An Uncommon Murder

by Anabel Donald

  ‘Outside the gun-room! Indeed!’ said Miss Potter. ‘You always were a liar, Charlotte.’

  ‘Fat lot you knew about me,’ said Charlotte, twelve again. ‘Actually I wasn’t outside, I was under the sofa. I didn’t want to stay in bed. I didn’t see why I should be left out; everyone else was having fun. Rosalind was dancing with Daddy, and he hadn’t danced with me. I went to the gun-room to try some whisky. I didn’t like it. Then Daddy came in, and I hid under the sofa.’

  ‘And you actually heard your mother shoot your father?’ I asked. Miss Potter was listening with an air of courteous inquiry. The longer Charlotte talked, the better chance we had, I hoped, and I liked the idea of child Charlotte under the murder sofa – a good touch for my piece, though I couldn’t understand why, if she really had been there, she didn’t tax Miss Potter with what she must know she had done. Unless she couldn’t hear everything, and missed her mother’s departure and Miss Potter’s arrival. Keep her talking, keep her talking. ‘But you never told anyone?’

  ‘It was my secret,’ said Charlotte smugly. ‘I like secrets. And Daddy deserved it. He was going to leave us. We’d have lost the house.’

  ‘Mummy’s Daddy is dead,’ confided Toad proudly. ‘He was shot ages ago before I was born . . .’

  The stench was worse, I registered suddenly. Waves of ex-Tigger were wafting from the radiator. Which must therefore be warming up – yes, I could just feel the edge going from the icy damp of the room. The vicar must have turned on the boiler. He’d be looking for Charlotte and Miss Potter soon, surely. Miss Potter and I opened our mouths to speak at the same time. I expect she was trying to keep the conversation going; I certainly was. Charlotte overrode us both. ‘That’s enough talking. Stand up, Toad. Come over here.’ Toad, obediently, smilingly, stood up and crossed towards her mother Miss Potter no longer had a clear line of fire. Toad was directly between Charlotte and the window.

  ‘Terrific bed,’ I said, rattling my handcuffs. ‘Mrs Mayfield – I do think this is a terrific bed. Brass, is it? Victorian? Is it Victorian, Toad? There’s some writing on it, just here. Come and look, Toad, tell me what it says, it might be the maker’s name, it might be valuable, come and read it to me, Toad, come now.’

  Toad turned towards me, still obedient, still smiling. Charlotte lashed out with her left hand and slapped her daughter across the face. ‘Stand still,’ she hissed. Toad, standing still, smiling, began to cry. Tears slid down what was left of her cheeks, and dropped from her chin to her chest, where only nipples marked where breasts should be.

  ‘Charlotte, do put the gun down,’ said Miss Potter. ‘You have nothing to gain by harming us. We can find proper care for Toad and she’ll recover Think, Charlotte. You can set it right.’

  ‘I’m giving her the care she deserves,’ said Charlotte. Her voice was no longer icy, it was thick with anger. ‘You stupid, stupid woman,’ she said. ‘Self-righteous. Just a little governess. You’ve never been important to us. You thought you were, but you’re not. My father never even knew you existed.’

  ‘It’s time for some home truths, Mrs Mayfield,’ I said. It was a gamble. She was already angry: if I could make her angrier, she might lose her co-ordination. She might even go for me, and give Miss Potter a chance for a shot, or to order Toad away while she was out of her mother’s reach. Playground insults were called for. ‘Your son Charles is a dickhead,’ I said. ‘He’s a queer. He’s in Australia shagging the sheep. Barty told me, all London is laughing at him. Lally Lambert kicked him out of bed.’

  ‘No, Alex!’ said Miss Potter.

  Charlotte darted towards me and swung the gun like a club. I ducked my head, swung my legs. The gun hit my shin and I heard it break. My shin: not, unfortunately, the gun. I didn’t feel any pain. I was too angry. I kicked at her but she was away, out of my reach but not yet shielded by Toad. ‘Go for it. Miss Potter!’ I called. Then Charlotte was back, swinging the gun. Crack! – there went my thigh. ‘Oh shit!’ I howled. The pain hadn’t hit yet. That’s almost the worst moment, waiting for it.

  ‘Can I have my bath now Mummy please Mummy can I have my bath?’

  Toad was swaying. Charlotte stood behind her, close. Toad was taller than her mother, though much, much thinner. Miss Potter no longer had a clear shot. Shotguns scattered, anyway, didn’t they? She’d be bound to hit Toad. No way Miss Potter would fire now, I thought, resigned. I tried to stand up, go for Charlotte, bed and all, but I couldn’t. My right leg wouldn’t hold me. I could feel the grinding of the broken bone as the breaks worsened.

  Charlotte’s gun was pointed at me. I crawled towards her, tugging the bed. I wasn’t going to die cowering. I really didn’t like Charlotte Mayfield.‘Get down,Toad. Now. DOWN! NOW!’ called Miss Potter I heard the gun, knew I would die, remembered you didn’t hear the shot that killed you, and looked up. Toad was on her hands and knees, facing me. The tears still dripped from her chin, straight to the floor – the red floor I looked up further. The pale cream wall behind where Charlotte had been was, spattered with red and grey and pink. The floor was – the floor was how you would expect. Near me were Charlotte’s Italian shoes, and her legs, and – I didn’t look. I’d look in a moment.

  ‘Something’s the matter with Mummy,’ said Toad. ‘I don’t think she’s well I think she’s dead can I have my bath now please Miss Potter?’

  ‘Yes. In a moment. Hush, Toad.’

  I felt sick. I didn’t try to bite it back: I let it gush. I didn’t think, considering the state of the schoolroom, that a little vomit would hurt. Then Miss Potter was beside me, holding my head, wiping my mouth.

  ‘My poor child,’ she said.

  ‘You might have killed Toad,’ I said. I couldn’t believe it. If I hadn’t been so shocked, I wouldn’t have said such a tactless thing, I hope. ‘It was a terrible risk. Why? Why did you nearly kill Toad?’

  ‘Triage, my dear,’ said Miss Potter. ‘You should approve, surely? Besides, I knew she would obey. She has been brought up to obey.’

  ‘Delicately nurtured,’ I said, and began to laugh.

  ‘Not nurtured at all,’ Miss Potter said coolly. ‘Flippancy I can, reluctantly, accept, Alex. Please spare me hysteria.’

  ‘My leg has been broken in two places,’ I observed, ‘but at least she missed my kneecap.’

  ‘I will procure you medical assistance. The pain must be acute,’ said Miss Potter scrambling to her feet.

  ‘Have a bath,’ said Toad cheerfully.

  A stocky elderly man puffed in, looked round, and clutched the door-jamb for support. ‘Good heavens,’ said the vicar.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The rest of that night was a shambles, as far as I was concerned. Right after the vicar came in, I passed out. I woke up in an ambulance and stayed awake long enough to say, ‘I’m not unconscious.’ Then I passed out again.

  Doctors, nurses, and grimy draughty corridors came and went like a television set on the blink. At one point they gave me something local for the pain and reset my leg, plastered it, and shuffled me along another corridor to a orthopaedic ward where they strung me up to a complicated system of weights and pulleys.

  I didn’t try to stay awake. Alone, bookless, in pain and immobile in a country hospital, sleep was my drug of choice. I had plenty to think about tomorrow, but right now I’d sleep.

  The day after, I was woken at seven by a tired Irish nurse with milky tea. She told me that I had concussion and that my leg was a real mess. I supposed trying to stand on it hadn’t helped. Charlotte Mayfield must have been a tennis player: she had an effective smash. The nurse also gave me Miss Potter’s shopping basket. When I looked inside, there were her memoirs and my tape recorder, which she must have rescued from the BMW. ‘Miss Potter brought this along early this morning,’ she said. ‘She asked me to be sure you were conscious when I gave it to you, and to send you her regards.’

  The only person in England still sending regards, I thought. She and my major in Cheltenham. He’d asked
me to send his regards to my next interviewee, a crony of his from the Cretan resistance, a murderous brigand who had found his niche murdering Germans. ‘You know Miss Potter?’

  ‘She helps with the coffee shop. She’s the Secretary of the Friends of the Hospital.’ I might have known.

  I asked after Toad, realizing as I asked that I couldn’t remember her real name. I made do with ‘Ludovic Mayfield’s daughter’. Oh, yes, of course, Ludovic Mayfield’s daughter, poor little thing, she only weighed just over four stone, did I know? And she had pneumonia. Could I see her? Oh, no, she’d gone in an ambulance straight to a clinic in London.

  ‘On Sunday?’ I said. ‘Nobody goes to London on Sunday.’ The nurse gave me her best I’m-trained-to-deal-with-concussion smile. She told me it would be at least a month before I could go home and the hospital book trolley came round once a week. On Saturdays.

  At least I had some insurance: being self-employed, you have to, so the mortgage would be paid as long as the doctors signed me off work. I didn’t know how long it would be before I could earn again. There wasn’t any work about, and I could hardly drum any up: not much demand for researchers in Richard III orthopaedic ward, and a long queue for the telephone trolley, when it functioned.

  The highlight of the next few hours was a blanket bath. Then the visitors started.

  The CID stayed only an hour but they had some grip on the facts. They’d already seen Miss Potter. The superintendent looked like a prize bull and spoke little; what he did say was drawled in a broad country accent, Warwickshire, I supposed. His inspector was small and educated, for a policeman.

  The inspector conducted the interview. I told the truth, but only in answer to his questions. I didn’t volunteer anything. Eventually he closed his notebook and said that the whole thing could have been avoided if the doctors and social workers had been called early enough in Miss Mayfield’s illness, and that it had been very unfortunate that Miss Potter had resorted to force instead of going through the proper channels. He said that Mrs Mayfield was a devoted mother and might have been suffering from the menopause, and that a mother’s protective love for her child was a wonderful thing, but it could go too far. It sounded as if he’d read a combined social sciences course and had a healthy respect for public relations.

  ‘Did you see the schoolroom? The place where the girl was kept?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said.

  ‘And the dog?’ I pursued.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said, puzzled. ‘The Public Health people went in today to set it to rights.’

  I looked at the superintendent. ‘Do you think the Public Health people can set it to rights?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said in his Warwickshhe drawl. ‘I’m old-fashioned. I’m not much for the Social Services, but I do believe in good and evil.’

  The inspector frowned and the superintendent smiled at him. ‘I’ve known Mrs Mayfield a long time, since she was a child. My two younger sisters were mad on ponies. Riding mom, noon and night. Gymkhanas and Pony Club. She was the worst loser I ever saw. Couldn’t stand to be beaten, even in the egg and spoon race.’

  The inspector shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said the superintendent again. ‘Seeing as the Social Services weren’t alerted to Mrs Mayfield’s difficulties before tragic circumstances drove her to cause multiple fractures of your leg. Miss Tanner, and you’ll be stuck in hospital for a while, I think we can make do with your statement, for the inquest. It’ll be written up and sent along for signature.’

  The inspector looked so unhappy I threw him a cmmb. ‘She must have been unbalanced,’ I said.

  ‘Quite; he agreed. They left.

  Next came Routledge, the vicar, who proved to be a practical Christian. He didn’t mention God once and he went straight home to fetch me an orange-box full of books. They were all cosy English detective stories, but I was grateful anyway. The nurses weren’t. They rearranged my cluttered bedside locker and said, ‘Surely you won’t need all these hooks?’ I only had thirty.

  In the afternoon, Barty came. In a suit and a guilty (expression. He was obviously trying not to say ‘You cocked up’ and ‘I told you so’ and ‘I should have come with you’. It was a sticky visit. I looked terrible, even worse than usual. I was in a yellow hospital gown. Yellow is not my colour. The best thing to be said about me and yellow is that it tones with my teeth. I think I was being prickly, and I complained about bloody Warwickshire until I drove him away.

  I didn’t tell him about Miss Potter killing Rollo. I was tired and the effort would have been too much. Besides, I had to sort it all out in my mind, listen to the tapes through again, take notes and put it in order I did ask him to ring Polly and get her to bring down her laptop and my notes and tapes on the Sherwin case. He dragged his heels on that, said we’d have to discuss it. What was to discuss? He couldn’t renege on the deal now, surely.

  In the afternoon, an hour before my next painkiller was due, I started to cry. Not sobs: leaky, dribbling tears, as if the washers in my eyes needed replacing. I had concussion, of course, and my leg hurt. Badly. Plus I suppose I was in shock. When I closed my eyes the tears didn’t stop and I saw pictures, like a slide carousel jerking in my head. It went on without my pressing the button, an automatic lurch from frame to frame. Toad’s room. Charlotte Mayfield’s chilly and chilling face. And the dog Tigger.

  My mother bought me a dog for my fifth birthday, a cocker spaniel. She tied it to the radiator in our flat. It strangled itself, somehow, very quickly. She didn’t think it was dead, and at that time I’d still believed what she told me. We both wondered why it wouldn’t eat. After a while I knew it was dead. I didn’t like the smell, much, but I watched it change. Nothing much changed, in the flat with my mother.

  My mother’s flat and Toad’s room had some terrible point of contact. Not just the dirt and the smell, but the corruption. It wasn’t my mother’s fault: it had been Charlotte Mayfield’s. She’d chosen to exert her will where will was irrelevant. So nothing changed and Toad decayed, just because Charlotte wanted something.

  My eyes were still leaking: this time, I knew, for Toad – for the time I had wasted not looking for her, for my stupid mistake in going up to help her instead of driving away, and for the years of misery she had endured not being all her parents had ever dreamed of. Charlotte Sherwin the child had bought made ponies. Much better if Charlotte Sherwin the woman could have bought made daughters, all set to trot round the ring wearing rosettes.

  In the evening. Miss Potter came. Her hands were swollen and obviously sore, but otherwise she looked astonishingly well, pink, handsome and strong. Shooting people agreed with her Barty was right, she was unimaginably tough. I knew I should apologize to her for the cock-up I’d made and try to thank her. She’d saved me: she’d nearly killed her precious Toad. I knew she’d regret it. She’d probably regretted it the moment she’d done it. Triage wasn’t her philosophy, it was mine, and besides, from her point of view, she’d chosen the wrong casualty to save. I couldn’t find the words.

  I asked after Toad. ‘My dear,’ she said, and I could guess the rest from her tone, but I let her say it, ‘Toad died this afternoon. I was with her. Her heart gave out.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. I was. Sorry that Toad had died, and very sorry that I hadn’t done a better job for Miss Potter, although she hadn’t helped me much, come to think of it.

  ‘It was probably for the best,’ she said briskly. ‘We will talk about it when you are stronger . . .’

  She’d brought me a toothbrush, toothpaste, face-flannel, soap, a voluminous white cotton nightdress, and (for hospital?) several pairs of M&S white cotton pants, still in their wrappers. She noticed my bewilderment. ‘It can be so – ungainly, being in traction,’ she explained delicately. She’d also brought grapes (in November?), lavender-water, and War and Peace. I’d read it but I didn’t say so. I prefer Dostoievsky. I didn’t say that either. Let her think I was illi
terate, I didn’t care. We talked about her health, my health, and the National Health. She was the only one in good shape.

  As she was leaving, something struck me. ‘Hey, Miss Potter – you must have come directly from the clinic in London to see me. How did you get here?’

  ‘Bartholomew was kind enough to lend me his car.’

  ‘The BMW? You drove the BMW? Yourself?’

  ‘Indeed. And I must say, Alex, rather more speedily than you drove substantially the same journey yesterday. In fact I must suppose you hold the all-comers’ record for the slowest time over the distance.’

  ‘But you can’t drive! You know nothing about cars!’

  ‘Why should you think that? I have driven regularly, without incident, since 1938. Moreover, in those early days one did not merely drive, one had to have a more than superficial understanding of mechanics. Barty’s engine needs tuning.’

  ‘But you told me you knew nothing about cars!’

  ‘No. You thought so, and I did not correct your assumption.’

  When she left, I was alone. The woman in the next bed listened to the Archers, and when I said I didn’t, she told me what had been happening in Ambridge for the last thirty years. Her words washed over me. I was trying to think, but my head was fuzzy. Concussion and pills, I suppose. There were connections I had to make, information which could be linked, which should be linked, but I couldn’t do it. I leaked tears instead.

  Next day, nobody came, not even the police, and that lasted thirty years too. I hate bedpans. I faced the prospect of a month of them, then considered the likely alternative: death, and a month, an eternity, of nothing at all. It didn’t make the bedpans seem better but it put a big ROAD CLOSED sign across the self-pity option.

  Polly could have come, at least, I thought crossly. I wanted to work on the Sherwin murder piece, but I still couldn’t concentrate. I also had a deep reluctance even to think about what would happen to Miss Potter if I published. I had an obligation to her, now. But she couldn’t expect me to forgo my chance, could she?