The Cuckoo's Child (32 page)

‘Such as what, for instance?'

Hitched on to the edge of the desk, tapping his foot, Rawlinson waited for an explanation, but Womersley sat lost in thought, until at last he stood up, batting his cold hands together. He felt very tired. ‘All right,' he said, ‘I'll tell you when we get going. We'd best get ourselves moving, get down into Wainthorpe and see our friend Hirst.'

‘He'll have some talking to do.'

‘He will that.'

‘What about Mrs Beaumont, then?'

‘It's getting too late to wait for her. I want a word with Jessie Thwaite, though, before we leave. And before we talk to Hirst, there'll be a few things to tie up. For one thing, we'll need to call in at the police station where there's a telephone. I want to make one or two calls, to the Super for one. And then – a visit to Dr Widdop, I fancy. If anybody can fill us in on the details, it's him.'

Nathan Widdop sat before a roaring fire in his comfortable study, stroking a fat black cat on his knee, a lighted lamp and a glass of single malt at his side. Grizelda's rhythmic purr indicated pure pleasure, something of a rarity from her these days. She was getting old and bad-tempered. Older, as we all are, thought Widdop. He was fifty-nine, and not by any means ready to be sent out to pasture; all the same, he tired more easily these days, his joints were stiffer, he looked forward increasingly to the rare quiet evening at home with a glass of whisky. The time for retirement might be coming sooner than he had anticipated and he didn't welcome it, now there was no Margaret – the nurse he'd met and married thirty years ago – to share it with him.

His hand moving over the rippling fur, he noticed the rash on the back had completely gone. Matthew Pike had suggested Grizelda might be the cause of it, that it might be due to a cat-induced allergy, but Widdop knew better. He had always kept a cat, she was the last of a long line. The rash was simple urticaria; he was unfortunately one of those who suffered a more than normal reaction to insect bites, stings or nervous stress. Pike was an acute young man, but he wasn't always right.

His new assistant was turning out to be a disappointment, perhaps worse. A threat, perhaps, to the status quo. A bright young fellow, a hard worker, he had at first been a welcome addition to the practice, but lately he had hinted he might be having thoughts of moving on. Just qualified, hard up, the young fellow couldn't be unaware that he had landed on his feet here, so why was he thinking of leaving?

He was young and enthusiastic and didn't always agree with Widdop's ideas, in particular, the subject of family planning. Despite what he thought, however, Pike wasn't the only one who tried to change his patients' attitude to that. Widdop had been urging it on his patients for years, though without conspicuous success. But one couldn't force it on them, as Pike tried to do, not seeing – or refusing to admit – that to many, including some doctors, it was distasteful, unthinkable, irreligious or downright sinful. To others – well, the women were mostly all for it, but it required some degree of cooperation from the men, and mostly they just shut their ears and said that was women's business.

He stirred restlessly, dislodging Grizelda from her comfortable position; affronted, she leapt off his knee and retired to the other side of the fireplace, where she sat watching him through slitted eyes. He took a sip of whisky.

He had lost yet another patient today, following soon after Walter Thwaite, and he felt sad, but not overwhelmed. He hadn't been able to prevent either, but he rarely felt guilt over a death. If you were a doctor, that way lay madness. Nor did he allow himself to grieve when a patient died. His duty was to the living, to alleviate suffering in whatever way he could. The Thurlough lad had been young, tubercular, with no future, and Walter Thwaite – what sort of life had it been for him, coughing his lungs up?

The sound of the doorbell pealed through the house but he didn't stir. If it was an emergency, Pike was there. In a moment, however, Ada Crawshaw was announcing the arrival of the police. She could send them away if he didn't want to see them.

Widdop sighed. He was philosophical about having his leisure hours disturbed but that inspector and his sharp-eyed, restless sergeant were not welcome tonight. One had one's duty, however.

‘No, it's all right. Show them in.'

The two men seemed to fill the room with their bulky presence, bringing a whiff of frosty air in with them. ‘Take their overcoats, Ada.'

‘Thank you, it is warm in here.'

‘Please sit down, gentlemen. Drink?'

‘No, I don't think we will, thank you.'

‘Well then, what can I do for you, Inspector?'

Widdop did himself well, thought Womersley. This room, unlike his shabby consulting room, was comfortable, even luxurious, with a thick turkey carpet and deep armchairs, large, glass-fronted bookcases in the fireplace alcoves. Nice pictures on the walls and a cut glass decanter and whisky glass on the table beside him. Widdop looking at ease and relaxed in leather slippers and a velvet smoking jacket. He pushed to the back of his mind the thought of Kate and his own warm fireside on this cold night.

‘For a start, Doctor, I was hoping you could tell us something about Whiteley Hirst.'

‘Whiteley?' Surprise flickered in those wise, worldly eyes. ‘Well, I dare say I can. I've known him for many years.' He stretched his legs out towards the fire and sat back, prepared for a bit of gossip once more. ‘What is it you want to know?'

By reason of his profession, Widdop must be privy to many secrets, and used to keeping his own counsel, and Womersley said, ‘This is confidential, you understand, but I won't beat about the bush. It's come to our knowledge that Mr Hirst has recently become in difficulties – in debt to moneylenders for a large sum of money.'

‘Has he, by Jove? Horses, I expect. It's not much of a secret that he likes a flutter. But who are we to judge? Every man should be allowed some indulgence.' He raised his glass and took a sip of the whisky. Firelight winked on the cut glass, lent planes of shadow to his face. He was a man, if rumour and his outward circumstances were true, who had money enough to live a life of ease and leisure, yet he had chosen this hard-working existence. Underneath his bluff bonhomie must lie a private, sensitive man the world was not allowed to see. A man of ideals. A man who had decided on his own path and walked it alone. He sighed as he said, ‘I wasn't aware it had such a hold on him, however, and I'm surprised.'

‘You've played card games with him for years, did his gambling streak never show?'

‘We've never played for money.'

Womersley produced the scrap of paper found in Beaumont's waistcoat pocket and held it out. Widdop read it and laughed. ‘Real money, I meant. This was about the upper limit.'

‘Turn it over, Doctor.'

When Widdop read the London doctor's name written on the back, he was silent for some time, then he said, ‘So he did take my advice, after all, or at least he was thinking about it.'

Womersley didn't answer this as he took the scrap of paper back. He returned to the subject of the card playing. ‘Mr Hirst was always content, then, to play for such low stakes?'

‘He didn't have much choice. It was Ainsley who set the limits.'

‘We've been given to understand he was playing with you on the night of that fire at Farr Clough. Do you remember anything happening during the game that had any bearing on what happened?'

The doctor considered before saying quietly, ‘Whiteley Hirst has many good qualities. What do you know about the fire?'

‘We've been told you and others were there, playing cards, Mrs Beaumont went out to bring refreshments, the fire started while she was out, and her husband lost his life saving his children.'

‘That's true, but Theo wasn't the only hero that night. Amelia foolishly tried to follow him when he went back inside to rescue the children – she was hysterical – but Whiteley Hirst ran in after her and dragged her out. He saved her life and was lucky to get out himself, with only that scar on his forehead – which you've doubtless noticed – to remind him. A piece of burning timber or some such set his hair alight – and burnt his hands, too.'

He reached out one of his own long, well-cared-for hands on which a gold signet ring gleamed, an onyx cuff-link, and poured another inch of whisky into his glass.

‘I see your rash has gone, Doctor,' Rawlinson remarked.

‘That? Oh, yes. It comes and goes.'

‘Going back to that IOU,' Womersley said, ‘That doctor's name I showed you, on the back. I have to tell you that I spoke to him myself, over the telephone, not an hour back.' He was not yet at ease with the telephone as a means of communication, its crackling lines and distorted speech seemed to him hardly worth the struggle, but he had persevered. ‘Dr Leeming is not a brain surgeon, never has been. He's retired, in fact – from practice, that is. But he is still a member of the General Medical Council.'

‘What did Ainsley want with him, then?'

‘They never spoke. Dr Leeming has never heard of Mr Beaumont. I had to apologize for disturbing him with my call.'

The shade of anxiety that had crossed Widdop's face left it. He eased his bulk back into his chair. ‘So?'

Womersley said quietly, ‘Do you know who Alice Quarmby is?'

‘Quarmby? I know several Quarmbys, the name's not uncommon in Wainthorpe. Alice – let me think. Alice. Yes, of course, the young woman who was . . . taken ill at Cross Ings. What about her?

‘And Annie Wood, Lucy Pickersgill, Amy Helliwell, a dozen others whose names I can't quite recall, what do you know about them?'

Another silence fell, and lengthened, then Widdop said, ‘Perhaps you'd be so good as to explain what you are talking about?'

‘They were the reason Mr Beaumont had Dr Leeming's address – he was threatening to report you for unprofessional conduct.'

Widdop raised incredulous eyebrows. ‘He would have had no cause to do that, I assure you. Any . . . associations . . . I might have are never with any of my patients.' His eyes met Rawlinson's. They both knew he was remembering that night when Rawlinson had been attacked, and Mrs Brocklehurst had known where to find him, but Rawlinson kept silent.

‘I'm not talking about that kind of association, Doctor.' Womersley produced the little red notebook and placed it on his knee. Widdop's eyes fastened on it. He swallowed.

After a while he said, ‘Before we go any further, it's important that you understand something – I like women. I respect them – and I know what I'm doing. No woman has ever suffered any adverse effects because of me.'

‘Maybe only by the grace of God. Did you think of that when you doctored Alice Quarmby?'

‘I think . . . no, I
know
,' Widdop said, dropping his neutrality and speaking with a sudden contained savagery, ‘that what I do is better than self-induced abortions, or the attentions of some backstreet crone with her gin and knitting needles.'

‘That's as maybe.'

‘I
know
, Inspector . . .'

More than once in his career, Widdop had not fought for babies to survive who were born malformed or damaged in any way. It was a kindness to already overburdened parents, who didn't have the resources to shoulder that sort of responsibility. But more than that were the babies unwanted before they were born, the women who had come to him in trouble, begging him to do something. Women with too many mouths to feed already, hopelessly struggling to raise a large family in poverty; women who were at risk of not surviving yet another birth; those who were in trouble for a different reason, young girls, maybe, abused by God knew who. He had his own ethics – he had never given help to those whose trouble came from extramarital affairs, and very rarely to those who had simply anticipated marriage. He chose well, and looked after them to see that they didn't come to any harm. He couldn't help knowing that among the working women of the town, he was regarded as someone next to God.

Until Alice Quarmby, last year. He had impressed on her, after he had helped her, the necessity of taking a few days off from her work at Cross Ings, where she had to lift big bobbins of wool half her own height and weight on to still-working machines. But she had ignored his advice, terrified of what her father would do if he found out, and collapsed dramatically at the feet of Ainsley Beaumont, the master, just as he happened to be passing her machine. He'd had her carried into the office, the only possible place, and sent for Widdop. By the grace of God, Widdop had arrived there in time. But it had been a near thing, and it had shaken him. More than that, he was left not knowing what the girl had said before he arrived. Of those whom he had helped before, none had ever died, and the others had kept their mouths shut. Would Alice Quarmby do the same?

Time passed and nothing happened, until Ainsley had decided to interfere.

‘Well, Dr Widdop.' Womersley tapped the notebook. ‘Isn't this what you were looking for when you murdered Ainsley Beaumont?'

Widdop gazed down into the glass he'd been holding in his hand, then put it back on the table, untouched; the cat jumped up on his knee again, and he waited as it circled until it found itself a comfortable position. ‘Can you imagine what it might be like,' he said at last, ‘for your life and all you've ever stood for to suddenly be turned upside down?'

He had spent twelve exhausting hours at a cramped little house in the lower end of the town. A new life had been brought into the world, and at least the child had been a healthy, if undersized, specimen – which was more than could be said for the mother; he was her seventh surviving baby and would be her last. Almost certainly, she would not survive another pregnancy. Widdop had been almost as exhausted as she was. As he'd told Rawlinson, he rarely took his car to that end of the town – finding somewhere suitable to park that elegant but cumbersome piece of machinery was more bother than it was worth, and he'd been glad to stretch his legs. Automatically taking the shortest way home, he'd walked alongside the dam, looking forward to a good breakfast and then to snatching a few hours' sleep.