Meet Me at the Pier Head (49 page)

They entered the flat, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of Isadora, star of the big screen and famous enough to need no surname. She sat at the dining table and indicated with a nod that
they, too, should sit. They sat.

‘Right,’ she began, ‘when will we be able to give Mrs Stone the burial she wanted and deserves? She has a granddaughter who needs to move on with her life, while you keep
putting full stops on the page.’

They glanced at each other, and the older man cleared his dry, nervous throat. ‘Mrs . . . er,’ he began haltingly.

‘Just Isadora, thank you.’

‘Well, the decision to release the deceased will be made by the coroner, ma’am. The case must be heard in Coroner’s Court, I’m afraid. Mrs Stone was poisoned, and
it’s believed that she had been consuming a restricted substance for some time, probably for years.’

She nodded. ‘I suppose that may be a possibility, yes.’

Both men blinked as if surprised by the ready admission.

Their hostess motored on. ‘I have letters from a Mrs Daphne Melia to Mrs Stone. I also have a recipe in the same handwriting for the blood tonic given by Mrs Melia to the deceased over a
period of at least nine years. Maggie Stone had leukaemia and, a decade ago, was given months to live. The tonic kept her alive.’

The second visitor spoke. ‘And you knew she was taking poison?’

‘I found out on the day she died.’ Rosie had guided her, but she left Rosie out of the tale; the poor girl had enough to cope with. ‘I discovered the formula in her bedside
cabinet while searching for a necklace she always loved – she will wear that necklace in her coffin if you ever allow us to have the funeral.’

Both men were astonished. ‘But you said nothing.’

Izzy raised her eyebrows. ‘When questioned by another of your number, I did say something. I informed the other . . . gentleman that Maggie refused to see doctors and that she had survived
on a blood tonic provided by a lady who had been my cook and housekeeper for many years. Frankly, Mrs Melia’s spelling was poor, and I thought I had, perhaps, been too quick to identify the
ingredients. Even had I trusted her spelling, the post mortem would have happened, so what was the point?’

Confusion reigned; confusion owned very poor dress sense. Each man glanced several times at his partner.

With great patience, Isadora explained the situation as she saw it. ‘I have done some research via my son-in-law, who is a doctor. Here.’ She placed on the table a letter from
Simon.

The younger man scanned the page. ‘Chemical therapy?’ he asked quietly.

Izzy nodded. ‘The infamous substance found in Maggie’s body has been tested on sufferers of leukaemia for some time – with varying results.’

‘But this Melia woman isn’t a doctor.’

‘No, she isn’t. Mrs Stone had a phobia where the medical profession is concerned. She trusted only Daphne Melia.’

‘But—’

‘But, officers, Mrs Melia probably knew that the noxious ingredient would slow the cancer before killing Maggie. Country folk are notorious for dabbling in cures. And it did give Maggie
years of respite. As the months and years passed, the amount of poison was possibly increased, though no one can be sure. Oh, I have a flagon of the mix. It was sent up from Kent quite recently.
You may take it and have it analysed.’

An awkward silence ensued. ‘Mrs Melia will be arrested,’ whispered the detective in the terrible brown suit. ‘Is she still in Kent?’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘The coroner may decide that it was murder or manslaughter, ma’am.’

‘He may, indeed. Oh, I shall give you all the correspondence. If you need help with Mrs Melia’s scribble, I’ll make myself available.’

Brown Suit shook his head sadly. ‘Kent police will have to arrest her. Is she still at the same address?’

Izzy shook her head. ‘She moved.’

‘Do you have her new address?’

She nodded. ‘Chaddington Green Cemetery, otherwise known as St Faith’s churchyard. She’s the one under a newly planted lilac tree, as she spent most of her life at Lilac
Cottage. Daphne Melia was one of the most wonderful people I ever met. Maggie Stone was another such. Tell the Kent police to take a spade if they want to talk to Daphne Melia. Follow me to get the
flagon.’

She left the room with Blue Suit and Brown Suit in her wake. It was clear that neither knew what to do or say.
Maggie, you would have enjoyed that, though I think I may have been cruel to
these poor creatures. Say hello to Daphne for me. The coroner may decide on misadventure or open verdict, and the underlying cause will inevitably be leukaemia. Whatever, you’ll have your
navy suit, white blouse, the necklace Rosie bought you and the scarf from America. Sleep well, my friend.

The detectives drove away with the huge bottle of blood tonic, notes sent from Kent to Liverpool and the letter from Dr Simon Heilberg.

I must warn Chaddington Green, because someone local may have furnished Daphne Melia with a touch of that lethal element, a substance not easy to come by. Oh, life is such a complicated
business, and I was expected ten minutes ago at the rehearsal rooms in Hope Street.

She dashed across to tell Portia and Theo about the meeting before heading off in a taxi towards central Liverpool. There was going to be a read-through of Theo’s – well, Tom
Quirke’s –
An Eye for an Eye
. Isadora’s wealthy son-in-law was going to be even richer. She chuckled. He’d been talking about buying a pig farm in Derbyshire, and
Portia had battered him with a cushion. They were so happy . . .

In death, Margaret Stone was finally famous. National presses had picked up the story, and there were film as well as still cameras lining the route to the church. She had
proved the medical profession wrong by outliving doctors’ estimated span, and the method she had used was unusual. The primitive form of chemotherapy she had employed had been brewed by a
working class countrywoman who could scarcely read.

The church was packed, mostly by people from the Lady Streets. One of the coffin bearers was a tall young man of eighteen, his hair calmer and darker these days. Colin Duckworth, preparing to
read law at Oxford, was proud to carry a woman who had fought the good fight for Rosie Stone, who had helped look after Mickle, whose granddaughter was the best-looking girl in Liverpool.

Maggie’s hymns were sung, and the congregation was glad of the interruption, because the vicar had the sort of voice that might have been better employed by a hypnotist. Isadora read John
Donne, before Rosie stood and walked to her nana’s coffin when the last line of Donne’s defiant and uplifting piece had been delivered.

Dressed in red and navy, Rosie read her tribute to Maggie. ‘Nana taught me to read, write and count; she said I should always carry a handkerchief and she made sure that my shoes were
polished. “That way,” she said, “you’ll always shine at one end if not at the other.” Not a single day passed when she didn’t make me laugh, and she convinced me
to believe in myself.

‘After my foster-parents had left for their second honeymoon in America and Europe, my grandmother spent hours with me, explaining that her treatment was no longer effective. With her
usual love and kindness, she began to lead me along the route to this special day. Warning me that the provider of her blood tonic might be criticized to the point of damnation, Nana asked me to be
her voice and to say the following.’

Rosie cleared her throat of emotion. ‘Nana said, “Tia, Theo, Isadora, Joan, Jack, Nancy and Tom, Harry and Martha, thank you for your friendship and hospitality. You nourished my
Rosie, and I know you will keep her safe now that I have gone.

‘“I grow weaker every day, yet life still makes me smile. I am smiling now, because Rosie is changing my words and making me seem posh when she reads this back to me. Every colour is
brighter these days, every sound clearer, every scent more beautiful. The little food I manage to eat is more tasty, and I feel that all my faculties (Rosie’s word) are enhanced (there she
goes again with her fancy talk) as I near my end. My sheets are so smooth, and Rosie’s skin feels like velvet, while her hair is silk.

‘“Don’t grieve too long for me, but heed my advice. Make your own decisions in this life, but seek information first. Don’t be a piece in a game of chess, because hands
that move those pieces often make mistakes. Choose the people who will help you. Don’t let a national institution of lawyers or doctors decide your fate. Trust in your friends and in
yourself. The educated may be of use to you, and if that is the case, trust in them, too. Remember, choice is yours – it’s your right.

‘”The woman who extended the length of my life is now dead and beyond the reach of those who would punish her. Leave her to rest, and carry me now to my last little patch of England.
God bless you all. With love, Margaret Rose Stone.”’

Rosie folded the sheet of paper and smiled through unshed tears at a very colourful congregation. After a few seconds of silent hesitation, the people stood and clapped. While such behaviour was
unusual at a funeral, it seemed right. Maggie Stone had wanted a party rather than a wake, and her audience applauded her. All that remained now was the task of placing her in the ground from which
mankind had risen.

As chief mourner, Rosie led the people out behind the coffin. Outside, the streets were wet from a sudden shower, and the sun was shining fiercely to dry the earth. A huge arc of colour
stretched over Liverpool, all seven colours clear and bright. ‘That’s Nana,’ Rosie said to her foster-mother. ‘She always had to have the last word.’

In the middle of September, Isadora moved into Flat One, the ground-floor apartment that had been Theo’s home before becoming shelter for Maggie and Rosie Stone. Rosie
had removed the memorabilia she wanted to keep, though the suicide letters had already been incinerated as soon as the funeral was over. After opening the envelope addressed to herself, Izzy had
decided to dispose of all these unnecessary messages. Powders labelled
Gentul Piosin
(Daphne Melia’s version of gentle poison) had been removed, too, so no one needed to know that
Maggie had been in pain great enough to merit the planning of self-harm.

Izzy remembered her cook/housekeeper fondly. As her position dictated, she had been addressed as Mrs Melia, though she had never married. How had she read cookery books? Perhaps she hadn’t
needed to; perhaps she’d been a natural cook, or one who had learned skills at her mother’s side. ‘Unlike me,’ Izzy grumbled aloud. ‘I’m hopeless. Cordon Bleu?
Cordon Failed would be nearer the mark.’

The upper storey of the villa was now the private residence of Mr and Mrs Peake, though Tyger continued to visit both flats in order to plead starvation and gain extra food. Even with a feline
intruder, Joan and Jack now had the privacy they needed and deserved, while Isadora had gained the freedom to work whenever she pleased without disturbing others.

In the room that had once been Theo’s body parts sanctuary, Izzy found an envelope containing some photographs that must have belonged to Maggie; Rosie seemed to have overlooked them in
her search a few days after the funeral. Isadora discovered Maggie captured as a beautiful young bride linking arms with a handsome, moustachioed husband. She then picked up Sadie, a very pretty
girl with dark, curly hair and a mischievous smile that displayed wonderful teeth. Oh, here was baby Rosie, so cuddly, so happy, with no idea of the grim future she would be forced to share with
Sadie and company.

Izzy dropped into Theo’s old writing chair. She felt rather like a Peeping Tom, an intruder. She now knew that one of the items had been hidden rather than stored. It had been separated
from the rest and placed nearer to the bottom of Theo’s stack of blank paper. ‘If I hadn’t moved that decaying pile, I would never have found these. Oh, Maggie.’ She now
knew why Maggie had attempted to hide the last of the photographs. She held up the picture that had been concealed and wrapped separately in greaseproof paper; it showed an image of a young fellow
with a grinning Sadie by his side. There was something familiar about the man’s face . . .

She turned the item over. On it was written in pencil and in Maggie’s hand,
Frank Turner, Rosie’s dad?
‘Oh, my God.’
Breathe, Isadora, breathe. Take your
time, think about this and discuss it with Portia and Theo before reacting. Rosie’s had enough shocks in her life without discovering a father who might be dead or in prison or . . . Stop
this now. You’ll make yourself ill, and nothing good will come of that. Think, think.

Turner is not an uncommon name. There could be thousands in Liverpool, hundreds in the telephone directory. Might a private detective find this man? Rosie is fifteen, so her father should be
in his mid to late thirties, early forties at the oldest. Sadie would be thirty-five or six now, had she lived. But look at his forehead, his cheekbones, his chin. Maggie always said she had no
idea about Rosie’s father, yet the photo proves that she nursed her suspicions. This
is
Rosie’s father; I’d bet my last farthing on it. I believe she even has his eyes.
Oh, Lord help us.

Some people watched birds in the wild, while others waited for trains and scribbled numbers in little books. The Flying Scotsman had attracted thousands of devoted men, but
Theodore Quinn’s favourite pastime was watching his wife at work, and he wasn’t one in a huge crowd looking at a steam engine. Would he ever tire of this wonderful woman? She was an
amazing teacher.

Her rules were few, but clear. A chart on the wall was filled in daily; when a child had three ticks on the chart, he or she could choose a play activity in a previously disused area leading off
the classroom. Once a place where coats were hung, it was now devoid of hooks and shoe shelves, and Tia had filled it with games, a small water trough, a sand pit, a Wendy house, a
‘shop’, dressing-up clothes and a painting corner. In order to achieve the freedom offered by the play area, pupils worked hard to get the three ticks that would release them.