Dead In The Morning by Margaret Yorke Page A

this personal note, but I take it that you are on good terms with your family?”
    “What an extraordinary question,” exclaimed the old lady.
    The Inspector searched unhappily for better phrasing.
    “You approved of your son’s marriage?” he hazarded.
    “Why not? He’s old enough to know what he is doing, I should hope. And what has this to do with Mrs Mackenzie?”
    It was no good. He would have to get at this angle from the other side; no useful purpose would be served if Mrs Ludlow learned about the missing pills and guessed the pie had been intended for another victim. He retreated.
    “I won’t detain you any longer, madam,” he said, putting away his notebook. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your morning.”
    “I should think so too,” Mrs Ludlow said. She added, more tolerantly, “I expect you have your forms to fill. It’s all forms nowadays.”
    “Quite, madam. Smithers, fetch Mrs Medhurst, would you?” Inspector Foster said.
    Mrs Ludlow turned her head stiffly to look at the Sergeant as he obeyed. She called him back.
    “You look a well set-up young man,” she said, causing him to blush furiously under his thatch of carroty hair. “You may wheel me out.”
    Sergeant Smithers cast a glance at the Inspector, took the handles of her chair, and turned her round. Mrs Ludlow directed him into the hall, and as they reached it Phyllis and the gardener appeared from the kitchen and took charge. Smithers was graciously dismissed by Mrs Ludlow. He returned to the study mopping his brow.
    “Phew,” he said. “Some character, that one, sir.”
    “Yes,” agreed the Inspector. “Not many left like her these days. Just as well, perhaps.”
    “I don’t know. Total conformity is very dull,” said the Sergeant. He had enjoyed seeing his superior being routed.
    “Hm. We’ll give her time to get out into the garden, then we’ll take another look round upstairs,” said the Inspector. He frowned. “I should be very surprised if her relationship with her family is as good as she implies,” he said.
    “She’s not an easy individual at all,” agreed the Sergeant, meditating. “Mrs Medhurst rather resembles her mother, doesn’t she, sir? Same tart manner. There’s not much filial love about in this house.”
    Inspector Foster glanced sharply at him. Really, Sergeant Smithers was an odd young man; he used the most extraordinary phrases.
     
    When Patrick called at the home of his charge Tim Ludlow on Monday afternoon, he saw as he approached the house the figure of a sturdy, square woman wearing a shapeless skirt standing in a large flower bed in the middle of the lawn. A barrow filled with dead shoots was near her, and she was struggling to uproot some tough plant that was defying all her efforts. Patrick got out of the car and walked across the grass towards her.
    Betty saw him coming and stuck her fork in the ground. She wiped her hands on her skirt and stepped out of the border on to the grass. She wore short Wellington boots and patterned stockings that had caught on brambles and were laddered.
    “I know, don’t tell me, you’re another policeman,” she said, rubbing a hand over her forehead and leaving a grimy mark. “Two were here this morning.”
    “I’m not a policeman, Mrs Ludlow,” Patrick said. “I’m Patrick Grant, the Dean of St Mark’s.”
    “Oh God! What’s happened now?” said Betty, and her face turned white. If he had not put out a hand to steady her, Patrick thought she might have stumbled. “It’s Tim. Where is he?”
    “Isn’t he here?” asked Patrick. “I came to see him, as I’m staying in the neighbourhood.”
    “You mean he’s all right? He hasn’t got into trouble again?”
    “As far as the university is concerned, I know of nothing wrong,” Patrick said. “My visit is merely social. I apologise if I startled you. Of course, I’ve heard about the sad event in Winterswick. I’ve met your niece.”
    “You must think me very silly, Dr Grant,”