Evil Angels Among Them (16 page)

Through the night, as her stomach churned, she turned all these things over in her mind, with resultant scenarios of case meetings, medical examinations, care orders, custody battles and almighty rows resounding through the village of Walston. In spite of her desire to be accepted by Enid and her group of cronies, she had never been among those who had declared enmity towards Gillian and Lou; her encounter with them at Becca's dinner party, and subsequent meetings at church and around the village, had convinced her that they were well-meaning and civilised people, and she was open-minded about their sexuality. She was very much afraid, however, that Gill would assume that her carrying out of her responsibilities in following up Enid's allegations was motivated by malice or some equally reprehensible emotion. But if she couldn't stop what Enid had set in motion, at least she could assure Gill of her personal neutrality. She would call on her in the morning, as a friend and neighbour as well as a social worker, and explain her dilemma. Perhaps, with Gill's understanding and cooperation, things wouldn't have to get out of hand.

She rose early and made herself a cup of tea; usually her appetite was hearty, but this morning, with her queasy stomach, she couldn't face the thought of breakfast. After a shower and another cup of tea it was still too early to be out and about, so she busied herself with some paperwork, bringing her notes on her current caseload up to date. The activity served to pass the time as well as taking her mind momentarily off her other concerns.

A great believer in the efficacy of tea, and hoping to settle her stomach, Flora made herself yet another cup which she sipped while she made her final preparations. Her resolve to call on Gill crystallised her determination to carry out another action which she'd contemplated and vacillated over for several days. Checking her watch to make sure it wasn't unsociably early for a phone call, she rang Directory Enquiries and obtained the London number of Lucy Kingsley.

It was now a fact commonly known in Walston that one of the Rector's recent visitors was the artist Lucy Kingsley. Lucy's name was not a household word in many of the homes of Walston, not known as a hotbed of artistic appreciation, but Enid Bletsoe had once read something about her in a magazine, and was suitably impressed to discover that she was a friend of the Rector's; the information had spread from her circle of friends to the village at large. In addition, the word had got out that the man with Lucy Kingsley was some sort of lawyer, with a special expertise in church law. Flora had found the information especially interesting, given the conversation she'd had with Lucy about Shropshire. Now she was determined to make use of the connection.

Lucy answered after several rings. ‘Hello?'

Nervously, Flora stammered out a greeting. ‘Hello, Miss Kingsley. I don't know if you remember me, but we met in Walston last month. In the church. We talked about Shropshire. My name is Flora Newall,' she added.

‘Oh, yes, Miss Newall. Of course.'

‘I'm sorry to bother you,' Flora apologised. ‘I'm sure you're very busy. But I was just wondering something – I didn't find out your name until after we'd talked, and I wondered if you were by any chance related to John Kingsley, the clergyman. I believe he's a canon at the cathedral now, but when I knew him he was a parish priest.'

‘He's my father,' said Lucy, her voice warming. ‘And he
is
a canon at Malbury Cathedral. How did you know him? Were you a parishioner?'

‘Oh, I didn't live in his parish, but my job took me there, and our paths crossed a number of times. He's a wonderful man, Miss Kingsley,' she said earnestly.

‘Yes, I know,' Lucy agreed, smiling down the phone. ‘You don't have to tell me that, but it's nice to hear that other people realise it.'

Now that the preliminary excuse had been got out of the way, Flora hesitated. ‘I understand, Miss Kingsley,' she began tentatively, ‘that your friend – the one who was with you in Walston – is a lawyer, and knows about church law.'

‘David
is
a solicitor,' Lucy confirmed. ‘And he deals with churches rather a lot, but he'd be the first to say that he was no expert in canon law. Why?'

‘I just sort of wondered if . . .' she floundered then went on. ‘Well, you might have heard that I've recently been elected as churchwarden of St Michael's. And I know that there are legal responsibilities and duties to being churchwarden, but I'm not sure what they all are.'

‘If you'd like to have a word with David,' Lucy suggested, her curiosity aroused, ‘I'm sure he'd be happy to talk to you. I could give him a message to ring you, or you might ring back this evening.'

‘Thank you. Perhaps I'll ring back then, if you think he won't mind.'

‘I'm sure he won't,' she assured the other woman, and couldn't resist adding, ‘Was there anything specific?'

‘Well,' Flora hesitated; her words were punctuated with careful pauses as she sought the appropriate phrases. ‘I wondered what a church-warden's . . . legal duties might be if they were to discover something . . . compromising . . . about someone . . . with an important role in the church. One of the . . . officers, or employees, for example. Something fairly . . . unpleasant. If the warden were legally bound, for example, to . . . inform the Rector, or the Bishop, I wondered . . .'

‘I don't know about legally bound,' Lucy stated pragmatically. ‘David could put you right about that. But it only seems good sense to talk to the Rector about it. Stephen – Father Thorncroft – is a good man, Miss Newall. I've known him for years and I have great respect for his pastoral skills. I think you ought to talk to him.'

Flora's sigh was audible down the phone. ‘Thank you, Miss Kingsley. That's good advice, I'm sure. And I'll be in touch later this evening if you're sure your friend David won't mind.'

It was not with a great deal of enthusiasm that Flora approached Foxglove Cottage. Her queasiness seemed worse rather than better, and she was aware that this might be a difficult meeting.

The beginning was propitious enough; Gill, pleased at what seemed to be a neighbourly call, invited her in warmly, taking her into the kitchen. ‘It's cosier in here,' she explained, ‘and I was just about to make myself a cup of herbal tea. Would you join me?'

Flora would rather have had a cup of ordinary PG Tips, but Gill's hospitality could not be refused. ‘Oh, yes, please,' she affirmed, trying to sound enthusiastic.

‘It's my own blend,' Gill confided as she scooped an assortment of dried leaves into the teapot. ‘I find it very relaxing.'

When served up, the tea was an unappetising yellow-green colour, and Flora looked at it dubiously before taking a polite sip of what proved to be, at least to her palate, an extremely bitter beverage. ‘Very nice.' She didn't think she'd managed to make it sound very convincing, but it must have satisfied Gill, who smiled.

‘I'm glad you like it. Now, how about something to eat? Some biscuits, or a sliver of cake?' She disappeared into the pantry for a moment, just long enough for Flora to whip out her ever-present dispenser of artificial sweetener and decant three tablets into the cup. She gave it a quick stir to dissolve them, and by the time Gill returned she was able to take another sip without fear that an involuntary grimace would cause her to blot her copybook. ‘Cake?' Gill urged her.

She accepted a piece, but was unable to do any more than toy with it on the plate. Sensing Gill's curious gaze, she apologised for her lack of appetite. ‘I'm sorry not to do this justice – it looks delicious. But I'm afraid I'm not really feeling very well this morning. My tummy is feeling a bit . . . delicate.'

‘Oh, you should have said!' Gill chided her gently. ‘I can give you something for it. Costmary is the best – not a very well-known herb, but nothing is better for settling the stomach. I give it to Bryony whenever she complains of tummyache.' She filled the kettle and went back to the pantry, returning with a jar of dried leaves. ‘Fresh leaves are better, of course, but it's too early in the year for that.' Putting some of the leaves in a cup, she poured the boiling water over them and set it in front of Flora. ‘That will soon set you to rights,' she predicted with confidence.

Perhaps to put off getting to the point of her visit, Flora accepted her ministrations meekly. The costmary tea was even more bitter than the other herbal tea, but once again she was successful in surreptitiously sweetening it while Gill cut herself another sliver of cake.

‘It's very kind of you to go to so much trouble,' she said, meaning it.

‘Not at all. It's very kind of you to call. We don't get many visitors,' Gill confided with a shy smile.

This made Flora feel even more guilty; she decided she should get to the point of her visit as soon as possible. ‘Actually,' she said, ‘this isn't really a social call.'

Gill blinked and her smile faded. ‘No?'

‘I've come more or less in my official capacity, but thought it would be nice to have an informal chat.'

Uncomprehending, Gillian hazarded, ‘Is this some sort of church business?'

‘Oh, no,' Flora said quickly. ‘I'm not here as a churchwarden, I'm here as a social worker.'

Gill tensed, though she wasn't yet aware of it and couldn't have articulated a reason for it. ‘A social worker?' she echoed. ‘Whatever for?'

Buying herself a few seconds to collect her thoughts, Flora took a large gulp of the costmary tea. ‘It's about your daughter, Mrs English,' she said at last. ‘Bryony.'

‘Bryony?' Gill's voice was suddenly shrill with alarm. ‘Has something happened to Bryony? Tell me!'

Flora plunged in. ‘I've received a complaint on her behalf – an allegation of child abuse.'

‘Child abuse?' Gill stared at her blankly. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘A complaint has been lodged,' Flora repeated. ‘By Mrs Bletsoe.' She braced herself for Gill's reaction, but was startled when that reaction proved to be sudden peals of laughter.

‘That nosy old shrew!' Gill laughed, on the edge of hysteria. ‘I might have known. Surely, Miss Newall, you can't be silly enough to believe anything that woman tells you!'

‘It is a serious allegation and it will have to be looked into,' Flora stated.

The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun. ‘Looked into?' Gill echoed.

‘I'm afraid so. I believe that you're a good mother, Mrs English,' she said belatedly. ‘But Mrs Bletsoe has documented several instances of what could only be called neglect, in addition to a number of other charges.'

‘Tell me.' Gill's voice was deadly in its intensity.

Flora produced the list from her handbag and passed it across to her. ‘These are the things that Mrs Bletsoe has observed, or been told by Bryony herself. I'm not saying that I believe them, but surely you must see that . . .'

‘Lies!' The shrieked word cut across Flora's explanations. Scanning the list quickly, Gill repeated, ‘Lies, wicked lies!' and she tore the list to bits, tossing the fragments on to the floor.

Trying to ignore the histrionic gesture, Flora kept her voice calm. ‘I'd like to suggest that we put off the case hearing for a few days, with your cooperation. If you'll agree to have Bryony examined by Dr McNair, say this afternoon or tomorrow . . .'

‘Never!' Gill was angrier than she had ever been in her life. ‘Dr McNair isn't coming near my child, not today and not ever!'

‘But if you'll cooperate,' Flora pleaded, ‘it will be so much easier for everyone. Otherwise I'll have to seek an order to have Bryony taken into care.'

Gill was on her feet. ‘How dare you come into my home and suggest such a thing! Get out of here, right now, before I do something we'll both regret!'

‘I'm just doing my job,' Flora said softly. ‘I'm trying to make things easier for you, Mrs English.'

‘Get out!' Gill shrieked; no tigress could have been more fierce in defending her cub. ‘And don't even think about coming back. And if you try to take my child into care, I'll kill you! I swear to God – I'll see you dead before I'll let you touch my child!'

Flora rose; as she did so, her stomach gave a painful lurch, she felt suddenly faint and her chest tightened as if in a vice. ‘Oh!' she gasped, clutching her chest with one hand and her stomach with the other. ‘Oh, I'm not a bit well.'

Gill was unmoved, seeing it as a ploy for sympathy. ‘Get out!' she repeated resolutely.

‘Please . . .' Flora choked. ‘Please, call Dr McNair. Or call an ambulance. I think I'm dying!'

Flora's colour was ashen and her skin was visibly clammy, but Gill was in the grip of an anger beyond rational thought. ‘Well, you can do it in the road, then,' she shrilled, grabbing her arm and propelling her to the door. I don't want you in my house for another minute!'

Flora managed somehow to stumble across the road to The Pines, and to lean on the bell, but Enid was at that moment drinking coffee at Doris's house. Unable to go any further, Flora collapsed on the front step in agony, gasping for breath as the pressure in her chest increased to a point beyond bearing before she mercifully lost consciousness.

Enid found her some time later when she returned home. Her first natural impulse was to call for an ambulance, but Flora had fallen in such a way as to block Enid's access to the door. In desperation she rushed across the road and banged on the door of Foxglove Cottage.

‘It's Flora!' she cried to a startled Gill. ‘Ring 999 – I think she's dead!'

‘Oh, God!' Gill's hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God – I've killed her!'

Part 2

CHAPTER 13

    
False witnesses did rise up: they laid to my charge things that I knew not.

Psalm 35.11

It wouldn't be fair to say that David Middleton-Brown forgot completely about Walston in the weeks following his visit there, but the people and problems of that Norfolk village were certainly pushed to the back of his mind by more immediate concerns.

On the first of April, just after David and Lucy's return to London, he at last came into possession of the house he had inherited near Kensington Gardens. And while Lucy didn't insist on his complete removal from her house, she was firm that he should at least make some pretence of settling into his new house. That meant, on a practical level, that his books and records and most of his clothes had to be moved. Lucy's house was so tiny that the majority of his books and records, transported there when he left Wymondham, were boxed in the loft, almost untouched, so moving them was a simple matter of a car journey. The removal of his clothes from her wardrobe was a more symbolic act and not accomplished without some pain, but Lucy assured him that it didn't mean a complete break, just the putting of some psychological distance between them for a time to give her space to rethink the relationship. His actual physical presence in her house during the evening – and the nights – was to be negotiable.

The fact that he wasn't being rejected completely or ejected from her life made it just about possible for David to cope with the removal process. He sent for the remainder of his belongings, the contents of the family home in Wymondham which had been left in storage after the house had been sold some six months earlier; it took some time, and a great deal of emotional energy, to integrate those remnants of his past life into his new surroundings; his relationship with his mother in particular had been difficult, and this process of re-examining things that were so closely associated with his life with her brought many long-suppressed feelings to the surface.

In addition, David found that, in spite of himself, he couldn't help taking an interest in the new house as he explored its gracious rooms and beautiful furnishings; a sense of ownership began to take hold of him, and a sort of delight in the exquisite quality of what he had inherited as well as a feeling of responsibility for its survival. And, to his delight, Lucy became involved too; they spent a number of evenings sorting through the contents of drawers and rearranging furniture, and consequently it seemed that most nights they were together in the new king-sized bed which he'd installed in the spacious master bedroom.

And so it was, thus employed in various pursuits, that Lucy neglected to mention Flora Newall's odd phone call to David, and when the promised follow-up call to him never arrived, she forgot the matter entirely.

In Walston, though, things were anything but tranquil. Flora's death was a tremendous shock to the community, but greater shocks were yet to come.

The postmortem examination, required by law in the instance of sudden death, revealed that Flora Newall had died of a massive heart attack; this was consistent with Gillian's contrite statement to Dr McNair that Flora had complained of indigestion, had been ashen in colour, and had clutched at her chest as well as her stomach.

But shortly after the news of the postmortem findings made its way round the village, on a Monday afternoon, Enid Bletsoe popped into the waiting room of Dr McNair's surgery. ‘I'd like to see the doctor,' she informed the woman who had replaced her – usurped her position, she said to herself – as receptionist.

The woman looked at Enid, in high colour but not in any evident distress that would qualify as a medical emergency, then consulted the appointment book. ‘I'm afraid there aren't any appointments available today. I'll try to squeeze you in tomorrow, shall I?'

Enid gave a haughty sniff and glared at the usurper. ‘I don't require an appointment, thank you. I need to see Dr McNair, as I said.' She added, ‘I've never been ill a day in my life, I'll have you know. And Dr McNair will not be amused if you keep me waiting.'

Recognising the inevitability of defeat, the usurper gave in gracefully. ‘Dr McNair is with a patient right now. If you'll take a seat for a moment, I'll let him know you're here.'

A few minutes later Enid entered the consulting room; the doctor, knowing her well, raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms across his chest. ‘Well?' he growled. ‘What's all this palaver? I'm a busy man, and there are sick people waiting to see me. What is so important that you couldn't wait until a more convenient time?'

Enid was not intimidated by Fergus McNair; she had, after all, worked for him since he was a mere callow youth, and to her way of thinking, she had ‘broken him in' to the job. ‘Flora Newall,' she announced. ‘I've heard that the postmortem results are in.'

‘Yes?' His tone was noncommittal, though his eyebrows inched even higher.

‘Heart attack, I heard.'

‘Yes?' he repeated, questioningly.

‘Well, surely you don't believe it!' Enid challenged.

Dr McNair's brows drew together. ‘It is what the postmortem shows. And it is consistent with what we know of her symptoms from Mrs English.'

‘Yes, if you believe
her
!' Enid put her hands on her hips. ‘What would you expect her to say?'

‘Just what exactly are you suggesting? Is there some reason I shouldn't believe Mrs English?'

It was Enid's big moment, and she savoured it. ‘Because,' she announced, ‘I think that she had every reason to lie to you. I think that Gillian English murdered Flora Newall!'

‘Murder?' The doctor took a step backwards, staring at her. ‘What are you talking about, woman? It was a heart attack!'

Enid stood her ground. ‘I didn't work in this office for so many years for nothing – I know very well that there are things you can give people to make them have a heart attack.'

‘Yes?'

‘Foxglove!' she proclaimed triumphantly. ‘Digitalis, from foxglove. Doesn't she live at Foxglove Cottage, and know about all those poisonous plants? And when I told her that Flora was dead, didn't she say, “Oh, God, I've killed her!”? That's what she said, you know – I was there and I heard her, clear as day! She killed her – I promise you!'

Fergus McNair was troubled. He knew that Enid Bletsoe was a spiteful woman who could hold a grudge for years and would stop at nothing to discredit someone whom she felt had done her wrong, but there was something in what she had said that had planted a seed of doubt in his mind. The story of Gillian's spontaneous exclamation of guilt had gained wide circulation in the village; he had already heard it from more than one source. And when he had spoken to Gillian English about Flora's symptoms, her manner had been reticent, as though she weren't telling him the whole story.

His unease increased when he consulted his reference book on toxicology. As he'd suspected, digitalis, a product of the foxglove plant, would not show up in a routine postmortem test for poison. It mimicked the symptoms of a natural heart attack perfectly: indeed, in its medical form it was given to regulate heart rhythm, and an overdose would stimulate heart contractions to the point that a heart attack was induced. He learned from his book that a specific test for digitalis poisoning was possible, but you would have to be looking for it in order to find it.

To set his mind at rest, Dr McNair determined to have another word with Gillian English. Perhaps this time she would be more forthcoming and the matter could be cleared up with no more fuss.

He dropped by Foxglove Cottage after completing his early evening surgery, finding them at the end of their meal. ‘I'm sorry if it's a bad time,' he apologised to Gill at the door.

‘No, that's all right,' she said. ‘We were just finishing. Do come in and join us for coffee.'

Lou was clearing the table as they entered the kitchen. ‘Hi, Doc,' she greeted him cheerily. ‘Is there something I don't know? Is one of us sick?'

‘You tell me.' He sat down in the chair indicated by Gill. ‘Isn't the doctor allowed to pay a social call?'

‘Not jolly likely,' Lou grinned.

‘Go upstairs and clean your teeth, darling,' Gill addressed Bryony. ‘Then you can watch a video for a bit before bedtime if you like.'

‘Can't I stay?' pleaded Bryony, who found Dr McNair fascinating; she loved his strange Scottish accent and was intrigued by the freckles that covered the backs of his capable square hands.

Gill was firm. ‘No, darling. If you don't want to watch a video, you can play in your room.'

Bryony went sulkily, but she went. Gill busied herself making the coffee, giving herself a few minutes to think. She had a terrible feeling that Dr McNair's visit was connected with Flora's death, and she didn't know what she could say to him. Her own behaviour in turning Flora out into the street when she was so obviously ill was inexplicable unless she told the whole story, including the allegations of child abuse, and she wasn't about to do that. Since Flora's death, no further action had been taken on that front, and Gill could only assume that Enid hadn't mentioned it to anyone else; perhaps she had changed her mind and would pursue it no further. To mention it to Dr McNair at this point would be to reopen the whole dreadful business, perhaps unnecessarily, and he would be bound to follow through on it. Besides, she hadn't told Lou about what had passed between her and Flora that day: Lou, she knew, would go completely spare over it, and would quite probably do something drastic to Enid. So she couldn't possibly tell the truth about Flora's visit. Her smile was strained as she poured a cup of coffee for the doctor. ‘Cream or milk?' she queried.

‘Just black, thanks.' He accepted the coffee, turning to Lou. ‘Actually, you're right. This isn't strictly a social call, though I do like to keep tabs on my patients – even the ones who are too healthy to come in to see me. How is that finger, by the way?' he asked Gill.

‘Oh, it's better – it's healing very well.' She held it up for his inspection. ‘I think the stitches can come out soon.'

‘No doubt.' He took a sip of coffee, then put the cup back in the saucer, smacking his lips with satisfaction. ‘Ah, that's grand. I do like a good cup of coffee.'

Gill rubbed the cut finger in an unconscious nervous gesture. ‘But you didn't come about my finger,' she prompted, half wanting to get it over with.

He shot her a shrewd look. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you a bit more about Miss Flora Newall – about the day she died.'

‘I told you everything.' She looked into her coffee, unable to meet his eyes. ‘She came in for a cup of tea, and then she felt ill.'

‘She only had tea, then?'

It wasn't the question she'd been expecting. ‘Why – yes,' she said uncertainly. ‘Herbal tea, that is. A cup of my special herbal mixture, and then when I'd given her a piece of cake she said she wasn't feeling well, so I made her a cup of costmary tea, to settle her stomach. I don't think she ate any of the cake – because of her upset stomach – but she drank both cups of tea.'

‘I see.' Dr McNair considered the answer thoughtfully. ‘And was
her
visit a social call?'

‘Well . . .' Gill floundered, unused to telling less than the truth. ‘Yes, it was.'

He turned to Lou. ‘You weren't here that day, Miss Sutherland?'

Startled, Lou stammered, ‘Why, no. I was – away that day.'

The discomfort of both women wasn't lost on Dr McNair. He turned back to Gill. ‘A social call, you say. So you didn't – disagree about anything, or have a row?' he probed.

‘No, of course not. I didn't know her well enough to disagree with her about anything,' Gill stated with as much conviction as she could muster.

‘Then why,' asked Dr McNair, ‘did you say, when you heard that she was dead, “Oh, God, I've killed her”? That is what you said, isn't it?'

Gill swallowed hard. ‘I – felt guilty because I'd let her leave the house when she wasn't feeling well. I should have insisted that I ring you, or called for an ambulance.'

‘And why didn't you?' he pressed. ‘Wasn't it evident that she was quite poorly, was in fact in considerable distress? You said that she clutched at her chest and her stomach and that her colour was very bad. Why on earth did you let a woman in that condition leave your house on her own?'

Again she couldn't meet his eyes. ‘I can't explain it,' she said softly. ‘It was inexcusable of me, I know. And I shall have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life.'

Lou had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the doctor's questioning; it wasn't until after Fergus McNair had gone that she tackled Gill. ‘I've been wondering about it as well,' she said. ‘What
did
go on here that morning, angelface?'

‘I can't tell you,' Gill whispered miserably. ‘I wish I could, but I can't tell you. You'll have to trust me.'

‘Of course I trust you,' Lou assured her, putting her arms round her in a comforting, tender hug. But at the back of her mind a nagging question remained: what was Gill hiding? And at the back of Gill's mind a corresponding alarm bell began to sound: where
had
Lou been that day?

Dr McNair went away with the same questions unanswered and his spirit even more troubled than it had been before his visit. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Gillian English's story didn't hold water. She was hiding something: was it a minor matter, or was it complicity in murder?

After a restless night, he rose early the next morning, dressed in his old comfortable tweeds, called his dog and went out for a walk through the countryside, wrestling with his conscience. What should he do?