The Man Who Was Death, page 27
part #6 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
She didn’t stop. There was no time. She put her foot down on the accelerator and prayed there was enough petrol in the tank. She should have filled it this morning when she went Christmas shopping, but had forgotten because Joey was being more naughty than usual and taking up all her attention. Now she realised why he had been acting up; he was probably already feeling unwell. What was the matter with him, she wondered. Oh let it not be meningitis. She had been reading about this awful disease only the other day and his symptoms were not unlike those mentioned in the article. If it was meningitis, her child had only hours to live. Every second counted.
She didn’t see the oncoming truck. Her mind was on getting her son to hospital as fast as she could. Any delay would be a disaster. The truck was taking up too much of the narrow street and there wasn’t enough room for Pru to pass it without going on to the pavement. She had no time to make the attempt. The collision was inevitable.
Dave Allison had been enjoying himself that evening. He’d met Bernard, Robbie and Dorothy in the Feathers quite by chance. He had gone into the pub simply to have a much-needed drink and to take his mind off his worries about the inevitable fate of his wife and son. He knew he could do nothing to help them; they were going to die and all he could do was wait for that to happen.
As he entered the Feathers, the first person he saw was Robbie rising from a table by the window, obviously on his way to the bar. He then saw his drinking companions: Bernard and that nice medium lady, Dorothy Plunkett. Robbie gave him a friendly wave and beckoned him over.
“You’re just in time, old boy. What’s it to be?”
“Guinness, please. Thanks, Robbie. Hi everyone.”
Bernard gave him a warm smile and Dorothy did the same, accompanied by a blush. She was a bit older than Dave, she supposed, but not that much. She was very attracted to him at that moment, especially now that Bernard had finally been kicked into the long grass. She studied his face appraisingly when his attention was diverted to Bernard, who was congratulating him on how neat and tidy the churchyard was these days.
When they were all comfortably settled with their drinks, Robbie tentatively opened the conversation. “Er, have you any news of Lady Mountjoy, Dave?”
Dave gave him a rueful smile. “I went to see her a few days ago,” he said, sipping his Guinness gratefully. “She – she’s looking thinner, but, on the whole, bearing up.”
Robbie nodded. “Aye, she won’t go down without a fight, I bet,” he said. “She strikes me as being a very determined lady.” He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his tone. Bernard nudged him playfully. “You should go and see her again, Robbie. You know you want to. There’s no reason to suppose she won’t get better, is there?”
Dave could have answered that, of course, with a categorical ‘yes’, but he didn’t see any point in dampening the kind doctor’s spirits. He knew that Robbie was deeply smitten with Forsythia, and felt sorry for him. Sorry that she was going to die of course, but even sorrier that this man should waste his love on someone so unworthy of it.
“Well, the treatment she’s undergoing is pretty intensive – kill or cure. I think she’s strong enough to withstand it, so I’m cautiously hopeful.” So what if Dave insists she’s going to die, thought Robbie; what did he know, really? Black auras were all well and good, but he didn’t have to believe in them, even if Dave did. It would be wonderful if Forsythia recovered after all. Maybe then Dave wouldn’t feel so afraid of seeing black auras in the future.
Bernard was watching Dave’s face as Robbie was talking and saw the lines of worry etched there. Dorothy also noticed that the handsome gardener wasn’t his usual cheerful self, and was sure it wasn’t just because of Lady Mountjoy’s illness.
“Are you all right, Dave?” she asked, touching him gently on the sleeve.
“Oh, just tired, I suppose,” he said non-committally. “I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”
“Is there any particular reason for that?” she asked, looking into his eyes which she saw were dull with misery and tiredness.
Dave wanted to tell her about his fears for his family, but felt constrained by the presence of the vicar and his doctor friend. He would have loved to talk to her alone. As if in answer to his unspoken wish, Bernard stood up and announced he had to get back to the vicarage and his sermon writing. Robbie stood up at the same time and said that he would accompany him. Dorothy remained seated.
“Are you coming, Dorothy?” asked Bernard who, although he had given up all thoughts of making her his wife, still couldn’t stop himself from feeling jealous of any other male prospect looming over the horizon. But, much to his chagrin, Dave showed no signs of leaving.
“I think I’ll have another one for the road,” she said, secretly pleased that Bernard was feeling jealous; it was written all over his silly baby face. Serve him right, she thought happily.
Dave got up at once. “Same again?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
“Are you sure I can’t get you both another?” asked Dave, hoping they wouldn’t change their minds about going.
“Er...” Bernard was hesitating, but Robbie took him firmly by the elbow. “No thanks, lad,” he said, giving him a sly wink. “It’s past our bedtimes. You two stay and enjoy yourselves.”
After the two men had left, Dave began to relax. Dorothy asked him again what was troubling him.
“I’m glad the others have gone because I’m sure they think I’m mad when I tell them about the black auras... But I think you believe me...”
Dorothy nodded. “I do...” She sounded hesitant however.
Dave noticed this at once. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, Dave. I believe you see these auras, I believe that implicitly. What I’m not so sure about is the inevitability of death you seem to accept.”
“I wish I had cause to doubt my powers, Dorothy,” he said, glad to see that the pretty woman by his side was looking at him in such a concerned way. She was rather lovely, he had to admit. If he was only free ... Then he pulled himself up short. Soon, he would be. His heart sank.
“You see, Dave, some people with your sort of powers can sometimes bring these things on themselves. A sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, if you like.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.” His puzzled frown made him look all the more attractive in Dorothy’s eyes.
“I’m not sure I can explain it any clearer,” she said. “But I’ll give it some thought. Maybe I’ll be able to help you soon.”
“Help me? How? Stop me seeing these black auras, you mean?”
“No one can stop them but you.”
“Me? I have no control over them. You don’t think I enjoy seeing them, do you? Knowing people will die...”
“No. I know you can’t help it, Dave. But maybe there is a way to stop seeing them...”
Somehow Dave didn’t believe a single word of what she said, but he loved listening to her voice. The evening wore on and soon he was half in love with her and she was finding herself falling for him. He decided not to spoil this pleasant interlude by telling her about seeing the black auras around the heads of his wife and son. Enough was enough.
So, as he strolled home that evening, his thoughts were all of Dorothy Plunkett. Then, suddenly seeing his wife at the wheel of their car, driving like all the devils of hell were after her, was something that he hadn’t expected. But then, he knew. This was it. She had Joey with her and they were going to crash. That’s how they were going to die.
Spring, 1964
“Is the lady of the house at home?”
“Don’t you mean lady of the manor?” Dave Allison was in the potting shed, doing what that structure was designed for: potting. Chief Inspector Neverholme was standing casually in the doorway, hands in his pockets, for all the world looking like a friendly visitor paying a social call.
“I suppose I do, given the size of this place,” observed Neverholme. “Well, is the lady of the manor at home then?”
“She went out about half an hour ago. A friend of hers called for her and they drove off to have lunch somewhere, I think...”
“Does she do a lot of that?”
“A lot of what?” Dave turned from his potting operations and gave the Chief Inspector a suspicious look. What was he up to, he wondered. Trying to catch him out? Well, he wasn’t going to succeed.
“Lunching. Being a woman of means, I expect she does.”
Dave shrugged. “She’s a lady of leisure that’s for sure.” There was a note of envy in his voice. It was all right for some. “Shall I tell her you called, Chief Inspector?”
“No, you’re all right. It’s you I’ve come to see actually. Just wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be interrupted.”
Dave smiled sardonically. “What do you want with me? I’ve told you all I can which, as you know, isn’t much.”
It was Neverholme’s turn to smile. “No, it isn’t much, I agree there. But I don’t think you’ve told me ‘all you can’. For instance, I presume you have a goodly supply of weed killer stashed away in here?”
“Weed killer? Well, of course. I’m a gardener.” Dave saw at once what Neverholme was getting at; it didn’t take a mastermind.
“Yes, naturally. Those pesky weeds get everywhere, don’t they?”
“Get to the point, please. I’m a busy man. This is my busiest time and I’ve got a lot to do.”
“I won’t take up much more of your time. I don’t know if I mentioned on my last visit that Paul Brierley died of poisoning?”
“I think I gathered as much. From what I read in the papers...”
“Oh yes, the papers. What they probably didn’t tell you, though, was that the poison was arsenic found in most brands of weed killer...” Saying this, he fingered a tin of that very substance, giving Dave a meaningful look as he did so.
“What are you trying to say?” Dave was distinctly uncomfortable now. The man was on to him, he was sure. But he couldn’t prove anything. He just needed to keep his cool.
Neverholme’s expression changed now. He advanced towards him until he was about a couple of inches from his face. “I put it to you, Mr Allison, that you supplied Lady Mountjoy with the means by which she poisoned Mr Brierley. Whether it was your suggestion or her prompting, I am not at liberty to form an opinion.”
Dave stepped back and swallowed hard. “I hope you have proof to back up that statement, Chief Inspector,” he said, bravado finally returning. The man was fishing, but he wasn’t going to catch anything in his pond.
Neverholme resumed his natural benign expression. “You know very well I don’t. But I know you and her ladyship are in it together, right up to your pretty little necks. I think that one day you’ll want to tell me all about it ...”
“What? Over a cup of tea, do you mean?” Dave sneered at him. Relief was flooding through him as he said this; the man had been testing the water, that was all. Putting the fear of God into him, hoping to elicit a confession.
“I hardly think that would be appropriate, Mr Allison. Anyway, if you have anything to tell me appertaining to the death of Mr Allison, as well as the death of Lord Mountjoy, I will be available to listen anytime. Good day to you.”
With that Neverholme removed himself from the potting shed and disappeared towards the main gate. Dave watched him depart, and wiped his sweating brow. That was close, he thought. The man wasn’t stupid; he knew the score, all right. But he was mad if he thought he’d ever want to tell him the truth. That would be a cold day in hell before that happened.
He returned to his work, noticing his hands shaking as he shovelled compost into the plant pots. He found himself wishing he could have told Neverholme the truth, and, even more than that, wishing he’d never ever heard of a woman called Lady Mountjoy.
Early Winter, 1968
Dave sat in the visitors’ room, staring at the walls which, he could see, were badly in need of a lick of paint. Any minute now, he thought, a white-coated individual would enter wearing a serious expression. That person would tell him what he knew already, that his wife and child had died. Even if Joey hadn’t been seriously injured in the accident, they had told him his chances of recovery were slim as they suspected he was suffering from meningitis. Pru had gone through the windscreen, and her chances of recovery were equally slim.
As he predicted, the man in the white coat came in and sat down beside him.
“You don’t have to tell me, doctor,” he said, “they’re dead, aren’t they?”
Dr Carmichael looked at the man beside him sympathetically. His unshaven face and general untidy appearance couldn’t completely hide his good looks. “No, Mr Allison, not quite. They are both in intensive care and are very poorly. Your little boy is being treated for his symptoms but, I have to tell you, we are not entirely hopeful. He wasn’t badly injured in the crash, however, so there is a slim chance he will recover. It’s touch and go, though, I won’t give you any false hopes...”
“It doesn’t matter, doctor, I understand. What about my wife?”
“Again, I don’t want to raise any false hopes at this stage. She has severe facial injuries, but we don’t yet know if she has suffered any internal injuries.”
“Will you know anymore soon?”
“Not for at least twenty-four hours, so I suggest you go home and get some rest. Come back tomorrow and we will have a clearer picture then.”
Dave sighed and stood up. Why bother, he felt like saying. His family were already dead, as far as he was concerned, but he supposed he would have to go through the motions.
The next morning when he awoke, for a few moments he was blissfully unaware of what had happened the night before. He lay in bed and listened to the birdsong outside his window, something that never failed to cheer him before starting his day. Then it all came flooding into his mind; his darling boy would be dead by now, he was sure. But there had been no telephone call from the hospital, so maybe he was yet still alive. But, he thought as he rose from his bed, it was only prolonging the agony. Best to get it over with.
He went into the bathroom to try and make himself more presentable. He was aware that his dishevelled appearance the night before had caused one nurse in particular to give him a suspicious look. Well, what did they expect? His wife and child close to death: personal hygiene wouldn’t be uppermost in his mind, now would it?
Still, he thought, he might as well make himself as presentable as he could to receive the grave news. He was certain that when he arrived at the hospital he would be told that his precious boy had died. He just couldn’t understand why they hadn’t called him already. He picked up his cut-throat razor, determined to tackle the two-days’ worth of growth on his chin. Better look in the mirror, he thought, as he didn’t want to turn up covered in cigarette papers.
It was then he saw it: he had avoided looking into mirrors for most of his life to prevent just such a shock. He often wondered to himself what he would do if he saw a black aura around his own head and now he was to find out. There it was: black as the ace of spades. There was no escaping it. He dropped the razor in horror, clutching his throat as he did so. The nightmare that had been gripping him since his wife’s accident was now intensified many times over. His little boy was dying; his wife was dying; and now he, himself, was dying. The nightmare had to end.
But before it did, he had something to do. He went slowly down the stairs and into the front room. He rummaged in the sideboard for a writing pad and envelope. Sitting down at the table, he started to write:
Dear Chief Inspector Neverholme,
You once told me I would want to tell you all about it. About the murders I was complicit in four years ago, even though I did not commit them by my own hand. The truth, which you more or less knew then, was that Lady Mountjoy committed them: she and Paul Brierley between them arranged for her husband to fall down the stairs. Brierley did the pushing, so technically Lady Mountjoy was an accessory after the fact, I think you call it. But she told me what happened and persuaded me to keep quiet. I regret this, but at the time I didn’t have a choice, or so I thought.
Yes, I provided the weed killer that Lady Mountjoy gave to Brierley. I knew just exactly what she wanted it for: I can’t plead ignorance.
Bu the time you read this, I will be dead. Lady Mountjoy is seriously ill and will be dead soon. So we have escaped justice, but maybe not. In the end, we both got what we deserved.
This is my free and full confession, Chief Inspector.
David John Allison
He put down his pen and read through what he had written quickly. Before he could change his mind, he folded up the letter and put it in the envelope, sealing and addressing it carefully to Neverholme at Wandsworth Police Station. As he did so, the thought crossed his mind that the man was quite old when he had last met him and, knowing how the police retire early, he wondered whether he would still be there. Well, if he wasn’t, there would be someone else in charge who would see it, he reasoned.
Putting on his coat, he took the letter to the pillar box at the end of the road and dropped it in. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he did so. He had put things right at last and now there was only one more thing left to do.
Returning home, he walked slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom. Staring at his face in the mirror, he took up his razor.
