‘No, she was like me. She didn’t really like the idea of them. But she did take one yesterday, and took her glass of port with her to lie down. We closed the door of her flat behind us, got our coats from up here, and went straight out. Oh dear.’ She looked at them suddenly. ‘How rude of me. I should have offered you something. Would you like a cup of tea, Chief Inspector, or coffee?’
‘Coffee would be splendid, thank you, Miss Harper.’
While she was in the kitchenette, Brock got to his feet and peered at the book titles. The fiction was grouped at one end, a mixture of classics-Hardy, Dostoevsky, Blake-and more recent writers-Isabel Allende, John Fowles and Gunter Grass. The rest of the wall, about two thirds of the shelf space, was taken up by non-fiction titles on socialism, economic history and politics.
They heard a noise of breaking china from the kitchen, and Kathy went to investigate.
‘I dropped a cup. It doesn’t matter.’
Close up Kathy could see the tension lines around her eyes and the working of the muscles in her jaw.
When they returned with the tray of coffee cups, Brock was examining a framed photograph on the wall. It was a portrait of a young woman with the same strong, almost masculine, features as Eleanor Harper, with dark hair pulled back from her face in a similar simple style. She was wearing a dark velvet dress with a white lace collar, and a pair of spectacles was hanging from a cord round her neck. She was smiling gently at someone off to the left of the frame.
‘A relative, Miss Harper? I thought I could see a family resemblance there.’
Her tired features relaxed with pleasure. ‘Do you think so, Chief Inspector? She was our great-aunt. A wonderful woman. I would consider it a very great compliment to be compared to her.’
‘Miss Harper,’ Kathy asked, ‘can you think of anyone who might want your sister dead?’
She looked shocked.
‘Certainly not! Meredith was a wonderful person, full of life and vitality. She was interested in everyone in the neighbourhood, always trying to help people who needed it. No one would want to harm her.’
At that moment the door from the landing opened and the Queen Mother entered the room, or so, for a moment, it appeared to Brock. She was shorter and plumper than Eleanor, dressed in a pale pink silk blouse and angora cardigan, her silver hair recently permed, and with a gracious, if somewhat vague, smile upon her lips. She paused in the doorway as if to orient herself, and Eleanor got up quickly and went to her side.
‘Come in, dear. I thought you were still asleep.’
‘I heard voices. Who is it, Eleanor?’
‘It’s the police, dear. You remember Sergeant Kolla from yesterday, don’t you?’
It was evident that she did not. Eleanor led her to the armchair and fetched her a cup of coffee, while Brock brought another of the dining chairs over for Kathy.
‘Are you all right, dear? Would you like the fire on?’ Eleanor looked at her sister with concern.
‘No, no.’ Peg smiled regally at the visitors. ‘I just had a little rest. I feel much better, thank you.’
‘We won’t bother you for long, Mrs Blythe,’ Kathy said. ‘We were just talking about yesterday afternoon. You said yesterday that you returned from your walk about 4.15, Miss Harper?’
‘Yes, I suppose it must have been around then. We came upstairs and called through the door to Meredith when we reached her landing.’
‘The door was open?’
‘No. Closed, but on the latch. That’s how we usually leave our doors during the day, so we can call in on each other. When she didn’t reply we thought she must be asleep, so we went in to check. At first, when I saw her lying down on her bed, I assumed she was asleep, but then, I don’t know what it was, she was so still…’
Eleanor bowed her head for a moment. Peg was sitting with the same vague smile upon her face, gazing benignly at the sunlight gleaming on a wall outside the window, and then, suddenly, she closed her eyes and gave a moan.
Eleanor looked at her with concern. ‘Are you all right, Peg?’ She got to her feet and went to her sister’s side. ‘Peg?’
‘I don’t think I want this coffee, Eleanor,’ the old lady whispered at last, and held up the cup. Eleanor nodded and took it away, while her sister pulled out a small embroidered handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and pressed it to her nose.
There was silence for a minute, then Kathy spoke again, gently.
‘I am sorry. Only a couple more questions and then we’ll leave. Do you remember touching her shoes?’
Eleanor looked perplexed. ‘Her shoes? I don’t remember her shoes.’
Peg sniffled noisily.
‘No, that’s all right,’ Kathy said. ‘And how about the drawers in her room, or the window, do you remember touching them?’
They both shook their heads.
‘Did you touch Meredith?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Eleanor said. ‘I shook her shoulder, gently. Her head… was loose. It didn’t seem natural. I couldn’t see or hear her breathing.’
‘So you called the doctor?’
‘Yes. Peg was upset’-a sob of confirmation came from Peg-‘so I sat her down and I waited on the landing for Dr Botev to arrive. He lives just up the Lane, at number 11.’
‘All right.’ Kathy looked at Brock, who shook his head. ‘We won’t need to disturb you any more just now. Would you like us to call someone to be with you?’
‘No,’ Eleanor said firmly. ‘No, thank you.’ She drew herself up straight and led them to the door. ‘You will get to the bottom of this, won’t you?’ she said. ‘I would hate to think that Dr Botev was right.’
‘We should know more by tomorrow.’
‘What about the funeral? When can we bury poor Meredith?’
‘The coroner’s office will be in touch with you, Miss Harper. They will be as quick as they possibly can, I know.’
She smiled gravely at them and let them out.
3
There were neither patients nor receptionist in the waiting room of Dr Botev’s surgery. As the jarring note of the door buzzer died away, a dusty silence settled back over the room. Under the glare of a bare fluorescent ceiling light, public health posters about smoking, osteoporosis and safe sex curled on the walls where they had been roughly pinned, and a small pile of tattered and outdated magazines spilled across a low table surrounded by six chairs, each of a different height and design. After a moment there was a noise from the other side of a glass- panelled connecting door, and the doctor appeared, nodded briefly and waved them through into the next room.
He presented an unlikely appearance for the family physician. Short, thick-set and muscular, he squinted at them through bottle-bottom glasses. He was swarthy in complexion, and his grey hair was cropped to short bristle not much longer than the grey stubble on his chin. Over a khaki shirt and a tartan tie he wore a brown, short- sleeved sweater with several large holes.
‘Well,’ he barked, ‘what does the police doctor have to say?’ His voice was pitched unexpectedly high.
‘We don’t know yet, doctor,’ Kathy answered. ‘Could you just go over again for the benefit of the Chief Inspector here what your assessment was yesterday, and in particular why you were so convinced Mrs Winterbottom hadn’t died naturally?’
The doctor turned and stared at Brock for a moment.
‘Miss Harper phoned me yesterday about quarter past four in the afternoon. I was here, upstairs. That’s where I live. I have been the doctor to the three sisters for over ten years.’
Kathy stared at the powerful hands clasped on his blotting pad. They were disproportionately large for his body, with thick stubby fingers matted with black hair. They were the hands of a bricklayer or a farmer. She stopped herself trying to imagine him giving the old ladies internal examinations.
