The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (a court of thorns and roses ebook free TXT) 📗

though she had more important things to do right now. After brief introductions, she sat straight-backed, a file on her knee, half-open with a passport-sized photograph of the deceased Reverend Lodge attached to the first page of papers.

“It’s a pain, I know,” replied DI Gayther, nodding sympathetically. “But I’ve just been asked to go over the case one final time … with my colleague … so we can close our file. Not to trouble you further. I just want to go through a few things, get it straight in my mind.”

“I don’t believe it was a suicide,” she answered abruptly. “If that’s what you’re thinking. Not for a second. I told the last policeman. The Indian gentleman. The reverend was not himself. He would not have taken his own life. He was a man of the cloth. He opened the window for fresh air. In his befuddled state, he must have leaned out too far …”

“Can you tell me a little about … the reverend? When did he come here?”

“Two years ago, give or take. A very nice man. Very nice indeed. A sensible and well-organised man. He sold up, not that he had that much, being a vicar, and came to us. He knew he was suffering from dementia. He declined steadily over that time, mentally rather more than physically. Forgetfulness. Meandering talk. Wanderings. In his mind.”

She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts.

“The last day or two before, well, I probably shouldn’t say this … he was not himself at all. He was always so polite and thoughtful. But, at the end, he turned in on himself and kept talking, almost arguing with himself, so angry and frightened, about someone coming to kill him.”

DI Gayther leaned forward. “The last day or two of his life. Was there a specific moment when he changed?”

“He soiled himself at the fete on the Saturday, which would have been … two days before. I remember that. He was very subdued afterwards. But that’s normal. Incontinence. They can feel ashamed and embarrassed … if and when they are aware of what they’ve done.”

She considered what she was going to say, choosing her words carefully, and then carried on.

“It seemed to come on quite quickly after that. The madness. That’s what I believe it was. His mind was going, poor old chap. I believe he got quite vocal with Jen, one of our regulars, and with Sally, another of our care assistants. He grabbed her arm so hard he left red marks on it.”

“The fete?” interrupted Carrie suddenly. “So, you had people coming in from outside? Do you have a record of visitors?”

Mrs Coombes smiled. “Not for that, no. There’s a signing-in book for visitors, but …” she added, seeing the officers look at each other, “… it depends who is on. Kazia’s on, at the moment, nice enough girl, but new. Been here a couple of weeks.”

“So, the fete …?” said Carrie.

“We have a little old-fashioned fete – tombola, second-hand books, home-made cakes – once a year on the last Saturday in September … quite late really … for the residents and their families and anyone who wants to come and see us. We get a few locals wander in, waifs and strays mostly, looking for something to do, and sons and daughters planning ahead for a place for Mum or Dad. It’s all free and easy, donate a pound or two on the way in, that’s all.”

“So …” Carrie pressed, “was there a big turnout? Were there any passers-by coming in? Was there anyone you didn’t recognise? Was there—”

“Goodness …” replied Mrs Coombes, “so many ques–”

“What my colleague meant to ask,” interrupted DI Gayther, glancing across at Carrie, “was this: did the vicar come down and join in the fete?”

“Why, yes, of course. He was most keen and had talked about helping out on the second-hand book stall, which he did for a little while. That was his thing really, books and reading. Not that the books would have interested him much. Mills & Boon romances mostly. He was interested in architecture and … I don’t know, English Heritage and National Trust–type matters. He was very well-read and interesting, although he would never press his opinions on you.”

She laughed unexpectedly. It sounded surprisingly joyful, thought Gayther.

“I remember seeing him later sitting in the shade in a wheelchair – it was quite a sunny day. September can be nice, of course. We always seem to have a sunny fete. Anyway, he didn’t really need a wheelchair, but his legs ached after a while. He was eating a 99 ice cream … the chocolate flake first, while all the ice cream ran down his fingers. He knew what was happening and was joining in the fun and laughter. I didn’t see him after that but was told later, by Sally, that he had been taken back to his room. Do you know, I can’t remember if he soiled himself at the fete or later in his room.”

DI Gayther asked, “I wonder if he saw anyone he knew at the fete. Did you notice anyone talking to Mr Lodge, other than staff?”

She shook her head. “No, not that I saw, though I’m sure he must have done. But we had about twenty or more residents there at different times and I was back and forth, to the gate, the refreshments, doing the prize draw later on, so I wasn’t really focusing on Mr Lodge particularly. A lot of people locally would have known him, of course, from his church days, and would have stopped to talk if they saw him.”

DI Gayther went on, “Did he have many visitors, Mr Lodge? Family, friends?”

“He was a single man, never married, no children. He had a brother I think, an older brother, who had passed away. The brother and his wife, his second wife, I believe, had a daughter and she visited the reverend with her husband earlier in the year, from New Zealand or Australia,