But otherwise hale and healthy. The only things she’d seen him for were chilblains every winter. “He’s definitely dead then?”
“Not a doubt. I saw him.”
So it was just a routine death certificate. They’d need to call in one of the doctors from Leatherhead since she hadn’t seen Fred Morgan since the previous winter. “And poor old Muriel found him. Must have given her a nasty shock.” No doubt she’d be needing professional services more than poor old Fred.
“Right upset she was on the phone. Can’t blame her. Here she was all worried about her sister and the bombing in London and it’s the old man cops it.”
But he wasn’t that old. Not compared to her gran, old Mother Longhurst, or Sergeant Pendragon. Heavens, Sir James was close to eighty. Fred Morgan wasn’t much over fifty. Not that death was any respecter of age or youth.
They’d carried him into the farmhouse and now he lay stretched out on a sheet on the kitchen table. Muriel was sitting in the dim parlor, quietly sobbing with another woman. Sergeant Jones gave Alice a worried nod. “Thought you’d best have a look at him, Doctor,” he said. “Looks like just a heart attack or something, but Mrs. Morgan is certain she heard a loud scream. That was what brought her out to look for him.”
He’d hardly have been screaming that loud if he was doubled over with a heart attack. “I’ll have a look. Then see Mrs. Morgan.”
Poor Fred Morgan showed no blueness around the mouth or fingertips, and his body seemed lighter and more shriveled than she remembered. But it had been months. She’d run into him a few times in the village but…something seemed wrong.
Picking up one of his hands, the fingers seemed just skin and bone. Certainly not the hands of a man who’d labored for pretty much all of his life. She couldn’t throw off the sense of unease. “I think we need to call the coroner.”
Sergeant Jones nodded. “I thought so, too. Something just not right about him. Don’t rightly know how to tell poor Muriel.” He looked Alice in the eye.
“I’ll talk to her.”
Alice regretted her hasty offer three minutes after she met Muriel Morgan’s red-rimmed eyes.
“Doctor,” the widow began, “what happened to my Fred?”
“Now, now Muriel,” the woman with her said. “Don’t get yourself upset.”
Alice bit back the comment that a woman unexpectedly and suddenly widowed was entitled to be a bit upset. “Mrs. Morgan,” she said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to her, “I’ve been talking to Sergeant Jones and we both want to call in the coroner.”
“Why?” There was belligerence and fear in the swollen eyes.
“We’re not sure of the cause of death. We’ll need another opinion anyway since Mr. Morgan wasn’t under my care.”
“I thought he had a heart attack.” She looked up at the other woman. “Didn’t you say he had, Wendy?”
“I said it looked like one, Muriel.”
Heaven save her from amateur diagnoses.
“Wasn’t it then, Doctor?” Muriel Morgan asked. “Why the coroner? That means they’re going to cut him up, doesn’t it?”
“That depends.” Scant comfort but…
“Doctor, I don’t want him cut up. He’d hate that!” She broke down sobbing and Alice, loathing this part of the job like poison, handed over her own laundered handkerchief.
Muriel sobbed into it while Wendy muttered, “There, there, Muriel,” and treated Alice to a definite scowl. “Is that really necessary?”
“We believe so.”
Muriel looked up, her eyes redder than ever, and sniffed. “Your father would have known a heart attack when he saw one. If he were here…”
She refused to be hurt by the slight on her professional prowess. “I wish he were here, too, Mrs. Morgan. I can’t sign the death certificate unless I’m completely certain. Your husband deserves better than that.”
She nodded, her eyes blank with grief and shock. “I just know he’d hate to be cut up.”
The poor man was long past being distressed by that. “I know the thought’s upsetting, but once it’s over and settled, it will be worth it.” She hoped.
“I suppose the police will pester Muriel with more questions.”
The woman was sharp-tongued. “No more than they feel necessary. I’m Dr. Doyle. I apologize for not introducing myself. I forget people outside Brytewood don’t know me.” She offered her had, which the woman took with an air of reluctance.
“I’m Wendy, I was helping Muriel with the pickles. We was busy in the kitchen when Fred went out.”
“She’s my sister. Visiting from London. I told her to come down here and get away from all those bombs,” Muriel added.
“Welcome to Brytewood and I’m sorry this happened, but I am glad Mrs. Morgan has company. Can you stay a few days?”
“I was planning on it. My house in Clapham got a direct hit last week.”
She was entitled to be a trifle acerbic. “How terrible for you.” And thousands of others. “And now this on top of it, but I’m really glad Mrs. Morgan has company for a while. This will take a few days.” Maybe longer given everyone was short-staffed.
“You’ve got more questions, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid so.” Wendy seemed to mellow a little so Alice pressed on. “What happened? You were both in the house?”
She nodded. “Bottling up a couple of recipes of piccalilli. We had plenty of vegetables and thought it might help brighten up a few meals now that rationing has started. We were all in the kitchen when Fred said he’d heard a noise outside. We’ve been bothered by a fox around the henhouse the last few nights so he went out to look.”
“He took his gun?”
Wendy shook her head. “No, just a light. Said it would scare the blighter off.”
Alice nodded, suspecting Farmer Morgan had used a saltier expression. “Was he out there long?”
“Long enough for us to fill seven or eight jars. First off we heard him shout, thought he was scaring off the fox. He didn’t come back in, then we heard this awful scream, more like a howl than anything else. We both ran out and found him in Esmerelda’s sty.” It never ceased to amaze Alice the names given animals destined to be slaughtered. “The old sow was shivering in a corner, scared to bits to see her master drop dead in front of her.”
“So he screamed before he died?”
“It wasn’t just a scream,” Muriel Morgan piped in. “It was unearthly, like a sound from a nightmare.” Even allowing the widow’s grief, the description sent a shiver down Alice’s back. “Was he in pain, d’you think, Doctor?”
Certainly sounded like it. “That’s what the postmortem will establish.”
Declining a belatedly offered cup of tea, Alice went back to the kitchen. Seemed somehow very sad that poor Fred Morgan was laid out on the very table where he’d no doubt tucked into Muriel’s generous cooking.
“What d’you think, Doctor?” Sergeant Jones asked. “Call for them to come get him in the morning?”
They were asking her, and she had no idea. Brytewood residents tended to die peacefully in their beds, not like this.
“Think we should call the detectives in