6 - Superfluous Death Read online

  There had been a glut of plums and I’d put quite a few in the freezer intending to make jam with them when I had the time. Plum jam is tedious to make—all that business taking out the stones—and I’d rather put the whole thing off. However, a Monday morning, start of a new week, seemed a good moment to get down to it and I’d just got the large preserving pan full of jam simmering on the stove when the phone rang. It was Miss Graham at her most agitated.

  ‘Oh, Sheila dear, I do hope I haven’t rung at an inconvenient moment, but I wonder if you could possibly come round to see me some time. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  I wiped a sticky fingermark off the phone with my apron and said, ‘Yes, of course. Would this afternoon be OK? I’ve got to go into town anyway, to take some books back to the library, so I could easily call in.’

  ‘Oh, that would be good of you.’

  She sounded disproportionately relieved, and I wondered if something serious had happened. ‘Is anything the matter?’ I asked. ‘Is it something to do with Dr Cowley?’

  She wasn’t very coherent. ‘Well, it’s rather unexpected, such a strange thing! I’d no idea—quite out of the blue, you might say—’ She broke off. ‘Oh dear, there’s someone at the door. I’ll tell you all about it this afternoon.’

  ‘All right. About two-thirty, I expect.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Sheila. I am grateful. Goodbye.’ As I put the phone down, wondering what on earth could have made her so flustered, I was aware of an ominous smell of burning. I dashed into the kitchen to find that the jam had boiled over on to the top of the stove. Scraping burnt-on plum jam from a ceramic hob with a kitchen knife is not my favourite way of spending a morning and I felt an unreasonable resentment against Miss Graham. Still, after I (and the jam) had cooled down, I began to wonder what it was that had perturbed her so much. After lunch I put a pot of the jam into my shopping bag, rounded up the dogs and put them in the car so that I could take them for a walk on the beach after I’d been to see Miss Graham, and set out for Kimberley Lodge.

  I rang the bell and huddled in the glass porch while I waited for Miss Graham to answer it. There was a strong wind blowing in off the sea and, in spite of the bright sunlight, it was very cold. I shivered and rang the bell again. Still no one answered. Feeling rather foolish, I peered in through the flap of the letter-box. The empty hall looked quite normal. I called out, ‘Miss Graham! Are you there? Are you all right?’ but there was no reply. It was impossible that she would have gone out; she knew I was coming and had been so anxious to see me. I began to feel worried; it seemed that something must have happened to her.

  The entrance to Mrs Wheatley’s flat, which was on the second floor, was up an outside staircase. I went up and rang her bell. Again there was no reply. I came down and rang Miss Graham’s bell once more, realizing as I did so that it was a totally futile gesture, but not knowing what else to do. Everything was very still; the only sound was the hoarse cry of a seagull, circling the beach below. Kimberley Lodge stood well back from the road in its own grounds and not a lot of traffic passed that way.

  Suddenly I remembered Miss Graham telling me once that she always hid a spare key in the soil of the wooden tub that housed a bay tree by the front door. She’d been very pleased with the ingenuity of her hiding place. And I’m afraid I have got a little forgetful these days and on several occasions I left my keys on the kitchen table and locked myself out, and that was very awkward! So I thought it would a good idea to keep a spare one there, just in case!’

  I took a pencil from my bag and scrabbled about in the earth of the tub. Sure enough, there was a key and it opened the front door. I stepped into the hall, feeling awkward and apprehensive.

  ‘Miss Graham!’ I called. ‘Are you there? It’s me, Sheila.’

  The silence in the flat seemed a very positive thing, oppressive and unnerving, and I had to make a real effort to move forward and open the sitting room door. After the cold wind outside it was pleasantly warm and the flames of the gas fire flickered cosily. Miss Graham was sitting in her usual chair by the fire. Her eyes were shut and she seemed to be sleeping. I went over to her and said, ‘Miss Graham, it’s Sheila. Are you all right?’ But somehow I knew she wouldn’t reply; there was a feeling of emptiness, as if I was the only person in the room, talking to myself.

  I moved towards her and, remembering my Red Cross classes, felt for the pulse in her neck, but there was no movement. I took out my handbag mirror and, kneeling down beside her chair, held it to her lips, but the glass was not even faintly misted. As I touched her face, the skin felt slightly chill and clammy and I knew that she was dead.

  As I got stiffly to my feet my knees felt wet, but there was nothing to be seen on the carpet, which was fawn, patterned with large dark brown spirals. I bent down and touched the carpet beside the chair and it was wet, though with what I couldn’t tell. The shock suddenly got to me and I sat down quite abruptly on the sofa facing the fire. I was shaking and I suppose it must have taken me a good ten minutes before I got hold of myself and thought about what I had to do.

  I went into the hall and found Miss Graham’s address book by the telephone, looked up Dr Cowley’s number and rang the surgery. His receptionist, a nice middle-aged woman whom I knew slightly from the WI, answered.

  ‘Oh, hello, Miss Watson, it’s Sheila Malory here. I wonder if Dr Cowley could come round to Miss Graham’s, you know, at Kimberley Lodge. I’m afraid she’s—she’s died.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The voice at the other end of the line sounded distressed. ‘Dr Cowley will be upset. But I’m afraid Monday’s his day for the Dulverton surgery and he isn’t usually back until quite late. Dr Barton always covers for Dr Cowley on his Dulverton days and he’s actually here in the surgery now so perhaps I’d better ask him to go round to Kimberley Lodge. Are you there yourself? Can you let him in?’

  ‘Oh, yes please, that would be best.’ I was relieved that I would not have to face Dr Cowley in these circumstances. ‘And yes, I’m in Miss Graham’s flat. Actually I found her. It was quite a shock.’

  ‘Oh, that must have been most unpleasant for you! Don’t you worry, Mrs Malory,he Mrs Ma I’ll send him round right away.’

  While I was by the telephone it occurred to me that I should ring Miss Graham’s nephew Ronnie. As her only close relative he ought to be told at once. I found the number of the shop and after a while a girl’s voice answered.

  ‘Can I speak to Mr Graham, please?’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s not in today,’ she said. ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘It’s really very urgent,’ I persisted. ‘Do you know where I can get in touch with him?’

  ‘Well, actually,’ the girl’s interest was aroused and she sounded more animated, ‘he’s got this flu thing that’s going about and he’s at home. You should be able to get him there.’ She gave me the number and then I suddenly thought of something.

  ‘Perhaps I could speak to Mrs Graham,’ I said, ‘to save bothering him when he’s not well.’

  ‘Oh, she’s gone to Taunton to see one of our suppliers. She won’t be back this afternoon.’

  I thanked the girl and dialled Ronnie’s home number. The phone rang but there was no reply. Presumably he was in bed and it seemed rather unkind to make him get up when he was feeling rotten just to hear upsetting news. I decided to wait until later when Carol would be home, and put down the receiver.

  The silence closed round me again and I began to walk about the flat simply to create some kind of movement. Consciously I avoided the sitting room; I didn’t feel I could face the still figure by the fire. I opened the door of the bedroom and looked inside. Everything was immaculately tidy. Even in her eighties and hampered by ill health, Miss Graham kept up the standard of housekeeping that she had evidently learned from her rather formidable mother. The bed was covered with a fine patchwork quilt (I remembered Miss Graham working on it over the years). The dressing table, with its embroidered mats, w
as innocent of any cosmetics and held only a silver-backed brush and mirror, a photograph of old Mrs Graham, a bottle of Yardley’s lavender water and an old-fashioned ring-tree. There was a kettle and a tea-tray by the bed, a book (Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier) and a bottle of tablets. I wandered out into the kitchen. Here too everything was spick and span. The work surfaces were clear except for matching storage containers and a wooden bread bin, so unlike my own clutter of jars, half-empty packets and old cat and dog dishes! The sink was spotless, the dishcloth wrung out and carefully spread over the taps and a washed cup, saucer and plate upended to dry on the draining board. A sudden humming noise made me jump, but it was just the motor of the refrigerator starting up. While I was still in this nervous state the front doorbell fiont doo rang and I greeted Dr Barton rather incoherently. He stared at me curiously as I haltingly explained how I had let myself into the flat and had found Miss Graham dead.

  I’ve known Dr Barton for years. He was one of Peter’s clients, but neither of us liked him very much, since he is an austere, humourless man, with a precise manner. He’s as well known in the town for his finicky obsession with detail, with a meticulous adherence to the last letter of the law, as he is for his meanness and love of money. It was presumably the latter that had brought him in to cover for Dr Cowley, a man whom he personally disliked and whose methods he had been known to criticize. Glad though I was not to have had to face the oleaginous Dr Cowley in this distressing situation, I felt chilled and repelled by the sight of Dr Barton’s gaunt figure and severe manner.

  He cut short my disjointed remarks with a terse, ‘Yes, yes,’ and going towards the sitting room said, ‘She’s in here, is she?’

  I followed him in reluctantly.

  ‘Has that fire been on for long?’ he asked me sharply. ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘It was on when I got here and the room was quite warm then.’

  He moved across and felt for the pulse as I had, and laid his hand on her forehead.

  ‘Difficult to tell how long she’s been dead, since the room is so warm.’ He looked at me accusingly, as if it was somehow my fault.

  ‘She was alive this morning,’ I said. ‘She telephoned to ask if I’d come and see her.’

  ‘Yes. Right.’ Dr Barton began examining the body so I went out into the kitchen again and wandered aimlessly about, peering into the refrigerator (almost empty), opening and shutting drawers (splendidly tidy), turning a dripping tap off more tightly, and generally fidgeting about until Dr Barton called to me from the sitting room.

  ‘Mrs Malory,’ he said as I went into the room, ‘do you know if Miss Graham had seen Dr Cowley in the last few days?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I mean, she hadn’t been ill or anything. She sounded perfectly all right this morning. I suppose it was a heart attack?’

  ‘That I am not in a position to say,’ he replied reprovingly. ‘But if she didn’t see her general practitioner within the last forty-eight hours then there will have to be a post-mortem.’

  He spoke with a certain grim satisfaction, as if he was delighted that Dr Cowley would be inconvenienced by the bureaucratic process.

  ‘There is no need for you to remain,’ he continued. ‘No doubt you have things you wish to attend to. I will do all that is necessary here.’

  ‘Oh, well, thank you, that would be kind. I’ve got the dogs outside and they’ll be getting a bit restless, you know how it is ...’ My voice trailed away in the face of his barely concealed contempt for people who kept animals and I picked up my handbag and shopping bag, in the bottom of which the now unneeded pot of jam rolled about forlornly, and prepared to leave.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Dr Barton said. ‘Are there any relatives?’

  ‘Just a nephew,’ I replied. ‘I tried to ring him while I was waiting for you, but he’s got flu. I’ll try again this evening when his wife’s in.’

  ‘He should be informed. Thank you, Mrs Malory.’

  Thus dismissed, I made my way slowly out of the flat. The air struck cold but I welcomed the boisterousness of the wind as something positive and alive. I was shaken and upset, finding poor Miss Graham like that, and chilled by Dr Barton’s bleakness and lack of warmth and human sympathy. As I approached the car the two dogs started to bark and when I opened the door they greeted me with a frenzied excitement that suddenly brought tears to my eyes. I drove down to the sea front and we all three ran like mad things as fast as we could along the beach.

  Chapter Five

  Next day the wind had dropped, but a mist had rolled in from the sea and there was low cloud on the hills, both of them apparently meeting over my cottage. I sat watching the water dripping from the thatch with Rosemary, who had come over to cheer me up after I had telephoned to tell her about Miss Graham.

  ‘What a perfectly beastly thing for you,’ she said, biting into a chocolate wafer biscuit (we had both decided that a bit of comfort eating was called for), ‘discovering her like that. Such a shock!’

  ‘It was rather awful,’ I replied. ‘I mean, I realized that something was wrong when I didn’t get an answer, but still ...’

  ‘I suppose it was her heart,’ Rosemary continued.

  ‘Well, that’s what I said to Dr Barton, but he wouldn’t commit himself.’

  ‘He wouldn’t!’ Rosemary said emphatically. ‘He’s fearfully pernickety and cautious, everything has to be done exactly by the book. Mind you, he’s a marvellous doctor; Jack’s father used to have him and he pulled him through that first stroke wonderfully well.’

  ‘I was rather surprised that he covers for Dr Cowley,’ I said. ‘I rather gathered they don’t get on.’

  ‘Oh, well, Dr Barton has never quite forgiven Dr Cowley for what he said when Major Armstrong died.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Apparently Dr Cowley told Margaret Preston that he thought Dr Barton should have had the X-rays taken straight away instead of waiting to see if the other treatment would work. Very indiscreet of him. I mean, he ought to know you should never say anything in Taviscombe if you don’t want it repeated! Of course, it got back to Dr Barton and he was livid.’

  ‘So why does he cover for Dr Cowley?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, Dr Barton’s never been averse to picking up a bit more cash. You know how mean he is.’

  I poured us both another cup of coffee.

  ‘Oh dear, I really shouldn’t,’ Rosemary said in a halfhearted sort of way, ‘Well, one thing’s for sure, with poor Miss Graham out of the way, Dr Cowley will be able to go ahead with his plans for that nursing home.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he will,’ I replied. ‘How infuriating. I hate to think that he’s going to profit by the poor little soul’s death.’

  ‘It’s just as well he was in Dulverton when she died,’ Rosemary said, ‘otherwise people might have got suspicious.’

  ‘Poor Miss Graham really was pretty upset about it all,’ I said. ‘I mean, she was going to stand up for her rights and all that, but there would have been a lot of hassle and it would all have been very unpleasant for her. Perhaps he was the cause of her death, worrying her into a heart attack.’

  ‘Oh well, I don’t suppose anyone could ever prove that in a court of law—just one more dodgy practice on Dr Cowley’s part.’

  ‘I wonder what will happen to Mrs Wheatley now?’ I said idly. ‘She’s the last remaining obstacle to Dr Cowley’s plans, though he seems to have that situation well in hand. Do you think he’ll marry her or what?’

  ‘Perhaps he won’t need to,’ Rosemary said. ‘Perhaps the cruise or whatever will be enough. I mean, she’s been used to a fairly vague sort of relationship before and she can afford to buy herself another flat. She may not want to marry him—another old man!’

  ‘Oh well,’ I said. ‘I certainly wouldn’t waste any sympathy on her. She’s a survivor if ever I saw one.’

  ‘Unlike poor Miss Graham.’

  We both fell silent for a while and then Rosemary said,
‘Were you able to speak to Ronniei>tak to R Graham?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I phoned again last night. I got Carol first—very brisk, as always—but Ronnie sounded awful. He’s got flu, of course, but he seemed really upset about his aunt, kept going on and on about how he’ll miss her. I never thought they were that close.’

  ‘Oh, you know how people are when someone dies,’ Rosemary said cynically. ‘They feel obliged to say what they think is expected of them, and Ronnie’s a frightfully conventional sort of person anyway.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but I felt it was more than that, really genuine.’

  ‘Oh well, perhaps it was, then,’ Rosemary conceded. ‘He’s a nice enough sort of person—though rather feeble, I’ve always thought, absolutely dominated by that wife of his.’

  ‘Probably just as well,’ I said. ‘If it hadn’t been for Carol’s toughness and strong-mindedness I don’t suppose he’d ever have made a go of that shop. She works incredibly hard herself and expects him to do the same—they must be doing very well. “A little gold mine,” Miss Graham used to say and I daresay it is by now.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Miss Graham had much to leave,’ Rosemary said, ‘so they won’t have had any expectations there. I suppose she didn’t have any other relations?’

  ‘There were some cousins living near Wellington, I think, but no one close. Poor Miss Graham! All those years looking after her mother and then her wool shop having to close and then all this bother with Dr Cowley at the end.’ I sighed. ‘Not a very happy life if you come to think of it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Rosemary said. ‘She pottered along as we all do, more or less. There weren’t any great tragedies or dramas. I don’t think she expected anything spectacular from life so she probably quite enjoyed things—little things, anyway, like people dropping in for tea and her favourite programmes on the telly.’