Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (34 page)
After Ferguson had worked in silence for some minutes, Higgs appeared in the doorway. ‘All ready for you, Doctor. I’ve prepared the instruments.’
Obviously horror-struck by the idea of using Byrne’s instruments to dissect their owner, Ferguson looked at Stratton, who nodded encouragement. ‘I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Higgs. ‘I’ve got the stretcher outside if you’re ready to move him?’
Ferguson, who seemed incapable of speech, merely nodded. Seeing that the young pathologist was in no state to organise things, Stratton called to Arliss to help with the stretcher. This he did, with agonising slowness, and, bending down to load Byrne’s body, let off a volley of small, squeaky farts. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ said Stratton.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Arliss gazed at him resentfully. ‘My stomach’s still not right.’
‘So we gathered,’ said Stratton, acidly. ‘When you’ve finished turning this into a farce, perhaps you could get a move on.’
Miss Lynn stood in the corridor, head bowed, her notebook clasped to her chest in the manner of one presenting arms, as the stretcher, accompanied by grunts from Arliss and tutting noises from Higgs, was borne past her into the mortuary, Stratton and Ferguson bringing up the rear.
Forty-Two
T
en days late. Standing in the hall, Jenny gave the knot of her headscarf a final, sharp tug. She’d just taken her coat off its peg when Doris appeared with a basket of shopping.
en days late. Standing in the hall, Jenny gave the knot of her headscarf a final, sharp tug. She’d just taken her coat off its peg when Doris appeared with a basket of shopping.
‘I’m so glad I’ve caught you!’
Jenny groaned. ‘Don’t tell me. What’s she done now?’
‘Nothing, really. It’s just that Don’s not going to be back for a while, and I’ve been a bit on edge since that wretched tea party . . . Just a bit of moral support, that’s all. I’ve been queuing all morning, and I really don’t think I can bear to go back and face her on my own.’
‘That’s all right. Being funny again, is she?’
‘She won’t speak to me.’
‘In that case, I don’t suppose she’ll speak to me, either, but I can have a go. Come on.’
Jenny succeeded in keeping Doris’s mind off the subject of Mrs Ingram - after all, what more was there to say about the wretched woman? - until they reached her house. ‘She’s put the blackouts up in the kitchen, look.’
‘For heaven’s sake.’ Doris unlocked the front door and attempted to push it open, but it remained shut. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘Doris!’
‘Well, honestly . . . Wait a minute, Jen.’ Bending down, Doris pushed open the letterbox and peered inside. ‘Jen . . . I can smell something.’
Putting down her shopping, Jenny leant over and sniffed. ‘Blimey. That’s gas.’ The two women put their shoulders to the wooden panels and shoved. After a few seconds, the door began to give. ‘There’s something in the way. A blanket, by the look of it.’ ‘Right!’ Jenny put her full weight against the door, which, very slowly, started to open. ‘That’s done it.’ She squeezed herself through the crack and threw herself at the kitchen door, which opened easily - the edges of that blanket not being secured - so that she almost fell into the room, with Doris hard on her heels.
The sickly, headachy smell of the gas made Jenny feel instantly dizzy. Taking in the form of Mrs Ingram, clad in one of her sister’s nightdresses and lying full length on an eiderdown in front of the oven with a pillow beneath her head, apparently comatose, she said, ‘I’ll turn it off - you open the doors and windows.’
‘Be careful, Jen.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Leaning across the prone body, Jenny switched off the tap and then, bending over Mrs Ingram, began slapping her, none too gently, on her cheek, which, like the rest of her face and neck, was an alarming cherry pink. ‘Mrs Ingram! Can you hear me?’
Mrs Ingram moved her head and muttered something, her speech too slurred for Jenny to make out the words. ‘We’ve got to get her into the garden, Dor - fresh air.’ Grabbing Mrs Ingram under the arms, and thanking God that there wasn’t much of her, Jenny began to pull her towards the door. After a moment, Doris joined her. ‘All the windows open?’ panted Jenny.
‘Downstairs. And the back door.’
‘Good. You take the legs.’
They half-dragged, half-carried Elsie Ingram down the passage and into the garden, and propped her up against the tree furthest from the house, struggling to hold her upright as her knees buckled.
‘Do you think we ought to walk her around a bit?’ asked Doris.
‘We can try.’ They each took an elbow and attempted to propel Mrs Ingram forward, propping her up on either side. She staggered, as if drunk, her head wobbling. ‘She’s an awful colour, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, and she’s all cold and clammy. Shall I fetch a blanket?’
‘In a minute. I’m not sure I can manage her by myself.’
‘All right. Thank God for fresh air. My head . . .’
‘I know. Imagine how she must feel.’ As if on cue, Mrs Ingram lurched abruptly to the right and, jerking forwards, vomited into a flowerbed. ‘That’s a good sign.’
‘If you say so.’ Doris eyed the puked-on bedding plants grimly.
Mrs Ingram sagged between them, spluttering. Over her head, Doris muttered, ‘Of all the stupid . . .’
‘I know, Dor, but she’s had a difficult time.’
‘Not her, me! I might have known she’d do something silly, after that other business.’
Jenny made a shushing noise, then said, ‘Better now?’ to Mrs Ingram.
Mrs Ingram leant forward once more, retching, Jenny and Doris hanging onto her arms. ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Jenny. ‘How could you know? Come to that, I should have known. You can’t take this all on yourself, Doris.’
‘Yes, well . . . we keep saying that, don’t we? “We couldn’t have known . . .”
‘Well, it’s true. Dr Makepeace didn’t know, did he? And we’re just a couple of housewives, not . . .’ Jenny mouthed the next word exaggeratedly, ‘psychiatrists.’
After almost half an hour spent marching Mrs Ingram round the garden, Jenny and Doris decided that, as her face seemed to be returning to its normal colour and she wasn’t showing any more signs of wanting to be sick, it would be safe to let her sit down. Jenny propped her against the back door while Doris fetched a deckchair.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Mrs Ingram, as they lowered her into it. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
Jenny and Doris exchanged glances. ‘No dear,’ said Jenny, patting Mrs Ingram on one hunched little shoulder. ‘You just stay put there, and I’ll get you a cardigan and a nice cup of tea. Don’t want you catching a chill.’
By the time they returned to the kitchen, the smell of gas had dissipated somewhat.
‘Did you mean that?’ asked Doris, filling the kettle.
‘What?’
‘About not telling anyone.’
‘I don’t see how we can,’ said Jenny. ‘If we tell Dr Makepeace he’ll have to report it, won’t he?’
‘They wouldn’t charge her, though? Not after what she’s been through, surely?’
‘I don’t know. I think it depends whether they think she’s fit to plead. That’s what they call it - Ted told me. It means you can tell the difference between right and wrong.’
‘Right and wrong?’ echoed Doris. ‘She doesn’t even know her own husband!’
‘I shouldn’t think they would charge her, but they might. And if they don’t, it means she’ll end up in the you-know-where.’
‘Oh, dear . . . We can’t win, can we? Do you think it’s safe to light the gas?’
‘I don’t know. We ought to—’
Hearing the creak of the gate, Jenny stopped. ‘Don,’ hissed Doris, glancing out of the window. ‘I’d forgotten he was leaving work early. Don’t say anything.’
‘But the door . . . And your things! We left the basket on the step.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ Donald appeared the doorway. ‘The front door was wide open, and there are blankets all over the place, and . . .’ he spotted something behind the kitchen door. ‘What’s this?’ He reached out and Jenny heard the noise of paper being ripped. ‘Beware Gas,’ he read. ‘It was pinned on the door . . .’ Jenny and Doris exchanged glances - in their haste, neither had noticed it. ‘What’s that bloody woman done now? No, don’t tell me - that’s why you’ve got all the windows open, isn’t it? She’s tried to do herself in. For Christ’s sake—’
‘Don, please,’ said Doris. ‘Keep your voice down.’
Donald jabbed a finger in the direction of the eiderdown, which was still lying on the floor. ‘Found her with her head in the oven, did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Outside. We thought she ought to have some air.’
‘It’s a shame she didn’t manage to finish the job.’
‘Don! That’s a terrible thing to say.’
Fearing that Doris and Donald were about to have a row, Jenny said she’d better fetch the shopping and left the room. She put the basket in the hall and went back to the garden to see how Mrs Ingram was doing.
Looking even smaller and more frail than before, Elsie Ingram was perched so far forward on the edge of the deckchair in a manner that, had she not been so light, she would have tipped the thing right over. She was staring fixedly at the scrubby lawn by her feet.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Jenny.
Raising her head a few inches, Mrs Ingram said, ‘I’m sorry . . . Putting you out like this.’ Then she resumed her contemplation of the grass.
How extraordinary, thought Jenny, to be so polite at a time like this . . . on reflection, though, she’d probably have done the same herself. And she’d left that note, hadn’t she? Even though she thought they were all part of some plot against her. People were funny. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘These things happen.’ Staring at the top of Mrs Ingram’s head, she thought, what a ridiculous thing to say - these things happen - because they didn’t, at least not to anyone she knew. People were just supposed to get on with things, especially now, with the war. But, she thought irritably, what were you meant to say? The sheer embarrassment of it was bad enough, never mind all the other stuff.
Mrs Ingram raised her head once more, this time in an uncomfortable-looking corkscrew motion, so that she was staring at Jenny out of one eye in a way that made her think of the hens. ‘You’re not going to tell him, are you?’
‘Him?’
‘That man.’
‘Oh, yes. I mean no. Of course not.’
‘Or the police? It’s all of them, you see. No-one believes me.’ Straightening up, she looked Jenny directly in the eye. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Well . . .’ Jenny, feeling hot, looked away. ‘Really . . . I don’t know what to think.’ At least, she thought, that was the absolute, unvarnished truth. ‘Look,’ she said, not wanting, or, in fact, able, to elaborate further, ‘why don’t you stay out here for a bit, in the fresh air? Then you’ll feel better. I’ll go and see how the tea’s doing.’
‘. . . as if she hasn’t caused enough trouble already!’ Donald’s fury was plainly audible in the hall and, fearing that Mrs Ingram might hear, Jenny closed the back door.
‘Still with us, is she?’ Donald asked as she returned to the kitchen. ‘Not hanging from the apple tree or anything?’
‘Don, stop it!’
‘She seems a bit better,’ said Jenny, as calmly as she could - sarcasm from Donald was never a good sign. ‘Do you think it’s safe to light the gas yet?’
‘Christ!’ said Donald.
‘Stop saying that!’
‘Well, it’s come to something when you can’t even have a cup of tea in your own house without blowing the place up.’
‘There’s others a lot worse off,’ said Doris, pacifically. ‘At least we’ve still got a house.’
‘Yes,’ said Donald. ‘And that’s what it’s meant to be - a house, not a loony asylum. Which is where she,’ he jerked his head towards the back garden, ‘ought to be.’
Wincing, Jenny and Doris exchanged glances. ‘She might get better,’ said Doris, weakly.
‘You’ve been saying that for weeks. She’s as mad as a hatter, and the sooner you face up to it, the better. She’s got to go, Doris. I’ve had enough. She’s out of here tomorrow. Otherwise,’ he added, giving them a shrewd look, ‘I’ll tell Ted about this little escapade. I’ll bet neither of you were going to do that, were you?’
‘Don, you know we can’t,’ said Jenny. ‘He’d have to report it, and they’ll charge her, or they’ll take her off to—’
‘Exactly! To the barmy shop, where she belongs!’
‘Sssh, she’ll hear you.’
‘I don’t care. I’ve had it up to here with the bloody woman!’
‘Please,’ said Jenny, desperately. ‘Stop shouting. Why don’t I take her home?’
‘Ted’s going to love that, isn’t he?’ asked Donald. ‘He’ll be tickled pink to come back after a hard day’s work and find there’s a lunatic in his house.’
Jenny, suppressing the thought that sooner or later he’d find out that not only was there a lunatic in the house but a baby on the way as well, said, ‘I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. And it’ll give you a break from looking after her all the time, Doris.’
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