Dead In The Morning (12 page)

“And everyone you have named was present all the while?”

“Yes. That is—” Patrick hesitated, but someone else, Cathy for instance, would tell the Inspector if he did not.

“Mrs Ludlow left the room briefly to fetch her purse, which was upstairs. She put ten shillings in the tin.”

“And Mr Ludlow contributed as well?”

“Yes. He gave me a pound,” said Patrick.

“Did you not think it surprising for Mrs Ludlow to contribute on her own account?”

“I thought it generous,” said Patrick. “I knew that she had not been married long and perhaps did not realise it wasn’t necessary. Her husband made some such comment, as a matter of fact.”

“She was gone only briefly? Just long enough to fetch the money from her bedroom?”

“Well, no, Inspector. She was a little longer than that,” said Patrick. “She probably took time to powder her nose and so forth. You know what women are.”

“Dr Grant, in your opinion, would there have been time for her to have gone up to Pantons and returned again?”

“You’re not suggesting, are you Inspector, that Mrs Gerald Ludlow sprinted up to the big house to put sleeping pills in the fruit pie in order to murder the mother-in-law she’d only just met? Anyway, all but the fatal slice had been eaten by this time.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Dr Grant,” said Inspector Foster coldly. “I’m asking you a question. “I didn’t time the lady,” Patrick said smoothly. He glanced towards the Sergeant, busy with his shorthand, ginger eyebrows twitching.

“So the pills
were
in the pie?” Patrick said.

Inspector Foster looked at him, meditating. Then he said: “I’ll tell you this in confidence, sir. We’ve had the analyst’s report, and a quantity of barbiturate was found in the deceased’s stomach, together with partially digested lemon meringue pie and enough whisky to suggest that she had consumed two or more doubles before retiring.”

“I see,” said Patrick. “I appreciate your confidence, Inspector.”

“The powder could have been in the whisky, but it doesn’t dissolve readily, and there was no trace of any such adulteration in the glass in the dead woman’s room or in the bottle she kept in her cupboard.”

“So it all points the other way,” Patrick said slowly. “If only I’d looked inside the chemist’s parcel when I was in the hall. If Mrs Mackenzie was bent on suicide she might not have taken the pills out of the bottle until later, when she went to bed.” He looked at the Inspector. “We have suicides in Oxford you know,” he said. “Youngsters who can’t cope. It’s easy to be wise afterwards, of course, but Mrs Mackenzie didn’t look disturbed in any way.”

“No, sir.”

“So you’ve got a case of murder here,” said Patrick. “What a dreadful thing.”

“I’m not agreeing with you, sir,” said the Inspector grimly. “I’m just investigating every possibility, at present.”

Patrick nodded.

“Quite so,” he said.

“Would you tell me what time you left the Stable House, Dr Grant?” the Inspector asked.

“About a quarter past nine,” aaid Patrick.

“You had your car?”

“No, I walked. I wanted the exercise.”

The Inspector would ask if he had seen anyone as he returned to Reynard’s, and he would have to say that Martin Ludlow’s Vauxhall Viva had passed him in the drive. Only citizens totally lacking in a sense of responsibility withheld information likely to assist the police. Patrick waited for the question, but to his surprise it did not come.

“Thank you, Dr Grant. You’ve been most helpful,” the Inspector said, rising to go. “If you think of anything else, I’m sure you’ll get in touch with me. Apart from old Mrs Ludlow, you were the last person to see Mrs Mackenzie alive.”

“I will of course,” Patrick assured him, earnestly. In his pocket was the envelope addressed to young Tim Ludlow which he had found that night, and in his pocket it would stay until that youth had explained his movements. For the present, the Inspector must dree his own weird, and a pretty confused one it appeared to be.

Jane came back from her afternoon’s expedition in time to see the police car drive away from the cottage.

“What’s been going on?” she demanded, hurrying into the house with the baby in her arms.

“Inspector Foster wanted my assistance,” Patrick said, with a complacent air.

“Don’t give me that. It’s a pity he couldn’t arrest you and lock you up out of the way,” Jane said. Patrick ignored this gibe.

“My collection of the facts is being hampered because I have yet to meet the formidable Mrs Ludlow,” he said.

“I think I’ll rectify the matter. If I go up to Pantons this evening, I’ll catch her before she goes to bed.”

“You can’t go bursting in up there when they’re in all this trouble,” said Jane.

“Yes, I can. I can carry our condolences and offer them our help,” said Patrick. “And I’d quite like to see how little Cathy’s getting on.”

“Now lay off her. She’s just at the age to fall for an older man,” Jane warned. “Don’t add cradle-snatching or infant heartbreak to your list of sins.”

“It won’t hurt her at all to have a little crush on me,” said Patrick smugly. “Form her taste for her. Quite beneficial, I should say.”

“Oh you!” cried Jane, exasperated. “Andrew, here’s a most conceited man. Don’t you grow up like him, my precious poppet,” and she bore her baby away, out of the contaminating presence of his uncle.

It was Cathy who opened the door when he rang the bell at Pantons some time later. Her face brightened when she saw him.

“Hullo, Cathy. How’s everything? I just came to see if you’re all bearing up, and if there’s anything I can do,” he said.

“Come in,” Cathy said. She looked round, and added in a whisper, “It’s awful. It’s agony waiting for something more to happen.”

“Who is it? Who’s out there?” called a deep voice from the drawing-room.

Cathy made a face.

“That’s Gran. We’ll have to go in,” she muttered, and led the way.

“It’s Dr Grant, Grandmother,” she said, as he followed her into the room.

“How do you do, Mrs Ludlow,” Patrick said, walking towards the corner by the fireplace where the old lady sat. “My sister and I are so very sorry to hear about what has happened. I came to see if I could be of any assistance to you at this time.”

“How good of you, Dr Grant,” said Mrs Ludlow. She surveyed him imperially from top to toe in her frank manner, as he stood there calmly, staring back at her. She was a dominating presence, even in her chair. He saw the neat, proud head, defiantly held in spite of age, the piercing eyes, the hands clasped on her lap above a silver-headed stick laid across her knees. She looked very small, but it was difficult to tell if this were a true impression or one caused by her crippling illness.

“Come along and sit down, Dr Grant,” she said at last, pointing to a chair that faced her. “Cathy, pour Dr Grant some sherry.”

Cathy obeyed, and then sat down on the window seat, riveting her gaze on Patrick in a fashion that he found flattering, but mildly disconcerting in view of Jane’s recent remarks.

“This is a sad business,” he said.

“It’s most unfortunate,” said Mrs Ludlow. “She was a good cook.”

Patrick was at once reminded of Lady Macbeth.

“I can’t see why the police need to make so much of it,” the old lady went on. “She must have had a heart attack. But I understand there are formalities.”

Obviously Mrs Ludlow could not be told that the police suspected a member of her family had set out to poison her, and the wrong person had taken the poison. Playing for time was clearly the line being taken; she could doubtless be strung along for some days by this means, and her immobility would prevent her from stumbling on the truth. But she would have to know in the end.

“You have a lovely house, Mrs Ludlow,” Patrick said, changing the tack, and felt Cathy breathe a sigh of relaxation.

“I’m glad you admire it, Dr Grant. It was built for me when I came here as a bride,” Mrs Ludlow said. “All my children were born here, and so was Cathy. You doubtless know that my husband gave his life for his country in the First World War?”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Patrick murmured. The archaic phrase was oddly moving; he perceived that she had never recovered from this blow.

“He was a good man, a real man,” she said. “There is his photograph.” She pointed to one in a silver frame that stood on the table beside her.

Patrick dutifully rose and inspected the photograph, which showed a young man in captain’s uniform. He had a neat moustache and a steady expression, but these did not mask the sensitivity of the face that was repeated in Cathy’s.

“A fine-looking man,” said Patrick, feeling this to be a most inadequate comment. He wondered if the owner of those fine-drawn features had really been as tough as his widow seemed to believe.

“Yes,” said Mrs Ludlow. “And he would have been disappointed in the young of today if he had lived to see them.”

Patrick doubted it; the mouth in the photograph was generous and mobile; the eyes had a faraway look; it was neither a saint’s nor an ascetic’s face, but nor was it that of a bigot.

“Gran finds everyone a disappointment after Grandfather,” Cathy observed. “Even her own children.”

“Not your father,” Mrs Ludlow said. “He’s the only one to come anywhere near your grandfather.” She turned to Patrick. “Cathy’s father was born after my husband died. I named him Gerald, for his father.” She went silent after this, brooding to herself, and rocked a little as she sat. Cathy exchanged an alarmed glance with Patrick.

“Gran, are you all right? Do you want one of your little red pills?” she asked.

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous, girl,” snapped the old lady. “Red pills, white pills, blue pills. It’s all pills these days,” she grumbled. “And other pills too, for girls who should know better. What a world! I suppose you get a lot of that at Oxford, Dr Grant?”

“Girls who should know better, do you mean? Oh, and young men too,” said Patrick. “After all, it takes two to make that sort of mistake, doesn’t it?”

Cathy snorted at this and had to pretend to cough. To her astonishment a wintry smile appeared among the lines on her grandmother’s face.

“Cathy has some foolish notion of going to Oxford,” Mrs Ludlow said. “I tell her she’d be wasting her time and her father’s money, of which he’s little enough as it is.”

“Father can afford it, Gran. He wants me to go,” said Cathy.

“Why don’t you approve, Mrs Ludlow?” asked Patrick. “I should have thought you’d be an ardent feminist.” He could easily imagine her campaigning for the vote. But then he realised that all her latent energy had turned inwards, towards her family.

“A woman needs a man to look after and a nursery of children. That’s her function,” Mrs Ludlow said. “One your aunt Phyllis has signally failed to fulfil, Cathy. Don’t follow her example.”

“Gran, that isn’t fair,” she said. “Aunt Phyl’s had rotten luck. You shouldn’t talk like that about her. And where would I be now, but for her?” She didn’t quite dare to add, “or you, come to that.”

Good for Cathy, Patrick thought. He sent her an approving glance.

“She married a little pipsqueak, so what did she expect? Marry a proper man, Cathy, and then you won’t go wrong,” said Mrs Ludlow. “Someone like Dr Grant here. You’re married, of course?” she asked, turning to him fiercely.

“I’m not, as a matter of fact,” Patrick admitted.

At this moment, fortunately perhaps, Phyllis Medhurst came into the room.

“Ah, Dr Grant, I wondered who was here. What a nice surprise,” she said, with her pleasant smile.

Patrick rose to greet her, and wondered how her mother failed to see the likeable woman so clearly recognised by everybody else.

“Dr Grant kindly called to offer sympathy,” said Mrs Ludlow. “He’s in charge of Tim, I think you said, Phyllis?”

Phyllis agreed.

“Hm. A very spoilt young man,” pronounced his grandmother. “His mother and his aunt here have made a fool of him by letting him do exactly as he wanted all his life. Now he’s a wastrel.”

“Oh, hardly that,” protested Patrick. “A lot of young men go through a phase which can be very trying for the older people who have to deal with them.”

“I would not permit my children to behave as the young of today do,” said Mrs Ludlow.

“You’re too harsh, Mother,” Phyllis said.

“You know nothing about it, Phyllis. You have no children of your own,” said Mrs Ludlow.

Phyllis turned that ugly, dull red that Patrick had seen before. She got to her feet without a word and walked towards the door, but Mrs Ludlow called her back.

“Phyllis, I will stay up for dinner tonight,” she said. “I’m hoping Dr Grant will join us. Will you?” she asked, and gazed upon him genially.

Patrick demurred, but only slightly; he was eager to stay, and when Phyllis and Cathy both urged him to accept the invitation, he agreed, and telephoned to Jane who had plenty to say to him about his sordid motives. But he saw that Phyllis and Cathy could be helped if he acted as a buffer between them and the old lady, so throughout the meal he set out to charm her. He could talk entertainingly on a number of subjects, and despite his remark to Betty Ludlow he knew a good deal about certain aspects of horticulture, so that he was able to discuss intelligently what plants were hard to grow in this area and to marvel appropriately when Mrs Ludlow claimed success with them. She promised to show the garden to him when he called again.

After the meal she allowed Phyllis to wheel her towards the lift at the back of the hall, up to bed, and Patrick helped Cathy clear away.

“Gran took a fancy to you,” Cathy said. Watching her grandmother’s response to him had been a revelation.

“She’s remarkable,” he said with truth. “So’s your aunt.”

“Aunt Phyl’s a darling,” Cathy said, and added, “Gran’s so mean to her.”

“It’s odd, that,” Patrick said. “Perhaps they’re too much alike to get on well together.”

Cathy stared.

“I don’t think Aunt Phyl’s a bit like Gran,” she said. “She’s much kinder.”

Patrick did not think it would be prudent to say that he could imagine Phyllis growing into quite a formidable person if she had power to wield.