Scold's Bridle Read online

  Violet shivered. "And Jesus," she whispered. "I heard her. She said Mathilda was 'like Jesus.'" She raised a hand to her own bloodless lips. "Dead like Jesus in blood red water." Her eyes filled. "What's happened to her? Is she really dead?"

  "I'm afraid she is, Mrs. Orloff. It's only approximate, but the pathologist estimates the time of death between nine o'clock and midnight on Saturday." He looked from one to the other. "Were you here during those three hours?"

  "We were here all night," said Duncan. He was clearly drawn between his own perceived good taste of not asking questions and an overwhelming need to satisfy a very natural curiosity. "You haven't told us what's happened," he blurted out. "It's much, much worse if you don't know what's happened. We've been imagining terrible things."

  "She hasn't been crucified, has she?" asked Violet tremulously. "I said she's probably been crucified, otherwise why would Jenny have said she looked like Jesus?"

  "I said someone had tried to clean up afterwards," said Duncan, "which is why there's red water everywhere. You hear about it every day, old people being murdered for their money. They do terrible things to them, too, before they kill them."

  "Oh, I do hope she wasn't raped," said Violet. "I couldn't bear it if they'd raped her."

  Cooper had time to feel regret for this elderly couple who, like so many of their peers, lived the end of their lives in terror because the media persuaded them they were at risk. He knew better than anyone that statistics proved it was young men aged between fifteen and twenty-five who were the group most vulnerable to violent death. He had sorted out too many drunken brawls and picked too many stabbed and bludgeoned bodies from gutters outside pubs to be in any doubt of that. "She died in her bath," he said unemotionally. "Her wrists were slit. At the moment the pathologist is inclining towards suicide and we are only asking questions to satisfy ourselves that she did in fact take her own life."

  "But Jesus didn't die in his bath," said Violet in bewilderment.

  "She was wearing a scold's bridle on her head with flowers in it. I think perhaps Mrs. Spede thought it was a crown of thorns." It made no sense otherwise, he thought.

  "I hated that thing. Mathilda was always very peculiar about it." Violet had a habit, Cooper noticed, of emphasizing words she thought important. "It must have been suicide, then. She wore it when her arthritis was bad. It took her mind off the pain, you know. She always said she'd kill herself if it got so bad she couldn't stand it." She turned tear-filled eyes to her husband. "Why didn't she call out to us? I'm sure there's something we could have done to help."

  "Would you have heard her?" asked Cooper.

  "Oh, yes, especially if she was in the bathroom. She could have rattled the pipes. We'd certainly have heard that."

  Cooper transferred his attention to Mr. Orloff. "Did you hear anything at all that night?"

  Duncan gave the question long and thoughtful consideration. "Our days are very uneventful," he said apologetically. "All I can say is that if we had heard something, we'd have acted"-he spread his hands in a gesture of surrender-"like this morning when Jenny started screaming. There was nothing like that on Saturday."

  "Yet you both assumed she'd been murdered by a gang. You mentioned 'they.' "

  "It's difficult to think straight when people are screaming," he said, reproaching himself with a shake of the head. "And to be perfectly honest; I wasn't at all sure the Spedes themselves hadn't done something. They're not the brightest couple as you've probably discovered for yourself. Mind you, it wouldn't have been intentional. They're foolish, not dangerous. I assumed there'd been some sort of accident," he spread his palms on his fat knees, "I've been worrying that I should have gone in to do something, saved her perhaps, but if she died on Saturday...?" His voice tailed off on a query.

  Cooper shook his head. "You couldn't have done anything for her. What about during the daytime? Did you hear anything then?"

  "On Saturday, you mean?" He shook his head. "Nothing that leaps to mind. Certainly nothing unsettling." He looked at Violet as if seeking inspiration. "We notice if the bell rings in Cedar House, because it's very rare for Mathilda to have visitors, but otherwise"-he shrugged helplessly-"so little happens here, Sergeant, and we do watch a lot of television."

  "And you didn't wonder where she was on Sunday?"

  Violet dabbed at her eyes. "Oh, dear," she whispered, "could we have saved her then? How awful, Duncan."

  "No," said Cooper firmly, "she was certainly dead by three o'clock on Sunday morning."

  "We were friends, you know," said Violet. "Duncan and I have known her for fifty years. She sold us this cottage when Duncan retired five years ago. That's not to say she was the easiest person in the world to get on with. She could be very cruel to people she didn't like, but the trick with Mathilda was not to impose. We never did, of course, but there were those who did."

  Cooper licked the point of his pencil. "Who for example?"

  Violet lowered her voice. "Joanna and Ruth, her daughter and granddaughter. They never left her alone, always complaining, always demanding money. And the vicar was shocking." She cast a guilty glance at her husband. "I know Duncan doesn't approve of tittle-tattle but the vicar was always pricking her conscience about the less well off. She was an atheist, you know, and very rude to Mr. Matthews every time he came. She called him a Welsh leech. To his face, too."

  "Did he mind?"

  Duncan gave a rumble of laughter. "It was a game," he said. "She was quite generous sometimes when he caught her in a good mood. She gave him a hundred pounds once towards a centre for alcoholics, saying there but for the grace of her metabolism went she. She drank to deaden the pain of her arthritis, or so she said."

  "Not to excess, though," said Violet. "She was never drunk. She was too much of a lady ever to get drunk." She blew her nose loudly.

  "Is there anyone else you can think of who imposed on her?" asked Cooper after a moment.

  Duncan shrugged. "There was the doctor's husband, Jack Blakeney. He was always round there, but it wasn't an imposition. She liked him. I used to hear her laughing with him sometimes in the garden." He paused to reflect. "She had very few friends, Sergeant. As Violet said, she wasn't an easy woman. People either liked Mathilda or loathed her. You'll find that out soon enough if you're planning to ask questions of anyone else."

  "And you liked her?"

  His eyes grew suddenly wet. "I did," he said gruffly. "She was beautiful once, you know, quite beautiful." He patted his wife's hand. "We all were, a long, long time ago. Age has very few compensations, Sergeant, except perhaps the wisdom to recognize contentment." He pondered for a moment. "They do say slitting the wrists is a very peaceful way to die, although how anyone knows I can't imagine. Did she suffer, do you think?"

  "I'm afraid I can't answer that, Mr. Orloff," said Cooper honestly.

  The damp eyes held his for a moment and he saw a deep and haggard sadness in them. They spoke of a love that Cooper somehow suspected Duncan had never shown or felt for his wife. He wanted to say something by way of consolation, but what could he say that wouldn't make matters worse? He doubted that Violet knew, and he wondered, not for the first time, why love was more often cruel than it was kind.

  I watched Duncan clipping his hedge this afternoon and could barely remember the handsome man he was. If I had been a charitable woman, I would have married him forty years ago and saved him from himself and Violet. She has turned my Romeo into a sad-eyed Billy Bunter who blinks his passion quietly when no one's looking. Oh, that his too, too solid flesh should melt. At twenty, he had the body of Michelangelo's David, now he resembles an entire family group by Henry Moore.

  Jack continues to delight me. What a tragedy I didn't meet him or someone like him when I was "green in judgement." I learnt only how to survive, when Jack would, I think, have taught me how to love. I asked him why he and Sarah have no children, and he answered: "Because I've never had the urge to play God." I told him there was nothing godlike about procreati
on-doglike perhaps-and it's a monumental conceit that allows him to dictate Sarah's suitability as a mother. "The vicar would say you're playing the devil, Jack. The species won't survive unless people like you reproduce themselves."

  But he is not an amenable man. If he were, I would enjoy him less. "You've played God for years, Mathilda. Has it given you any pleasure or made you more content?" No, and I can say that honestly. I shall die as naked as I was born.

  *2*

  A week later the receptionist buzzed through to Dr. Blakeney's office. "There's a Detective Sergeant Cooper on the line. I've told him you have a patient with you but he's very insistent. Can you speak to him?" It was a Monday and Sarah was covering afternoon surgery in Fontwell.

  She smiled apologetically at the pregnant mother, laid out like a sacrificial offering on her couch. She put her hand over the receiver. "Do you mind if I take this call, Mrs. Graham? It's rather important. I'll be as quick as I can."

  "Get on with you. I'm enjoying the rest. You don't get many opportunities when it's your third."

  Sarah smiled at her. "Put him through, Jane. Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"

  "We've had the results of Mrs. Gillespie's post mortem. I'd be interested in your reactions."

  "Go on."

  He shuffled some papers at the other end of the line. "Direct cause of death: loss of blood. Traces of barbituates were discovered in her system, but not enough to prove fatal. Traces also discovered in the whisky glass, implying she dissolved the barbiturates before she drank them. Some alcohol absorbed. No bruising. Lacerations the tongue where the rusted bit of the scold's bridle caused the surface to bleed. Nothing under her fingernails. Slight nettle rash on her temples and cheeks, and minor chafing of the skin beneath the bridle's framework, both consistent with her donning the contraption herself and then arranging it with the nettles and daisies. No indications at all that she put up any sort of struggle. The scold's bridle was not attached to her head in any way and could have been removed, had she wished to do so. The wounds to the wrists correspond precisely with the Stanley knife blade discovered on the bathroom floor, the one on the left wrist made with a downward right-handed stroke, the one on the right with a downward left-handed stroke. The knife had been submerged in water, probably dropped after one of the incisions, but there was an index fingerprint, belonging to Mrs. Gillespie, one-point-three centimetres from the blade on the shaft. Conclusion: suicide." He paused. "Are you still there?" he demanded after a moment.

  "Yes."

  "So what do you think?"

  "That I was wrong last week."

  "But surely the barbiturates in the whisky glass trouble you?"

  "Mathilda hated swallowing anything whole," she said apologetically. "She crushed or dissolved everything in liquid first. She had a morbid fear of choking."

  "But your immediate reaction when you saw her was that she was the last person you'd expect to kill herself. And now you've changed your mind." It sounded like an accusation.

  "What do you want me to say, Sergeant? My gut feeling remains the same." Sarah glanced towards her patient who was becoming restless. "I would not have expected her to take her own life, but gut feelings are a poor substitute for scientific evidence."

  "Not always."

  She waited, but he didn't go on. "Was there anything else, Sergeant? I do have a patient with me."

  "No," he said, sounding dispirited, "nothing else. It was a courtesy call. You may be required to give evidence at the inquest, but it'll be a formality. We've asked for an adjournment while we check one or two small details but, at the moment, we aren't looking for anyone else in connection with Mrs. Gillespie's death."

  Sarah smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Graham. Be with you in a minute, she mouthed. "But you think you should be."

  "I learnt my trade in a simpler world, Dr. Blakeney, where we paid attention to gut feelings. But in those days we called them hunches." He gave a hollow laugh. "Now, hunches are frowned on and forensic evidence is God. But forensic evidence is only as reliable as the man who interprets it and what I want to know is why there are no nettle stings on Mrs. Gillespie's hands and fingers. Dr. Cameron began by saying she must have worn gloves but there are no gloves in that house with sap on them, so now he thinks the water must have nullified the reaction. I don't like that kind of uncertainty. My hunch is Mrs. Gillespie was murdered but I'm an Indian and the Chief says, drop it. I hoped you'd give me some ammunition."

  "I'm sorry," said Sarah helplessly. She murmured a goodbye and replaced the receiver with a thoughtful expression in her dark eyes. "It'll be old Mrs. Gillespie, I suppose," said Mrs. Graham prosaically. She was a farmer's wife, for whom birth and death held little mystery. Both happened, not always conveniently, and the whys and wherefores were largely irrelevant. The trick was coping afterwards. "There's talk of nothing else in the village. Awful way to do it, don't you think?" She shivered theatrically. "Slitting your wrists and then watching your blood seep into the water. I couldn't do that."

  "No," agreed Sarah, rubbing her hands to warm them. "You say you think the baby's head has engaged already?"

  "Mm, won't be long now." But Mrs. Graham wasn't to be sidetracked so easily and she'd heard enough of the doctor's end of the conversation to whet her appetite. "Is it true she had a cage on her head? Jenny Spede's been hysterical about it ever since. A cage with brambles and roses in it, she said. She keeps calling it Mrs. Gillespie's crown of thorns."

  Sarah could see no harm in telling her. Most of the details were out already, and the truth was probably less damaging than the horror stories being put about by Mathilda's cleaner. "It was a family heirloom, a thing called a scold's bridle." She placed her hands on the woman's abdomen and felt for the baby's head. "And there were no brambles or roses, nothing with thorns at all. Just a few wild flowers." She omitted the nettles deliberately. The nettles, she thought, were disturbing. "It was more pathetic than frightening." Her probing fingers relaxed. "You're right. It won't be long now. You must have got your dates wrong."

  "I always do, Doctor," said the woman comfortably. "I can tell you to the minute when a cow's due but when it's my turn," she laughed, "I haven't time to mark calendars." Sarah linked arms with her to pull her into a sitting position. "Scold's bridle," she went on thoughtfully. "Scold, as in a woman with a vicious tongue?"

  Sarah nodded. "They were used up until two or three centuries ago to shut women up, and not just women with vicious tongues either. Any women. Women who challenged male authority, inside the home and outside."

  "So why do you reckon she did it?"

  "I don't know. Tired of living perhaps." Sarah smiled. "She didn't have your energy, Mrs. Graham."

  "Oh, the dying I can understand. I've never seen much sense in struggling for life if the life isn't worth the struggle." She buttoned her shirt. "I meant why did she do it with this scold's bridle on her head?"

  But Sarah shook her head. "I don't know that either."

  "She was a nasty old woman," said Mrs. Graham bluntly. "She lived here virtually all her life, knew me and my parents from our cradles, but she never acknowledged us once. We were too common. Tenant farmers with muck on our shoes. Oh, she spoke to old Wittingham, the lazy sod who owns Dad's farm, all right. The fact he's never done a hand's turn since the day he was born, but lives on his rents and his investments, made him acceptable. But the workers, rough trade like us-"she shook her head-"we were beneath contempt." She chuckled at Sarah's expression. "There, I'm shocking you. But I've a big mouth and I use it. You don't want to take Mrs. Gillespie's death to heart. She wasn't liked, and not through want of trying, believe me. We're not a bad lot here, but there's only so much that ordinary folk can take, and when a woman brushes her coat after you've bumped into her by accident, well, that's when you say enough's enough." She swung her legs to the floor and stood up. "I'm not much of a churchgoer, me, but some things I do believe in, and one of them's repentance. Be it God or just old age, I reckon everyone repents in
the end. There's few of us die without recognizing our faults which is why death's so peaceful. And it doesn't really matter who you say sorry to-a priest, God, your family-you've said it, and you feel better." She slipped her feet into her shoes. "I'd guess Mrs. Gillespie was apologizing for her vicious tongue. That's why she wore her scold's bridle to meet her Maker."

  Mathilda Gillespie was buried three days later beside her father, Sir William Cavendish MP, in Fontwell village churchyard. The coroner's inquest had still to be held but it was common knowledge by then that a verdict of suicide was a foregone conclusion, if not from Polly Graham, then from a simple putting two and two together when the Dorset police removed their seals from Cedar House and returned to headquarters in the nearby coastal resort of Learmouth.

  The congregation was a small one. Polly Graham had told the truth when she said Mathilda Gillespie wasn't liked, and few could be bothered to find time in their busy lives to say goodbye to an old woman who had been known only for her unkindness. The vicar did his best in difficult circumstances but it was with a feeling of relief that the mourners turned from the open grave and picked their way across the grass towards the gate.

  Jack Blakeney, a reluctant attendant on a wife who had felt dutybound to put in an appearance, muttered into Sarah's ear: "What a bunch of white sepulchres, and I am not referring to the tombstones either, just we hypocrites doing our middle-class duty. Did you see their faces when the Rev referred to her as 'our much loved friend and neighbour?' They all hated her."

  She hushed him with a warning hand. "They'll hear you."

  "Who cares?" They were bringing up the rear and his artist's gaze roamed restlessly across the bowed heads in front of them. "Presumably the blonde is the daughter, Joanna."