A Lesson in Dying

Chapter Ten

Ramsay was haunted by a growing desperation and isolation. His colleagues seemed to have distanced themselves from him. He, after all, had taken the decision to arrest Kitty Medburn and there would be an inquiry into her suicide. And now, instead of covering his back, of following police procedure to the letter, he had begun to work in a way that was even more idiosyncratic and unorthodox. Those who were concerned about their own careers made their disapproval of his methods clear. It was a bad thing to be associated with failure.

In the police station at Otterbridge, in the canteen and corridors people whispered and waited for his downfall. Hunter seemed to grow in influence and stature.

Ramsay knew that others considered him a failure but was too proud, too clear-sighted about past achievements to accept their judgement. It was all added pressure though at a time in an inquiry which was always most difficult. He knew that a positive result was possible, but could not even guess who the murderer was. More than usual he felt that this case was a battle for survival. He was convinced that the answer lay in Heppleburn and was always drawn back to the school. He had become fascinated, almost obsessed, with the personality of the headmaster. There, with wilful and inconsistent autocracy, Harold Medburn had ruled. There he had been murdered. Although he had no evidence Ramsay felt that the death of Paul Wilcox was almost an irrelevance. Wilcox was a weak and ineffective man who would have no natural enemies. Unless it was the work of a lunatic, his death was an attempt by the murderer to cover his tracks. Ramsay thought that the murderer too was becoming desperate.

Medburn had been different, Ramsay thought as he parked his car in the playground, avoiding a crocodile of children returning from a nature walk. Medburn had been larger than life, a worthy victim of murder. At times, when he was almost faint with sleeplessness, he could imagine the headmaster taunting and teasing him. He knew that to be ridiculous, but the personality of the victim, his own pride and his guilt at Kitty’s suicide made this case special. He was determined to get a result.

Ramsay knew that his visits to the school had begun to irritate the staff, and as he approached the building he thought he could already sense their hostility. Jack Robson was seldom there now. Since Kitty’s death he seemed only to go to the school early in the morning and last thing at night. Occasionally Ramsay did meet him and then he was withdrawn and resentful.

There had been changes in the school. The vicar’s wife had come in as supply teacher to take Miss Hunt’s class while she was acting head teacher and the secretary, an elderly lady, had resigned with accusations and floods of tears. She had seemed to think that death, like the measles, was contagious and she could not stay there without being affected. Perhaps she was right, thought Ramsay, remembering Kitty Medburn and Paul Wilcox.

Ramsay went into the school and along the corridor to Matthew Carpenter’s room. He knew his way round now. He knocked at the door and the teacher came into the corridor to speak to him. As if I’m infectious too, Ramsay thought, and the children might catch something from me. Inside the children were painting.

‘Yes Inspector,’ Matthew said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Just a few more questions.’ In interview the young man had always been pleasant and polite. He had already answered Ramsay’s questions about the bonfire, the children’s attempts to dress the guy as a witch. But now Ramsay wanted to ask about the rumours that Matthew had been threatened by Medburn with dismissal. He wondered if Carpenter would be so eager to discuss that.

‘Could you wait for five minutes?’ Matthew asked. ‘The children will be going home then and we can talk in peace.’

Ramsay nodded and prowled along the corridor, as if by being in the building, by walking as the headmaster had done, he would receive some inspiration about who had hated the man so much to kill him and then to dress him up in such a grotesque and undignified way. He felt he had wasted time. He had believed so strongly that Kitty had killed her husband that he had not taken sufficient notice of the other people involved while they were still shocked by Medburn’s death and might have given something away. The fingerprint and forensic tests had not helped. All the fingerprints in the school belonged to people who had a reason to be there and that only reinforced his theory that the murderer was connected with the school.

A bell rang and the children pushed into the corridor, then ran into the playground. In Matthew’s classroom the two men sat on children’s desks. Ramsay began his questions gently, retracing old ground about the bonfire, asking for the names and addresses of the children who were there. Then he began to inquire about Matthew’s relationship with Medburn.

‘You didn’t get on with Mr Medburn, did you?’ Ramsay asked.

‘We had different ideas about teaching.’

‘But he was a headmaster and you had just qualified so he was in a position to impose his ideas on you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Isn’t it true that he didn’t think much of you as a teacher?’

‘I don’t know,’ Matthew had begun to stammer but he remained polite, quiet. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t as strong on discipline as he would have liked.’

‘I’ve heard that he was going to get you the sack.’

‘I don’t know where you could have heard that.’ Matthew’s voice was louder and he was starting to lose control. ‘You shouldn’t listen to the parents’ gossip.’

‘But you’ve been happier here since Mr Medburn died?’

‘Yes. If you’ve been talking in the village you’ll know that I’m happier now. So are all the children.’

Without a pause Ramsay changed the subject of his questions.

‘Were you drunk on the night of the Hallowe’en party?’

‘Yes!’ Matthew was almost shouting. ‘I’ve admitted that before.’

‘Why did you get drunk?’

‘I don’t know. I was lonely, unhappy, homesick. I missed my friends.’

‘Do you lose control when you’re drunk?’

‘Not enough to commit murder.’

And although Matthew was angry and frightened, nothing Ramsay could say would shake him from that. Ramsay was surprised, throughout the interview, to see Irene Hunt looking in from the corridor, watchful and protective, as if she had coached the young man in what he would say and she wanted to ensure that he was word perfect. Her presence encouraged Ramsay in the belief that Carpenter had something to hide. He began to feel happier.

Ramsay had spoken to Miss Hunt earlier in the week and the memory of that interview remained with him in perfect detail. In her bungalow she had struck him as relaxed, human. He had liked her. At school she was quite different. She had seen him in the headmaster’s office and had been as imperious and distant as Medburn himself. She had intimidated Ramsay with her sharp, honest intelligence and her refusal to compromise. And because she was a teacher of such an age and type, he admitted to himself later. As a child he had been terrified of a schoolmistress just like her. He’d had nightmares about her and dreamed she was an ogre.

Miss Hunt had answered his questions readily enough. She admitted to having been blackmailed, but then refused to give Ramsay her daughter’s name and address.

‘I can find it out,’ he said, with a spasm of desperation and spite.

‘I can’t stop you doing that,’ she said, cool and haughty, ‘though I don’t imagine it’s as easy as you think. She changed her name of course when she was adopted and when she married, and she’s moved several times. Even if you find her it’s not important. I’ll know that I’ve not betrayed her.’

Ramsay had set a constable to trace the daughter but without much urgency or hope of success. There had not yet been a result. Miss Hunt had been paying blackmail to Medburn for years. After that time it surely must have become a habit, a minor irritation and hardly a motive for murder. Besides, if she were to be believed she no longer had any reason to pay.

Out in the corridor Miss Hunt caught his eye and walked away. Matthew Carpenter stood up suddenly and began to clean the blackboard. The rubber was dusty and chalk was smeared across the blackboard, despite the young man’s vigorous, almost frantic, actions. Ramsay watched with a growing joy. Carpenter was frightened. He knew he had to act carefully now. It was vital to show that the teacher had access to Heminevrin. He could not take Carpenter in on suspicion for questioning without that proof. He had done that to Kitty Medburn and his superiors would need evidence before they would allow it to happen again. They were too sensitive to criticism by the press.

‘You live above a chemist’s shop, don’t you?’ he asked.

Matthew looked round quickly and the blackboard rubber banged to the floor.

‘Yes,’ he said as he bent to pick it up.

‘Is there any way into it from your flat?’

‘No. I’ve got a separate entrance.’

‘So there’s no way you could get into the shop if it’s closed?’

‘Oh yes,’ Matthew said. ‘The pharmacist rented the flat to me on the condition that I keep an eye on the shop. It’s been broken into a couple of times and sometimes the burglar alarm goes off by mistake. I’ve got a spare key.’

He seemed unaware that he was making any dramatic revelation and Ramsay’s conviction that he was the murderer was shaken by Carpenter’s frankness. The policeman felt he needed time for reflection. He was too involved in the case. He had spent too much time in the grey terraced streets of the village and the school on the hill. The seaside walk along the promenade with Patty Atkins seemed to have happened a long time ago.

While he was interviewing Matthew Carpenter, Ramsay saw Patty hovering in the playground and the children pulling at her coat, trying to persuade her to go. He thought at first she was waiting for her father, then remembered he had asked her to speak to Hannah Wilcox. He was so convinced that the answer to the murders lay in the school that he was sure she would have little information of value. He was touched, though, by the effort she had made. He remembered the walk along the seafront with pleasure, because it had been a break from the depression of Heppleburn and because she had not criticized him. He was so used to being alone on this case that her company had been comforting. As soon as the interview with Matthew was over he rushed out to see her, but she had gone. He stood in the empty playground in the dusk, feeling he had been deserted.

Because she felt that the information from Hannah Wilcox was so important, Patty left a message for Ramsay at Otterbridge police station. The policeman there was unpleasantly insistent that she should talk to him rather than to his superior, but she refused. She had the impression that he was sneering at Ramsay. She felt she owed a loyalty to Ramsay and besides, although she would not admit it to herself, she knew his response to her message would provide an excuse for them to meet.

They did meet, but almost by chance, the next day at lunch-time in the main street of the village. He still had not returned her call and she had been restless all morning. Perhaps she went to the post office in the hope of seeing him. She stood in the street and looked at the advertisements in the window. Mrs Mount was advertising for a care assistant to work in the nursing home. Angela must have told her already that she would not help there. Then she turned round and he was standing on the pavement beside her, apparently in a dream.

‘I tried to see you,’ she said. ‘There’s something I think you should know. Have you time to talk to me now?’

‘Of course!’ The preoccupation disappeared and the flattering manner returned as if at the flick of a switch. He can’t help it, she thought.

‘Can we get something to eat at the Northumberland Arms?’ he asked. ‘We can have lunch together and you can talk to me then.’

It’ll be all round the village in an hour, she thought, that I’ve been to the pub with the good-looking policeman. She wondered briefly what her husband would think, but she nodded and followed him into the lounge bar. Jim would understand. She chose a table in a corner, furthest away from the bar, under a poster of last year’s leek show. Ramsay would not want to be overheard. They ate beef sandwiches and drank lager while she told him about Hannah’s discovery that Paul Wilcox too had been threatened by blackmail, that Wilcox had been in the school house on the night of the bonfire and that someone else had been there too.

Ramsay listened with great care. ‘He didn’t give her any idea who that was?’

Patty shook her head.

‘So Angela Brayshaw was involved with Wilcox too,’ Ramsay said. He was thinking aloud. ‘She gets around, that woman, doesn’t she? A regular little gold-digger. Your father saw them together but I couldn’t see them as a couple.’ He looked at Patty. ‘Tell me a bit more about her.’ He was asking out of interest. He was still committed to the theory that Matthew Carpenter was involved with both murders.

‘I don’t know her very well,’ Patty said, ‘although her family have always lived in the village. Her dad died when she was young and apparently her mum used the insurance money to send her to a private school in Jesmond. Mrs Mount, her mother, was always a snob. She runs that private nursing home in the big house on the way to Morpeth and Angela helped there in the school holidays. She was never allowed out to parties or discos with us. Her mam thought we’d lead her astray. She had dreams of Angela going away to college, I think, but she didn’t do very well at school. I remember talking to her once on the top of the bus into Newcastle when we were both sixteen. She wanted to work in a smart hairdresser’s and do day release at the tech but Mrs Mount wouldn’t have it. Too common for her only daughter. In the end Angela worked in the nursing home too.’

‘I see,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘ So she would have learned to lift there. She would have had to lift the old people into bed. Even though she’s tiny she’s quite strong.’

‘You think she killed Harold Medburn for his money?’ She was beyond caring now who had killed the headmaster. She just wanted the thing cleared up. ‘There were all those rumours that she owed a lot to her mother and was having to work at the nursing home to pay it back. She always hated it there. She won’t need to do that now.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that. But it’s important to keep an open mind. Has she got a car?’

Patty nodded. ‘ Her mother bought it for her when she was separated. It’s a Mini.’

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘She started work at the nursing home. What happened then?’

‘She married David Brayshaw,’ Patty said. ‘ I never met him but everyone said he was far too nice for her.’ Then, realizing how bitchy she must sound she added: ‘Of course she was very pretty.’

‘Was he local?’

‘From Monkseaton I think. He was a trainee manager in a carpet factory. Angela gave up work in the nursing home as soon as she was married. Everyone knew she hated it. I don’t think David was happy in his work either because he packed it all in when he left Angela.’

‘When was that?’

‘Soon after Claire was born. I don’t know what he’s doing now.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re a mine of information. Considering you don’t know her very well.’

She realized he was laughing at her. ‘I know it’s all gossip,’ she said.

‘I was being serious,’ he said. ‘ Really. You’ve been a great help.’

‘There is something else,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Medburn used to help out at the old people’s home. She’d go in at weekends to be in charge so that Angela’s mother could get away. That’s probably how Angela first met Harold.’

It seemed to him then that the whole village was in some way related and that the relationships were so tenuous, complex and informal that he would never untangle them. It occurred to him that he might be keen to accept Matthew Carpenter as the murderer because the teacher was an outsider and then the whole thing would be less complicated. As he had told Patty, it was important to keep an open mind.

‘Will you talk to her?’ he said. ‘ Just as a neighbour. Don’t ask any specific questions, but if you come across anything suspicious let me know.’

‘It’s awkward,’ she said. ‘We’re not particularly friendly.’

‘But you’ll try?’ It was an echo of Hannah’s plea for help. ‘ She’ll not talk to me.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’ She was angry with herself because she agreed so easily. What was she? A mother to them all? The maternal responsibility of curing ills and making things better seemed an awful burden. But she was good at nothing else. It was all she could do.

It was odd to walk out of the dark, humid pub with its wood panels into broad daylight. It should have been evening, yet it was only half past one. There were two and a half hours before she needed to collect the children from school. She did not relish the thought of an interview with Angela Brayshaw and decided it would be better done now. She would get it over. But when she knocked on the glossy, green door it opened immediately and Angela stood on the threshold, her coat fastened, handbag and keys in her hand, obviously on her way out.

‘What do you want?’ she asked. She seemed more confident than on their previous encounter, looking at Patty with an amused superiority. Medburn’s death must have shocked her, Patty thought, but she was getting over it now.

‘Nothing special,’ Patty said lamely. ‘I just wondered how you were.’

‘You came for a nose about Harold’s money,’ Angela said. ‘ I expect everyone in Heppleburn’s talking about it. Well I can’t give you any details. I don’t know yet how much it’ll be.’

‘No,’ Patty said. ‘It wasn’t that.’ But she knew how unconvincing she must sound.

‘I’m going out,’ Angela said, ‘to spend my money. I haven’t time to gossip.’ She set off quickly down the pavement, her keys still in her hand, towards the block of garages which were grouped at the end of the street. At the bottom of the road she turned and gave a cheerful almost pitying wave.

Later Patty was not sure what had prompted her to phone Burnside. Perhaps it was to prove to Angela Brayshaw that she could not be so easily dismissed. Perhaps it was because she thought Ramsey would be pleased. She looked up the number as soon as she got home, then dialled, without having time for nervousness or second thoughts.

The phone rang for a short time then a woman answered. Patty did not recognize the voice but knew it was not Mrs Mount.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘This is Mrs Atkins. I’m phoning about the care assistant’s vacancy advertized in the post office window.’

Patty wondered before phoning whether she should use her real name, but decided that Mrs Mount would not recognize it. Even if she had heard that Jack had been asking questions in the village she would not know Patty’s married name and was unlikely to connect the two.

‘Just one moment.’ The woman spoke in a strained, affected voice which she obviously saved for the telephone, because Patty heard her lapse into accent to say: ‘Mrs Mount, there’s a Mrs Atkins on the phone about the vacancy.’ There was a whispered conversation then the woman said: ‘Mrs Atkins? Could you come in for an interview this afternoon? Mrs Mount is available to see you today.’

‘Yes,’ Patty said, rather alarmed by the immediate result of the call. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

It took her that long to make herself presentable. All her tights had holes in and her skirt needed ironing. If she were going to go through with the interview, she thought, she would have to play the part properly. She had always enjoyed drama at school. She drove to Burnside. The road was empty and the afternoon was very still. The trees were almost bare and the detail of the branches was sharp against the clear sky. There were threads of mist in the valley near the stream. She drove through the massive privet hedges which shielded the house from the road and parked on the gravel. She had never seen beyond the hedge before and was surprised by the ugliness of the house.

The interview was more formal than Patty had expected. She knew that Mrs Mount needed staff quickly and had thought there would be a pleasant chat about Patty’s attitude to old people. Instead she was asked to wait in a hall, decorated with brown wallpaper and where there was no natural light, until Mrs Mount was ready to see her. As she waited she grew nervous as if she really wanted employment and began to rehearse what she would say. She looked into the residents’ lounge, where an assistant was lifting a fat old man into a wheelchair, and wondered if she would have the patience for the work. Eventually she was shown into Mrs Mount’s room.

Angela’s mother sat behind a desk. She was wearing a blue blouse with a large bow and Patty thought she had chosen it to look like Mrs Thatcher. Her lacquered hair was shiny and hard as a helmet.

‘Sit down, Mrs Atkins,’ she said, and smiled.

Patty sat on a small wooden chair. Behind her a budgerigar began to mutter to itself. She wondered what she was doing there. How could it help to find out who had killed Medburn and Paul Wilcox?

‘So you’d like to work at Burnside?’ Mrs Mount asked.

‘Yes,’ Patty said. She grinned and tried to look enthusiastic.

‘Do you live locally?’ She spoke slowly, as if to a backward child.

‘Yes,’ Patty said. ‘On the new estate. Quite close to your daughter.’ The woman’s patronizing attitude was starting to annoy her.

Mrs Mount looked at her sharply.

‘Do you know Angela?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Patty said. ‘ She suggested that I should apply for the job. She said she thought I would fit in here.’

‘Oh?’ Mrs Mount said, her face still rigid with the habitual smile. ‘I wonder what she meant by that.’

‘I think she meant that I would have the flexibility to do what was needed.’

Mrs Mount was becoming less sure of herself. She felt there was some significance behind Patty’s words she had failed to understand, that she might even be the object of a veiled sarcasm. She changed the subject.

‘Have you any nursing qualifications?’ she asked. ‘Of course we prefer our staff to be qualified.’

‘No,’ Patty said. ‘ I worked in an office before I had the children.’

‘Any experience of nursing the elderly?’

‘Not exactly,’ Patty said. ‘ I looked after my mother. She was very ill but she was only fifty-eight when she died. I helped the district nurse when she came to treat her.’

‘Which nurse was that?’ Mrs Mount seemed to regret the question as soon as it was asked.

‘Mrs Medburn,’ Patty said. ‘ I understand that she used to work here. Before she died.’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘Oh yes,’ Patty said. ‘She told me all about Burnside.’

The words were simple but they triggered a dramatic response in Mrs Mount. Her smile disappeared. She stared at Patty, her lipstick-red mouth slightly open, her long, sharp canine teeth protruding to the lower lip. Patty was suddenly frightened and thought it had been a mistake to have come.

‘Did Mrs Medburn explain our routine to you?’ The smile returned and Patty thought how foolish she had been to be scared. She was determined to achieve something from the visit to Burnside, something to take back to Ramsay.

‘She told me that some of the old people took a drug at night to help them sleep,’ she said. ‘It was called Heminevrin.’

There was a vicious silence. There was no attempt now to pretend that this was an interview for a job.

‘What are you doing here?’ Mrs Mount hissed. She leaned across the desk towards Patty. ‘Why are you snooping? Who are you?’

‘I want to know,’ Patty said, ‘ about the Heminevrin.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you notice, for example, that any was missing? Did you finish the bottle sooner than you would have expected? Who collected the prescription for you?’

‘Get out,’ Mrs Mount said. Her face was drained of all colour so her scarlet lips seemed unnaturally bright and glossy. Patty was reminded suddenly of a vampire in a horror film and she wanted to giggle. The situation had turned into a farce.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I should have explained before why I’m here.’

But Mrs Mount was beyond explanation. ‘I won’t talk to you,’ she said. ‘I don’t care who you’ve been speaking to. What goes on here is none of your business. Now get out.’

She calmed herself quite suddenly and stood upright behind her desk. It was as if nothing unusual had happened. She was in charge again and the smile had returned.

‘I shouldn’t make any accusations you can’t substantiate,’ she said. ‘There’s been quite enough unpleasantness in Heppleburn already, don’t you think, with two murders and a suicide?’ She shouted to a woman waiting in the shadowy hall: ‘ Margaret dear, show Mrs Atkins out. I don’t think she comes up to the standards we require of our staff.’

In the car Patty sat for a few moments before driving away. She was shaking with relieved tension but satisfied with her achievement. Mrs Mount was terrified. She must know something about Angela and was obviously trying to protect her. Perhaps a quantity of the drug had disappeared after her daughter had been to visit. Perhaps Angela had confessed to the murder of Medburn. How pleased Ramsay would be with the information! Patty was convinced that Angela was the murderer. She had only to prove it.

As she drove back into the village she saw that the mist in the valley had thickened and when she arrived, breathless, in the playground to collect the children, it was almost dark.