time she wasn’t quite so decided about it. She said she’d think it over.’ On her third visit she told him she’d spoken to her husband. He’d been very kind and understanding. She seemed very relieved it was out in the open.
Dr Peake had seen her four or five times since then and he had also spoken to her husband more than once when Conway had called in for repeat prescriptions for his wife.
Kelsey asked if he knew anything of Anna’s family or background.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’ Peake removed his gold-rimmed spectacles and polished them on a snowy handkerchief. ‘She would never talk about her family – except to say that she no longer had anything to do with any of them. I tried to bring the matter up more than once but it upset her so much I thought it best to let it go – for the time being, at any rate.’
He gave Kelsey a direct look. ‘She never confided in me about any personal matter. She hadn’t come here in order to confide in me, she made that very plain. What she wanted was medication to deal with the symptoms that were troubling her.’ He put his spectacles on again.
‘I’m pretty sure from her reaction that it was the break with her family, and whatever had caused the break, that lay behind her anxiety and depression.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course the attempt to push the whole thing down below the level of conscious thought is counterproductive. It tends to blow the matter up out of all proportion. In the end it can start blotting out everything else.’
He looked reflective. ‘I did suggest psychiatric help but she rejected that out of hand. I particularly thought hypnosis might be useful. I’ve seen excellent results where the patient has been trying to suppress the past, wouldn’t open up, wouldn’t respond to direct questioning.’
‘It would be something from her childhood that Anna was suppressing?’
‘Not necessarily. It might very well have been, but it could also have been something much more recent – or possibly a combination of the two. That’s not uncommon, a disturbed childhood with later anxieties on top of it. In those cases the habit of suppression seems to be formed in childhood, it’s resorted to again, later on, whenever anything traumatic takes place.’ He waved a hand. ‘As she wouldn’t confide in me, all I can do now is make guesses.’
‘How would you describe her personality?’ Kelsey asked.
Peake put the tips of his fingers together. ‘Average intelligence,’ he said judicially. ‘A naïve girl, immature for her age. Over-dependent, always ready to latch on to someone stronger, someone willing to take responsibility for her. A strong craving for security, for love and affection.’
He pursed his lips. ‘It all ties in with this business of suppression, it’s all part of the inability to face unpleasant facts, do something constructive about them, or at any rate, come to terms with them. The attempt to keep pushing them down out of the conscious mind prevents the personality developing, maturing. It interferes with normal healthy growth, emotional and psychological.’
He inclined his head. ‘It doesn’t help the learning process, either. With a youngster of school age you tend to get a pattern of unsatisfactory school reports, general lack of interest, poor concentration, inability to make friends. And there’s often a history of being bullied.’
He had last seen Anna ten days ago when he had called in at Ferndale in passing, one morning. He had found Anna busy with household chores. She told him she felt a good deal better and was looking forward to her holiday. He was very pleased with her progress; she appeared much improved, calmer and more cheerful. No, he had never at any time considered her a suicide risk; there had never been the slightest hint of it. He had always been struck by her great determination to get well.
He sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s easy to be wise after the event. I believe now she was nowhere near as calm and cheerful as she made out, she was doing her best to put a good face on things. I believe she was terrified of going off alone on the cruise, even more terrified that she might have to face a psychiatrist if she came back from her holiday no better. I believe she was struggling very hard to master her fears, to force herself to do everything I had advised, everything her husband was encouraging her to do. She was determined not to let either of us down.’
He put a hand up to his face. ‘It was entirely my idea, sending her off on a cruise. I persuaded poor Conway it would be money well spent.’ He looked old and weary. ‘It was all done with the best will in the world – and with this appalling result.’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, the crippling blow it must be for her husband. She thought the world of him and he was devoted to her. I don’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t have done for her.’
He looked across at Kelsey. ‘Men can get very critical of nervy wives, very short and snappy with them, downright abusive, sometimes. Some men walk out altogether. There was never anything like that with Conway, he was always kind and gentle. She was very appreciative, very anxious not to disappoint him. I think she wanted to get better for his sake as much as for her own.’
His look held great sadness. After the best part of a lifetime in medicine he was still deeply moved by the wastefulness of a young death. ‘When one thinks of the total despair she must have felt …’ He drew another sigh. ‘Things can seem very black, very final, to the young.’
The light was beginning to fade as Bob Garbutt drove on to the police station forecourt in good time for his four o’clock appointment; he had to make an official statement about his part in the dreadful discovery at Ferndale. At the bungalow yesterday evening there had been time for him to give only a brief verbal account to Constable Hamlin before he had to rush off to pick up his elderly gentleman, take him to his club.
He had spent a wretched night, had risen even earlier than usual, totally unrefreshed. All day he had smelled in his nostrils that stomach-turning blend of odours: rose-perfumed bath essence overlaid with the rank stench of blood.
He had been unable to blink away the grisly succession of sounds and images searing his brain. The terrible, piercing cry from Conway in the doorway of the bathroom, his horrified plunge forward at the bath. Anna’s closed eyes in a face wax-white under the light; her pale, frail body in the crimson water.
Conway’s frantic attempts to snatch at her slippery limbs, her puffed hands, haul her out of the bath in a futile effort to revive her, shouting at him to help. Himself dragging Conway back, holding him off. Anna so clearly dead, plainly dead for hours, long past any hope of resuscitation. To be left where she was, as she was – for other eyes to see.
Conway unable to take it in, plunging again at the bath, screaming at him to get an ambulance, a doctor, ring the hospital. Hauled forcibly back again, collapsing at last into a chair, crying and shaking, his head in his hands. Himself racing along to the phone in the front hall, to ring, not the ambulance, not the doctor or the hospital, but the police.
Garbutt got out of his car and made his way across the forecourt, up the steps and in through the doors. A short distance along the corridor leading out of reception, Constable Hamlin had made it his business to be hanging about, keeping an eye open for Garbutt. As soon as he saw him enter the building and approach the desk, Hamlin went smartly along to Chief Inspector Kelsey’s office.
The Chief and Sergeant Lambert, their appetites by now restored, were making short work of a plate of ham sandwiches when
