Hushed in Death Read online

  “Did she say then that she believed the man to be Lee?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask her if she knew the man’s identity?”

  “I did and she said that she hadn’t been able to see—that he appeared to be floating facedown and that she did not want to leave the path to look more closely. She said that, instead, she immediately came up the hill to inform me of what she’d found and on the way had run into Travers, who had just left the house for his morning walk and was coming down the path.”

  “What did you then do?”

  “Well, I went to the pond to see the situation for myself, and found a scene that was exactly as Mrs. Lockhart described. When I saw the body, though, I felt pretty certain that it was Lee.”

  “What made you certain?”

  “Process of elimination, really. Even facedown, it looked like Lee; you know how you become familiar with a person’s size and shape. And I recognized the jacket on the body as Lee’s.”

  “When did Lee begin working here?”

  “Shortly after I bought the place and converted it into the facility it is today. No one had lived in the house—in the proper sense—since the last war, when the family that owned it moved away as the result of a tragedy. Since, it has either remained vacant for periods or been used for medical purposes. During most of the past two decades it served as a private sanatorium for consumption cases. I opened my small practice here in the summer of 1940—not the most auspicious time, obviously, but we’ve managed to survive and even thrive. We’re really the only facility of our kind in all of England at the moment, though there should be more.”

  “Did Lee interact with the staff and patients?” Lamb asked the doctor.

  “I spoke to him several times a week, but only briefly, to give him direction and to check on his work. Other than that, I left him to his job. He spoke to the staff and patients when he encountered them, I suppose. We encourage, and in some cases require, our patients to move about the grounds for certain minimum amounts of time each day. All of them are on the mend from the psychological and emotional shocks of war and the walks are part of their therapy. Exercise is very good for the mind as well as the body, and we encourage it.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Lee argued or fought with anyone in the past few days, either here at the hospital or in the village?”

  “No.”

  “Had Lee complained to you about anything—or anyone—recently? Someone he might have had a disagreement with, perhaps? Or had you noticed that something might have been agitating him?”

  “Nothing specific, though I doubt that he would have confided his troubles to me, in any case. Under the circumstances, though, I think it’s fair to say that he could be difficult at times and therefore might have angered or irritated someone.”

  “How could he be difficult?”

  “Well, he was a know-it-all, I suppose you’d call it. He kept an array of trivial facts about one thing or another at the ready and delighted in trotting them out when the opportunity arose; the dates of famous events and so on. He liked to steer the conversation toward topics in which he considered himself expert and took some pleasure in pointing out those items of which you were unaware or might be wrong. I’d be lying to you if I said I found him to be a pleasant man. I suppose that fancying himself expert on this or that trifling matter made him feel important. But he was a good worker and performed his duties.”

  “When is the last time you spoke with Mr. Lee?”

  “Sunday. I asked him to get started on removing some of the weedy underbrush near the house and he said that he would. The grounds here still are rather a shambles, I’m afraid. They’ll never be what they once were, of course, but Lee had done a fair job in the time he was here of straightening things.”

  Lamb removed a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Please explain for me the work you do here, Doctor,” he said.

  “We’re a private facility, as I said, for men who are suffering the psychological effects of combat. During the first war we erroneously called this collection of maladies shell shock, though I suppose that description is not necessarily wholly devoid of truth. There is a shock value to experiencing combat—being under lethal fire, having your life threatened, seeing others round you die.”

  “But you have no direct connection with the Royal Army Medical Corps, or any other branch of the military?”

  “No, all of the men here have been discharged from service for reasons of emotional or psychological distress. All served between the outbreak of war and within as recently as the past six months. Each was referred to us through a private psychiatrist or doctor, or by a family member or close friend or associate. We evaluate them and accept them, as long as we have the room and they can pay the fee. Our work here is, if I may say, first class, and so involves some expense, obviously. Some have criticized us as being a place that only men of a certain means can afford, but we are working on correcting that. For example, we have a fundraising campaign ongoing that is designed to raise money to pay the fees of men who need the care but could not otherwise afford to reside here.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Lamb said, moving the conversation back to the matter at hand. “What is your normal daily routine here, sir? And please be specific.”

  “We rise at six thirty. The men have a wash and then, at seven fifteen come to breakfast, which ends at quarter to eight. The men then have thirty minutes to straighten their rooms and make their beds and freshen up, if need be, or have a few minutes of time to themselves, for prayer or meditation. At eight fifteen we begin therapeutic group sessions, which go until lunch. The men have an hour to themselves after lunch. At two P.M. we begin individual therapeutic sessions, then have a break for tea at four. Then we have an exercise period. Dinner is promptly at seven. The men then have free time until lights out at ten.”

  “Why was Lieutenant Travers not in a group session this morning, sir?”

  “Travers is farther along than most here; in fact, I would say that Travers is close to leaving us. A week ago I relieved him of the responsibility of attending group therapy. I believe at this point he benefits more from morning exercise. Indeed, I encourage him to go into Marbury for a bit of normal interaction in the shops, or at the tea room.”

  “I see,” Lamb said. “I take it that the doors are locked at night and remain locked through the night.”

  “Yes, the doors are locked at ten.”

  “And during the day?”

  “All of the doors save the front door are locked.”

  “Who has the keys?”

  “Myself and Nurse Stevens.”

  “So Mrs. Lockhart has no key, then?”

  “No.”

  “What is Mrs. Lockhart’s role here, exactly?”

  “She assists the nurses in some of their duties and socializes with the men—plays cards with them and the like. To some of them she even reads aloud for an hour or so from novels or volumes of poetry. Some of the men find the sound of her voice soothing, to be frank. It takes them back to a time before the war.”

  “Like a mother’s voice, then?”

  “You might say that, yes.”

  “Did her duties ever put in her contact with Joseph Lee?”

  “Not that I’m aware—though I find her to be a kind woman and not the type to have acted coldly toward someone such as Mr. Lee.”

  “Are any of the men whom you are treating at the moment capable of doing violence to another?”

  “Well, that’s rather an open-ended question, Chief Inspector. You could ask that of any man, even yourself, could you not? Is he capable of violence?”

  “I am speaking of violence that might be connected to, or result from, their psychological distress,” Lamb said patiently. “Put more plainly, do you suspect that any of your patients might have either fought with Mr. Lee or killed him?”

  Hornby sat up straighter in his chair and his face reddened slightly. “No—and I can say that categorically.”

&
nbsp; “I see,” Lamb said.

  Hornby sighed. “I apologize for my tone, Chief Inspector,” he said. “I know that you must ask your questions. I can at times be a bit too protective of my patients, I’m afraid. As you might know, many people—even many psychiatrists—consider post-concussion syndrome nothing more than a synonym for cowardice.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Post-concussion syndrome?”

  “What we once called shell shock. We now know much more than we did during the last war about the effects of combat and trauma generally on the mind. The problem is not merely one of ‘weak nerves,’ but stems from a direct assault on the brain. That’s what I am attempting to treat here.” Hornby paused, then added, “But then you may know something of what I’m describing, Chief Inspector. You appear to be of the right age.”

  “I was on the Somme for a year.”

  Hornby nodded. “I was at Ypres, the first time round.”

  But Lamb was in no mood to speak of his personal experiences of war. “Where might I find Mrs. Lockhart, sir?” he asked.

  “I had Nurse Stevens put her in the social room. She should be waiting for you there.”

  Lamb rose from his chair. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I think that’s all I shall need for the moment.”

  Hornby also stood. “You’re welcome, Chief Inspector. I’ll have Nurse Stevens take you to Mrs. Lockhart.”

  When they reached the door, Hornby said, “I realize that this is a personal question, Chief Inspector, but I’ll ask it anyway. Feel free, of course, to tell me to mind my own business, but I wonder how the war still affects you?”

  The question so surprised Lamb that he did not speak for a full ten seconds. Still, he noticed that Hornby used the word “how” rather than “if.”

  “Obviously, it was wrong for me to have asked,” Hornby said. “I hope you’ll accept my apology. But it’s my job, you see, to help men who have experienced what you have.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t help myself.”

  “No need to apologize,” Lamb said. Then the words escaped his mouth before he’d even had a chance to compose them: “Nightmares, mostly. Not as often as before, but they still come at times. And faces. I sometimes see faces and shapes. Faces and shapes of men who were lost.”

  Hornby placed his right hand on Lamb’s left shoulder. “You’re not alone, Chief Inspector. I also see the faces you speak of in my dreams. I hope you realize that it is never too late to seek help if you believe you need it.”

  Lamb smiled slightly. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “But I decided long ago that I was beyond help.”

  THREE

  FEELING VAGUELY TROUBLED BY HIS BRIEF CONVERSATION AT THE door with Hornby, Lamb followed Nurse Stevens as she led him at a brisk pace down a secondary hall off the foyer to a room that had once been a study at Elton House, but which now served as the room to which the hospital’s patients could retreat at the end of the day for conversation and quiet socializing.

  Hornby’s talk of combat trauma had forced Lamb back to 1917, and the Somme. Then, he’d known officers who’d been sent home to recover from cases of shell shock. Some had returned to the war, apparently cured. Lamb often had wondered, then and since, if he hadn’t suffered from the affliction in some way. He had never fully been able to shake free of his memories of that time, and the dreams that still disturbed his sleep, and the misty, spirit shapes of the men he’d known who had died.

  As he attempted to keep pace with Nurse Stevens, he mused on what he’d said to Hornby. Was he beyond help? He’d meant it as a joke, though he thought that Hornby had not taken it in that way. The psychiatric people he’d known mostly were like that: they tended to see hidden meaning in every word and gesture.

  Nurse Stevens knocked upon the door to the common room—again, briskly; briskness seemed to be among the woman’s signature traits, Lamb thought—before opening the door and striding in.

  “Chief Inspector Lamb is here, Mrs. Lockhart,” she said, as Lamb followed her into the room.

  “Thank you, Nurse,” said Mrs. Lockhart, who was sitting in a chair by a large window that looked out upon what once had been one of the estate’s gardens, which, like the grounds surrounding the drive, had fallen into neglect and reverted to a wild state.

  She was a well-turned-out woman of about fifty, Lamb thought, possessed of dark, intelligent-seeming eyes, shoulder-length graying auburn hair casually swept back, and a trim figure. She wore a yellow cotton blouse buttoned at the front, a black knee-length skirt, nylon stockings, and black high-heeled shoes. She sat in the chair with her legs crossed, and Lamb could not help but notice that her legs were slender and well proportioned. Indeed, he found Mrs. Lockhart attractive. She stood and held out her hand as Lamb approached and, as he took her hand to shake it, he caught the barest scent of her perfume, which he found pleasant.

  “Sorry to make you wait, Mrs. Lockhart,” Lamb said.

  “Oh, no bother, Chief Inspector, really,” she said.

  She seemed, Lamb thought, rather well composed under the circumstances. If finding Lee’s body in the pond had initially upset her, she seemed to have recovered from that.

  Lamb turned to Nurse Stevens and thanked her for her assistance.

  “I’ll be on my way, then,” the nurse said and departed.

  Lamb sat in a chair facing Mrs. Lockhart, by the large window, and immediately got down to the business at hand. “Please tell me, in detail, the events of your finding Mr. Lee’s body this morning,” he said. “And please start from the beginning.”

  Mrs. Lockhart folded her hands and laid them in her lap.

  “I left the house shortly before nine to come here,” she said. “I volunteer with the patients, though it’s not much, really. I help the nurses with their less dire duties. I also act as a kind of companion to the men. I suppose that’s what one might call it. I play cards with them, mostly bridge—several of them are quite good players—and keep them company generally. We listen to the wireless or discuss whatever news has been in the papers. I also read to one or two of them, at night, you see, to calm them so that they can sleep. Some of them have a horrible time sleeping, Chief Inspector. Nightmares and the like. My late husband, Cyril, was in the last war and suffered from the same sort of nightmares. Reliving the war, you know. He’d awaken from a dream sodden from perspiration. So I know a bit about what some of the men here are enduring. It’s the least I can do, really. So many other people are suffering such incredible hardships.”

  “Yes, I’m sure the work you do here is appreciated,” Lamb said patiently. “Now, you were saying that you left the house a bit before nine.”

  “Yes, I left the house and came up the path from the village, as I usually do, but when I reached the pond my eye caught something out of the ordinary. At first I thought that it might be an animal that had somehow fallen into the water. But when I moved off the path for a closer look, I saw that it was a man and that he made no movement or sound at all. I even called out to him, but he simply floated there. I’m a bit ashamed to say that I did not get close enough to the pond to see if he was alive, in part because he was so still and silent. It sent a chill through me—the realization that he might be dead.”

  “Did you recognize the man as Mr. Lee?”

  “No. He was facing down. But I could tell by the way that he was dressed that he was a working man.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went to the house to report what I had seen to Dr. Hornby. As I went up the path I met Lieutenant Travers coming down it. He walks in the morning, you see. I must have appeared very agitated because he immediately asked me if anything was wrong, and I told him what I’d just found. He said that we should tell Dr. Hornby immediately.”

  “So Travers did not express any interest in going to see the body first?”

  “No.” She paused, then added, “At least not to my recollection.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, Lieutenant Travers and I went to Dr. Hornby and
the three of us then went to the pond, so that Dr. Hornby could see for himself what I was describing. He said that he believed the man was Mr. Lee; he recognized his clothing, I think. We returned here to the house and Dr. Hornby called the constabulary.”

  “Did the three of you have any other discussion regarding the body—about, perhaps, how Mr. Lee might have ended up in the pond, or why?”

  “Lieutenant Travers remarked that perhaps Mr. Lee had become drunk and stumbled into the pond in the dark.”

  “So I take it then, madam, that you normally arrive here at about nine in the morning, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when do you normally leave?”

  “I always stay through lunch, so I can help with that. On some days I might go home once lunch is finished, though I’ll stay longer if needed. I normally return after the evening meal, to socialize with those men who desire it.”

  “Do you come here most days?”

  Mrs. Lockhart uncrossed her attractive legs and then recrossed them in the opposite way. “Yes, though I have no set requirement,” she said. “If I’m not going to come in I will call Dr. Hornby and let him know. But I’m normally here most days. Working here helps me to feel as if I’m connected to something and making a contribution. With the war on, I believe one is bound to make a contribution. And I suppose that I consider this mine.”

  She briefly touched the top button of her blouse, which was open at the neck, and raised her chin slightly. Lamb found himself briefly staring at the way in which her neck gracefully gave way to her slender shoulders.

  “Would you then consider yourself well acquainted with the hospital staff and the patients and their daily routines?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if any of the staff or patients had relationships with Mr. Lee that went beyond casual acquaintance?”

  “Not that I am aware.”

  “Did you see Mr. Lee about Marbury much?”

  “Not really, though I suppose he must have come to the shops. And he came to the pub.”