they were settled on chairs in the kitchen some of the colour had returned to her cheeks. "You telephoned last night," he reminded her, "left a message saying you had more information about Mrs. Gillespie."
"Yes." Her mind raced.
She said you would know what to do for the best.
But I don't! I DON'T! "I've been worrying about why she wore the bridle," she said slowly. "I've come to the conclusion that she was trying to tell me something, although I must emphasize that I don't know what that something could have been." As clearly as she could, she repeated what she had told Robin Hewitt the night before about Mathilda's nickname for her. "It's probably just me being fanciful," she finished lamely.
The Sergeant frowned deeply. "She must have known you'd make a connection. Could she have been accusing you, perhaps?"
Sarah showed an unexpected relief. "I hadn't thought of that," she admitted. "You mean a slap over the knuckles to bring me down a peg or two. Doctors can't cure unhappiness, Sarah. Something along those lines?"
He found her relief puzzling. "It's possible," he agreed. "Who else knew that she called you her scold's bridle, Dr. Blakeney?"
She folded her hands in her lap. "I don't know. Whoever she mentioned it to, presumably."
"You didn't tell anyone?"
She shook her head. "No."
"No one at all? Not even your partners or your husband?"
"No." She forced a light chuckle. "I wasn't altogether sure that she meant it as a compliment. I always took it as such because it would have strained our relationship if I hadn't, but she might have been implying that I was as repressive and tormenting as the instrument itself."
He nodded thoughtfully. "If she killed herself, then you and I will be puzzling over the significance of this for the rest of our lives." His eyes watched Sarah's face. ''If, however, somebody else killed her, and that person knew she called you her scold's bridle, then it does seem to me that the message is very direct. Namely, I have done this
for
you, Dr. Blakeney, or
because of
you. Would you agree with that?"
"No," she said with a spark of anger. "Of course I wouldn't. You can't possibly make assumptions like that. In any case I was under the impression that the inquest verdict was a foregone conclusion. The only reason I felt I should tell you all this was because it's been worrying me, but at the end of the day I'm probably reading far more into it than Mathilda intended. I suspect the pathologist was right, and that she simply wanted to deck herself out like Ophelia."
He smiled pleasantly. "And, of course, you may not have been the only person she used the nickname on."
"Well, exactly." She plucked a hair from the front of her jacket. "May I ask you something?"
"By all means."
"Does the pathologist's report come down firmly in favour of suicide or is there any room for doubt?"
"Not much," the policeman admitted. "He's unhappy about the absence of a letter of explanation, particularly in view of the rather dramatic way she killed herself, and he's unhappy about the flower arrangement."
"Because the nettles stung her?"
"No. If she was set on killing herself the way she did, a few nettle stings wouldn't have worried her." He tapped his pencil on the table top. "I persuaded him to do some experiments. He's been unable to reproduce the arrangement she came up with without assistance." He drew a quick diagram in his notebook. "If you remember, the Michaelmas daisies were set upright in the forehead band, which incidentally is so rusted it can't be tightened, and the nettles hung down like a veil over her hair and cheeks. The stems were alternate, a nettle down, a daisy up, completely symmetrical all the way round. Now that is impossible to achieve without help. You can hold half the arrangement in place with one hand but the minute you get beyond the stretch of the fingers, the flowers start to drop out. It's only when three-quarters of the arrangement is in place that the gap between the frame
"Yes." Her mind raced.
She said you would know what to do for the best.
But I don't! I DON'T! "I've been worrying about why she wore the bridle," she said slowly. "I've come to the conclusion that she was trying to tell me something, although I must emphasize that I don't know what that something could have been." As clearly as she could, she repeated what she had told Robin Hewitt the night before about Mathilda's nickname for her. "It's probably just me being fanciful," she finished lamely.
The Sergeant frowned deeply. "She must have known you'd make a connection. Could she have been accusing you, perhaps?"
Sarah showed an unexpected relief. "I hadn't thought of that," she admitted. "You mean a slap over the knuckles to bring me down a peg or two. Doctors can't cure unhappiness, Sarah. Something along those lines?"
He found her relief puzzling. "It's possible," he agreed. "Who else knew that she called you her scold's bridle, Dr. Blakeney?"
She folded her hands in her lap. "I don't know. Whoever she mentioned it to, presumably."
"You didn't tell anyone?"
She shook her head. "No."
"No one at all? Not even your partners or your husband?"
"No." She forced a light chuckle. "I wasn't altogether sure that she meant it as a compliment. I always took it as such because it would have strained our relationship if I hadn't, but she might have been implying that I was as repressive and tormenting as the instrument itself."
He nodded thoughtfully. "If she killed herself, then you and I will be puzzling over the significance of this for the rest of our lives." His eyes watched Sarah's face. ''If, however, somebody else killed her, and that person knew she called you her scold's bridle, then it does seem to me that the message is very direct. Namely, I have done this
for
you, Dr. Blakeney, or
because of
you. Would you agree with that?"
"No," she said with a spark of anger. "Of course I wouldn't. You can't possibly make assumptions like that. In any case I was under the impression that the inquest verdict was a foregone conclusion. The only reason I felt I should tell you all this was because it's been worrying me, but at the end of the day I'm probably reading far more into it than Mathilda intended. I suspect the pathologist was right, and that she simply wanted to deck herself out like Ophelia."
He smiled pleasantly. "And, of course, you may not have been the only person she used the nickname on."
"Well, exactly." She plucked a hair from the front of her jacket. "May I ask you something?"
"By all means."
"Does the pathologist's report come down firmly in favour of suicide or is there any room for doubt?"
"Not much," the policeman admitted. "He's unhappy about the absence of a letter of explanation, particularly in view of the rather dramatic way she killed herself, and he's unhappy about the flower arrangement."
"Because the nettles stung her?"
"No. If she was set on killing herself the way she did, a few nettle stings wouldn't have worried her." He tapped his pencil on the table top. "I persuaded him to do some experiments. He's been unable to reproduce the arrangement she came up with without assistance." He drew a quick diagram in his notebook. "If you remember, the Michaelmas daisies were set upright in the forehead band, which incidentally is so rusted it can't be tightened, and the nettles hung down like a veil over her hair and cheeks. The stems were alternate, a nettle down, a daisy up, completely symmetrical all the way round. Now that is impossible to achieve without help. You can hold half the arrangement in place with one hand but the minute you get beyond the stretch of the fingers, the flowers start to drop out. It's only when three-quarters of the arrangement is in place that the gap between the frame
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