Scold's Bridle

'He's opted for you. I'm the one who has to find someone else.'

'Bugger that,' said Keith cheerfully. 'You're my client, sweetheart. The only reason I've ever done anything for that lazy good-for-nothing is because you married him.' He and Sarah had been friends from university days and there had been a time, before Jack entered the frame, when Keith had had designs on Sarah himself. Now, he was happily married with three strapping young sons, and only thought about her on the rare occasions when she telephoned.

'Yes, well, that's a side issue at the moment. The main issue is that I need to talk to him rather urgently. He's bound to contact you so will you let me know where he is as soon as he does. It's desperately important.' She glanced towards the stairs, her face a pale glimmer in the reflected light from the kitchen. Far too many shadows.

'Will do.'

'There's something else. What's my legal position with regard to a police investigation into a possible murder?' She heard his indrawn breath. 'I don't mean I'm involved or anything but I think I've been given some information that I really ought to pass on. The police don't seem to know about it, but it's incredibly sensitive stuff and very second-hand, and if it doesn't have any bearing then I shall be betraying a confidence that's going to affect quite a few lives really badly.' She drew to a halt. Why had Ruth told her about the letter and not Cooper? Or had she told Cooper as well? 'Does any of that make any sense?'

'Not much. My advice, for what it's worth, is don't withhold anything from the police unless it's confidential medical information on a patient. Force them to go through the proper channels for that. They'll do it, of course, but you'll be squeaky-clean.'

'The person who told me isn't even a patient.'

'Then you don't have a problem.'

'But I could ruin lives by speaking out of turn,' she said.doubtfully. 'We're talking ethics here, Keith.'

'No, we're not. Ethics don't exist outside church and ivory towers. We're talking big, bad world, where even doctors go to prison if they obstruct the police in their enquiries. You won't have a leg to stand on, my girl, if it turns out you withheld information that could have resulted in a conviction for murder.'

'But I'm not sure it is murder. It looks like suicide.'

'Then why is your voice quivering about two pitches higher than normal? You sound like Maria Callas on a bad night. It's only a snap judgement, of course, but I'd say you're one hundred per cent certain that you're looking at murder and ninety-nine per cent certain that you know who did it. Talk to the police.'

She was silent for so long that he began to wonder if the line had been cut. 'You're wrong about the ninety- nine per cent,' she said at last. 'Actually, I haven't a clue who might have done it.' With a muted goodbye, she hung up.

The telephone started to ring before she had removed her hand from the receiver, but her nerves were shot to pieces that it was several moments before she could find the courage to pick it up.

The following morning, Saturday, a solicitor drove from Poole to Fontwell with Mathilda's will in his briefcase. He had telephoned Cedar House the previous evening introduce himself and to unleash his bombshell, namely that all Mathilda's previous wills were rendered null and void by the one she had signed in his office two days before she died. He had been instructed by Mrs. Gillespie to break the news to her daughter and granddaughter in person as soon as convenient after her funeral, and to do it in the presence of Dr. Sarah Blakeney of Mill House, Long Upton. Dr. Blakeney was free tomorrow. Would eleven o'clock be convenient for Mrs. and Miss Lascelles?

The atmosphere in Mathilda's drawing-room was icy. Joanna stood by the french windows, staring out over the garden, her back to both Sarah and her daughter. Ruth smoked continuously, darting malicious glances between the rigid back of the one woman and the obvious discomfort of the other. No one spoke. To Sarah, who had always loved this room with its mish-mash of beautiful antiques: Georgian corner cabinets, old and faded chintz covers on the Victorian sofa and chairs, nineteenth-century Dutch watercolours and the Louis XVI Lyre clock on the mantelpiece, this unwelcome and unwelcomed return was depressing.

The sound of car tyres on the gravel outside broke the tension. 'I'll go,' said Ruth, jumping up.

'I can't even remember what he said his name was,' declared Joanna, turning back into the room. 'Dougall, Douglas?'

'Duggan,' said Sarah.

Joanna frowned. 'You know him, then.'

'No. I wrote his name down when he phoned last night.' She fished a piece of paper from her pocket. 'Paul Duggan of Duggan, Smith and Drew, Hills Road, Poole.'

Joanna listened to her daughter greeting someone at the door. 'My mother seems to have had considerable faith in you, Dr. Blakeney. Why was that, do you suppose? You can only have known her what?-a year?' Her face was impassive-schooled that way, thought Sarah, to preserve her youthfulness-but her eyes were deeply suspicious.

Sarah smiled without hostility. She had been placed in a very invidious position, and she wasn't enjoying the experience. She had considerable sympathy for Joanna, one way and another, and she was becoming increasingly troubled by Mathilda's memory. Their relationship, a light-hearted one at best, was turning oppressive in retrospect, and she resented the old woman's assumption that she could manipulate her doctor after her death and without prior permission. It was neither Sarah's business nor her wish to act as mediator in an acrimonious legal battle between Joanna and her daughter. 'I'm as much in.the dark as you are, Mrs. Lascelles, and probably just as annoyed,' she said frankly. 'I've a week's shopping to do, a house to clean and a garden to take care of. I'm only here because Mr. Duggan said if I didn't come then he would have to postpone this meeting until I could. I thought that would be even more upsetting for you and Ruth'-she shrugged-'so I agreed to it.'

Joanna was on the point of answering when the door swung open and Ruth walked in, followed by a smiling middle-aged man carrying a video recorder with a briefcase balanced on top of it. 'Mr. Duggan,' she said curtly, flopping into her chair again. 'He wants to use the television. Would you believe, Granny's made a frigging video- will?'

'Not strictly true, Miss Lascelles,' said the man, bending down to place the recorder on the floor beside the television. He straightened and held out a hand to Joanna, guessing correctly that she was Mathilda's daughter. 'How do you do, Mrs. Lascelles.' He moved across to Sarah, who had stood up, and shook her hand also. 'Dr. Blakeney.' He gestured to the chairs. 'Please sit down. I'm very aware that all our time is precious, so I don't