A Slightly Bitter Taste Page 7

  She lay with her arms by her sides in a pose of complete relaxation — this woman who was perfection in face and body from her provocative breasts to her small-boned ankles and graceful feet. He didn’t want to move or to make a sound in case he disturbed her. He had the feeling that if she were left alone she would remain like this forever … like the Sleeping Beauty on the wall just above where she lay.

  Outside, near the top of the staircase, he could hear Neil Ford and Dr. Bossard talking … Ariadne Wilkinson asking questions down below … Carole saying “… No, we don’t need any help. You stay where you are. There are enough of us up here to take care of everything.”

  Then she went on, “Better go and see what’s happened, Geoffrey. I’ll give Mr. Ford a hand with his wife.”

  Geoffrey … Geoffrey … The name registered distantly in Quinn’s mind. It only brought confirmation of something he realised he’d already known.

  … Does Bossard spell his name with a G or a J? Does it matter a damn how he spells it? They’ve been behaving as though they’re comparative strangers but in the stress of the moment Carole’s now betrayed herself…

  Not that it mattered very much. Nothing really mattered except the woman who lay asleep in a room that had been designed and created for a child.

  Her eyes were veiled by sweetly curving eyelashes tinged with bronze, her lips were slightly parted. To Quinn she seemed neither alive nor dead. She was someone who existed in a realm outside Time where nothing changed, no one grew old — a realm where the beautiful were immune from the ravages of decay.

  He went a half step closer and touched her hand. She felt cool but not cold.

  Then as he bent over her the clock that had stopped began ticking again. The moment of illusion was over.

  He saw her sunken cheeks, the sagging of her jaw, the discolouration around her nose and mouth. Death was engraved on her face. What had seemed for one endless moment to be so lovely now became disfigured by the ugliness that precedes corruption.

  Yet she was unmarked. There were no injuries so far as he could see: nothing but the stamp of death. It could almost have been that she was, indeed, asleep.

  As he drew back from the bed footsteps came steadily along the corridor. He listened to them with confusion that was almost chaos in his mind.

  Then Dr. Bossard walked into the room. He looked at the dead woman, his pleasant face very sombre.

  He said, “This is a damn’ funny business. I don’t understand any part of it.”

  Quinn said, “Well, I can tell you one thing. She’s dead. Finding out how she died is your line of country. She doesn’t show any sign of injury.”

  “We’ll see.” Bossard leaned over the bed, opened one of her eyes, and studied it by the light of a pen torch. “We’ll see.”

  He sniffed at her mouth and mumbled something under his breath. Then he used the torch again.

  Quinn turned away and stared at the bedside table. Perhaps the answer would be there. Perhaps Dr. Bossard wouldn’t have far to seek.

  There was a brandy glass on the table with what looked like half an inch of brandy in the bottom. Partly submerged in the spirit were two yellow capsules.

  … Be no problem if that’s what she took. They’ll analyse it in no time. Wonder if Bossard’s noticed the glass? It’s half hidden by the stand of the lamp and it may have escaped his attention …

  That wasn’t very likely. Doctors were trained to notice details, taught to use every one of their five senses. The best doctors had a sixth sense, too.

  … But right now his first job is to satisfy himself that she isn’t still alive … although there’s not much doubt. You can always tell by the appearance of the face … not so much a change as the lack of a quality that’s always present in living people, awake or asleep. When they’re dead they have a look which says there’s no one at home …

  Dr. Bossard was still mumbling to himself. At the top of the stairs, Carole and Ford were talking together … and now Quinn could hear Irene’s voice, too. She was plaintively asking something over and over again.

  He listened to the jumble of talk until a door closed and cut off all the voices. Then his mind switched to thoughts of Michael Parry..

  … Going to get a helluva shock when he hears the news. She must’ve been very lovely… He had a beautiful wife and pots of money, so what made him take to drink? Maybe he was an alcoholic before he met Adele … but I can’t see her marrying him in that case. With her looks and her money she could’ve chosen any one of a hundred men. Wonder how she came to choose him … ?

  Bossard had turned away from the bed. Now he was studying the brandy glass on the bedside table. His face was no longer sombre and he seemed unconcerned by the presence of death.

  … You’d think he’d show some sign of being upset by her death. After all, they must’ve been on friendly terms or she wouldn’t have invited him here socially. Yet I suppose he’s got to be impersonal about things like this. It’s called the clinical approach. When a man takes up medicine he either starts out different from other men or he becomes different. They talk about not becoming emotionally involved …

  His mind flitted from Bossard to Michael Parry again. Then he found himself listening to the sound of muffled wailing from the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  … She’s certainly gone all emotional. Whether she was very attached to her sister-in-law or not it must’ve been no joke to walk in and find Adele stretched out on the bed all nice and peaceful like the Sleeping Beauty …

  The pattern of what had happened seemed clear enough. It should be quite a straightforward job for the police.

  … Looks as if Adele came home when there was no one in the house and took a stiff brandy laced with something lethal. But why come in here to die? And was she upstairs when Michael got back from his favourite pub? Or was he at home when she got back and did she find him sleeping it off? …

  High heels came clip-clopping across parquet floor … and carpet … and parquet floor … and carpet. As they approached the nursery, Dr. Bossard looked up and shook his head in warning. Quinn nodded but his mind was still a long way off.

  … Something else puzzles me — something about those two beds in the other room. Michael would use only one bed for his siesta and yet both of them have been disturbed. Why both … if she died in here? Could be she lay down in the other room and then changed her mind and decided she preferred the nursery… or there may have been a third person in the house? …

  That thought came out of nowhere. If it had any substance it changed everything.

  … Might even be that Michael didn’t have a nap at all. Maybe Adele went from bed to bed until she found the most comfortable one … like Goldilocks. They seem to have forgotten the story of the Three Bears when they were decorating this room …

  It was a bizarre idea. While he was still toying with it the high heels came to a halt on the carpet outside.

  Carole poked her head in at the door. She looked rather pale and her eyes were even more solemn than usual.

  In a small voice, she asked, “Is it true?”

  Quinn said, “Yes.”

  “But how did it happen? What was she doing in here?”

  “Those are just two of the many questions that people will be asking very soon,” Quinn said.

  “Can I see her?”

  From behind the open door, Dr. Bossard said, “There’s nothing to see and you’d only be in the way. Go back and look after Mrs. Ford. If she doesn’t calm down soon let me know and I’ll give her a sedative.”

  Carole didn’t argue. She just made a face, waved her hand to Quinn, and went away.

  When she’d gone, Bossard moved back from the bed, and asked, “Would you do something for me, Mr. Quinn?”

  “Sure. What is it you want?”

  “Go downstairs and ring the police without making too much fuss. Ask for Inspector Elvin and tell him what’s happened. Say I’ll stay up here until he arrives so as to make sure noth
ing’s disturbed. Got that?”

  “Not altogether,” Quinn said. “I can hardly tell him what’s happened when I don’t know myself.”

  With a slight frown, Dr. Bossard said, “You know enough.”

  “Oh, no. In my philosophy, enough is never sufficient. Since this isn’t the kind of thing that can remain hush-hush, how did she die and when?”

  Bossard withdrew into himself, his handsome face puckered in thought. Then he said in a cautious voice, “Anything I told you would be largely assumption. We won’t know the facts until we’ve had a post-mortem.”

  “That’s all right. Whatever you’re willing to assume will satisfy me for the time being.”

  “You won’t quote me, I hope?”

  “No, of course not. I’m not asking these questions in the line of duty. Officially, I’m on holiday but I happen to be of a curious nature and I always like to know what makes the wheel go round.”

  “Well, I can only tell you one thing,” Bossard said. “There’s no particular mystery about this affair.”

  “You could be wrong, Doctor. This affair’s got square wheels. There are so many questions to be answered, the police won’t know where to begin. I’ll ask you one. How long has she been dead?”

  The doctor’s manner changed perceptibly. He said, “With all due respect, Mr. Quinn, I don’t think I’m entitled to discuss the details with you. After all, Mrs. Parry was a patient of mine and I see no reason why I should satisfy your curiosity … apart from which this is now a police matter.”

  His shrug closed the subject. With a pleasant smile that left no room for offence, he added, “If they wish to pass on the preliminary information I give them …”

  Quinn said, “You insist on treating me as a reporter but actually I’m a guest here.”

  “Then, if you’ll forgive my saying so, you’re not behaving like a guest. It’s not very tactful to probe into the affairs of people who are suddenly involved in a tragedy.”

  It was like a rehearsed speech that Bossard had prepared in advance. Quinn knew that if he argued he would get nowhere.

  He said, “You’re right, of course, Doctor. I shouldn’t be so persistent … but old habits die hard. Now, instead of asking any more questions, I’ll go and phone the police.”

  As he was going out, he looked back and said, “Supposing Mrs. Ford gets hold of me and wants to know about her sister-in-law, what do I say?”

  “As little as you can. She’s already aware that Mrs. Parry’s dead. The rest she’ll learn” — Bossard glanced down at the woman on the bed — “sooner or later … like everybody else.”

  He was still standing there, his eyes on Adele Parry’s dead face, when Quinn left him. There were quiet voices in the room near the top of the staircase, the distant sound of a car, the soft, all-pervading hiss of the rain.

  As Quinn went downstairs he could hear Irene Ford saying “… It doesn’t seem right. She had so much to live for. It just doesn’t seem right …” Behind her puling voice he heard the nursery door close with no more than the faintest click of the latch.

  He had only just finished talking to the police when a car pulled up outside and Michael Parry came in. He now appeared to be cold sober.

  With a fretful look in his pale blue eyes, he asked, “Is that Dr. Bossard’s car out there? When did he come?”

  “A little while ago.”

  “Where’s he gone? Where are the others, for that matter?”

  Quinn said, “Carole and Mr. and Mrs. Ford are upstairs. Mrs. Ford isn’t feeling very well.”

  “Oh, too bad. Hope it’s nothing serious. Is that why they sent for the doctor?”

  “No, he just happened to be passing and he called in to say hallo. He’d have been gone by now —”

  “While we’re on the subject, I don’t feel too good myself. Worry, you know. This business has got me properly rattled. My wife wasn’t on the eight-fifty bus, either. She hasn’t phoned, has she?”

  “No … and there’s something I’ve got to tell you. If you’ll sit down —”

  “Queer, damn’ queer. She knows how to look after herself but all the same …”

  A puzzled look came into Parry’s weak face. Behind that look lay something that could have been fear.

  He stroked his moustache with an uneasy hand and asked, “What do you mean there’s something you’ve got to tell me? What’s going on?”

  Quinn said, “Your wife’s here.”

  Parry’s hand followed the shape of his moustache and carried on down to his chin. He said, “What’re you talking about? How can she be here if she wasn’t on the bus?”

  “I don’t know that any more than I know what time she came home but I can assure you she’s upstairs. Dr. Bossard’s with her.”

  “Is she —” Parry faltered and began again. “Is she ill?” He made the question sound as though he knew the answer.

  Then his face became blank. In a string of little disjointed phrases, he went on, “She’s here — but you don’t know what time she came home — and Bossard’s with her —”

  His hand crept up until it covered his eyes and he shivered like a man gripped by sudden cold. When he looked at Quinn again, he said, “I don’t understand any of this. I’m just not with you. She’s been taken ill … that’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?”

  Quinn said, “I’m afraid it’s worse than that. She’s dead.”

  Parry’s mouth opened and remained open. After a long time he swallowed and said, “I don’t believe it. It can’t be true. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to wake up in any minute. Adele’s the healthiest person I’ve ever known. Never had a day’s illness in her life. How can she be dead?”

  Suspicion entered Quinn’s mind like the touch of a small cold hand. He said, “I’m no doctor, so I can’t say. All I can tell you is that she was dead when we found her.”

  In a pinched voice, Michael Parry asked, “Where? Where was she?”

  “Lying on the bed in the nursery.”

  “What was she doing in there?”

  It wasn’t meant as a question. He was talking to himself, his face as numb as his voice.

  Like an echo, he repeated, “What was she doing in there?”

  “That’s for the police to decide,” Quinn said. “I phoned them just before you came in.”

  “The police? I don’t see …”

  The fretful look showed again momentarily in his eyes. Then he nodded and said, “Yes, of course. It was the right thing to do. Don’t pay any attention to me. I can’t think straight.”

  His hand felt for his moustache as he asked, “Who was it that — found my wife?”

  “Mrs. Ford.”

  “How did she come to do that? No one ever goes in there. The nursery isn’t used.”

  “I didn’t get the chance to ask her. She threw a fit of hysterics and fainted at the top of the stairs.”

  Parry covered his eyes again as though they hurt. Then he took his hand away and asked, “What does Dr. Bossard think happened to my wife?”

  Quinn said, “He wouldn’t tell me … either because he didn’t know or because he thought it was none of my business. But whatever it was that caused her death she didn’t look as if she’d suffered at all. That may be some consolation to you when you’ve had time to get over the shock.”

  With the faintest spark of interest. Parry said, “You’ve seen her … have you?”

  “Yes, I got there before anybody else. When Bossard arrived he turfed me out.”

  “Do you think” — Parry swallowed — “do you think he’d let me see her … just for a moment?”

  It wasn’t the kind of thing a husband should have needed to ask. Judging by his tone he didn’t care whether the answer was yes or no.

  Quinn said, “I don’t see how he can stop you. If you want to go upstairs I’d advise you to do it now before the police get here.”

  Parry seemed unable to decide. When he turned and looked up to the top of the stairs his eyes
were reluctant.

  At last, he said, “I’d rather not, right now. Perhaps later. There’s no hurry … is there?”

  “It’s entirely up to you,” Quinn said. “Won’t change things whether you see her now or later or not at all.”

  “That’s true enough. She’s dead” — he sat down and slumped forward with his hands dangling between his knees — “she’s dead and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  After a long pause he looked up at Quinn and asked, “Does Dr. Bossard know what time she died?”

  “If he does he wouldn’t tell me. My opinion, for what it’s worth, is that she was probably dead when Carole and I got here.”

  With no expression, Parry said, “I don’t understand any of this at all. She wasn’t in the house when I got back about half past three, so she must’ve come home after that. Why didn’t she wake me up if she felt ill? Better still, why didn’t she phone and ask me to pick her up at Blandford or even Salisbury? Doesn’t make sense that she’d creep into the house and let me go on sleeping …”

  His voice tailed off and he stared down at the floor. Quinn said, “I think you should prepare yourself for the possibility that your wife didn’t die a natural death.”

  Parry closed one hand over the other. In a small tight voice, he said, “Go on. Don’t wrap it up. Say what you have to say.”

  “There was a brandy glass on the table beside the bed with a little brandy in it and a couple of yellow capsules. I’ve no idea what they were —”

  “Sleeping pills,” Parry said. He sounded very sure. “Dr. Bossard prescribed them and she’s been taking one occasionally. Now I begin to see …”

  He took a long breath and let it out again. Then he shook his head as though there was nothing more to say.

  Quinn asked, “What do you see?”

  “Why she was in the nursery. It’s never used. She’s kept it exactly as it was when the baby died.”

  As though recalling details that now had a new significance, he added, “The kid was only a few months old. She never really got over it.”

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  “Five or six years … may be more. Lost her first husband not long afterwards.”