Read Online Dead In The Morning by Margaret Yorke - Free Book Online

swashbuckling Regency bucks if she could not relax.
    “I’ve certainly never prescribed any for her,” the doctor said. “But she could have got hold of some.”
    Phyllis looked down at the unmoving mound in the bed.
    “You don’t think—?” She broke off, staring at the doctor with a startled expression.
    “I don’t know,” said the doctor. “It’s a possibility. We shall have to wait for the answer. I’ll telephone now and make the arrangements. Then I’d better see your mother. This will have shaken her. Have you told her?”
    “Yes. She realised that something had happened, so I thought it the best thing to do. My brother’s with her now. She’s taken it very calmly. Cathy’s much more upset; she found Mrs Mackenzie.”
    “How very unfortunate,” said Dr Wilkins. “What a shock for her.”
    “It’s a shock for us all,” said Phyllis. “We were fond of her.” And how would they manage without her, she began to wonder, her practical sense returning after its initial numbing.
    She took the doctor downstairs to the hall to telephone, and then went into her mother’s room. Gerald was sitting beside the old lady’s bed.
    “Well?” he asked, getting up as Phyllis came in.
    Phyllis shook her head at him.
    “Mother, Dr Wilkins will be in to see you in a minute,” she said. “He’s just making a phone call first.” She glanced round the room, and added, “Where’s Cathy?”
    “Helen came up. They’re making some coffee,” said Gerald.
    “I don’t need the doctor to see me,” said Mrs Ludlow crossly, cutting across his words. “I just want a little of somebody’s time and attention to get me dressed.”
    “Yes, Mother. I’ll see to you as soon as the doctor’s gone,” said Phyllis in soothing tones.
    “What did he say? It was her heart, wasn’t it?” Mrs Ludlow demanded. “She looked as if she had a bad heart. She was too fat and too red in the face.”
    “The doctor isn’t quite sure what happened, mother,” Phyllis said. “But he thinks it probably was a heart attack.” It was no good letting her mother know how vague in fact the doctor had been.
    “I thought she always seemed very healthy,” said Gerald. “And fresh-complexioned, not apoplectic.”
    Phyllis frowned at him. What use to anyone was an argument? Mrs Mackenzie was dead; that was a fact, and it was quite enough to be going on with.
    “We’ll have to tell her family,” she said, in a worried voice. “That son in Clapham. I don’t know his address.”
    “It’s bound to be somewhere in her room,” said Gerald. “I’ll go and have a hunt for it while you clear up in here.”
    He crossed the room to the door, and Phyllis began to tidy the papers and oddments her mother had somehow managed to strew all over her bed.
    “You’ll get me up,” said Mrs Ludlow firmly, brandishing her stick. “And Cathy can take me around the garden when I’m ready. It will give her something to do.”
    Gerald exchanged a glance with his sister as he left the room; really, the old girl was incredible. She always made a daily inspection of the garden as soon as she came downstairs. On weekdays it was Bludgen’s duty to report at the house and wheel her round each morning; she knew every plant she owned and followed its fortunes like a mother her nurslings. On Sundays Phyllis or Gerald propelled her on this progress. Nothing was ever allowed to upset her routine, except an indisposition of her own, and clearly sudden death was to be no exception. He supposed that her strict ritual gave a framework to her existence.
    Frowning, Gerald went along to Mrs Mackenzie’s room. Phyllis had drawn the curtains halfway, in a compromise, so that the intrusive sun was dimmed but the room was not dark. Odd how impersonal it seemed, even though Mrs Mackenzie had lived in it for so many years. She had very few possessions on display, not even any photographs. The furnishings were those considered appropriate by Mrs Ludlow for her