or he might have been about to go bankrupt, and felt he couldn’t face the disgrace … I think we’ll have to do a bit of discreet checking, treat it as a suspicious death for the moment, just in case. Better to be too careful than kick ourselves later for being slipshod.”

  “You want me to get the boys in, then?”

  “Yes. I’ll have a word with Mrs Pettifer. We’ll have to take her finger-prints and Mrs Price’s, for elimination purposes. Then you’d better get on to his bank. No need to press for details, just find out if his financial situation was healthy or not. And I’ll go down to the Health Centre, have a word with his partners, in case something was awry there. One of them might possibly still be there, taking surgery. Let’s hope they’re not all off on their rounds by now.”

  “Do you want a search of the house?”

  “I’ll ask permission. But make it discreet. We really don’t want to overplay things at the moment … You know, Mike, there is one thing that strikes me as odd. It’s only just occurred to me.”

  “What?”

  “Well, Doc Mallard said that he would estimate that Pettifer took the overdose some time between ten and twelve last night, and you know as well as I do that he’s hardly ever wrong about something like that. Now, if that is so, why did Pettifer wait four or five hours after his wife left? Why not do it once he was sure she was out of the way?”

  “Screwing up sufficient courage?”

  “Possibly, I suppose. Perhaps that’s why the port was there.”

  “You mean, he got drunk, first? Or perhaps something happened, between the time she left and the time he did it, to make him decide to.”

  “If so, it must have been something pretty drastic. From what we’ve heard of him so far, he doesn’t sound the sort of man to commit suicide on impulse without good reason.”

  The door opened and Dr Barson came into the room. “I’m afraid Mrs Pettifer refuses to settle down until she’s seen you again, Inspector,” he said tersely.

  “Right. I wanted a brief word with her anyway.” As they mounted the stairs together Thanet glanced speculatively at the doctor’s stony expression. He needed this man’s cooperation. “Perhaps I ought to explain, Doctor, that contrary to what you might think, I was consciously careful in what I said to Mrs Pettifer. She was perfectly calm until just a few moments before you arrived. Then it suddenly hit her. You can check with her, if you like.”

  They had reached the top of the stairs now and Barson stopped. He looked a little shamefaced as he said, “I’m sorry, Inspector. Evidently I’ve misjudged you. Naturally, when I saw how upset Gemma was … I’m very fond of her, of both of them. I’ve known Arnold—Dr Pettifer—for years. Ever since we were medical students together, as a matter of fact.”

  Thanet privately breathed a prayer of gratitude that he had attempted to propitiate the man. His knowledge of Pettifer might be invaluable.

  “What was he like?”

  Barson pursed his lips. “D’you know, I always find that a difficult question to answer, and the better one knows someone, the more difficult it seems to be. One automatically begins to select all the good qualities, as if one were writing a reference. Let me see, now … Well, he was an excellent GP—thorough, hardworking, conscientious and a very good diagnostician. He had a rather unfortunate manner though, off-putting. He was very reserved, it was hard to get close to him. Although I’ve known him so long, I never really felt I understood what made him tick.”

  “Would you say this business was in character?”

  “Good God, no. Arnold was, above all, a sticker. He’d never give up or opt out, however hard the going, certainly not for any reason I could imagine. I’m quite astounded by what’s happened.”

  “You don’t happen to know who his doctor was, do you?”

  “I was, for what it’s worth. I say ‘for what it’s worth’ because, although he was theoretically on my list, in fact he never consulted me in all the years he’s been on it, not once. He had excellent health, always, and I imagine he’d dose himself for any minor ailments. So if you’re thinking he might have had a terminal illness … well, if he did, I certainly knew nothing about it. And if he did, of course the post mortem will show it.”

  “What if he just suspected he had it? People have been known to kill themselves because they were convinced they had cancer, for instance, when they really had nothing seriously wrong with them at all.”

  Barson shook his head emphatically. “Arnold would never have killed himself on a mere suspicion. No, if ill-health was the reason, it’ll emerge soon enough, but frankly I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Have you been into his room this morning, to have a look at him?”

  “Just briefly, yes. I didn’t touch anything, of course.” Barson frowned. “Vintage port and drugs. I must admit it’s the way out most doctors would choose. By far the most comfortable. I understand there was a note, too.”

  Thanet showed it to him. Barson groaned. “Oh God—Andrew! I suppose his
headmaster will have the unenviable task of breaking the news, poor devil. I’ll ask Gemma if she’d like me to ring the school.”

  Mention of her name reminded them why they were standing here on the landing conversing in whispers and they began to move towards the door of Mrs Pettifer’s room.

  It was a complete contrast to her husband’s monastic little cell. There was a fitted, butter-coloured carpet and the tall windows were hung with floor-length curtains patterned with sprays of wild flowers on a creamy background. The same fabric had been used in the curtains and drapes of the four-poster bed which dominated the room. Tiny, lacy cushions in many shapes and sizes were heaped at one end of the green velvet chaise-longue in the bay window and there was a clutter of silver, cut-glass and expensive-looking jars and bottles on the dressing table. A white satin peignoir trimmed with swans-down had been tossed carelessly across the foot of the lace bedspread. The effect was delicate, light, airy and overwhelmingly feminine. Thanet tried and failed to visualise Pettifer at home in this setting.

  Gemma Pettifer was propped up against the lace-trimmed pillows, looking as fragile as a wax doll.

  “You wanted to see me?” said Thanet.

  “Yes. I’ve got something to show you. Perhaps it’ll convince you.” She reached for a large brown envelope on the bedside table. “Yesterday afternoon, my husband brought me a present. He’d picked it up on the way home, he said. I’m sure you’ll be able to check that.” And she spilled the contents of the envelope out on to the bedspread.

  Thanet had no time for more than a glimpse of brightly coloured brochures before Mrs Pettifer selected a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  “It was a surprise for me. He knew I’d always wanted to go.”

  Thanet stared down at the paper. It was a receipt from a travel agency. Yesterday afternoon, only a few hours before he had killed himself, Arnold Pettifer had paid £2,000 for a cruise to the Canaries, with a departure date in three weeks’ time.

  4

  On the way to the Health Centre, Thanet found himself thinking about a man who had become something of a local legend.