Giotto's Hand

Dr. Johnson wrestled with his medical conscience awhile. “She came from a family which was not as rich as it had been. Still more than rich enough in my opinion, but perceptions in these matters are relative. Her experience was permanently one of not being able to afford things that were taken for granted in the family’s past. Most of the time she coped quite well. When she didn’t…”

He paused and wrestled some more.

“I gather she became jealous. Powerfully so.”

“Eh?”

“Covetous.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, miss. I shouldn’t even have said that. You will have to ask a member of the family for details. That is, after all, where I got them myself. Miss Beaumont hardly confided in me.”

“No. Hold on a second. Do you mean she stole things? Is that what you’re discreetly hinting at?”

But this was pushing him too far. In a very medical fashion, he wrung his hands and became all technical. “That is a broad and not very useful description,” he said. “Indeed, I strongly doubt whether such forms of malady exist, in any real sense. Certainly there is no single illness, with identifiable or predictable symptoms.”

“Except for stealing things.”

Dr. Johnson coughed with embarrassment at her way of phrasing it.

“She did steal things, is that right?”

“So I understand,” he said reluctantly, before recovering himself. “A pair of gloves here, a tin of salmon there. Certain department stores in London were quite used to her. So Mrs. Verney told me. Apparently it fell to her, in later years, to go round and sort things out with them, if you see what I mean. No. I cannot possibly comment further. I am no psychiatrist, and in any case, she was only my patient for the last few years of her life. Such information as I have I got from members of the family, and you will have to apply to them. Naturally, they wanted to keep it as quiet as possible.”

“I see,” said an astonished Flavia. “Now. What I really wanted to ask you about was her and Geoffrey Forster.”

Johnson looked stormy, and Flavia thought that maybe the medical secret was about to be invoked again.

“A most malign influence,” he said instead, however. “Miss Beaumont was a weak and impressionable woman, and he manipulated her quite shamelessly. For his own ends, I believe.”

“To sell off the contents of Weller House?”

“I never knew the details. I do know that as he wormed his way into her affections, she was asked to do more and more, and that nothing ever came of any of it. If it wasn’t for Mrs. Verney, trying to keep him at bay, things would have been very much worse. Of course, there was little she could do. Near the end, I understand there was a serious fight between the two about Mr. Forster’s influence. After her death, she tried to undo some of the damage he had done. With only limited success.”

“You mean George Barton? Things like that?”

“Yes. Forster persuaded Miss Beaumont to transfer some of her remaining cottages into a development company he owned. The idea was that he would do them up and sell them, and they would share the profits. I gather the idea was to transfer even more; Forster told her it was a way of avoiding tax or some such nonsense. Fortunately, this did not happen. Personally, I doubt she would ever have seen a penny back. Mrs. Verney spent some considerable amount of time trying to undo the damage but with little success, I gather. George Barton was being thrown out and there was little she could do about it.”

“I see. Now, to return to the suicide possibility. Is there any reason why she should have killed herself then?”

“None that I can think of, although in the case of depression you don’t necessarily need anything. And, I must say, she had some reason to be depressed. She had many hypochondriacal tendencies, but in her last year— more than a year, in fact—she was genuinely ill.”

“How so?”

“She had a mild stroke in the summer of 1992. Not immediately life-threatening or disabling, but it frightened her—and she was easily frightened. She was not the sort to take adversity well. She spent a great deal of time in bed and rarely moved far from the house. Personally, I think she was fitter than she seemed, and should have taken exercise. But she never listened to me.”

“Was she depressed when she died? More so than usual, I mean?”

Dr. Johnson thought this over. “Perhaps. Although the last time I saw her, I think angry would have described her mood better. Again, that was not uncommon: she frequently fulminated against things—socialists, thieves, what she was pleased to call the lower classes, taxmen. What she was specifically angry about, I don’t know. Possibly something to do with Forster. But, as I say, I doubt that was the cause of her death.”

Flavia stood up, shaking his hand once more. “Thank you. Doctor. You’ve been most kind.”