The Scold's Bridle (3 page)

A week later the receptionist buzzed through to Dr. Blakeney's office. "There's a Detective Sergeant Cooper on the line. I've told him you have a patient with you but he's very insistent. Can you speak to him?" It was a Monday and Sarah was covering afternoon surgery in Fontwell.

She smiled apologetically at the pregnant mother, laid out like a sacrificial offering on her couch. She put her hand over the receiver. "Do you mind if I take this call, Mrs. Graham? It's rather important. I'll be as quick as I can."

"Get on with you. I'm enjoying the rest. You don't get many opportunities when it's your third."

Sarah smiled at her. "Put him through, Jane. Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"

"We've had the results of Mrs. Gillespie's post mortem. I'd be interested in your reactions."

"Go on."

He shuffled some papers at the other end of the line. "Direct cause of death: loss of blood. Traces of barbituates were discovered in her system, but not enough to prove fatal. Traces also discovered in the whisky glass, implying she dissolved the barbiturates before she drank them. Some alcohol absorbed. No bruising. Lacerations the tongue where the rusted bit of the scold's bridle caused the surface to bleed. Nothing under her fingernails. Slight nettle rash on her temples and cheeks, and minor chafing of the skin beneath the bridle's framework, both consistent with her donning the contraption herself and then arranging it with the nettles and daisies. No indications at all that she put up any sort of struggle. The scold's bridle was not attached to her head in any way and could have been removed, had she wished to do so. The wounds to the wrists correspond precisely with the Stanley knife blade discovered on the bathroom floor, the one on the left wrist made with a downward right-handed stroke, the one on the right with a downward left-handed stroke. The knife had been submerged in water, probably dropped after one of the incisions, but there was an index fingerprint, belonging to Mrs. Gillespie, one-point-three centimetres from the blade on the shaft. Conclusion: suicide." He paused. "Are you still there?" he demanded after a moment.

"Yes."

"So what do you think?"

"That I was wrong last week."

"But surely the barbiturates in the whisky glass trouble you?"

"Mathilda hated swallowing anything whole," she said apologetically. "She crushed or dissolved everything in liquid first. She had a morbid fear of choking."

"But your immediate reaction when you saw her was that she was the last person you'd expect to kill herself. And now you've changed your mind." It sounded like an accusation.

"What do you want me to say, Sergeant? My gut feeling remains the same." Sarah glanced towards her patient who was becoming restless. "I would not have expected her to take her own life, but gut feelings are a poor substitute for scientific evidence."

"Not always."

She waited, but he didn't go on. "Was there anything else, Sergeant? I do have a patient with me."

"No," he said, sounding dispirited, "nothing else. It was a courtesy call. You may be required to give evidence at the inquest, but it'll be a formality. We've asked for an adjournment while we check one or two small details but, at the moment, we aren't looking for anyone else in connection with Mrs. Gillespie's death."

Sarah smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Graham.
Be with you in a minute
, she mouthed. "But you think you should be."

"I learnt my trade in a simpler world, Dr. Blakeney, where we paid attention to gut feelings. But in those days we called them hunches." He gave a hollow laugh. "Now, hunches are frowned on and forensic evidence is God. But forensic evidence is only as reliable as the man who interprets it and what I want to know is why there are no nettle stings on Mrs. Gillespie's hands and fingers. Dr. Cameron began by saying she must have worn gloves but there are no gloves in that house with sap on them, so now he thinks the water must have nullified the reaction. I don't like that kind of uncertainty. My hunch is Mrs. Gillespie was murdered but I'm an Indian and the Chief says, drop it. I hoped you'd give me some ammunition."

"I'm sorry," said Sarah helplessly. She murmured a goodbye and replaced the receiver with a thoughtful expression in her dark eyes. "It'll be old Mrs. Gillespie, I suppose," said Mrs. Graham prosaically. She was a farmer's wife, for whom birth and death held little mystery. Both happened, not always conveniently, and the whys and wherefores were largely irrelevant. The trick was coping afterwards. "There's talk of nothing else in the village. Awful way to do it, don't you think?" She shivered theatrically. "Slitting your wrists and then watching your blood seep into the water. I couldn't do that."

"No," agreed Sarah, rubbing her hands to warm them. "You say you think the baby's head has engaged already?"

"Mm, won't be long now." But Mrs. Graham wasn't to be sidetracked so easily and she'd heard enough of the doctor's end of the conversation to whet her appetite. "Is it true she had a cage on her head? Jenny Spede's been hysterical about it ever since. A cage with brambles and roses in it, she said. She keeps calling it Mrs. Gillespie's crown of thorns."

Sarah could see no harm in telling her. Most of the details were out already, and the truth was probably less damaging than the horror stories being put about by Mathilda's cleaner. "It was a family heirloom, a thing called a scold's bridle." She placed her hands on the woman's abdomen and felt for the baby's head. "And there were no brambles or roses, nothing with thorns at all. Just a few wild flowers." She omitted the nettles deliberately. The nettles, she thought,
were
disturbing. "It was more pathetic than frightening." Her probing fingers relaxed. "You're right. It won't be long now. You must have got your dates wrong."

"I always do, Doctor," said the woman comfortably. "I can tell you to the minute when a cow's due but when it's my turn," she laughed, "I haven't time to mark calendars." Sarah linked arms with her to pull her into a sitting position. "Scold's bridle," she went on thoughtfully. "Scold, as in a woman with a vicious tongue?"

Sarah nodded. "They were used up until two or three centuries ago to shut women up, and not just women with vicious tongues either. Any women. Women who challenged male authority, inside the home
and
outside."

"So why do you reckon she did it?"

"I don't know. Tired of living perhaps." Sarah smiled. "She didn't have your energy, Mrs. Graham."

"Oh, the dying I can understand. I've never seen much sense in struggling for life if the life isn't worth the struggle." She buttoned her shirt. "I meant why did she do it with this scold's bridle on her head?"

But Sarah shook her head. "I don't know that either."

"She was a nasty old woman," said Mrs. Graham bluntly. "She lived here virtually all her life, knew me and my parents from our cradles, but she never acknowledged us once. We were too common. Tenant farmers with muck on our shoes. Oh, she spoke to old Wittingham, the lazy sod who owns Dad's farm, all right. The fact he's never done a hand's turn since the day he was born, but lives on his rents and his investments, made him acceptable. But the workers, rough trade like us-"she shook her head-"we were beneath contempt." She chuckled at Sarah's expression. "There, I'm shocking you. But I've a big mouth and I use it. You don't want to take Mrs. Gillespie's death to heart. She wasn't liked, and not through want of trying, believe me. We're not a bad lot here, but there's only so much that ordinary folk can take, and when a woman brushes her coat after you've bumped into her by accident, well, that's when you say enough's enough." She swung her legs to the floor and stood up. "I'm not much of a churchgoer, me, but some things I do believe in, and one of them's repentance. Be it God or just old age, I reckon everyone repents in the end. There's few of us die without recognizing our faults which is why death's so peaceful. And it doesn't really matter who you say sorry to-a priest, God, your family-you've said it, and you feel better." She slipped her feet into her shoes. "I'd guess Mrs. Gillespie was apologizing for her vicious tongue. That's why she wore her scold's bridle to meet her Maker."

Mathilda Gillespie was buried three days later beside her father, Sir William Cavendish MP, in Fontwell village churchyard. The coroner's inquest had still to be held but it was common knowledge by then that a verdict of suicide was a foregone conclusion, if not from Polly Graham, then from a simple putting two and two together when the Dorset police removed their seals from Cedar House and returned to headquarters in the nearby coastal resort of Learmouth.

The congregation was a small one. Polly Graham had told the truth when she said Mathilda Gillespie wasn't liked, and few could be bothered to find time in their busy lives to say goodbye to an old woman who had been known only for her unkindness. The vicar did his best in difficult circumstances but it was with a feeling of relief that the mourners turned from the open grave and picked their way across the grass towards the gate.

Jack Blakeney, a reluctant attendant on a wife who had felt dutybound to put in an appearance, muttered into Sarah's ear: "What a bunch of white sepulchres, and I am not referring to the tombstones either, just we hypocrites doing our middle-class duty. Did you see their faces when the Rev referred to her as 'our much loved friend and neighbour?' They all hated her."

She hushed him with a warning hand. "They'll hear you."

"Who cares?" They were bringing up the rear and his artist's gaze roamed restlessly across the bowed heads in front of them. "Presumably the blonde is the daughter, Joanna."

Sarah heard the deliberate note of careless interest in his voice and smiled cynically. "Presumably," she agreed, "and presumably the younger one is the granddaughter."

Joanna stood now beside the vicar, her soft grey eyes huge in a finely drawn face, her silver-gold hair a shining cap in the sunlight. A beautiful woman, thought Sarah, but as usual she could admire her with complete detachment. She rarely directed her resentment towards the objects of her husband's thinly disguised lust, for she saw them as just that, objects. Lust, like everything in Jack's life apart from his painting, was ephemeral. A brief enthusiasm to be discarded as rapidly as it was espoused. The days when she had been confident that, for all his appreciation of another woman's looks, he wouldn't jeopardize their marriage were long past and she had few illusions left about her own role. She provided the affluence whereby Jack Blakeney, struggling artist, could live and slake his very mundane cravings, but as Polly Graham had said-
there was only so much that ordinary folk could take.

They shook hands with the vicar. "It was kind of you both to come. Have you met Mathilda's daughter?" The Reverend Matthews turned to the woman. "Joanna Lascelles, Dr. Sarah Blakeney and Jack Blakeney. Sarah was your mother's GP, Joanna. She joined the practice last year when Dr. Hendry retired. She and Jack live at The Mill in Long Upton, Geoffrey Freeling's old house."

Joanna shook hands with them and turned to the girl beside her. "This is my daughter Ruth. We're both very grateful to you, Dr. Blakeney, for all you did to help my mother."

The girl was about seventeen or eighteen, as dark as her mother was fair, and she looked anything but grateful. Sarah had only an impression of intense and bitter grief. "Do you know why Granny killed herself?" she asked softly. "Nobody else seems to." Her face was set in a scowl.

"Ruth, please," sighed her mother. "Aren't things difficult enough already?" It was a conversation they had clearly had before.

Joanna must be approaching forty, thought Sarah, if the daughter was anything to go by, but against the black of her coat, she looked only very young and very vulnerable. Beside her, Sarah felt Jack's interest quicken and she had an angry impulse to turn on him and berate him publicly once and for all. How far did he think her patience would stretch? How long did he expect her to tolerate his contemptuous and contemptible indifference to her beleaguered pride? She quelled the impulse, of course. She was too trammelled by her upbringing and the behavioural demands of her profession to do anything else.
But, oh God, one day...
she promised herself. Instead she turned to the girl. "I wish I could give you an answer, Ruth, but I can't. The last time I saw your grandmother she was fine. In some pain from her arthritis, of course, but nothing she wasn't used to or couldn't cope with."

The girl cast a spiteful glance at her mother. "Then something must have happened to upset her. People don't kill themselves for no reason."

"Was she easily upset?" asked Sarah. "She never gave me that impression." She smiled slightly. "She was tough as old boots, your grandmother. I admired her for it."

"Then why did she kill herself?"

"Because she wasn't afraid of death perhaps. Suicide isn't always a negative, you know. In some cases it's a positive statement of choice. I will die now and in this manner. 'To be or not to be.' For Mathilda 'not to be' would have been a considered decision."

Ruth's eyes filled. "
Hamlet
was her favourite play." She was tall like her mother but her face, pinched with cold and distress, lacked the other's startling looks. Ruth's tears made her ugly where her mother's, a mere glistening of the lashes, enhanced a fragile beauty.

Joanna stirred herself, glancing from Sarah to Jack. "Will you come back to the house for tea? There'll be so few of us."

Sarah excused herself. "I'm afraid I can't. I have a surgery in Mapleton at four thirty."

Jack did not. "Thank you, that's very kind."