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Authors: Margaret Yorke
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housekeeper: a high, old-fashioned bed, a bright oak wardrobe and a matching dressing-table. Phyllis had added an easy chair, some cushions and a radio, and there was an elderly television set, one that had been replaced downstairs by a more modern model. There were no books or papers to be seen, no knitting under way left out; Mrs Mackenzie kept everything concealed from view.
Gerald hunted about. He found Mrs Mackenzie’s secret hoard of whisky in the wardrobe; and in a drawer he discovered a zipped writing case which contained some letters. Amongst them was her son’s address. There was nothing for it now but to ring up the young man and break the news. Gerald went out of the room, closed the door quietly, and walked slowly downstairs wondering how best to word it.
Dr Wilkins met him at the foot of the stairs.
“The police will be here very soon to take her away,” he said.
“The police?” Gerald looked startled.
“They deal with these things,” said the doctor. “Meanwhile, I wonder if you can tell me something. I made out a new prescription for your mother’s sleeping pills when I was here last week. Do you know if they’ve been collected yet? Could Mrs Mackenzie have fetched them? If so, it would account for her possession of sedatives.”
Gerald stared at him.
“But had she got some sleeping pills? Is that what she died of?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Unfortunately, as I explained to Mrs Medhurst, until we know the post-mortem results there is no way of telling the cause of death. It may have been due to a stroke, or a heart attack, but it may have been something else. Your sister tells me that Mrs Mackenzie seemed perfectly well last night. I just wondered about the sleeping tablets, because these accidents can happen very easily.”
“Mrs Mackenzie wasn’t the sort of person to make mistakes with drugs,” said Gerald. “She knew the dose. She gave my mother her medicines if Phyllis was out.”
“She’d had some whisky,” said the doctor. “She might have got confused. Still, maybe this is barking completely up the wrong tree. We’ll simply have to wait. Meanwhile, I’ll go up and see your mother.”
“She seems to be quite all right,” Gerald said.
“A remarkably resilient woman,” said the doctor, as he went upstairs.
Gerald watched him go. He should ring up young Mackenzie, but that could wait for ten minutes until things that mattered near at hand had been dealt with.
“Helen?” he called. “Cathy? Where have you got to?”
“We’re in the kitchen, Daddy,” Cathy’s voice replied.
Gerald crossed the hall and went into the kitchen, where he found Cathy and Helen seated at the table. In front of each of them was an untasted cup of coffee.
“Ah, coffee, just what I want,” said Gerald with bogus heartiness.
“Neither of us can drink a drop,” said Cathy miserably. “I feel sick.”
“I know what you need,” said Gerald. He left the room, and came back with a bottle of brandy from the dining- room; into each of their cups he poured a stiff tot. “Phyl could do with some too, I’m sure. Still, we’d better leave her to finish with Wilkins.”
“Poor Aunt Phyl. She hasn’t had a bite,” said Cathy. “At least I had some cornflakes first.” She got up and poured her father a cup of coffee from the pot that was keeping hot on the stove. “Here you are, Daddy.”
“Thanks.” Gerald added some brandy to it. “Drink up, you two,” he urged, and frowned at Helen, who picked up her cup and forced some of the coffee down. Cathy obediently followed this example, grimacing as she swallowed, but it did do her good; she felt better almost at once.
“What’s going to happen, Daddy?” she asked. “Helen says that poor Mrs Mack will have to be cut up.”
“Cathy dear, I didn’t put it quite like that,” protested Helen.
“Well, that’s what a post-mortem means,” said Cathy. “Didn’t she have a heart attack?”
“The doctor isn’t sure. He
Gerald hunted about. He found Mrs Mackenzie’s secret hoard of whisky in the wardrobe; and in a drawer he discovered a zipped writing case which contained some letters. Amongst them was her son’s address. There was nothing for it now but to ring up the young man and break the news. Gerald went out of the room, closed the door quietly, and walked slowly downstairs wondering how best to word it.
Dr Wilkins met him at the foot of the stairs.
“The police will be here very soon to take her away,” he said.
“The police?” Gerald looked startled.
“They deal with these things,” said the doctor. “Meanwhile, I wonder if you can tell me something. I made out a new prescription for your mother’s sleeping pills when I was here last week. Do you know if they’ve been collected yet? Could Mrs Mackenzie have fetched them? If so, it would account for her possession of sedatives.”
Gerald stared at him.
“But had she got some sleeping pills? Is that what she died of?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Unfortunately, as I explained to Mrs Medhurst, until we know the post-mortem results there is no way of telling the cause of death. It may have been due to a stroke, or a heart attack, but it may have been something else. Your sister tells me that Mrs Mackenzie seemed perfectly well last night. I just wondered about the sleeping tablets, because these accidents can happen very easily.”
“Mrs Mackenzie wasn’t the sort of person to make mistakes with drugs,” said Gerald. “She knew the dose. She gave my mother her medicines if Phyllis was out.”
“She’d had some whisky,” said the doctor. “She might have got confused. Still, maybe this is barking completely up the wrong tree. We’ll simply have to wait. Meanwhile, I’ll go up and see your mother.”
“She seems to be quite all right,” Gerald said.
“A remarkably resilient woman,” said the doctor, as he went upstairs.
Gerald watched him go. He should ring up young Mackenzie, but that could wait for ten minutes until things that mattered near at hand had been dealt with.
“Helen?” he called. “Cathy? Where have you got to?”
“We’re in the kitchen, Daddy,” Cathy’s voice replied.
Gerald crossed the hall and went into the kitchen, where he found Cathy and Helen seated at the table. In front of each of them was an untasted cup of coffee.
“Ah, coffee, just what I want,” said Gerald with bogus heartiness.
“Neither of us can drink a drop,” said Cathy miserably. “I feel sick.”
“I know what you need,” said Gerald. He left the room, and came back with a bottle of brandy from the dining- room; into each of their cups he poured a stiff tot. “Phyl could do with some too, I’m sure. Still, we’d better leave her to finish with Wilkins.”
“Poor Aunt Phyl. She hasn’t had a bite,” said Cathy. “At least I had some cornflakes first.” She got up and poured her father a cup of coffee from the pot that was keeping hot on the stove. “Here you are, Daddy.”
“Thanks.” Gerald added some brandy to it. “Drink up, you two,” he urged, and frowned at Helen, who picked up her cup and forced some of the coffee down. Cathy obediently followed this example, grimacing as she swallowed, but it did do her good; she felt better almost at once.
“What’s going to happen, Daddy?” she asked. “Helen says that poor Mrs Mack will have to be cut up.”
“Cathy dear, I didn’t put it quite like that,” protested Helen.
“Well, that’s what a post-mortem means,” said Cathy. “Didn’t she have a heart attack?”
“The doctor isn’t sure. He
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