Read Online Does Your Mother Know? by Maureen Jennings - Free Book Online
Authors: Maureen Jennings
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the first floor, the upper floor was dull in hue, and the landing was narrow and dark. A man, Dr. MacBeth, I assumed, emerged from the first room on the right. The force of his personality and appearance was like being hit by a gust of wind. I could almost feel my hair being blown back. The man was big. Not just tall, big. The impression of size was reinforced by the baggy tweed suit, full knickerbockers, and knee-high boots he was wearing. His grizzled mop of grey hair sprang off his head, and a full red beard jutted from his chin to mid-chest. He was sort of “Albert Schweitzer meets the Highlander.”
“Ah, Sergeant. Took you long enough.”
“Sorry, sir.”
I could have sworn that even Gillies was intimidated, or maybe he’d learned how to deal with the doctor.
“Who’s this?” asked MacBeth fixing on me.
“Detective Sergeant Christine Morris. She’s from Canada. She’s been attending a conference.”
Fortunately, Dr. MacBeth accepted this scant explanation, but I had the impression that, if he chose to, we could have stood for a long time while he questioned me. He flapped his hand.
“He’s in here.”
He turned around and went back into the room. Gillies followed and this time didn’t step aside to let me in first.
The room was tiny, and a double bed took up most of the space, leaving just enough room for a side table, a wardrobe, and an old-fashioned desk underneath the window.
Mr. MacAulay was lying on his back on the bed, his arms straight by his side. A yellow chequered coverlet was across his legs, and his position might have suggested a peaceful death, except that near his head, on his left, a towel was heavily stained with blood, as was his white T-shirt and blue terry-cloth dressing gown. It was hard to tell from what orifice the blood had flowed, because his skin was by now badly discoloured.
“What was the cause of death, Doctor?” Gillies asked.
“I’m attributing it to a pulmonary hemorrhage. Tormod had been suffering from advanced liver disease for a wee while now.” For my benefit, although he didn’t look at me, he added, “One of the side effects is that the veins of the esophagus swell and burst.”
Gillies tuned right in. “Would death have been immediate? There was no call to emergency that we’ve recorded.”
“I kenna say for certain, seeing as I wasna here, but the likelihood is that it was not a fast death. But he could quite possibly have been asleep when the hemorrhage started.”
I interjected, probably foolishly. “But he would have woken up choking, wouldn’t he? Was there any indication he tried to get to the telephone?”
MacBeth scowled. “The Lord was overseeing him, lassie, not me, so I don’t know. Moreover the telephone set is downstairs, which he knew.”
I was getting irked in my turn with Dr. MacBeth brandishing his claymore in my direction. And maybe in Scottish “lassie” was a common way to talk to women. To my ear, however, it sounded exactly like “little girl.”
“So, he doesn’t seem to have made the attempt and died on the bed as you found him.”
“Precisely so.”
I wasn’t going to argue with the man but that made no sense to me. For one thing, the bed was close to the far wall and to get to the door, and presumably either to the bathroom or to the telephone, MacAulay would have been turning to the other side — to his right, which was not where the towel was or the spatter of blood on the sheet. When I was on the beat, I’d been called to an apartment where a woman had died in suspicious circumstances. It turned out she had choked to death on her own vomit after a three-day binge of Johnny Walker’s cheapest. She was lying half off the couch, where she’d passed out, her head touching the ground, because the instinct to bend over and get rid of whatever was choking up the airwaves was a powerful one. Surely, Tormod MacAulay would have struggled against the red tide of blood surging up from his lungs to drown
“Ah, Sergeant. Took you long enough.”
“Sorry, sir.”
I could have sworn that even Gillies was intimidated, or maybe he’d learned how to deal with the doctor.
“Who’s this?” asked MacBeth fixing on me.
“Detective Sergeant Christine Morris. She’s from Canada. She’s been attending a conference.”
Fortunately, Dr. MacBeth accepted this scant explanation, but I had the impression that, if he chose to, we could have stood for a long time while he questioned me. He flapped his hand.
“He’s in here.”
He turned around and went back into the room. Gillies followed and this time didn’t step aside to let me in first.
The room was tiny, and a double bed took up most of the space, leaving just enough room for a side table, a wardrobe, and an old-fashioned desk underneath the window.
Mr. MacAulay was lying on his back on the bed, his arms straight by his side. A yellow chequered coverlet was across his legs, and his position might have suggested a peaceful death, except that near his head, on his left, a towel was heavily stained with blood, as was his white T-shirt and blue terry-cloth dressing gown. It was hard to tell from what orifice the blood had flowed, because his skin was by now badly discoloured.
“What was the cause of death, Doctor?” Gillies asked.
“I’m attributing it to a pulmonary hemorrhage. Tormod had been suffering from advanced liver disease for a wee while now.” For my benefit, although he didn’t look at me, he added, “One of the side effects is that the veins of the esophagus swell and burst.”
Gillies tuned right in. “Would death have been immediate? There was no call to emergency that we’ve recorded.”
“I kenna say for certain, seeing as I wasna here, but the likelihood is that it was not a fast death. But he could quite possibly have been asleep when the hemorrhage started.”
I interjected, probably foolishly. “But he would have woken up choking, wouldn’t he? Was there any indication he tried to get to the telephone?”
MacBeth scowled. “The Lord was overseeing him, lassie, not me, so I don’t know. Moreover the telephone set is downstairs, which he knew.”
I was getting irked in my turn with Dr. MacBeth brandishing his claymore in my direction. And maybe in Scottish “lassie” was a common way to talk to women. To my ear, however, it sounded exactly like “little girl.”
“So, he doesn’t seem to have made the attempt and died on the bed as you found him.”
“Precisely so.”
I wasn’t going to argue with the man but that made no sense to me. For one thing, the bed was close to the far wall and to get to the door, and presumably either to the bathroom or to the telephone, MacAulay would have been turning to the other side — to his right, which was not where the towel was or the spatter of blood on the sheet. When I was on the beat, I’d been called to an apartment where a woman had died in suspicious circumstances. It turned out she had choked to death on her own vomit after a three-day binge of Johnny Walker’s cheapest. She was lying half off the couch, where she’d passed out, her head touching the ground, because the instinct to bend over and get rid of whatever was choking up the airwaves was a powerful one. Surely, Tormod MacAulay would have struggled against the red tide of blood surging up from his lungs to drown
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