The 'Cousins'

Part Forty-Four: The Sheriff Finds a Number

Timeline: 0818, Friday 20th April. Dr. Armstrong’s Home Study, Parkway suburb, Bamptonville.

Grace Witterer caught her breath in apprehension and began to nibble her knuckle as she timidly tapped on the door of Dr. Armstrong’s study; putting her ear to its oak panelling hoping to hear the familiar sound of his voice bidding her enter. 

She was anxious for him. Dr. Armstrong was a slave to his habits. He followed a regular morning ritual where he would walk into the kitchen on the stroke of 8 o’clock, dressed and ready for his day to bid her a cheerful good morning and say “Another fine day Mrs. Witterer, another fine day.” His greeting never varied even if rain was falling like steel rods outside. But it was now fifteen minutes after eight and there had been no sign of him. 

She had crept up the stairs to the landing outside his bedroom; from here she was able to see the door was wide open. That was also unusual, as he always kept his door closed. It did allow her to see that the bed had been slept in, but that he was not in the room.  

His car was still on the drive, which meant he must still be in the house. She was now deeply concerned for his well-being and tapped on the study door a second time, louder than before, pushing it open a crack to peek inside.

She saw Armstrong slumped in the chair behind his desk, his forehead lying on his hands that were palms down on the blotter. Grace noticed with dismay the open bottle of Bell’s whisky in front of him; its level down to the label and a tumbler half filled with the neat spirit alongside it. She feared something awful had befallen him for he was a social drinker, and as a rule never drank on his own. She rushed inside and pulled him back  to sit more upright into his chair.

‘Oh my dear God Dr. Armstrong, are you unwell. Speak to me Sir, please,” She shook his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief when he grunted and sat back in the chair rubbing his hand across his forehead. His eyes would not focus and he fumbled on the desk until he found his spectacles, adjusting them carefully on the bridge of his nose, as was his custom.

Mrs. Witterer’s knuckle went back to her mouth as she looked at this man who was always so impeccably turned out.  She was shocked to see him like this, dishevelled, unwashed, unshaven and wearing a dressing gown at 8.15 in the morning; the time he normally left home for the College. Only the strong voice coming from this unkempt man was familiar to her.

“Oh, it’s you Mrs. Witterer, what time is it please? I must have fallen asleep.” She noticed the downturn of his lip on the left side and the slight slurring of his speech and feared he had suffered a minor stroke. She put her hands on his shoulders to hold him.

‘Oh Sir, do you need a doctor. Shall I call Dr. Finch?’

“No, No thank you, please don’t bother yourself or the good doctor. I shall be all right shortly. I have had a bad night, some wretched business has cropped up, that’s all. I am fine otherwise. Thank you Mrs. Witterer.” 

His eyes focused on the grand mother clock ticking away on the far wall from his desk and saw that it was after 8.15. “My goodness is that the time? I must make some telephone calls then get myself off to the College.”

Thus reassured she stepped backwards and glanced with disapproval at the bottle and glass. “I’ll bring you a tray with a little breakfast. You MUST have something in your stomach before you drive Dr. Armstrong.”

He followed her line of sight to the bottle and agreed. “Yes, you are right as always Mrs. Witterer.” He pulled the telephone across the desk towards him. With a swish of her skirt Grace turned sharply towards the door, she deftly picked up the bottle and glass on her way out closing the door behind her.