by Eric Brown
‘That’s right, sir. It started a year or so ago. I mean, that’s when his illness got worse. There were times when he could hardly go on, if you get my meaning.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, on these occasions I had to close the surgery and cancel all his appointments, and that didn’t go down too well with some folks, as you can well imagine. I did my best to get him up to his room, but look at the size of me! Once or twice I was getting desperate, so I remembered he had a brother and called him up, desperate like. To his credit, the professor dropped what he was doing and rushed over and got Doctor Robertshaw into bed. He’d be a lot better by morning and would assure me he was well enough to see his patients.’
‘How often did he have these turns?’
‘In the early days? It was just an occasional thing to start with, but then it happened more often. A few months ago, they were happening a couple of times a week, regular as clockwork. Always on Friday afternoons, after the surgery closed, and quite often earlier in the week, always later on. Funny how that happened, isn’t it? Sometimes I had to call the professor, but more often than not Doctor Robertshaw rang his brother himself.’
‘And more recently?’ Langham asked. ‘Before Christmas?’
‘Ooh, sometimes he fell ill three times a week, and I was fair worried. But what could I do, I ask you? I mean, I couldn’t tell him to see a doctor, could I? I reckon he knew what was wrong, but there seemed nothing he could do to cure himself, poor soul. I wonder if it was that that sent him over the edge, sir, knowing that there was no hope?’
‘It might well have been, Mrs Greaves,’ he said. ‘Over the course of the past few months, and more recently, how often did the professor come over to assist his brother?’
‘Well, it got to be such a regular kerfuffle that we decided it best if we got a spare set of keys cut for the professor. You see, often as not the doctor would fall ill when I wasn’t around, and he’d be incapable of getting to the door and letting his brother in. So one day the professor suggested I give him the keys so he could have copies made, which was a good idea if you ask me. That way he needn’t bother me when I was at home, and he could let himself in as and when he liked.’
‘When exactly was this?’
‘Oh, just before Christmas, I’d say.’
‘And these keys,’ Langham said. ‘Were they just for the surgery and the apartment itself?’
‘Well, he took the whole bunch, sir. Easier that way, he said, rather than taking individual keys off the ring.’
‘So the keys were for the surgery’s front door, his apartment … and where else?’
Mrs Greaves counted off the rooms on her fingers. ‘The front and back door, the waiting room and Doctor Robertshaw’s consulting room – that’s four. His private apartment, five. The dispensing room, six. And there was a key for the drug cupboard, too. That’s seven.’
Langham nodded, considering his next question. ‘I know this might be inconvenient,’ he began, ‘but it would assist the investigation if you could see your way to accompanying me to the surgery. There are one or two things I’d like to check on the premises.’
‘Of course, sir. But I hope you don’t want me to go into that room, do you? His study, sir, where we found him. I couldn’t set eyes on that place again, I couldn’t, not for all the tea in China.’
‘No, of course not. You do have your keys handy, I take it?’
‘I do, sir. Locked secure in my bureau, they are.’
She crossed to a walnut writing bureau and withdrew a bunch of keys. ‘Bear with me while I get my hat and coat, Officer. Perishing cold it is out there.’
She shuffled into the hall and busied herself donning a maroon overcoat and a hat like a tea cosy, then stuffing her feet into fur-lined boots.
They left the house and drove to the Willows.
She sat in silence when they pulled up outside the surgery, staring out at the darkened building. Then she said, ‘Who would have thought it, sir, a week ago? It makes you think.’
‘It certainly does, Mrs Greaves. In your own time.’
She took a deep breath. ‘“Be strong, and let us show ourselves courageous,”’ she quoted. ‘After you, Officer.’
Smiling, Langham led the way along the path to the front door of the surgery and Mrs Greaves let them in.
‘Oh, the memories I have of this place. I worked here twenty years, Officer, first for Doctor Harper, and then for Doctor Robertshaw – God have mercy on him – when he took over ten years ago.’
‘If you could show me to the dispensing room.’
‘Of course. Follow me this way.’
She led him along the corridor, past the stairs that led to the upper floor, to a door at the back of the building. She fumbled with the keys in the dim light of a forty-watt bulb, then unlocked the door and switched on another light.
Langham entered, looking around him. It was an inner room without windows, with a worn navy-blue carpet and pale-green walls. Four tall grey filing cabinets stood against the far wall. To the left was a counter, behind which was the double door of a tall, white-painted cupboard set into the wall.
She looked around and sniffed. ‘Many’s the hour we spent in here over the years, sir, Doctor Robertshaw and me, sorting the deliveries and stacking them away.’
‘In there?’ Langham asked, pointing to the cupboard behind the counter.
‘That’s it, sir.’
‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to open it, Mrs Greaves?’
She lifted a folding flap on the counter, unlocked the cupboard doors and opened them wide to reveal six long shelves divided into pigeon holes, each one stacked with a variety of glass bottles, vials and small cardboard boxes.
He turned and indicated the filing cabinets. ‘And these are?’
‘Patient records, sir, referring to personal prescriptions.’
The drawers of the filing cabinet were labelled from A to Z.
Mrs Greaves chattered away to herself reminiscently. ‘Every Thursday morning it was, sir, the delivery. We’d have everything sorted and stacked within an hour.’
He said, ‘I believe that Doctor Robertshaw was treating his sister-in-law, Xandra Robertshaw?’
‘That’s correct, sir. In a bad way, she was, too. She’d had tuberculosis, but the treatment fair knocked her back. Not long for this world, so I understand. Doctor Robertshaw would go over to the manor at Ingoldby every month to check up on her.’
‘I understand that he changed her medication a little while back?’
She frowned at him. ‘I don’t know where you heard that, sir. I’d know about it if he had. You see, we went through each patient’s prescriptions together, and when Doctor Robertshaw went out on a home visit, I’d have all the medicaments ready and waiting for him, I would.’
‘And you’re positive that Mrs Robertshaw’s medication hadn’t changed at some point around Christmas?’
Mrs Greaves nodded vehemently. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’ She pointed to the filing cabinets. ‘If you don’t believe me,’ she sniffed, ‘then take a look for yourself. You’ll find Mrs Robertshaw’s medical records in there, sir.’
He pulled up the drawer marked R and leafed through the manila files within; each was labelled with the patient’s name, and within seconds he’d located the file belonging to Xandra Robertshaw.
The only drugs that Dr Robertshaw had prescribed for the treatment of his sister-in-law over the course of the past years were sedatives and painkillers, and the prescription had not changed a month ago.
He slipped the folder back into the drawer and pushed it shut.
‘You’ve been more than helpful, Mrs Greaves. We can lock up now and I’ll drive you home.’
‘A pleasure to assist the investigation, sir,’ she said, locking the cupboard and then the door of the dispensary. ‘And rest assured I’ll be praying for Doctor Robertshaw.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be reassured by this, Mrs Greaves,’ he said, ushering he
r along the corridor and out to the car.
He drove her home, saw her into her front room, then motored from the town, lost in thought.
The snow had stopped, but the roads were covered with slush and the going was slow. For the last two miles into Ingoldby-over-Water, he was trapped behind a trundling coal wagon, and it was after one o’clock when he arrived home. He pulled into the drive, kicked the snow off his brogues and ducked into the cottage.
‘In here!’ Maria called.
He removed his overcoat and joined her in the welcome warmth of the kitchen.
‘Homemade vegetable soup for lunch,’ she said. ‘I take it you’re hungry?’
‘Famished – but I wonder if it can wait?’
She stared at him. ‘Donald, what is it? You look … shocked.’
‘I am, and with good reason,’ he said. He pulled out a dining chair and sat down. ‘I need to get over to the manor, right away. Where’s Nancy?’
‘She went to see Xandra, perhaps an hour ago.’
‘Good, I didn’t want her to overhear what I have to say.’
‘Overhear? Donald, what is it?’
‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you.’
Removing her apron, she pulled out a dining chair and sat opposite him.
‘This morning I discovered that Professor Robertshaw was Nancy’s father, and also,’ he went on, ‘I suspect that the professor switched his wife’s medication in order to kill her.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Nancy was playing with Bill on the lawn when Donald and Maria arrived at the manor.
As they turned in through the gates and walked up the drive, Langham glanced at Maria. She was quiet after listening to the details he’d recounted on their way from Yew Tree Cottage.
‘Could you stay out here with Nancy while I go and find Xandra?’ he said. ‘I don’t want the girl interrupting.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Nancy looked up and waved when she saw them, and Bill romped up and deposited his tennis ball at Maria’s feet. She tossed the ball back on to the lawn, and they joined Nancy beside the snowman effigy of the late professor.
Her father, Langham thought.
‘Good news!’ Nancy said, smiling at them. ‘Xandra told me that Randall is moving out at the end of the week and that I could come back then. Would it be all right if I stay with you until he goes?’
‘Of course,’ Langham said. ‘We like having you around.’
‘Thanks ever so,’ she said. ‘I must say, my aunt seems to have picked up a little. She isn’t as miserable any more, and she’s up and about. I just hope it lasts.’
‘I have a feeling it might,’ Langham said.
Bill dropped the ball at her feet, and Nancy picked it up and threw it in a high parabola through the air.
‘Isn’t it strange?’ she said. ‘After all my aunt’s gone through over the past few days, you’d think she’d be down in the dumps!’
‘Isn’t it?’ Langham murmured, squeezing Maria’s hand. He gestured to the house. ‘Where will I find her? I need a quick word.’
‘She’s in the conservatory, tending to her plants. If you pass the staircase and turn left, you’ll find it at the very end of the corridor.’
Langham left them playing pig-in-the-middle with Bill.
He entered the manor, walked past the staircase and turned along the corridor, rehearsing what he would say to Xandra Robertshaw. He came to a door with glass panels in its upper half and peered through the condensation. Beyond, he made out a blurred figure amid the greenery.
He knocked and entered, the heat cloying after the sub-zero temperature outside. A vast, ancient iron radiator burbled in the centre of the glass-encased extension, and Langham wondered at the cost of the heating bill for the conservatory alone.
Xandra stood behind a trestle potting table, pruning a spider plant with a pair of secateurs.
She looked up and smiled as he batted his way through a mass of overhanging fronds.
‘Ah, Mr Langham, I presume?’ she said.
‘Oh – I see, yes,’ he said, belatedly understanding the reference. ‘I wonder if you have five minutes?’
‘Yes, of course. But it really must be five minutes. I was just finishing off here before changing to drive over to Cambridge with Randall. My hospital appointment, you see.’
‘Quite,’ he said, looking around for somewhere to sit. ‘I must say, you’re looking well.’
‘I’m feeling well, Mr Langham. Over here.’
She pulled off her gloves and led the way across the conservatory to a rattan table and four wicker chairs arranged beneath the overhanging fronds of a tropical fern. He took off his hat and coat and deposited them on the table.
They sat down, Langham’s chair creaking beneath his weight. ‘For someone deprived of their painkillers,’ he went on, ‘I’d say you’re looking remarkably chipper.’
She smiled at him. ‘How can I help you?’
‘This morning, in the course of my investigations,’ he said, ‘I called on Deirdre Creighton, and a little later I saw Mrs Greaves, your brother-in-law’s receptionist.’
She gazed appreciatively at a nearby bromeliad. ‘And?’ she said.
He hesitated. ‘On Wednesday morning, during the interview conducted by Detective Inspector Montgomery, you gave the impression that you didn’t know the identity of your husband’s mistress.’
She winced, ever so slightly. ‘What of it?’
The way she avoided his eyes told him all he needed to know.
‘I think you were being economical with the truth,’ he said.
‘What if I were, Langham? Who my husband was carrying on with was of little concern to me.’ She hesitated. ‘Very well – I did know he was seeing the damned woman. I found a note from her in his jacket, full of sweet nothings and anticipating their next tryst.’
‘But you didn’t confront him about it?’
‘Of course not! That would have been quite beneath me.’
He opened his notebook and read a couple of entries. ‘Going back to the interview with Inspector Montgomery,’ he said. ‘You were quite adamant that your husband wouldn’t have taken his own life.’
‘So?’
‘In fact, you were sure that he’d been murdered. Was that,’ he went on circumspectly, ‘no more than a little game, Mrs Robertshaw?’
She looked away from him and examined the bromeliad more closely. She withdrew her right hand from the tabletop so that he could no longer see it shaking. ‘A game?’
‘To divert us from the chase,’ he said, ‘in a manner of speaking.’
She shook her head. ‘I genuinely thought that a man like Edwin would not take his own life. Ergo, the only possible alternative was that he’d been murdered.’
He nodded and referred to his notes again. He felt a tension in the air and was aware of Xandra’s unspoken desire for him to leave.
‘During the interview with Montgomery, you admitted to detesting your husband.’
She swung her gaze to regard him. ‘What of it?’
He refrained from replying. He read his notes, turning the pages slowly. Her impatience was almost palpable, a charge in the air that connected them like electricity.
He said at last, ‘I wonder what made you hate him most: the fact that he was having an affair or that he was trying to kill you?’
She made no response to this, merely stared into the greenery as if frozen – and this, for Langham, was response enough.
He said gently, ‘How did you find out?’
She returned her right hand to the tabletop and beat her long fingers in a slow tattoo, watching the operation with dispassion as if the hand did not belong to her. When she spoke, he had to lean forward in order to hear her murmured words.
‘Just before Christmas I was feeling … wonderful, Mr Langham. I was very nearly free of pain, and if you’ve ever suffered like that, I think you’ll know what I mean when I say that I was a new person, released not onl
y from constant pain but from the mental agony that accompanies it. I even began to believe that I might survive for a few more years.’ She smiled, as if chastising herself for such an optimistic notion. ‘Then, after Christmas, over the course of a week, I began to feel dreadful again; the pain returned, and with it the demons, the spectre of death.’
‘And this coincided with the change in the kind of painkillers you were taking?’
Xandra smiled at him. ‘There was no change, according to my husband. I was on the same course of pills, as far as I could tell – the only change was that I took them in the morning, and they were administered by Edwin, not Nancy.’
‘But did you notice whether the pills you began taking were any different to the previous ones?’
‘As far as I could tell, they were just the same. Not that I took that much notice – I was always half asleep at the time.’
‘But surely, when you began to take a turn for the worse, you mentioned this to Spencer?’
She smiled bitterly. ‘I hadn’t had a visit from him since the end of November. Edwin told me that his addiction was taking its toll and that he was incapacitated – and Edwin no doubt told his brother that I was getting along fine and didn’t need his monthly visits.’
‘And you weren’t suspicious at this point – you didn’t link the change of regime to your resumed ill-health?’
She hesitated. ‘Not immediately, no. I’d suffered relapses before, you see. As far as I was concerned, this was just another one of them.’
‘So how did you find out that Edwin was …?’
‘It was quite accidental, I assure you. A little over a week ago, Edwin came in with my morning medication, gave me the pills and a glass of water and watched me take them. A matter of seconds after he left the room, I happened to choke and cough the pills back up, then spat the foul-tasting mush on to the carpet. I was feeling ghastly and couldn’t summon the effort to call him back. The following morning, he brought the pills in with my breakfast, and I said I’d take them after I’d eaten the toast. In the event, I fell asleep, and by the time I awoke a little before noon, Nancy had been in and cleared away the tray. Later that day I began to feel a little better – clear-headed and not so nauseous – and I wondered if it might have anything to do with not having taken the painkillers for two days running – though, oddly, the pain was no worse than it normally was. The following day, I hid the pills under my tongue when Edwin gave them to me, and spat them out when he left the room. And the next day, I did the same, and the day after that, too.’ She paused and smiled across at him. ‘Within five days, I was feeling as well as I had been before Christmas, and a small, insistent voice began in my head: what if it was the painkillers that had been making me feel worse than usual? Then it occurred to me that my recent relapse coincided with Edwin’s administering the pills in the mornings. And it was only a very small leap of supposition to the corollary: what if Edwin was … poisoning me?’
