Dead In The Morning (7 page)

“Don’t send the child. You go, Phyllis,” said Mrs Ludlow, but Cathy had already left the room. Phyllis moved her mother’s tray and folded up the table; then she began her preparations for the old lady’s morning toilet.

Suddenly Cathy was back. Her face was green. Phyllis, at the dressing-table collecting brush and hand-mirror, saw her reflection in the looking-glass and turned sharply.

“Aunt Phyl, can you come?” said Cathy. “Come quickly.” She said no more but hurried out of the room. Phyllis put down the brush and followed at once.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” she said.

Cathy made signs indicating that her grandmother should not overhear. With her hand to her mouth she led her aunt along the passage and stopped outside Mrs Mackenzie’s bedroom door.

“Mrs Mack’s ill,” she said, and gulped. “I think she’s dead.”

Dr Wilkins was luckily at home, out in the garden early, practising putting on the lawn and hoping not to be summoned away from his Sunday recreation by any emergency. He reached Pantons within fifteen minutes of Phyllis’s telephone call.

She took him up to Mrs Mackenzie’s bedroom, explaining what had happened as they went, though he already knew most of it from what she had said on the telephone.

Shafts of sunlight streamed in through the window and slanted across the bed where the still figure lay as though sleeping. The bedclothes were drawn up round her shoulders and she was curled up in a defenceless position, like a child.

“It was obviously too late to do anything for her,” Phyllis said. “She’s been dead for several hours, hasn’t she?”

The doctor bent over the body, turning it gently over on to its back. It had begun to stiffen.

“Yes,” he said. He lifted an eyelid and gazed intently at the eye.

“What could it have been? A stroke?” Phyllis spoke in a hushed voice. She felt extremely shocked, and had a strange, prim thought that she should have drawn the bedroom curtains so that a muted light prevailed instead of this bright, all-revealing sunshine “Perhaps. It’s impossible to say,” said the doctor. “It could have been heart. We’ll have to wait for the postmortem to be sure.”

“Oh dear! Must that happen? Can’t you really tell?”

“I’m afraid not. And I haven’t seen her professionally for a very long time,” said the doctor. He drew the sheet up over the dead woman’s face. “Mrs Mackenzie always seemed to be in excellent health whenever I came to see your mother.”

“She did. I don’t even remember her having a cold,” said Phyllis.

“She was rather overweight. Otherwise I should have said she was very fit,” said the doctor. “I shall have to notify the coroner.”

He picked up a glass that stood on a table beside the bed and sniffed it. Then he held it to the light.

“Whisky,” he said. “Did she drink much?”

“She liked a nightcap,” Phyllis said. “She kept a bottle up here. Why not? It’s her own room, after all.”

“Why not, indeed?” agreed the doctor. He crossed to the dressing-table, where a number of bottles and jars were tidily arranged, and inspected them. They all appeared to be of a cosmetic nature. In one corner of the room was a wash-basin, and above it a small mirror-fronted cabinet. Dr Wilkins opened this and looked inside. It contained aspirins, Enos, a bottle of Milton, and one or two other simple medicaments. On a shelf below it, Mrs Mackenzie’s dentures rested in a tumbler of water.

“She didn’t take sleeping-pills?” asked the doctor.

“Not as far as I know,” said Phyllis. “She slept very well, as a matter of fact. We’d discussed it, because as you know I often have to get up to Mother and I don’t find it easy to go off again.” That was when she did most of her reading, escaping into the company of swashbuckling Regency bucks if she could not relax.

“I’ve certainly never prescribed any for her,” the doctor said. “But she could have got hold of some.”

Phyllis looked down at the unmoving mound in the bed.

“You don’t think—?” She broke off, staring at the doctor with a startled expression.

“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “It’s a possibility. We shall have to wait for the answer. I’ll telephone now and make the arrangements. Then I’d better see your mother. This will have shaken her. Have you told her?”

“Yes. She realised that something had happened, so I thought it the best thing to do. My brother’s with her now. She’s taken it very calmly. Cathy’s much more upset; she found Mrs Mackenzie.”

“How very unfortunate,” said Dr Wilkins. “What a shock for her.”

“It’s a shock for us all,” said Phyllis. “We were fond of her.” And how would they manage without her, she began to wonder, her practical sense returning after its initial numbing.

She took the doctor downstairs to the hall to telephone, and then went into her mother’s room. Gerald was sitting beside the old lady’s bed.

“Well?” he asked, getting up as Phyllis came in.

Phyllis shook her head at him.

“Mother, Dr Wilkins will be in to see you in a minute,” she said. “He’s just making a phone call first.” She glanced round the room, and added, “Where’s Cathy?”

“Helen came up. They’re making some coffee,” said Gerald.

“I don’t need the doctor to see me,” said Mrs Ludlow crossly, cutting across his words. “I just want a little of somebody’s time and attention to get me dressed.”

“Yes, Mother. I’ll see to you as soon as the doctor’s gone,” said Phyllis in soothing tones.

“What did he say? It was her heart, wasn’t it?” Mrs Ludlow demanded. “She looked as if she had a bad heart. She was too fat and too red in the face.”

“The doctor isn’t quite sure what happened, mother,” Phyllis said. “But he thinks it probably was a heart attack.” It was no good letting her mother know how vague in fact the doctor had been.

“I thought she always seemed very healthy,” said Gerald. “And fresh-complexioned, not apoplectic.”

Phyllis frowned at him. What use to anyone was an argument? Mrs Mackenzie was dead; that was a fact, and it was quite enough to be going on with.

“We’ll have to tell her family,” she said, in a worried voice. “That son in Clapham. I don’t know his address.”

“It’s bound to be somewhere in her room,” said Gerald. “I’ll go and have a hunt for it while you clear up in here.”

He crossed the room to the door, and Phyllis began to tidy the papers and oddments her mother had somehow managed to strew all over her bed.

“You’ll get me up,” said Mrs Ludlow firmly, brandishing her stick. “And Cathy can take me around the garden when I’m ready. It will give her something to do.”

Gerald exchanged a glance with his sister as he left the room; really, the old girl was incredible. She always made a daily inspection of the garden as soon as she came downstairs. On weekdays it was Bludgen’s duty to report at the house and wheel her round each morning; she knew every plant she owned and followed its fortunes like a mother her nurslings. On Sundays Phyllis or Gerald propelled her on this progress. Nothing was ever allowed to upset her routine, except an indisposition of her own, and clearly sudden death was to be no exception. He supposed that her strict ritual gave a framework to her existence.

Frowning, Gerald went along to Mrs Mackenzie’s room. Phyllis had drawn the curtains halfway, in a compromise, so that the intrusive sun was dimmed but the room was not dark. Odd how impersonal it seemed, even though Mrs Mackenzie had lived in it for so many years. She had very few possessions on display, not even any photographs. The furnishings were those considered appropriate by Mrs Ludlow for her housekeeper: a high, old-fashioned bed, a bright oak wardrobe and a matching dressing-table. Phyllis had added an easy chair, some cushions and a radio, and there was an elderly television set, one that had been replaced downstairs by a more modern model. There were no books or papers to be seen, no knitting under way left out; Mrs Mackenzie kept everything concealed from view.

Gerald hunted about. He found Mrs Mackenzie’s secret hoard of whisky in the wardrobe; and in a drawer he discovered a zipped writing case which contained some letters. Amongst them was her son’s address. There was nothing for it now but to ring up the young man and break the news. Gerald went out of the room, closed the door quietly, and walked slowly downstairs wondering how best to word it.

Dr Wilkins met him at the foot of the stairs.

“The police will be here very soon to take her away,” he said.

“The police?” Gerald looked startled.

“They deal with these things,” said the doctor. “Meanwhile, I wonder if you can tell me something. I made out a new prescription for your mother’s sleeping pills when I was here last week. Do you know if they’ve been collected yet? Could Mrs Mackenzie have fetched them? If so, it would account for her possession of sedatives.”

Gerald stared at him.

“But had she got some sleeping pills? Is that what she died of?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Unfortunately, as I explained to Mrs Medhurst, until we know the post-mortem results there is no way of telling the cause of death. It may have been due to a stroke, or a heart attack, but it may have been something else. Your sister tells me that Mrs Mackenzie seemed perfectly well last night. I just wondered about the sleeping tablets, because these accidents can happen very easily.”

“Mrs Mackenzie wasn’t the sort of person to make mistakes with drugs,” said Gerald. “She knew the dose. She gave my mother her medicines if Phyllis was out.”

“She’d had some whisky,” said the doctor. “She might have got confused. Still, maybe this is barking completely up the wrong tree. We’ll simply have to wait. Meanwhile, I’ll go up and see your mother.”

“She seems to be quite all right,” Gerald said.

“A remarkably resilient woman,” said the doctor, as he went upstairs.

Gerald watched him go. He should ring up young Mackenzie, but that could wait for ten minutes until things that mattered near at hand had been dealt with.

“Helen?” he called. “Cathy? Where have you got to?”

“We’re in the kitchen, Daddy,” Cathy’s voice replied.

Gerald crossed the hall and went into the kitchen, where he found Cathy and Helen seated at the table. In front of each of them was an untasted cup of coffee.

“Ah, coffee, just what I want,” said Gerald with bogus heartiness.

“Neither of us can drink a drop,” said Cathy miserably. “I feel sick.”

“I know what you need,” said Gerald. He left the room, and came back with a bottle of brandy from the dining- room; into each of their cups he poured a stiff tot. “Phyl could do with some too, I’m sure. Still, we’d better leave her to finish with Wilkins.”

“Poor Aunt Phyl. She hasn’t had a bite,” said Cathy. “At least I had some cornflakes first.” She got up and poured her father a cup of coffee from the pot that was keeping hot on the stove. “Here you are, Daddy.”

“Thanks.” Gerald added some brandy to it. “Drink up, you two,” he urged, and frowned at Helen, who picked up her cup and forced some of the coffee down. Cathy obediently followed this example, grimacing as she swallowed, but it did do her good; she felt better almost at once.

“What’s going to happen, Daddy?” she asked. “Helen says that poor Mrs Mack will have to be cut up.”

“Cathy dear, I didn’t put it quite like that,” protested Helen.

“Well, that’s what a post-mortem means,” said Cathy. “Didn’t she have a heart attack?”

“The doctor isn’t sure. He can’t tell without an examination,” said Gerald. “In every case of sudden death there has to be an inquiry, unless the person has been seen recently by a doctor and the death can be explained.”

“It’s awful.” Cathy shivered. “There she was last night, as cheerful as could be. Why, she spent hours yesterday making a Charlotte Russe for today’s lunch. She made a special little one for herself, too, in case we didn’t leave her any, and she loves it. Used to, I mean.” At this, she suddenly burst into tears and Gerald put his arm round her.

“There, there, little one,” he said, trying to think of words to comfort her. “She can’t have suffered. She was lying very peacefully, just as if she was asleep.”

“I know,” wailed Cathy. “I thought she was asleep. But she was icy, icy cold!”

Hardly to his surprise, for his patient’s tough constitution had long been known to him, Dr Wilkins found Mrs Ludlow in good order. However, he advised a quiet day and an early night.

“I had dinner in bed last night,” she told him. “I never keep late hours, as you are aware, but we had such an excitement on Friday. My son Gerald brought home his bride. You’ll meet her when you go downstairs.”

“Indeed?” said the doctor, shutting up his bag. “I didn’t know Mr Ludlow was planning to re-marry.”

“It was quite a surprise to us all,” said Mrs Ludlow. “She’s an American, quite charming. The family is delighted.” This was uttered in regal tones.

“Splendid, splendid,” said the doctor, his mind already on what else must now be done. It would be as well if the old lady were to be diverted while the body was removed; this could not be managed without some disturbance in the house, so someone must distract her during the operation.

“I’ll come down with you, Dr Wilkins,” said Phyllis, who was in the room with them. “I won’t be long, Mother.”

“Send Helen up,” ordered Mrs Ludlow. “She can help me with my hair. She may as well learn what I need done.”

It was true. Until a replacement for Mrs Mackenzie could be found, Helen might be very useful, if she were willing. Betty’s help was of doubtful value, for she was so clumsy that she was bound to pull Mrs Ludlow’s hair or bang into the furniture and bump the bed, however anxious she was to lend assistance.

Phyllis felt gloomy about the future as she led the way out of her mother’s room.

“Come and have some coffee, Phyl. You must need it,” Gerald said, appearing in the kitchen doorway when he heard her and the doctor coming downstairs. “You too, Dr Wilkins. I’ve got some brandy here as well.”

“Just the medicine,” said the doctor.

“Helen, Mother wants you to go and help her with her hair,” said Phyllis. “Could you bear it?”

“I’ll go,” said Gerald.