Evil Angels Among Them (17 page)

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Fergus McNair was not a religious man, but he was a scrupulous one, with a strong sense of justice as well as a sense of loyalty. How could he balance the loyalty he felt to his patient Gillian English with the responsibility to seek justice for Flora Newall, who had also been a patient? What would be the consequences, either way, if he did the wrong thing? If he failed to order the test, the truth – positive or negative – would never be known. Flora Newall would be dead and buried, the victim of an unfortunate heart attack, and no one the wiser. No one but Enid would reproach him for allowing that course of action, and he wasn't any more afraid of Enid than she was of him. But if he ordered the test, and the results were negative, questions would be asked. The police would want to know why he had even suggested such a thing, and suspicion would certainly attach itself to Gillian, if only among the inhabitants of Walston, who seemed to find out about these things by osmosis. He could hear them now: ‘no smoke without fire,' they would say, and the village would take it as an excuse to marginalise and exclude the women at Foxglove Cottage to an even greater extent than was already happening. Could he bear to be responsible for that? But if there were any truth in it, and he did nothing . . .

He wished that there were someone with whom he could talk over his dilemma without prejudice. In spite of his own lack of faith, Fergus McNair liked and respected the young Rector, but he knew that Stephen would view the situation in an entirely different way, within a religious framework. And he considered Roger Staines to be a friend with whom he could be honest, but Roger's current fragile state of health precluded any such stressful communication.

‘What do you think I should do, Jock, old boy?' he asked his faithful retriever. But Jock, who was predisposed to believe that anything his master did was just fine, only wagged his tail.

Their walk had taken them down a country lane, along a public footpath and through the wooded pathway that ran between Walston Hall and St Michael's – a path which was theoretically private, but which residents of Walston had always used as a short cut when necessary. They were now within view of the church; on impulse, Fergus McNair strode to the door and tried it. It was unlocked. ‘Bide here a wee while,' he commanded the obedient Jock, and slipped into the church.

It had been quite some time since he'd been inside St Michael's, he realised; occasionally he deigned to attend the funeral of one of his patients, but he hadn't lost one for a while – not until Flora Newall. That death was very much on his mind as he stood quietly at the back of the church. A soft murmur from behind the rood screen – the Rector saying the Morning Office, presumably – warned Fergus that he was not alone, but it only provided a muted background for his thoughts. The sun streamed through the east window, dappling the chancel floor with pools of liquid colour, striking sparks off the brass eagle lectern and illuminating the dust motes which danced in the air; a faint whiff of polish mixed with flowers and overlaid with the memory of incense provided a complex bouquet of fragrance. It was such a tranquil, almost timeless, place that for just a moment Fergus McNair wished that he could be a part of it, wished that he could have faith. He looked at the life-sized figure on the cross that topped the screen; there was nothing of the tortured struggle in that limp, resigned body, fixed with gilded nails to a foliated cross, more an object of beauty than an instrument of torture and death. Was it really like that? he wondered. Did He die so serenely, then? Fergus McNair's own experience of death, viewed up close and in a variety of circumstances, had shown him nothing like this. That, he knew, was why he couldn't have faith. Then his eyes were drawn above the rood screen to the Doom painting, a vivid medieval vision of the Last Judgment: an impassive God presided over the division of the sheep and the goats as red-eyed devils pulled struggling sinners down on the one side and white-robed angels waited with open arms on the other for the tiny souls of the blessed. How comforting in some ways, and terrifying in others, to think of this ultimate meting out of justice. No escape . . .

With a shrug, Fergus McNair knew what he had to do. Unpleasant as might be the consequences, justice and truth must be served. As quietly as he had come, he left the church, whistled for Jock and went home to ring the pathologist.

The test would take a couple of days, Dr McNair was told. So he did his best to put the matter out of his mind as he devoted himself to his routine of surgeries and home visits, looking after the physical well-being of Walston with as much conscientious ownership as the Rector with his cure of souls.

On Thursday, between his morning and afternoon surgeries, he decided to pop round and see Roger Staines with the excuse of monitoring his progress. Roger's cottage, on the edge of the old estate and within view of the unsightly clutter of buildings that comprised Ingram's agricultural processing plant, was a rather substantial dwelling surrounded by an immaculate garden. The interior of the house was equally tidy, in keeping with Roger's rather fussy bachelor standards; the sole exception to this was his study, the room in which he spent much of his time, and over which was strewn an incredible tangle of papers and books, the tools of his life's work.

He found Roger looking well – almost like his old self, he thought, in a lemon-yellow silk waistcoat and matching bow tie under a smart tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Roger seemed delighted to see him, showing him into the sitting room and offering to make him a cup of coffee.

‘Don't go to any trouble,' Fergus cautioned. ‘I'm quite happy with instant.'

Roger pulled a rueful face. ‘I know you think I'm an invalid, but I assure you that making a proper cup of coffee isn't going to kill me. Drinking vile instant is much more likely to be the death of me – that's why I never touch the stuff.'

Settled with their steaming cups a few minutes later, they chatted about general matters, avoiding the topic that was on both their minds. ‘Young Becca is working out well, I take it?' asked the doctor.

‘Oh, yes. She's been a great help in getting things sorted. She's a bright girl, and has had secretarial experience.' Roger hesitated. ‘But to tell you the truth, I'm rather worried about her. She hasn't seemed herself lately, if you know what I mean. A bit distracted and jumpy. And tired, as though she hasn't been sleeping well.'

Fergus grinned. ‘That seems entirely natural for a newlywed. I don't mean to be indelicate, but she and the Rector probably have better things to do at night than sleep. And I'm not talking about praying or reading the Bible to each other either.'

‘Perhaps.' Roger shook his head. ‘Though in that case she ought to be happy and bubbly, but she's not.'

‘Pregnant, then,' Fergus diagnosed succinctly. ‘It often has that effect. Has she been sick in the mornings?'

‘Not that I've noticed.'

‘Och well.' As he took a sip of the excellent coffee, his beeper went off, startling him into spilling a few drops on his jacket. ‘Hellfire and damnation!' he swore.

Roger rose instantly and went to him. ‘Are you all right? You haven't burned yourself?'

‘No, I'm fine. But I need to use your phone, if you don't mind.'

‘Please, be my guest.'

He made the call to his office in Roger's cluttered study, sitting at a desk covered with incomprehensible bits of paper. The receptionist apologised for bothering him, but there had been an urgent call from the pathologist, who wanted to speak to him as soon as possible.

In a fever of apprehensive impatience, he dialled the pathologist's number. ‘Positive,' was the pathologist's terse statement. ‘It was digitalis poisoning, without a doubt. The police have been notified, but I wanted to let you know right away.'

‘Bloody hell,' Fergus McNair said to himself as he put the phone down. His action had been justified, but he didn't feel any better about it than he had before. A case of sudden accidental death had suddenly become a murder enquiry, and there would be no turning back.

CHAPTER 14

    
O go not from me, for trouble is hard at hand: and there is none to help me.

Psalm 22.11

It wasn't long after that, of course – only a matter of an hour or two – that a police officer called at Foxglove Cottage to ask Gill a few questions. She told him exactly the same story that she'd related to Dr McNair: Flora Newall had dropped in to pay a neighbourly call, had drunk some herbal tea and had been taken ill. She, Gill, should have insisted that the doctor be called, but she had failed to do so, and so blamed herself for Flora's death.

Sergeant John Spring, a well-built man with a trim brown moustache and a disconcerting stare, made her nervous, but by now she'd told the story several times, so it came out sounding more calm and coherent. Nevertheless, he took away her jars of herbal teas for analysis, and advised Gill that it was possible that she would be required for further questioning. ‘In other words, don't leave the area,' he told her with a grin.

Inevitably, through some mysterious process it was soon common knowledge in Walston that Flora's death had indeed been murder, and that the police had been to Foxglove Cottage.

Enid could scarcely contain her glee. ‘Quite right, too,' she told Fred Purdy in the village shop that afternoon, nodding in satisfaction. ‘It's quite clear to me that she did it – I said so from the first. I always did say, didn't I, that all those herbs were something sinister? She brewed up a big pot of foxglove leaves, I reckon, and gave it to poor unsuspecting Flora to drink.'

‘But why?' Fred wanted to know as he sliced four rashers of bacon for her. ‘Why would she want to kill off poor old Flora? She seemed a harmless enough sort to me.'

‘Well,' Enid lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘I happen to know that she had a very good motive. I can't tell you what it was, mind you, but if that nice young policeman were to come round and ask me . . .'

The shop door swung open and Becca entered; Enid broke off and looked at her suspiciously, but Fred had no such compunction. ‘Did you hear?' he said. ‘Poor old Flora was murdered, just like Enid thought. Poisoned. And the police have been round to Foxglove Cottage. I don't need to tell you what they were looking for,' he chuckled.

‘Oh!' Becca gasped, appalled. ‘That's not very funny.'

‘Not meant to be,' Enid put in crisply. ‘It's God's own truth – that perverted woman murdered poor Flora! I've always said so, and now my words have been proved true.'

‘Oh, poor Gill!' cried Becca, leaving the shop abruptly.

‘Well.' Enid looked disapproving as Fred wrapped her bacon. ‘That's a fine thing – more concern for the murderer than for the victim. What about poor Flora, I ask you?'

Becca went straight to Foxglove Cottage, knowing that she could do little but offer sympathy and support but feeling she must do that much. Becca had felt a certain constraint with the women, particularly Gill, since the unfortunate incident in which Bryony had been abandoned, though she had been freely forgiven for something that was not her fault; this new development, though, swept away any awkwardness in a rush of empathetic friendship.

She found Gill subdued, almost in a state of shock. ‘I'm just glad that Bryony was still at school when he came,' she said calmly. ‘It would have been dreadfully upsetting for her to know that Mummy was being questioned by the police. I don't know how she'll cope if I'm . . . arrested.'

Lou was anything but calm. ‘Arrested?' she raged, pacing the kitchen. ‘They wouldn't dare arrest you – you haven't done a bloody thing except give a woman a cup of tea, for God's sake!'

‘Herbal tea,' Gill corrected. ‘Two cups.'

‘Bloody herbal tea, then! She could have drunk a gallon of the stuff and it still wouldn't have killed her!'

‘Is there any chance . . .' Becca hesitated and tried to phrase it delicately. ‘Is it possible that something poisonous could have got mixed in accidentally? Some leaves of something else?'

Gill laughed, unoffended. ‘I think I'm a bit more careful than that. And don't forget that I drank some of the tea myself – and have been drinking tea made from the leaves in that jar for months. It's never harmed me or anyone else. You've had it yourself, Becca, and you're still here to tell the tale.'

‘It was just a thought,' she sighed.

They all jumped as the phone rang. Lou, who was on her feet, went to pick it up, passing it over to to Gill.

‘The police,' Gill reported a moment later, her voice noticeably shakier. ‘That Sergeant Spring. He said that he has a few more questions to ask me. This time he wants to bring a colleague along to take some notes, he said.'

‘You should have told him to piss off,' Lou declared.

Gill shook her head. ‘Not a very constructive response.'

‘Have you got a solicitor?' Becca asked with sudden urgency. ‘It sounds to me as though you need one.'

‘But I haven't done anything.'

‘It doesn't matter whether you have or not – as long as the police suspect you, it's important to have legal advice and representation. And they must think there's reason to suspect something or they wouldn't be coming back so soon.'

‘She's right,' Lou agreed. ‘But you can't be having some Norfolk hick representing you.'

‘David,' said Becca firmly. ‘That's who you need – David Middleton-Brown. You remember – he was here at Easter.'

‘Of course I remember,' Gill agreed. ‘But do you think . . .'

Becca gave a vigorous nod and said with conviction, ‘He's the man you need. You must believe me – he's wonderful. I'll get in touch with him, if you like.'

Lou handed her the phone. ‘Do it right now, and tell him to get himself here as soon as he can. I don't think there's any time to be wasted.'