Authors: Pamela Oldfield
‘It’s for Mr Preston,’ she told them breathlessly. ‘From Number 24. They said it’s urgent!’
‘That’s Nan!’ Richard jumped to his feet and followed her back into the house leaving Marianne and Ida exchanging looks of alarm.
Then Ida raised her eyebrows and whispered, ‘If the old girl has died it might be God’s will!’
Marianne considered several comments but uttered none of them.
Richard appeared in some distress. ‘It’s Nan. She’s had a stroke and they’ve taken her to the cottage hospital. Please excuse me. I’ll have to dash!’
Just then Emmie and Edie arrived at the table saying they were thirsty and eyeing the jug of lemonade.
Ida smiled, ‘Go and ask Cook for two more mugs and then you can join us. It’s a good thing we didn’t eat all the biscuits!’
THIRTEEN
T
hat night Georgina waited until the house was quiet and the church clock had struck midnight, then she put her plan into action. She now had nearly a hundred sleeping pills – the small lie had served her well, she thought – and she made her way in her bare feet along the passage to the bathroom at the far end. There she locked the door, poured herself a glass of water and began to swallow the tablets, two at a time.
It was strange to be on her feet again and she did feel a little unsteady, but that was of no concern. The purpose of the exercise, she reminded herself, was to apparently slip away in her sleep so that everyone would believe she had died a natural death. They would read the letter and discover the truth about Leonora and that would be bad enough. She did not want to add the crime of suicide to her legacy because she was trying to save the twins from any more grief. She had caused them enough damage.
When she had taken all the pills she waited for a moment to see if anything immediate happened but, finding that she felt no different, she unlocked the bathroom door and began the slow journey towards the stairs. They would be the worst hurdle, she knew, but she was determined to die in Neil’s bed in his room. That way she could talk to him until the end came, knowing that he understood exactly what she was doing and why – and that he forgave her.
Making her way up the stairs was more difficult than she had imagined and took a deal longer but, pausing on every other step to catch her breath, she gradually reached the second landing. Only yards to go, she told herself.
‘Come on, Georgina! You can do it. You
have
to do it!’
Gathering her remaining strength, she struggled slowly and silently to the door of Neil’s room and then reached into the pocket of her dressing gown for the key.
Minutes later, to her great relief, she had opened the curtains and had then managed to climb up on to the bed and was now snuggled down beneath the sheets. She smiled.
‘Were you helping me, Neil?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think I could have done it without you. I knew I could rely on you. You were always so dependable, dear.’
Well, maybe not always, she amended silently. He had not been dependable when he had gone rushing away to look for Leonora, but that was all in the past and she had never reproached him.
She paused to consider how she felt. Out of breath and totally exhausted, but she had expected her heart to be racing and it felt no different. Probably because she had taken the journey very slowly and sensibly. ‘I did, Neil,’ she told him. ‘I planned it all and I did it. Poor Marianne believed my little story and went trotting off to the doctor. Not that he was there – they never are in an emergency!’ She gave a little laugh to reassure her son that she was not suffering in any way but simply carrying out what she thought of as ‘the grand design’. ‘But she saw the doctor’s wife who was very helpful and looked up my pills in my notes and counted them out for me. I believe she used to be a nurse before she married . . . I do hope no one blames poor Marianne.’
The room was lit by moonlight and she gazed round at the familiar room with pleasure. As she did so her heart gave a little jump. ‘Too late!’ she told it. ‘I’m ahead of you!’
Soon she would be with her son and her husband and all the unpleasantness would be a thing of the past. She would not even remember it. Heaven was exactly that – peace and love.
Georgina closed her eyes. ‘Not long, dear,’ she told him and wondered what would happen in the morning when they found her.
It was seven o’clock next morning before the doctor’s wife remembered to tell her husband about Mrs Matlowe’s sleeping pills and then he swore under his breath, tugged on his clothes and, ignoring his wife’s plea for an explanation, raced out of the house and along the road, round the corner and up to The Poplars, by which time his own sixty-year-old heart was thumping uncomfortably. Muttering yet another curse, he hammered impatiently on the door with the brass knocker and then put his finger on the bell and left it there.
Ida reached the door first and opened it. The doctor gasped, ‘Where’s Mrs Matlowe? Is she all right? This pill business . . .’ He gulped for air. ‘It sounds suspicious . . . I don’t like the sound of it!’
Ida stammered, ‘Where is she? Why, in bed of course. Where else can she be?’
‘And is she . . .?’ He paused for breath and quickly repeated what his wife had told him. ‘Sometimes, when a patient asks for extra pills it can be . . . ominous, if you get my meaning. Do me a favour, will you, and go up to her. I just want to be reassured there is nothing amiss.’
Needing no extra persuading, Ida hurried up the stairs and knocked on her sister’s door. When the knock wasn’t answered, her own alarm increased and when she saw the empty bed she screamed. The doctor at once hurried up the stairs and for a moment they both stared at the empty bed.
She would have no cause to use the bathroom, thought Ida, because there was a commode next to the bed.
‘Where could she have gone?’ the doctor asked, his face pale.
‘There’s another bedroom!’ Ida led the way and, quietly opening the door, they gazed at the still form in Neil’s bed.
Ida put a hand to her heart. ‘Thank the Lord!’ she whispered, but the doctor took a few tentative steps into the room. He saw that Georgina Matlowe clutched a bible between her hands.
‘Dear God!’ he muttered. There was no sign of movement, no rise and fall of the bed clothes. ‘I’m very much afraid . . .’ Then he stepped forward and gently laid his knuckles against the calm face. He shook his head and took one of her wrists in his fingers and waited for the pulse that did not come. ‘Too late!’ he said and walked stiffly towards the window where he stood looking down into the garden while he tried to compose himself.
Ida cried, ‘Oh no!
Georgina!
’ She stood beside her and, snatching up the bible, laid it on the bedside table. Falling to her knees she laid her face against Georgina’s hand and began to cry.
The doctor waited until the worst was over but he felt his own despair – the sense of failure he always felt when he lost a patient.
Marianne had been in the kitchen making an early cup of tea for herself before supervising the twins’ breakfast but now she arrived on the second landing in time to hear the shocking news. After a moment she said faintly, ‘The letter! I wonder . . .’
Ida seized on the words. ‘What letter? Marianne, what are you saying?’
The doctor drew a sharp breath. Marianne told them about the letter Georgina had been writing the previous day.
She looked at the doctor. ‘Are you thinking it was a suicide note? I don’t think so. She said it was her will.’
Ida said, ‘Please fetch it at once.’ As Marianne made a move towards the door Ida said, ‘On second thoughts we had better all go down to the study.’ To the doctor she said, ‘Do you need or wish to be there?’
‘If it is a suicide note then yes, I’m sorry, but I need to report it. A crime will have been committed.’
Minutes later they were all sitting in the study. Ida had read the first few pages aloud and they were all consumed with deep dismay.
Ida’s voice faltered. For once she felt completely out of her depth. Turning to Marianne she said, ‘I have a bad feeling about this. Do you think Richard Preston should be here?’
Marianne hesitated. Shocked, she was unable to think clearly, and both women glanced at the doctor for help.
The doctor said, ‘I think perhaps we should read it to the end before we involve anyone else. You will need to know exactly what happened to Mrs Matlowe’s daughter-in-law – and it’s my job to write the death certificate for Mrs Matlowe.’
Grateful for his advice Ida rallied. ‘Then we’ll finish reading it – although the letter so far fills me with dread.’
By the time she reached the end of Georgina’s confession Ida’s worst fears had been realized.
She whispered, ‘Marianne, will you please telephone Richard Preston at his hotel and break the news. He will have to know. And so will Cook and Lorna.’
Marianne stammered, ‘But what on earth shall I say to him? I don’t want to be the one to tell him . . .’
Ida was staring at the letter. ‘It was an accident,’ she said. ‘Leonora’s death was an accident. It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t murder! Georgina would never . . . I mean, she was not a violent person.’
The doctor sighed. ‘But she lied to the police at the time of the disappearance and thus interfered with the investigation. She caused a death, which is manslaughter, and in her panic, she hid the crime.’
Ida, still dazed by the revelations, shook her head. ‘And made it look like a betrayal on Leonora’s part! Oh! Whatever will Richard say when he knows?’
The doctor glanced at Marianne. ‘It may be best to call him with the news.’ To Ida he said, ‘If it would help you, I will stay a little longer. My presence may prove a sobering influence – to hopefully avoid any unnecessary histrionics.’
Ida agreed gratefully and Marianne went reluctantly downstairs to the telephone.
She felt a rush of compassion for the young man when she heard his voice and recalled that he had probably spent hours at the hospital with Ivy Busby. When she announced herself he assumed she had called about the hospital patient and said, ‘She’s in a very bad way, Marianne. She may not recover but if she does she will be severely handicapped. I can imagine her distress – her speech is impaired as well as her movements. She will be heartbroken to realize that there is no way she can come back to America with me. I cannot imagine . . .’
‘Richard, I have to stop you.’ Marianne’s voice shook. ‘I have more bad news.’
‘More? What has happened?’
‘Mrs Matlowe has died of an overdose and has left a . . . a very revealing letter. The doctor is here and we think you should come right away, if you can. The letter concerns your sister.’
There was a long silence.
‘Marianne, are you saying that there’s a connection between them – between the letter and Leonora?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Richard, please don’t ask me for any more details. You will have to read it for yourself.’
‘So this is very bad?’
‘Yes. Can you come?’ When he made no answer she added, ‘You came to England to find out what happened to Leonora. Now we know.’ She replaced the phone and paused to steady herself before making her way to the kitchen. Marianne said simply that there had been a serious problem and the doctor was in the study with Ida.
‘I shall be with the children for the moment,’ she told them, ‘and I think you should send up their breakfast as usual.’
Twenty minutes later Richard arrived to find that Marianne was with the children and Ida and the doctor were waiting for him in the study. In the meantime Ida had finished rereading the letter and now, without a word, she handed it to Richard.
The doctor was writing out a death certificate when Richard gave a cry of anguish and broke down in tears. Ida, keen to escape the worst of the storm, hurried downstairs and asked Cook to send up a tray of tea for three. ‘On second thoughts use the large teapot and send crockery for four. Mr Preston is going to need a cup of tea.’
‘Marianne said it was serious,’ Cook prompted.
‘That was an understatement,’ Ida said, her voice hoarse. ‘My sister is dead. I can’t say more now as the doctor is waiting for me.’
‘Dead?’ Cook stared at her. ‘But I thought . . . that is, we were talking yesterday and reckoned she was on the mend. Being sensible and taking it easy like she was told.’
‘It has taken us all by surprise.’ Ida turned and made her way back to the study.
In her absence the doctor had turned Georgina on to her back and had drawn up the sheet to cover her face. ‘I’ll go now,’ he said, ‘if you’ll forgive me for changing my mind. But I have a surgery at eight thirty and must write out the police report on this occurrence before my patients start arriving. The sooner the police decide how they want to treat this revelation, the better it will be for all of you.’
Marianne was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Doctor, I do hope you are not blaming your wife in any way for what has happened. She was simply trying to help me with the problem of the pills.’
He patted her arm. ‘Thank you for your concern but I’ll see to it that she is not held responsible. She acted in good faith.’
Back in the schoolroom with the twins, Marianne cleared away the breakfast things and set them some sums to do. As she turned to go Edie said, ‘What’s happening, Marianne? Lorna said there’s been a disaster.’
Emmie said, ‘A disaster is something terrible, isn’t it? Like . . . like a house falling down or a flood.’
Faced with two pairs of anxious eyes, Marianne did not want to lie to them. ‘Your Aunt Ida is going to tell you all about it very soon,’ she told them.
Ida was on her way to the schoolroom as Marianne carried the breakfast tray downstairs and Marianne warned her that the children were full of questions.
‘They don’t miss much, bless them!’ Ida said. ‘I asked Richard if he wanted to break the news to them as he is their uncle and I am only a great-aunt. He thinks I will do a better job. He is dreadfully shaken by the letter but he came for the truth and now we have it. Spare him a few comforting words, Marianne. He has an awful lot on his shoulders.’