Dead In The Morning (21 page)

“It isn’t,” Phyllis agreed. But life seldom was. “I suppose Gerald never mentioned Mrs Mackenzie’s name when he was telling her about the set-up here. There must have been hundreds of women in that prison, too. It had to be one she’d known quite well.” She poured the sauce over some flaked cod in a fireproof dish. “She said they were quite friendly.”

“Poor Daddy’s very unhappy,” Cathy said.

“Of course he is,” said Phyllis.

“I think he’s afraid that Helen might - well, she wasn’t on that train,” said Cathy. She dared not put into words the thing that had crossed her mind.

“Trains go in two directions,” Phyllis said. “Helen may have gone the other way.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Cathy looked more hopeful. “I was afraid Dad thought she might—”

“I doubt it,” Phyllis said. “Helen’s been through a lot already. If she was the type to commit suicide she’d have done it years ago.” Brisk words, and empty ones, for who could tell what might make a person snap? Helen was the sort of person to do what she thought would cause those she loved the least distress. A quiet disappearance into a river, perhaps, to be found in a few days’ time, would tie up neatly the mystery of Joyce Mackenzie’s death without too much damaging reflection on the Ludlows. Phyllis ran water into the saucepan she had used and scrubbed it fiercely with the scourer.

A pealing sound made both her and Cathy jump. It was Mrs Ludlow’s bell.

“I’ll go,” said Cathy. “It’s my turn.” She dried her hands and left the kitchen. She seemed to her aunt to have grown up almost overnight; she was proving to be a tower of strength.

Cathy found her grandmother playing patience on a table that she could swing across her chair.

“Well, Gran, what is it?” she asked briskly.

“Oh, it’s you. I want Helen,” Mrs Ludlow said. “She promised to read to me today. I like her voice.”

“I’ll read to you, Gran,” said Cathy. “Which book is it?”

“No, no. Helen promised. I want her,” said Mrs Ludlow pettishly.

“She can’t come. She’s got a headache,” Cathy said. “Is this the one?” She picked up a book that was on the table at her grandmother’s side.

“Tch, tch, child.” Mrs Ludlow waved her off. “Take these away,” she said, and pushed at the hinged table, sending the cards flying.

Cathy started to pick them up, and heard her grandmother lift the telephone.

“Gerald, Gerald, is that you?” came her voice.

Poor Daddy. He would expect the call to be something to do with Helen.

“Where’s Helen? She promised to read to me today,” said Mrs Ludlow.

Cathy could hear the murmur of her father’s voice.

“I want to speak to her,” Mrs Ludlow said.

More mumblings from Gerald.

“Well, it’s too bad of her,” said Mrs Ludlow crossly. “I’m annoyed,” and she rang off.

“Gone to the village indeed,” she grumbled. “She hasn’t got a headache.” She moved in her chair, reaching for her stick, and held it between her hands, rubbing the silver top. “Very well, Cathy. You shall read instead.”

Cathy picked up the book, took out the marker from the page where Phyllis had left it in the early hours after her vigil, and began. Mrs Ludlow seemed to listen, but every now and then she muttered to herself under her breath and caused Cathy to falter in her stride. She made Cathy read till lunch was ready, and then ate every morsel on her plate while Phyllis and Cathy pushed tiny portions of fish and vegetables around with their forks and hardly swallowed a mouthful.

Afterwards, Mrs Ludlow refused to go upstairs for her daily rest, an interval that meant respite for the whole house as well as for her.

“I’m not resting today,” she said. “Helen will be coming. She didn’t this morning, so she’ll come this afternoon. Wheel me back to the drawing-room.”

She banged her stick on the floor to emphasise her words. Phyllis and Cathy exchanged glances.

“Please, Mother. You’ll be tired if you don’t rest,” said Phyllis.

“I rest all day,” snapped Mrs Ludlow. “Do as I say.”

Cathy wheeled her back to her corner in the drawing- room, put a glass of water where she could reach it, and marched out of the room. Gran was worse than a naughty child. She went to help her aunt clear away, and as they loaded the trolley they both heard the tell-tale click that meant the telephone was being used.

Shamelessly they went into the hall and stood there listening.

“Gerald? Gerald? I want to speak to Helen,” they heard.

There was a pause and then the old, deep voice came again.

“There’s something wrong. Don’t lie to me. Is she ill?”

There was another silence, then some muttering. Finally Mrs Ludlow’s bell pealed vigorously.

“Never mind the plates. Let’s both go,” Phyllis said.

Side by side, aunt and niece entered the drawing-room. Mrs Ludlow sat in her chair with her eyes glittering.

“Now then, you two. Wheel me down to the Stable House, at once,” she said. “I don’t care which of you does it. There’s something wrong, and I’m going to see for myself what it is.”

“No, Mother. You stay here,” said Phyllis in a soothing voice. “Helen’s just upset after the journey. She’ll come up and see you when she’s better.”

“Wheel me down, I said,” Mrs Ludlow repeated. “Cathy, you do it, since your aunt seems determined to defy her own mother.”

“I’ll take you down to the Stable House, if you wish, Mrs Ludlow,” said a new voice, and to the astonishment of everyone Patrick appeared through the French window. “I happened to overhear,” he said.

Cathy had always before been pleased to see him, but not this time. She frowned at him, but he avoided her eye, bending over her grandmother so that she did not have to peer up to look at him.

“Thank you indeed, Dr Grant,” she said, with a gracious nod of her head. She picked up her stick and laid it across her knees, over the rug that always covered them. “You’ll find the chair propels quite easily,” she informed him.

Patrick bowed to the other two and pushed the old lady past them, out of the room, without another word.

Phyllis and Cathy were too surprised to move for a moment, but then Phyllis seized the telephone.

“We must warn your father,” she said, dialling the number.

Patrick, meanwhile, made no haste. He chatted about the weather, admired the plants they passed, and commented on the current political situation as he picked out the smoothest course for the chair. When they arrived at the Stable House Gerald had had time to adopt a mask of calm. He left the front door open so that Patrick could wheel his mother in without difficulty, then prepared to feign surprise; it was useless to try to stop her once she had made up her mind to take any action, but that fellow from Oxford seemed to have an extraordinary aptitude for throwing spanners into the works.

He heard the sound of the chair crossing the cobbles, and then Patrick’s voice, cheerfully raised.

“Is anyone at home?” he called. “I’ve brought a visitor.”

“Wheel me in, wheel me in,” commanded Mrs Ludlow with impatience. She clasped her stick upright as they passed between the doorposts, balancing it between her feet on the foot-rest of her chair.

“Mother! What a nice surprise! And Dr Grant too! Come in,” cried Gerald valiantly.

Full marks, thought Patrick, pushing on.

“I’ve come to see what’s wrong with Helen,” said Mrs Ludlow, going straight to the point. “Phyllis said she’d a headache, and you say she went to the village. What’s the truth of it?”

“Well, she did have a headache, and she thought a walk might clear it away, so she went to the village. But she still isn’t well, so she’s resting,” Gerald said.

His mother fixed him with a beady stare.

“Don’t lie to me, Gerald,” she said. “I want the truth.”

“She’s sleeping, Mother. I’m not going to wake her,” said Gerald. He looked steadily back at his mother.

“I can always tell when you’re lying, Gerald,” said Mrs Ludlow. “Don’t waste my time. What’s happened?”

Gerald turned his back to her and put a hand to his head.

“I’m waiting, Gerald,” said Mrs Ludlow. He might have been ten years old. He swung round to face her again.

“Very well. You’ll have to find out, I suppose, sooner or later. She’s left me,” he said.

There was absolute silence. Then, in a voice from which all vibrancy had gone, Mrs Ludlow said: “But why?”

“She was upset by Mrs Mackenzie’s death,” answered Gerald shortly. He turned his back to her again and kicked at the fender.

“Stop fidgeting, Gerald, and look at me,” said Mrs Ludlow, more firmly. “Why should she be upset? There was nothing to fear.”

“Mrs Ludlow, I think your family has been trying to hide from you the fact that the police are not satisfied about the manner in which Mrs Mackenzie died,” said Patrick in a quiet voice.

“Oh, damn you, Grant; Haven’t you done enough damage? Get out of here,” stormed Gerald, rounding on him.

“Don’t go, Dr Grant,” said Mrs Ludlow sharply. “You’ll tell me the truth. Why are the police not satisfied?”

“She had a dubious past, it seems,” said Patrick in a mild voice. “They think she was poisoned because of it.”

“Is this true? Gerald, what have they found out?” Mrs Ludlow’s voice was a hiss.

“Mrs Mackenzie has been in prison, Mother. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course I did. You know I did,” said Mrs Ludlow.

“The police think that Mrs Mackenzie knew something discreditable about Helen Ludlow as a result of her prison sentence,” said Patrick. He waited. “They think that Helen Ludlow may have murdered Mrs Mackenzie,” he said.

There was a sudden clatter. Mrs Ludlow’s stick fell from her knees and rolled forward across the polished floor. Patrick instinctively moved to pick it up, then checked; the old lady had propelled her chair forward herself and was reaching down for it, but Gerald forestalled her. He gave it to her silently. She laid it across her knees again and Patrick saw the old, gnarled fingers twitching at her rug.

“Helen didn’t poison her,” said Mrs Ludlow.

“Of course she didn’t,” Gerald said. “But the police won’t believe it”

“It was meant for me,” said Mrs Ludlow. Her voice shook. “The police believed that, didn’t they? Joyce Mackenzie took it by mistake. It was her greed that killed her.”

There was silence in the room. Patrick did not move, but his eyes flicked from the old woman’s face to Gerald’s, waiting to see if he registered what he had heard. Very, very slowly, Gerald realised its significance.

“You knew about it,” he said. “No one told you about the tablets, but you knew.”

“Of course I knew,” said Mrs Ludlow roughly. “All those policemen about the place, asking questions. I’m not in my second childhood yet, you know.”

“But you couldn’t have known, mother,” said Gerald. He gazed at her in horror. “How could you know?”

“I guessed, of course. Anyone with any brains would do the same,” Mrs Ludlow blustered, but Gerald simply stood there gaping at her.

“Mrs Ludlow, the police will arrest Helen Ludlow and charge her with the murder, as soon as she is found,” said Patrick. “That is why she’s gone away.”

Gerald’s head jerked, and he glared at Patrick, but Patrick paid him no attention.

“You knew that Mrs Mackenzie was already dead on Sunday morning, when you rang your bell, didn’t you?” he said. “That was why you told Mrs Medhurst to go and call her, not your granddaughter. You tried to stop Cathy from finding her. How did you know that Mrs Mackenzie was dead, Mrs Ludlow?”

She stared at him, this friend turned sudden foe.

“It will all be for nothing, won’t it, Mrs Ludlow, if Helen is arrested?” said Patrick softly. “Hadn’t you better tell us what you did?”

There was no reply. A little gasping sound came from the old lady, that was all. Patrick went on talking.

“You knew that if you didn’t eat your pudding, Mrs Mackenzie would be sure to finish it,” he said. “It was easy for you to open some of your pills and slip the powder into the meringue, wasn’t it? You had plenty of time to do it.”

“But - why?” whispered Gerald. “Why?”

“Because your mother loves you, Mr Ludlow,” Patrick said in a gentle voice. “That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs Ludlow?”

She did not speak, but she grunted and gave a feeble nod. She had sunk down in her chair, and her once proud head dropped forward on to her bony chest, the eyes downcast.

“When Mrs Mackenzie and your wife recognised each other on Friday night, you decided the best course was to tell your mother the truth, hoping the rest of the family need never know. That’s right, isn’t it?” Patrick said to Gerald.

The other man nodded, his eyes still on his mother in horrified fascination.

“Of all her children, you are the only one that Mrs Ludlow has real feeling for,” said Patrick. “She wanted your happiness. It’s the normal wish of any mother. Mrs Ludlow thought that it would be threatened if your secret was discovered. She told you to keep away while she spoke to Mrs Mackenzie and made her promise not to tell. That is why you went to London on Saturday. Correct?”

Gerald nodded again.

“But you didn’t trust Mrs Mackenzie, did you, Mrs Ludlow? You thought you’d better make quite sure,” said Patrick.

“Mother, is this true?” Gerald spoke at last.

A little croak was all they heard in answer.

“Mother, you must tell the police what you’ve done,” said Gerald. “They think Helen did it Mother, don’t you understand? You must tell them, Mother!”

But Mrs Ludlow could not tell anybody anything. She made a gurgling noise and slumped forward in her chair. Patrick caught her just before she fell.

They lifted the old lady gently out of her chair and laid her on the sofa. She was pitifully light. Gerald picked up her rug from where it had fallen and draped it over her. Deep, rasping breaths came from her, and her mouth gaped.

“I’ll ring the doctor,” Gerald said.

“Call the police too,” said Patrick. He feared that Helen’s picture might be splashed on the front page of all the evening papers, under banner headlines. He had picked up Mrs Ludlow’s silver-headed stick and was examining it curiously. The handle was chased, and bore some initials on it in a monogram.