The days following their visit to the Blacketts proved frustrating.
The plan had been to stay overnight in London, then see Mrs. McGinley the next day. Hopefully, they could view the scene of the crime as well, as crime it must have been, even if it was only a case of suicide. But university business had intervened, with Jonty summoned by telegram to return, in order to provide some emotional support for a returning student. Orlando would have to play this hand on his own. He wasn’t unhappy about the situation. He could manage the interview perfectly well, would be able to call into Birdcage Walk for a preliminary discussion about his lecture, and best of all there’d be no risk of having to take the metal monster. Trains, either overground or underground, would be more than acceptable.
Robertson’s house was tall, elegant, and in a small square in the west of the capital. Not the most fashionable area, but pleasant enough. Orlando couldn’t resist taking a walk past the house, along the road and round the corner. He needed to get an idea of how easy it might be to break in round the back of the house, but it transpired that it would involve vaulting over a series of garden walls. Was he being ridiculous to consider this angle? If a stranger wanted to get into the house, surely the most simple and least suspicious way would be to make an appointment with the doctor himself?
And if a stranger had managed to get into the house, poison the whisky, and depart again without leaving so much as a trace of means or motive, what earthly chance had they of running this person to ground? He had to remind himself that a mysterious stranger was normally the least likely suspect in any case. Usually if people were done to death, chances were it was at the hands of their nearest and dearest, family or friend.
He completed his circuit, coming to a halt by the front of the house, just as a nearby church clock chimed eleven. He strode up the steps, knocked, and waited.
A woman opened the door, and Orlando found himself momentarily looking over her head. She must have been all of four feet ten inches tall, with bright, intelligent eyes and wearing an immaculate black dress. He doffed his hat. “Mrs. McGinley?”
“Professor Coppersmith?” Mrs. McGinley had a lilting Scottish accent and a no-nonsense air. “Come in. You’ll be wanting a cup of tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”
Orlando hesitated. Most people could make an excellent cup of tea but a good coffee was an art few possessed.
Mrs. McGinley seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry. It’ll be almost as good as you can get abroad. None of that Camp Coffee essence.”
“Then a cup of it would be most welcome.” Orlando was shown into the housekeeper’s sitting room below stairs and waited while she made his drink. The room was as neat as its owner, but homely, with plenty of pictures of a good-looking man in uniform—Mr. McGinley probably, given the presence of a younger Mrs. McGinley next to him in many of the photographs.
“Handsome, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Very suited to his uniform,” Orlando added hurriedly, feeling a flush on his cheeks. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Thank you for coming. If there is anything suspicious regarding Dr. Robertson’s death, I’d rather we clarified it one way or the other, and as soon as possible.” She placed a coffee pot and two cups on a little table.
Orlando thanked her again, took a wary sip, then a more substantial draught. “This is excellent. Thank you.”
“Will you stop thanking me? There’s such a thing as an overabundance of politeness.” She picked up her cup. “Now, you stated on the telephone that you had some questions for me. Would you like to start?”
“Yes, th . . . Yes. Mr. Atherton had been coming to see Dr. Robertson for a while, we believe?”
“Yes. Almost a year now. I checked in the diary. You can appreciate that I can’t discuss treatments because I simply don’t know what went on during consultations, let alone the confidentiality of the consulting room, but I could furnish dates if need be.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure dates are relevant at present. It’s a shame we can’t access the records of what went on.”
“I can tell you that the doctor was extremely capable with psychotherapy as well as physical treatments. ‘The remedial influence on the mind,’ he called it. Making people feel better by getting them to talk about their problems. For a while Mr. Atherton certainly seemed happier, but I suppose there’s only so much that talking about things can do.”
Orlando nodded. Being able to pour out his heart to Jonty had been an extremely remedial influence on him. “Do you know if the decision to help Atherton to take his own life was made suddenly?”
Mrs. McGinley set her shoulders and gave Orlando a surprisingly hard stare. “Do you think Dr. Robertson would have assisted someone to die just on a whim?”
“I’m sorry, I put that question clumsily.” Orlando spread his hands in apology, almost sending his notepad flying but luckily not his coffee cup. “Any physician with an ounce of conscience would have made sure he was acting in his patient’s best interests, of course.”
“And that’s precisely what Dr. Robertson did.” Her shoulders relaxed a touch.
“I was just trying to get some sense of exactly when Atherton had asked for help. We’ve been told that he wanted to die and then later on he didn’t and it all seems a bit of a muddle.”
“I can believe that. Do you find, in your investigations, that three innocent people can witness the same sequence of events and produce three different accounts of them?”
“Yes. My partner in crime, Dr. Stewart—who sends his apologies for not being here—would say it’s the sheer cussedness of life.” Orlando drank some more coffee.
“Unfortunately I can’t give you any indication of Mr. Atherton’s state of mind. But, as it can’t cause him any harm now, I’m willing to share something that I’ve kept secret.” Mrs. McGinley leaned forward. “He’d done it once before, you know.”
“I’m sorry?” Orlando wondered if he’d dropped off and missed an important part of the conversation.
“Oh, forgive me. I’m always doing that. Assuming that people can read my mind, I suppose. I was talking about the doctor. How he’d helped somebody to die, before. Just the once, and not without great wrestling with his conscience.”
“What were the circumstances of the first . . . case?” Orlando found the words sticking in his throat. Case? Aided suicide? Mercy killing? Would it not be more honest simply to say “murder”?
“Back when I first worked for him, he had an old lady as one of his patients. She’d been extremely active all through her life and into her eighties, but a series of strokes had robbed her body of the capacity to satisfy her brain. Rather like Mr. Atherton. She nagged and nagged at Dr. Robertson to end her suffering, but he resisted.”
“What changed his mind?” And didn’t that cast an element of doubt on the accepted version of recent events? Why would the doctor feel so remorseful about the man’s death, remorseful to the point of killing himself, if he’d done the deed before?
“She developed something inside, something that ate away at her. She was in terrible pain.” Mrs. McGinley shook her head. “He came to the conclusion it would be an act of mercy. That to do nothing was cruel. Her end was very peaceful, very dignified, as if she’d just slipped away to a better place.”
“How did he feel about doing it?”
“Distraught.” Mrs. McGinley clasped her hands together and looked at a point behind Orlando’s shoulder. “He’d persuaded himself that it was the only treatment left available, that she had no future that wasn’t pain and anguish, but it didn’t make it any easier on him.”
Orlando, uncomfortable at the possibility of having a weeping woman to deal with, turned to follow the housekeeper’s gaze. A striking portrait of an elderly lady graced the wall behind him. Light dawned. “Is that the lady concerned?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“A lucky guess.” Orlando smiled. “She was a very handsome woman.”
“She was. And she was my aunt, in case you’re about to speculate about us being related.” She returned the smile. “I didn’t want to mention it, in case you felt it affected my judgement on the matter. And I was going to ask if you’d seen a family resemblance, but it would sound vain now.”
“There is indeed a resemblance.” The same eyes, warm but shrewd, the same wide brow and determined chin. “Is that how she came to approach Dr. Robertson? Through your association with him?”
“No, quite the contrary. I became his housekeeper at the same time as he started to look after my aunt. I wanted to move nearer her as I’d been widowed and neither of us had family close by. When she mentioned her physician was looking for someone to run his house, I felt it was an answer to my prayers.”
“Do you approve of what he did? For your aunt?”
“Yes. I couldn’t have stayed working for him afterwards if I didn’t, could I?” She offered Orlando another cup of coffee. “She was in agony towards the end. It would have been a sin to let it carry on.”
Orlando held his tongue. This case was becoming confusing, and not only in terms of the deaths. Should he condemn what somebody else would do in the name of love? What if Jonty were in desperate pain—had been blown half to bits on the battlefield, maybe—suffering a slow lingering death and he had the capacity to make things better, to take away that pain forever?
His face must have reflected his inner turmoil, because Mrs. McGinley tapped his arm gently. “Would you rather we didn’t discuss the details? I know it isn’t easy. I guess I’ve learned to cope with all manner of things, working here.”
“No, that will be fine. We’ve a case to tackle and tackle it we must.” He mustered up a smile. “It sounds as though Edward Atherton’s circumstances were similar to your aunt’s.”
She nodded. “I suspect so. I saw him when he visited. Poor chap—very little movement when he first started coming and less as time passed. Razor sharp in his mind, though. I know how awful my aunt found it, to be stuck inside a body which won’t obey you. The young lad that used to come with him. Wilshire?”
“Wilshire.”
“That’s the one. He told me that Atherton used to be so active and full of tricks. He’d known him since Wilshire was just a boy and first came to work at the house.”
“Everybody agrees that Atherton had deteriorated in body to the point he couldn’t even write his name. What seems to be in dispute is if he had a change of heart about killing himself. Is there anything you can tell me about that?”
Her brows drew together. “I do remember him telling me he’d found a faith at last—one day he seemed so much happier than normal that I had to ask him why. I thought he might tell me to mind my own business, but he was always a charming gentleman. Wonderful manners.”
“So I’ve been told.” Orlando measured his words. “His sister believes that faith made him change his mind.”
“She would know best, I suppose, but I got the impression that if anything, it might have made him more determined.” She laid down her cup. “One day, towards the end, he had to wait, as Dr. Robertson was busy with an emergency. We chatted, and Mr. Atherton said he was looking forward to running into the arms of his Maker and just resting there. Given that in heaven he’d have working legs and he’d have the chance to run again, like when he was a lad.”
Orlando wasn’t sure he believed in the hereafter but he could genuinely see the appeal of the idea, especially in such a case. All tears to be wiped away, a new body that wouldn’t let its owner down. “So, if that death makes some sort of sense, what about Dr. Robertson taking his own life? Did that surprise you?”
“It did and it didn’t, if that makes any sort of sense. Not in regard to having helped another person take his life—he wasn’t frightened of any legal repercussions there might be afterwards. He’d got all his plans in place.”
Orlando looked up from his notes. “What plans?”
She hesitated. “Can I trust you?”
“Of course you can. I’m not a policeman.”
“True.” She smiled. “But suicide is still an offence. As is covering up a crime.”
“I promise you that if this is simply a case of a joint suicide pact, I have no intention of helping the authorities to prosecute.” Maybe that sounded pompous. But it was nought but the truth.
“He had a colleague lined up to say that Atherton’s death was natural and to sign the death certificate. Not the colleague who actually signed the death certificates, in the event.”
“Really?” That would be a key person to talk to. Not least because it gave some credence to the theory of Robertson murdering Atherton. “That seems an extraordinarily farsighted thing to do. And dangerous, should the colleague have changed his mind.”
“It wasn’t a risk he ended up taking, was it? He must have changed his mind in the event, and felt he couldn’t carry on.” She frowned. “Maybe it’s even more complex than that. Dr. Norris, the man who was to sign off Atherton’s death, was subsequently disgraced. Some business to do with inveigling one of his dying patients into leaving a legacy in his favour. I have to say I wondered if Mrs. Blackett heard about that, and it prompted her to think there might be an element of foul play, but I don’t see how she could have known about Dr. Norris’s potential involvement.”
“She certainly didn’t mention it to us, and it would have strengthened her case. Where is this Norris now?” Orlando would love to have the man’s version of his planned involvement.
“In Outer Mongolia, for all I know.” Mrs. McGinley smiled, a pair of dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Or up the great grey-green greasy Limpopo. He fled when the scandal about the patient’s will broke.”
Damn! Orlando thought, although he made sure he uttered nothing worse than, “That’s a shame. He didn’t benefit from Dr. Robertson’s will as well, by any chance?”
“Of course not. I’d have been straight to the police in those circumstances. Even though, I have to say, there was no indication of foul play, as far as I could see. I know,” Mrs. McGinley threw her hands in the air, “I’m not a detective, but I’m not daft.”
“I never thought you were. That day, when you and Wilshire had to break into the consulting room, was there anything you noticed that struck you as odd or amiss?”
The housekeeper thought, then shook her head slowly. “No. The door was locked, but he would occasionally do that, to preserve a patient’s dignity or ensure they weren’t disturbed. Not by me,” she added. “But we’d had some cleaning women who didn’t have the sense they were born with and would barge in unannounced. He’d have had good cause not to want to be disturbed this time, if he intended to do away with himself as well.”
“Would you have stopped him if you’d known?”
“Yes, I certainly would.” The housekeeper set her shoulders again. “There’s a world of difference between ending a life which is nothing but agony, and taking one’s own life because of a doomed love.”
“A doomed love?” Orlando almost blotted his notepad. “I’d better make sure I’ve got this clear. You’re referring to Dr. Robertson?”
“Och, no.” Mrs. McGinley’s accent had taken on a more marked Scottish tone and she shifted in her seat. “I was just giving an example of why somebody might kill themselves. Romeo and Juliet and the like.”
“Ah, yes.” Orlando didn’t believe a word of it. Maybe Robertson’s brother could give them an insight into his love life. “So, to make this absolutely clear, do you have any reason to suspect that this wasn’t a double suicide?”
Mrs. McGinley sat silently for a minute, evidently not willing to commit herself until she’d thought points through. “Apart from the fact I was surprised the doctor took his own life? No. There were the letters. Left on the table, clear as daylight. Mrs. Blackett would have to explain them away, and I’m not sure she can.”
She was right, of course. They were the key sticking place to any murder theory, above and beyond even the locked room.
“Would you by any chance have a copy of either of those letters? We’re having trouble running them to ground.” Mrs. Blackett herself appeared mysteriously to have lost her brother’s, a fact which both Jonty and Orlando found highly suspicious.
“You’d have to ask Mr. Charles for those. Mr. Charles Robertson, I should say: the doctor’s brother. He’s always been less formal than the doctor.”
“I see. I can understand why the doctor wouldn’t like to be called ‘Dr. Paul.’” He would bridle at being called Professor Orlando. “There seems to be a degree of debate about whether the poison was taken in or with spirits. Did Dr. Robertson usually have whisky in his surgery?”
“Only for very special occasions or very special patients.” Mrs. McGinley appeared to see nothing wrong with the idea. Mrs. Stewart had often sworn by the medicinal benefits of a small tipple, and perhaps she felt the same. “He loved his dram. Knocked it down in one like a true Scot.”
“So it didn’t surprise you that he’d taken it in there for this particular consultation?”
“Not with hindsight, although that’s a wonderful thing. I didn’t know he had done so at the time. He kept the tantalus in the dining room, and I’d not had occasion to go in there that day.”
“The whisky was in a decanter, not a bottle?”
“Oh yes. Dr. Robertson was always very particular about spirits and wine being able to breathe.” Mrs. McGinley eased herself out of her chair. “Come on, I can show you. It’s still the same one in there.”
The housekeeper led Orlando up a small flight of stairs and into the dining room, a high-ceilinged, well-lit room where it would be a joy to take one’s nosebag. A sideboard ranged along one wall, and on it sat a tantalus with what looked like a decanter of sherry and one of whisky. He went across to examine it, aware of Mrs. McGinley’s shrewd—and slightly amused—gaze on him.
“Is there any chance that somebody might have tampered with this decanter? I mean could they put the poison in there in advance?”
Mrs. McGinley pulled herself up to her full four foot ten inches, the amusement gone. “It wasn’t me if that’s what you’re insinuating. Why would I want to do such a wicked thing?”
“Please forgive me. I wasn’t insinuating anything.” Although why should the lady suddenly feel the need to protest so much? “We simply wanted to know if somebody else might have had access to that decanter over the days preceding the doctor’s death.”
“Hmm. Just as well, then.” Mrs. McGinley crinkled her brow in thought. “There’s the lady who does the cleaning, but I can’t believe she had any reason to interfere with things.”
“Is that the one Dr. Robertson had to lock the door against?”
“Och no, she was long gone. This one, Mrs. Neil, is much more reliable. But I’m not sure she’d understand about poisons and the like.”
“Anybody else, then? A patient perhaps?”
“I doubt that. The waiting and consulting rooms are on the ground floor, and I’m mostly working up in the main part of the house during consulting hours, so likely as not I’d have noticed if anybody was wandering where they shouldn’t have.”
“Likely as not” wasn’t “absolutely certain,” though.
The housekeeper pressed on. “Dr. Robertson did have his brother round for dinner maybe a week before he died. It’s possible that the doctor might have left the room, but I can’t believe that Mr. Charles would have done such a thing either. Inheritance notwithstanding.”
Orlando reserved judgement on that. “Were there any other patients that day?”
“No. The doctor had kept it clear. He’d told me he had to go out on business later in the day so not to make any appointments. Maybe he just said that so I wouldn’t be suspicious.”
“Did he specify where he had to go?”
“To see a publisher, I believe. I don’t know which one off the top of my head.”
“A publisher?” Orlando spun round. “What was that for?”
“I don’t know. They must have been expecting him, though, because they wrote afterwards—a couple of times, I think. The return address was on the envelope. I’m sorry I can’t remember what it was. Mr. Charles might be able to help you. He dealt with all the doctor’s affairs afterwards, post and all.” Mrs. McGinley inclined her head towards the door. “Would you like to see the consulting room? Dr. Gurney is at the hospital today, and he gave me permission to show you round.”
“Thank you.” Orlando followed in her wake, mind whirring. If there had been subsequent letters, it would appear that the appointment was a genuine one. They’d need to confirm that, of course, but if it proved to be true, it might indicate Robertson hadn’t intended to take his life. That the original plan for the day might have been for Atherton to die—or be murdered—and Norris to come in to “verify” that it was natural causes, and Dr. Robertson would have gone to see the publishers. So what had made the plan change?
“Here we are.” Mrs. McGinley was about to open the door, but Orlando forestalled her.
“Could I just have a look at this first?” He ran his hand across the door panels. “We’re puzzled as to why you didn’t try to unlock the door to the consulting room, rather than let young Wilshire break it down.”
Mrs. McGinley raised her eyebrows. “I couldn’t unlock it. There was only one key, back then, which the doctor kept. The one which turned out to be in the lock. I had keys to all the other doors,” she added, with a degree of defiance, “but not the consulting room. I have one now.”
She held up the large ring of keys, one of which was already in her hand, presumably to be applied to the lock.
“Why did you not have one previously? Did Dr. Robertson have things he wanted to hide?”
“He was an extremely private man. He didn’t want to risk anyone—such as that lady who came to clean—happening across anything she shouldn’t. Even after we’d dismissed her, I and I alone had the cleaning of the consulting room.”
“Naturally.” Orlando tried to pour oil on the waters. For all her amiability, Mrs. McGinley struck him as a volatile person, rather like Jonty. “He’d have needed to delegate that duty to someone he could trust above everyone else. I expect a consulting room is like the confessional. Secrets are shared there, some of which might border on the scandalous. Dr. Robertson would have heard things—made notes, too—which he wouldn’t want read and repeated.”
Mrs. McGinley’s frown eased. “I’m glad to see that you appreciate the nature of my post. Mr. Charles gave me a very good reference for Dr. Gurney. He too needs somebody who understands about the nature of this work. Now, would you like to see inside?”
“Yes, thank you. We’ve your account—and young Wilshire’s—but it would be useful to see things in situ. A picture paints a thousand words, as they say.” A swift glance around the room confirmed what Wilshire had said about the likelihood of a hiding place; there simply wasn’t room, with the present layout, nor did there appear to be anywhere for a hidden door to open out, given the furniture that ran along almost every inch of the walls.
“Have these cabinets always been here?”
“Yes. Dr. Gurney took the rental of house with all its furniture.” She waved her hand airily around the room. “He simply replaced some of the equipment in here with his own.”
“And the patients’ records?”
“Those patients he kept, he retained the files for. They’re in the filing cabinet, which he quite rightly keeps locked. Those patients who have gone to another doctor have had their records sent over.”
“And patients who died when in Dr. Robertson’s care?”
“Those files have been emptied, I believe. Mr. Charles asked Dr. Gurney to go through things and weed them out.”
“Is that usual?” Although what use would medical notes be post mortem, unless they showed clearly that Atherton had decided against taking his own life? And even then, it would be easy enough to doctor them.
“I have no idea.”
“Did Dr. Gurney find anything else, do you know? We have reason to believe that Paul Robertson had something which he didn’t want the world to know about.”
Mrs. McGinley’s face remained neutral. “Not that I’m aware.” She smiled, primly. “If there was anything in his private papers, Mr. Charles would know. He took all of them.”
“Thank you. We’ll add that to the list of things we’ll ask him.” Orlando looked round the consulting room once more. Could Charles have found something in the house related to this mysterious secret? And had he made sure it was disposed of, so the secret died with his brother? Or had he taken evidence of his own involvement in the death? Orlando took a deep breath and mentally slapped himself. Speculating on rumour and without evidence. Such sloppy practice had to stop.
“Can you show me exactly where Dr. Robertson and Mr. Atherton were?”
“I can, although you’ll have to use your imagination a bit as the furniture has been rearranged.” Mrs. McGinley indicated where the desk had been, and the two chairs next to it, close by each other, which might have been logical if Robertson had to help Atherton—or force him—to take the poison. The letters had been in the middle of the table, between the two men, a glass of whisky next to each of them. There had been no sign of anything untoward, like evidence of a struggle, albeit her initial impression of the room had been based on a glance, as she’d quickly left to get help.
“One last thing.” Orlando fingered the desk as if it might hold a tangible clue that only contact could reveal. “I believe somebody came here, that day, looking for Edward Atherton?”
Mrs. McGinley, who’d been fussing over the curtains, turned round. “I’m sorry?”
“Somebody called at the house looking for Mr. Atherton.” Orlando was pretty certain she’d heard first time.
“Did Mrs. Blackett tell you that? I’m afraid I was less than truthful when I spoke to her. She was very persistent, and I just wanted to be rid of her at the time. A funeral is hardly the place for interrogation,” she added, a catch in her voice. “That woman can’t seem to let this rest. Dr. Robertson helped her brother take his life, then he took his own. There’s no more to it than that, but she sees what she wants to see.”
“You haven’t answered my question.” Orlando wasn’t going to leave the room until he had a response. “Did someone come here looking for Edward Atherton or not?”
Mrs. McGinley, all four foot ten inches bristling with aggression, looked like she might just thump him, but then she sighed and eased herself into a chair. “I hate lying. That’s why I told her that somebody came looking for her brother when she interrogated me, but I didn’t say who. I’ll tell you because I trust you to use the information wisely. It was Charles.”
“Dr. Robertson’s brother? It seems a remarkable coincidence to choose that particular day.” If coincidence it was. “And why was he looking for Atherton?”
Mrs. McGinley shifted in her seat. “He told me there was a matter he had to discuss with his brother, but Dr. Robertson apparently hadn’t been returning his calls or answering his letters since they’d had dinner the week previously. I insisted that he couldn’t be disturbed, having just gone into the consultation, and he said he’d wait.”
“And did he wait?”
“Yes and no. By which I mean I ushered him into the waiting room, but he didn’t stay above five minutes. I heard him storm down the stairs uttering language which made me blush.”
Time enough to have poisoned the whisky, except that was already in the consulting room by then.
“He definitely went out? He couldn’t have waited somewhere around the house?”
“I didn’t actually see him go along the street if that’s what you mean, but he must have left the house, because he gave the door such a slam it almost came off its hinges.” Mrs. McGinley shook her head. “He’s normally such an even-tempered man, but he gets worked up over some things. I suppose that’s true of all of us, though.”
“Indeed.” Orlando frowned. “Is there any chance Charles came to talk to Atherton as well as his brother?”
“Yes. I mean he asked to talk to his brother, but when I said he was in with Mr. Atherton, he said he’d wait and talk to the pair of them. Yes, I know,” Mrs. McGinley raised her eyebrows, “I didn’t realise he even knew Atherton, but maybe they’d run across each other somewhere, as people do. Life is full of coincidences.”
“It is.” Orlando made a final note, sighed, and shut his notepad. “Thank you for being so helpful. And for the coffee. If you think of anything which might shed some light on what Charles wanted to talk to them about, please let me know.”
“I will.” She rose and showed him to the door. Once outside, Orlando studied the facade of the building. So elegant, so prim, who would have thought that death could have lurked behind those windows?
Life is full of coincidences.
Yes. And full of meticulous plans dressed up to look like coincidence. How on earth were they supposed to tell between the two?