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‘No, no,’ said Walter Bryant hastily. ‘I’m sure there wasn’t.’

  ‘Dr Browne wasn’t sure,’ said Judge Gillespie ineluctably, ‘so why should you have been?’

  Bryant looked flustered and covered his confusion by fiddling with the controls on his wheelchair. ‘Because she’d been ill for ages and ages.’

  ‘Elizabeth Forbes has been more ill for much longer and hasn’t died,’ pointed out the Judge.

  ‘Gertie was different,’ blurted out Markyate. ‘Always.’

  The Judge turned in his direction. ‘In what way precisely?’

  Markyate was saved from replying to this by the entrance of Hazel Finch pushing a tea trolley. She said, ‘I’m surprised that any of you can eat anything at all after that lovely lunch.’

  ‘Taste is one of the last faculties to go, m’dear,’ said the Judge, leaning forward to lift the lid off a chafing dish. ‘Ah, hot anchovy toast.’ He let the lid fall back out of his tremulous grasp with a clatter. ‘Good.’

  Walter Bryant said piously, ‘Miss Ritchie doesn’t think I should have too much butter. Bad for the heart.’

  ‘Bah!’ exploded the Brigadier vigorously. ‘The only thing wrong with your heart, Bryant, is that it’s in the wrong place. You should know better at your age.’

  ‘Now, then, no fighting,’ said Hazel. ‘Let’s see … who’s going to be mother and pour the tea?’ She ran a swift assessing eye over the group. ‘I think it had better be you, Captain Markyate, if you don’t mind.’

  * * *

  ‘The late Gertrude Powell, officer?’ Dr Angus Browne’s bushy eyebrows lifted enquiringly. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Did you,’ asked Detective Inspector Sloan, ‘have any reservations about certifying the cause of her death?’

  ‘None.’

  Sloan waited; so did Dr Browne, a downy bird if ever there was one.

  ‘Mrs Powell did,’ said Detective Constable Crosby into the silence.

  Sloan groaned inwardly. All the good books on how to question a suspect or a witness suggested that one of the two police officers – and there should always be two – should adopt an aggressive approach and the other one a more softly-softly manner. In practice in almost all cases the person being questioned turned away from the ‘nasty’ policeman and spoke more openly to the ‘nice’ one – who would then give every indication that they understood and sympathized. None – but none – of the good books advocated having a half-witted investigating officer with two left feet as the second man.

  ‘If I may say so,’ pointed out the doctor, ‘the patient is not always in the best position to judge, but…’

  ‘But?’ Sloan seized on the word. He really would have to have another go at Inspector Harpe about letting Crosby transfer to Traffic Division after all.

  ‘But,’ said Browne realistically, ‘they usually make a better fist of it than the relatives do.’ He regarded the two policemen straightly. ‘Now then, gentlemen, what is all this about?’

  Detective Inspector Sloan gave the general practitioner a carefully edited résumé of Mrs Powell’s allegations.

  ‘She died after a long illness,’ said Dr Browne, touching a button on an intercom and asking a receptionist to bring him the late Gertrude Powell’s notes, ‘but ye’ll know that already.’

  ‘Yes, doctor,’ said Sloan. Another factor the good books on questioning always stressed was the importance of the interview taking place in surroundings unfamiliar to the subject being questioned. Not, of course, that this implied approval of police-state tactics – such as first leading a bewildered captive up and down through labyrinthine corridors finally to settle in the cellars of the building and thus patently out of earshot of everyone else. Unfortunately, interviewing the doctor in his own consulting room gave him – not the police – the edge.

  ‘And the family had been told,’ said Angus Browne. ‘I made a point of doing that early on.’

  Sloan made a note. Something else the good books stressed as important was the positioning of the interviewee. It wasn’t like that here. Crosby had been relegated to the chair reserved for the patient’s friend or chaperon – well away from whatever action there was. And he, Sloan, was sitting on the patient’s chair, where the full light from the window fell upon his face.

  ‘At least two months ago,’ said Browne calmly. It was the doctor’s face that was in shadow.

  ‘I see.’ Nor was Sloan sitting across a desk but at right angles to the medical man. It was hard to be confrontational – let alone bring pressure to bear – while sitting sideways on. As it happened, he wanted to do neither of these things: but he did very badly want to know everything he could about the life and death of Gertrude Powell.

  ‘Moreover, she was in a uraemic coma at the end,’ said Angus Browne briskly, ‘and there’s no two ways about that.’

  ‘Ah, the end…’ Sloan began carefully. These days witnesses as well as suspects had to be handled with kid gloves. Not, naturally, that he had ever thought that it was fair to sit a man on a chair in the middle of a room and then circle round him, throwing questions at the man from behind his back so that he was forever spinning round, off-base, to face his interlocutor. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the end, doctor.’

  ‘Not unexpected,’ said Browne immediately. ‘As it happened, I saw her the day she died.’

  ‘You were sent for?’

  ‘I was sent for to see someone else at the Manor and naturally I looked in on her, too.’

  ‘May we ask who it…’

  ‘Judge Gillespie,’ said Browne. ‘He’s always been a bit of an old woman about his health. Ye’ll notice his Hippocratic facies if you see him.’

  ‘Beg pardon, doctor?’

  ‘Lower jaw hanging open as if he was dead.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not to be wondered at. He’s been very, very shaky since he hit ninety.’

  ‘Like that clock,’ said Crosby.

  ‘What clock?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘You know,’ said Crosby, beginning to chant, ‘the one in the song that stood ninety years on the wall, tick tock, and stopped, never to go again, the day the old man died.’

  ‘The Judge hasn’t died,’ said Dr Browne, regarding the constable in a distinctly clinical way. ‘Although I agree some people do die when they’ve hit a new decade. Dangerous things, birthdays. Make you think. Especially when you’re suffering from too many of ’em.’

  ‘So, doctor…’ resumed Sloan tenaciously.

  ‘The birthday,’ carried on the doctor, ‘that really worries a lot of men…’

  ‘Forty?’ suggested Crosby.

  ‘No,’ said Dr Browne, recognizing a Freudian slip when he heard one. ‘It’s the one at the age at which their own fathers died.’ The general practitioner pulled open the late Mrs Powell’s medical record envelope. ‘I get a lot of nervous men in then.’

  Detective Inspector Sloan leaned forward, undeterred. ‘Mrs Powell…’

  ‘It so happens, Inspector,’ said the doctor, neatly playing a trump card, ‘that I had asked one of the hospital consultants to take a look at her a week or so before she died.’

  ‘You did?’ Sloan tried not to sound too interested. He was aiming for what was known as an open-ended interview. In theory, the semi-structured format allowed respondents to talk at length about any matter that concerned them yet still left the interviewer scope to explore difficult issues. In reality it seemed the doctor was making all the running. ‘Do you always do that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why would that have been in this case then?’

  ‘Can’t be too careful these days, Inspector.’ Browne shrugged. ‘It makes for defensive medicine, of course, and that’s bad, but it’s better than afterwards having people think you could have done more for their nearest and dearest.’

  ‘Would it have been true to say that you wished you had done so in the case of the late Mrs Maude Chalmers-Hyde?’

  ‘It would have been true to say that in the event, it would have saved there
having to be a postmortem in her case,’ conceded Angus Browne, in no whit put out. ‘And spared the Matron out there a little concern which ultimately turned out not to have been justified. That’s all.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ put in Crosby.

  ‘In this case, yes.’

  ‘This other doctor who saw Mrs Powell…’ persisted Sloan.

  ‘Dr Edwin Beaumont, one of the physicians from the Berebury Hospital Trust,’ said Browne, shaking a letter out of the patient’s medical record envelope and onto his desk. ‘He examined her at my request and confirmed that there was nothing more to be done for Mrs Powell.’

  ‘In writing?’

  ‘Aye, man. In writing.’ The bushy eyebrows became even more prominent. ‘Ye’ll be interested to know that in Beaumont’s opinion – and I may say he’s a man greatly respected within the profession – as well as in my own, the patient was well beyond aid. That good enough for you?’

  Chapter Eight

  And plant fresh laurels where they kill

  ‘Very difficult to say at this stage, sir.’ Detective Inspector Sloan had next been driven by Detective Constable Crosby to the home of Lionel and Julia Powell on the other side of the county. He was addressing Lionel Powell.

  The two policemen might have left Dr Browne’s consulting rooms behind at Larking but Sloan anyway had not quite abandoned the medical mode of doling out only such information as was absolutely necessary for his own purposes.

  ‘Later, perhaps, sir.’ Indeed, it had occurred to Sloan as he sat in the comfort of the Powells’ sitting room that the amount of strictly accurate knowledge given out by the police to anyone involved in an investigation – including the press – was every bit as carefully controlled as that released by a skilled medical practitioner with bad news to impart to a patient.

  Knowledge was power all right.

  ‘You will understand, Inspector,’ said Lionel Powell, ‘that we need to know where we go from here.’

  ‘You can’t just leave things hanging in the air like this, Inspector,’ supplemented Julia Powell. ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘I can assure you we’re doing our best, madam.’ Sloan supposed the doctor, too, could always utter this comfortable platitude. Both professionals, though, could choose to release news – good and bad – in their own time and that was what mattered. In the handling of a difficult situation timing could be of the essence. Having the timing in one’s own hands was power, too.

  Lionel Powell underlined his wife’s remark. ‘Obviously certain matters must be attended to as soon as possible.’

  ‘That is one of the things we are looking into,’ murmured Sloan. Dr Browne, he imagined, might say something very similar about the significant result of an X-ray which the doctor already knew and the patient didn’t. He, on much the same basis, did know what the immediate outcome of the postmortem on Mrs Powell, senior, had been, and it was a good deal too inconclusive for his liking.

  ‘My mother-in-law’s funeral can’t be postponed indefinitely,’ said Julia Powell more specifically. ‘It isn’t seemly.’

  ‘Indeed not, madam,’ lied Sloan.

  He forbore to say that it could be postponed just as long as the law wished. One thing was certain, anyway, and that was that the deceased wasn’t going to be buried until he, Sloan, knew whether or not Gertrude Powell had been murdered, and if so, preferably only after he had found out by whom.

  And why.

  ‘And since I’m also one of her executors,’ advanced Lionel, ‘there are now a number of other circumstances which must be taken into consideration before we can begin the winding up of her financial affairs.’ He gave silent thanks that the executors weren’t expected to wind up affairs of the heart.

  ‘I do appreciate that, sir.’ And Sloan did. He knew that where there was a will, as well as there being a way, there was almost always a relative or two or three. And nothing – but nothing – split heirs like a will. ‘But you must remember that we are talking about the possibility of murder … your late mother, for one, thought so.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ mumbled Powell, caving in suspiciously soon. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘So there are one or two facts we should first like to establish about your mother’s past,’ continued Sloan smoothly.

  Lionel Powell stiffened. ‘My mother was always very reticent about her early days.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’ The policeman in Sloan was sorry to hear it; the man in him wasn’t. Quite a few crimes of passion would have been avoided by a decent reticence on the part of all those concerned.

  ‘Never spoke of them at all,’ said the civil servant repressively.

  ‘And you never asked?’ put in Detective Constable Crosby. He’d been shown to a stiff chair with a spoonbill back and was getting bored.

  ‘Naturally,’ Powell said awkwardly, ‘I used to try to get her to tell me about when she was young but she would never talk about later on.’

  ‘Later on?’ Sloan seized on this.

  ‘The war,’ said Lionel Powell. ‘Donald Tulloch – he was her first husband – was killed in action in North Africa. He survived the famous Tinchel at Wadi el Gebra but…’

  ‘Tinchel?’

  ‘That was what the Fearnshires called the battle there.’ He frowned. ‘I believe it’s something Scottish to do with a circle of hunters driving deer together by gradually closing in on them.’

  Julia Powell gave a shudder. ‘How horrid!’

  Lionel Powell said, ‘The Regiment added it to their battle honours afterwards. It was where the Fearnshires held out against overwhelming odds.’

  ‘Fought to the last man, did they?’ asked Crosby, wriggling in his chair in an attempt to make himself more comfortable, and far, far removed in time, distance, experience and imagination from any battlefield.

  Powell gave him an odd look. ‘Not quite. Donald Tulloch was among those who survived – but he was killed at Tobruk a month or so afterwards.’ Powell hurried on, seized by a sudden idea that police resources might be helpful in the matter. ‘I always understood from my mother that she had then got married again but we don’t know to whom. It was on the rebound, she said, and the marriage didn’t last.’

  ‘Funny, that,’ remarked Detective Constable Crosby.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mystery,’ conceded Lionel Powell, ‘our not knowing whom she married, that’s all.’

  The effect of this deliberately low-key exchange was completely undermined by Julia Powell, who said tartly, ‘You can say that again.’

  * * *

  ‘You’d better come to my sitting room,’ said Muriel Peden to Sloan and Crosby when they reached Almstone again. She grimaced. ‘It’s about the only place in the whole Manor that you could call really private.’

  ‘No peace for the wicked…’ began Crosby.

  ‘That will do very nicely, Matron, thank you,’ said Sloan quickly. That would do from Crosby, too … wickedness was a matter for careful judgement. He should know by now that the duty of the police was only to establish what had happened and how; whether an action was wicked was something for Parliament – or the parson – to decide.

  ‘And then,’ said Sloan, ‘perhaps I might see Mrs Forbes.’ Someone here who just wouldn’t die must be worth checking on.

  ‘Poor Mrs Forbes,’ said the Matron. ‘Yes, I really think she’ll be the next to go and one cannot be too sorry about that.’

  They were soon all ensconced in a room at once cosy and quite stylish. The Matron favoured pale green Dralon upholstery and curtains, the effect considerably enlivened by Kaffe Fassett-coloured cushions. A half-worked tapestry of a design of dusky pink and red roses stood on a frame by her chair, loose ends of wool hanging down from the canvas.

  Mrs Peden appeared relieved to be talking to the policemen. ‘I’m sorry. I realize now I should have said something straight away…’

  Sloan said nothing.

  She hurried on. ‘You see, before it didn’t seem terribly important that some
one had been in Mrs Powell’s room, Inspector, but after what happened at the funeral I thought you ought to know as soon as possible.’

  ‘And how did you yourself know, madam?’

  She stirred restlessly in her chair. ‘When I went in there at first after she’d died it just struck me that some of her things had been moved about a little. Not very far, you understand, but I’m sure they weren’t exactly where they had been, especially a funny little Egyptian ornament she was always very fond of. It was there but it wasn’t in its usual place.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything at the time to anyone because I didn’t know that anything was missing, you understand.’ She searched his face anxiously as if to make sure that he did understand. ‘Not then, that is…’

  ‘When?’ It would be the first thing that Superintendent Leeyes would want to know. That, and why old ladies couldn’t die quietly without adding to the workload of F Division of the Calleshire County Constabulary.

  ‘When we first cleared the room. That was after Mrs Powell’s son said he had been very much hoping that his late mother’s letters would be there.’

  ‘And they weren’t?’ put in Crosby, who had settled himself very comfortably on the Matron’s sofa, plumping up a generous cushion as he did so.

  ‘Not that we could see.’ She hesitated. ‘Mr Powell said it was quite important. What made it more worrying was that Hazel Finch was sure they had been there before she died.’

  ‘Ah.’ Sloan made a note. What made it more worrying for him was that Lionel Powell had made no mention of any missing letters to the police. The letter that the police did know about with its allegations of murder had already been dispatched to Forensic, and a copy and a specimen of Gertrude Powell’s handwriting had gone post-haste to a specialist in that arcane subject.

  The Matron added, ‘In an old chocolate box.’

  Detective Inspector Christopher Dennis Sloan, much-married man, made another note. Some things never changed. He knew that, foolishly sentimental or not, his own wife, Margaret, kept his letters to her in the very first chocolate box he had given her. Right at the far back of a locked drawer. ‘Tied up in pink ribbon?’ he asked.