Dr MacArthur
The doctor’s rooms were modern, a two-storey brick construction built within the past few years. Emma wasn’t sure who occupied the residence on the upper level, perhaps Doctor Rook, as she knew Dr. MacArthur had a smart residence on Percy Street. The area at the lower end of High Street was rapidly becoming the professional part of town. Across the street on the corner, was the town hall.
There were half a dozen patients in the waiting room when they entered. Emma had to force herself not to step back outside immediately. The atmosphere was grey and depressing, and one elderly man was wheezing as if about to draw his last breath. She could only hope whatever was ailing him wasn’t contagious.
She let Henrietta speak to the receptionist, asking for an interview with Dr. MacArthur or Dr. Rook regarding the death of her father-in-law. Speaking in hushed tones, the receptionist, a thin woman about Emma’s age, her dark hair pulled back tightly into a low bun, informed them that Dr. MacArthur was busy, but should be free to speak to them in about half an hour. Would they care to take a seat and wait? Henrietta shrugged, and they took the last two chairs in the room.
A door beside the receptionist’s desk opened and a woman and child came out. Dr. Rook appeared, handing a folder to the receptionist, who handed him another one in return. He glanced at it.
“Miss Robinson,” he said, and a woman in her twenties stood and followed him. As the door closed behind them, a collective sigh went round those waiting as they settled to wait some more.
The elderly man kept wheezing. Emma decided it sounded more like a miner’s complaint than something contagious. Nothing you could do for that but alleviate the discomfort. She opened her bag. She always carried a small supply of useful herbals, a lozenge or two of this and that. Yes, there was one in the tin, a lozenge with echinacea and mint in the mixture. She must remember to make some more. She stood and quietly approached the man. He looked at her in alarm as she held out the rectangular brown lozenge in her gloved fingers. She smiled.
“It will help,” she said simply.
He took it and stared at it for moment, sniffed, shrugged, and put it in his mouth. What did he have to lose after all. Emma sat back down. Ten minutes later she looked up, startled. The elderly man stood before her. His colour had improved and his wheezing was less laboured.
“Do you have more of they?” he asked hopefully.
Emma shook her head. “Not with me, but I can make more,” she hastened to tell him as his expression drooped. “If you call in early next week. I live at the top of Watson Street. Ask for Mrs. Berry.”
“Mrs. Berry, Watson Street,” he muttered as he left the surgery. Several other patients were now looking at her with interest.
“You might have some more visitors than just that one next week,” Henrietta whispered. “Are you back in business?”
“I might be stepping on toes if I do,” Emma whispered back. The receptionist wasn’t looking pleased to see the back of a patient, glaring at her. She couldn’t blame the woman. Here she was, seemingly peddling her wares in the doctors’ very own business premises.
“Perhaps you could supply the doctors,” Henrietta suggested.
“Hmm, and have them charge twice the price.” She’d think about it. A little extra money could cover the laundry costs.
After another half hour, with patients coming and going, a light blinked on the receptionist’s table. She left the waiting room to answer the summons. Five minutes later, the receptionist ushered Emma and Henrietta into Dr. MacArthur’s room, before leaving and closing the door behind her.
Dark wood paneling, shelves filled with leather bound books, and walls adorned with certificates and diplomas greeted them, oozing a refined and professional ambience intended, no doubt, to inspire a sense of authority. It immediately put Emma on edge. The man himself was seated behind a large, ornate desk, neat stacks of paper to one side, and a closed folder in front of him. He waved them toward two comfortable, upholstered chairs.
“Well, Mrs. Pickles, what is it you wish to know?” he asked, leaning back comfortably in his chair, his hands clasped loosely on his ample corporation.
“Can you tell us…” Henrietta’s voice quavered for moment and Emma realised how anxious she was really feeling beneath her calm exterior.
“I beg your pardon.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Can you please tell us how my father-in-law died?”
“The indications are that he suffered a heart attack.”
Henrietta’s relief was palpable as her hand went to her chest. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“Unfortunately, there is also the matter of the head wound,” Dr MacArthur said, thoughtfully stroking his dark whiskers with their hint of grey. “The blow to the head was not in itself enough to cause death, but the shock of it may have resulted in the heart attack which ultimately killed him.”
“Oh. But…” Henrietta faltered.
“In which case,” he went on, “the person who inflicted the head wound murdered him.”
Henrietta looked about to faint. Emma reached out and squeezed her hand.
“Doctor, what about time of death?” Emma asked. “There must be some indications as to when in the afternoon this heart attack occurred.”
“Mrs. er, Berry. As you seem to have pointed out to my colleague, Doctor Rook, the room the deceased was found in was particularly warm. There had been very little, if any, cooling of the body when he made his preliminary examination.”
Emma nodded. “That is perfectly true. Were the stomach contents examined? We know what time Mr. Pickles ate lunch. The degree of digestion could give us some indication of the time of death.”
“And do you know what he ate for lunch?”
Emma hadn’t taken note of it herself. She looked to Henrietta, who was doing her best to hold up and follow the conversation.
“Tomato soup and a plain bread roll, no butter.”
“Oh.” She should have asked Henrietta about that beforehand. Why couldn’t Mr. Pickles have had a lamb chop, like any self-respecting male?
“Yes, not much help there I’m afraid,” Dr. MacArthur said. Was he enjoying knocking down her suggestions? She had the distinct feeling he was.
“And lividity?” Emma felt she was clutching at straws.
“Again, no help. Not enough time had elapsed for any specific pooling of the blood. The time frame for his death is quite tight and not really in question, Mrs. Berry. It occurred within a period of two hours, between when he returned from lunch, which is believed to have been around one o’clock, and when he was found dead at three. It is not possible, with what we know, and what we’ve discovered, to tighten the time frame in any measurable way.”
Emma frowned. She felt she was forgetting something.
“I’m not sure I understand what all that means,” Henrietta spoke up. “If you can’t say for certain that the blow to the head caused the heart attack, or, or whether he was already dead when he was hit on the head, or how long…”
“The lack of blood at the wound,” Emma broke in. “If his heart had still been pumping when the blow was landed there would have been a great deal of blood. Any wound to the head or face bleeds profusely, but there was virtually no blood at all. He must have been dead when he was struck. Not a very nice thing to do, but it isn’t murder as far as I know.”
Dr. MacArthur pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted from Henrietta to Emma. He took a moment to answer.
“It is true that head wounds bleed a great deal. But what is to say the person who inflicted the blow didn’t clean up the wound to give the illusion that death was by natural causes?”
Both Emma and Henrietta stared at the man. Was he acting as devil’s advocate, or was he really trying to make a case for murder?
“Dr. MacArthur, a young woman has been accused of striking the blow, based on her having been found in the room with a piece of firewood in her hand. There is no indication of any clean up. No bloodied cloths, or bowls of water, or anything of that nature. It appears she had just that moment entered the room and found the firewood on the floor, as she claims.”
“And well she could have, Mrs. Berry,” Dr. MacArthur said reasonably. “The cleaning items could already have been disposed of. And then, realising she had left the incriminating log on the floor, she returns to the room intending to dispose of it in the fireplace and is, fortuitously, caught in the act.”
“But that is pure conjecture,” Emma cried. “There’s no evidence of any cleanup. The evidence is in what we all saw, a complete lack of blood, which indicates the blow was struck after death had already occurred.” The suggested scenario would have been laughable, except Dr. MacArthur was not smiling at the idea.
“Ladies, I appreciate your concern, and it will of course be up to a court to decide if foul play has been involved in this death. I can only report what I find. I will of course be speaking to Sergeant Donovan who will no doubt be making his own enquiries. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve given you as much time as I can. It’s already time for lunch.”
Henrietta, distraught, grabbed Emma’s arm as they stepped out onto the street.
“Oh, Emma. He’s already condemned Janet. What are we going to do? This is dreadful. I can’t believe…”
“Hush, hush,” Emma soothed, urging the older woman along the street and away from the surgery windows. Despite attempting to keep Henrietta calm, her thoughts were running in an even wilder direction.
The story she had related to Daniel just that morning came back to her with frightening clarity and Emma had to resist the urge to immediately run and search the Pickles washhouse for blood-stained cloths used to clean Old Mr. Pickles head wound, in case they were later planted there.
“We need to sit down, and have a cup of tea, and think this through,” she said, as much for her own benefit as Henrietta’s. Dr. MacArthur’s rendition of how Janet could have killed her grandfather was upsetting and needed putting into perspective. Not to mention, turned on its head for the rubbish it was.
Henrietta, a handkerchief clutched in her hand to wipe away the threatening tears, nodded dumbly, and let Emma bear her away to the Tearoom.
Lunch was being served when they arrived. Charity Pickles was sitting at a window table with Grace, Miriam, and Miriam’s fiancé. Henrietta took one look at them and turned away. Janey was clearing a table, but there was no sign of Janet. Emma followed Henrietta to the kitchen and found Janet skulking in the corner.
“I can’t go out there,” she said to her mother. “They gave me dirty looks and made loud comments to one another. Several ladies left without ordering. I’ve had to let Janey look after the room. Did you find out anything? Please tell me you did.”
“We need to talk about it,” Henrietta told her.
“Oh, no. I’m going to be arrested, aren’t I? But I didn’t do anything.”
“Hush, we’ll sort it out.” It was Henrietta’s turn to calm.
Janey came in balancing a tray piled high with dirty plates and cutlery which she took into the scullery.
“We need to close for a few hours,” Henrietta decided. “I can’t bear to talk to anyone right now.”
“There’s just the two tables finishing off their teapot, and the Pickles lot,” Janey reported, returning to the kitchen.
“Why don’t you two go into the house,” Emma told Henrietta and Janet. “Janey and I will see them off and lock up, and then we’ll come and join you.” The sound of clinking crockery sounded from the scullery. “Is someone else here?”
“Only Peggy,” Janey replied.
Emma stared at her. “Peggy? The Pickle’s maid, Peggy?”
“You asked me to talk to her,” Janey said, arcing up as usual at the idea she was being questioned about her behaviour.
“Janey, you’re brilliant. I have a job for the two of you.” She turned to Henrietta and Janet. “And we’ll need to keep Charity and the rest of them here for a bit longer. Quickly now. We can’t waste the opportunity.”
Emma sent Peggy and Janey off on their errand, while Henrietta dealt with the last customers before locking the front door and turning the sign to closed.