Episode 2 - Bridge

Tuesday cont.

One of the major problems of running a home for pensioners and people who prefer to describe themselves in euphemisms such as older-middle-aged or younger seventy- plus is that some of them are usually in such good shape that they outlast what you could refer to as merely pensioners passing through. They arrive looking forward to a new lease of life and their the optimism fades quite soon in face of the ennui encountered on a day to day basis confrontation with other seniors. Life at a home for seniors can be quite humdrum, but it is not per se lethal, and relatives only too often treat their elders as if they had parked them somewhere out of the way, safe and sound, but isolated.

Sandra Bright, Silvia Clark and Susanna Smith-Copeland, known to one another as Sandy, Silvie and Suzy, had been living for more years than they usually admitted to  at the newly entitled Pensioner’s Paradise, formally known as a mature person residence or simply OAP home after it was adapted from a hotel at which no one seemed to want to stay.

Forced to live together under one roof, in those years of living under one roof those three seniors have barely aged at all. They are inevitably – since their backgrounds are as different as they could be - rivals, their unconfessed targets being the few older men who are affluent enough to enter such a residence. They had invariably lost, mislaid or dumped their partners. They were alone in the world. Their sob stories awaken motherly or other female instincts. Age is no barrier to passion.

***

Known as ‘The three Graces’ or more commonly ‘The three Esses’, Sandy, Silvie and Suzy were the survivors of marriages to men who kept them at home whilst fulfilling their own emotional needs elsewhere. The three ladies were hungry for attention and affection. They were thankful to have survived their marriages, and two of the three were indeed examples of profitable widowhood, while the third, plagued by bunions and lack of adequate pocket-money, found it all humdrum, herself being the most humdrum of the three.  

The scarcity of gentlemen was despairing. The three senior citizens under scrutiny no longer attracted anyone, unless you count fortune-hunters and confidence tricksters. But anyway it would have been difficult for any of the home dwellers to keep a toy-boy within the precincts even if they could hang on to one, since lodgers were not allowed. Widowed ladies like Sandy, Silvie and Suzy were obliged to look for male companionship within the walls of the home if they were not content to keep company with other female residents and could not afford or did not want to make regular excursion to Crumb’s tearoom or Delilah’s bistro.

In  turn, the situation had led to the few male residents being wooed by the many females, whether they liked it or not. Sandy, Silvie and Suzy had been most recently engaged in a tussle with Mr Formby, a former bank manager, who wasn’t much older than retirement age, seemed not have been married at all, and had only recently given up going to gym.

Mr Formby, who still had quite a good figure, some hair and nice eyes, was considered a catch, so the three Esses set  - or rather, two of them with the third tagging along with her bunions - their proverbial caps at him. One or other invariably kept him company, whether he liked it or not, though not one of them had made it to his private quarters yet.

Mr Formby tried to keep the ladies happy in a platonic way having had plenty of practice since his preference was not for the gentler sex, although he got on quite well with them at a distance. Desperate not to hurt any of the ladies at the residence because they could be really vicious if roused, he hit on an idea that would show them that he did not favour any one of them, fulfil his need for non-committal companionship, and even teach them a thing or two about bridge. They could take it turn to be his nominal partner at the table and he would be spared the constant surveillance he seemed to be undergoing.

It was a good idea as far as it went, but it did not suppress the rivalry between the three Esses. Mr Formby’reluctance was like a rag to a bull.

***

“It’s his hormones,” Silvie said. “My George had that.”

“There’s a cure for it,” Suzy claimed.

“It doesn’t always work the way you want it to,” sniffed Sandy, whose bunions reacted negatively to stress and high humnidity..

“Which way did you want it to work?” said Silvie.

“You know….” said Sandy, to the astonishment of Silvie and Suzy, who could not imagine Sandy having ever been the slightest bit ‘loose’.

Since Suzy was grudgingly acknowledged to have had the most experience with the opposite sex, her words were listened to carefully.

“If we slip him a little something, it might awaken his interest in one of us,” said Suzy, confident that she would be the chosen one.

“Do you mean entice him to take me, her or you to his room?” said Sandy, who was arguably the most upright of the three ladies as well as being the least attractive.

“We could take it in turns to be near him when he gets his ‘medication’,” said Suzy.

“What medication?” said Sandy.

“His bottle of you know what,” said Suzy.

“Water?”

“Vodka.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” said Silvie. “I’m not sure that it’s fair to Mr Formby to trick him into a clandestine meeting.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” said Suzy. “If you don’t want to play the love game, you don’t have to, Silvie.”

“Is that what it’s called?” said Sandy. “I’ll think about it.”

All three Esses gave the plan their consideration.

“Where do we get the stuff?” said Silvie finally.

“That isn’t a problem,” said Suzy. “Is it a deal?”

“How much will it cost?” said Sandy.

“You can afford it. Think of the reward!” said Suzy. “We’ll coordinate the strategy as soon as we can put it into practice, and anyway, I still have some left over.”

“Won’t it be out of date?” said Sandy.

“What do you think?” said Suzy coyly, and the other two Esses looked at one another in wide-eyed shock.

The trio nevertheless shook hands solemnly. A pact is a pact.

“We can draw secret lots for whose turn it is,” said Suzy.

“It’s my 70^th birthday next week. Wouldn’t it be nice if …”

“You’ve been here ten years, haven’t you? Did you come here when you were 60, Silvie?” said Suzy. “Wasn’t that a bit young for such a move?”

“It coincided with my bus pass, Suzy. My husband left me comfortable and that qualified me for a nice room here. In fact, it was still almost a hotel when I moved in.”

“Almost?” said Sandy.

“They still hadn’t finished doing it all up with extra rails on the stairs and alarm bells and things like that.”

“Oh.”

Suzy thought to herself that Silvie looked older than her years. She would be a less favoured candidate of Mr Formby. Silvie was lying about her age, and Sandy with her bunions would not attract a nice man like Mr Formby.

“Maybe they should have called this place The Lonely Hearts Hotel,” said Sandy, whose predilection for going barefoot in the manner of Sandy Shaw, a bare-footed pop singer of yesteryear, had also inspired her preference for the name. Sylvie had borrowed her shortened name from the Queen of Sweden and liked to dress like her, whilst Suzy was keen on manga comics, but could not compete with the waistlines or eye makeup. She did, however, go for rosy cheeks.

“We’ll try it today,” said Suzy. “I’ll go to my room and get it.”

***

Lunch was at midday and was cleared away within three quarters of an hour, so the bridge party could start at one o’clock and did not interfere with any sitcoms, quizzes or animal programmes due to be watched on TV later. Two tall paravants cut off a corner of the communal lounge so that the card players would not be distracted by the comings and goings of residents who did not go anywhere much after lunch and were glad to spread-eagle on the armchairs and indulge in forty winks..

As usual, Mr Formby was there first and was twiddling his thumbs waiting for the ladies to appear. He had already downed his first tumbler of vodka poured from the bottle that he had brought together with the glass in his leather briefcase. He had, as usual, ordered water to keep up appearances and kept the vodka under table for the duration of the card game. It was usually empty by the time the card game had become tedious. Between nips he left the tumbler on the table. That would be an important part of the trio’s strategy.

The three ladies met in the hall. They drew lots to decide who was to be the aspirant of the day. Suzy handed the capsules around. The donor of the capsule would crack it open and pour the contents surreptitiously into Mr Formby’s vodka. There was plenty of time to do that. A bridge game lasts for hours and necessitates several natural pauses for everyone. Mr Formby had procured a pot of tea for four by the time they all sat down. A toss had provided Mr Formby with his partner for the day.

***

Cleo and Gary walked unhurriedly to Pensioner’ Paradise, which Gary immediately renamed Pensioner’s Purgatory, preferring to discuss the colours they wanted on the walls of the villa rather than speculate on what they would find at the OAP home. Gary would call his Polish all-rounders and hoped they would have time to do the work.

“They always make time,” said Cleo. “They have lots of relatives to jump in.”

“What would we do without them?” said Gary.

“Let’s hope we never have to,” said Cleo.

***

The entrance to the home was through a double gate that still displayed the former name of the hotel as “Hotel Majestic” in wrought iron. Pillars supported the mock Georgian frontage and also provided a sheltered bay that had been useful when the building had been a hotel, and was still used for taxis, since you could wait for them out of the rain. A large forecourt that also  served as parking space for guests gave the building a regal look.

Mrs Peel met the investigators at the door.

“Are you…?”

“Yes we are…” said Gary.

“You phoned, Mrs Peel,” said Cleo.

The housekeeper, who had given the impression on the phone that she was the manager of the establishment, led the way through the reception hall that had hardly changed since the days when it was a thriving and then not so thriving hotel to a large communal lounge. Seated in chairs facing the TV, which was not switched on, were what Cleo thought were probably all the residents who could get there under their own steam. They were silent. Some were asleep, undisturbed by the fracas.The facial expressions of those who were aware of what was going on hovered between sadness, perturbation and even triumph. The business of survival has to be faced by everyone, but none more consciously than the inhabitants of a home for seniors, one of the most urgent questions being “Who’s next?”

Two tall paravants were now protecting the residents from the view of Mr Formby lying prostrate on the carpet, and three anxious ladies still seated at the card table.

“I’ll leave you to it for a minute, shall I?” said Mrs Peel.

“Have you called the doctor?” Gary asked.

“Yes. He’ll be here soon.”

Mrs Peel went around the seniors explaining briefly what had happened and who these two people were. But she had better htings to do than wait around and she was plainly annoyed with Mr Formby for passing out on her carpet.

***

Dr Mitchell was everyone’s doctor in Upper Grumpsfield. He served as paediatrician, gynaecologist and geriatrician. He was conscientious and turned out in all weathers if a patient was suffering or thought so. He was also invariably consulted as general practitioner when a death certificate was needed, and it was needed now.

“Don’t forget to call an ambulance,” Gary commanded Mrs Peel.

“All right,” she snapped. “No need to shout.”

Gary called Chris Winter, forensic scientist and pathologist rolled into one at Police Headquarters in Middlethumpton. Chris’s reaction was predictable.

“Not another,” he said.

“Probably natural causes, but you’ll have to examine him,” said Gary.

“Where is the candidate?”

“At the OAP home at the top of Thumpton Hill, Chris. You can’t miss it. There’s a hand-painted sign saying ‘Pensioner’s Paradise’ stuck in the ground like a ‘for sale’ notice. It’s visible from the road.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” said Chris.

“You don’t have to come yourself,” said Gary.

“Yes, I do. I always come to Upper Grumpsfield. There’s something enticing about the place.”

“Not charming?” said Gary.

“Scintillating with the emphasis on ‘sin’,” said Chris. “Seeya!”

***

“Chris is on his way,” said Gary to Cleo. “Let’s ask these ladies what happened.”

***

“Mr Formby fell off his chair,” said Silvie. “Just like that.”

Silvie mimed with her hands the movement of Mr Formby falling to the ground.

“Hadn’t he given any sign that something was wrong?” Cleo asked.

Sandy replied. Her toes were now rolled under her bare feet.

“No. He just fell off his chair, like Silvie said. My feet are cold.”

“Why don’t you put your shoes on?” said Gary.

“I don’t wear shoes except flip-flops to go out in,” said Sandy.

Cleo and Gary exchanged glances.

“You’d be warmer in carpet slippers,” said Gary.

“I tried them, but my feet felt trapped,” said Sandy.

“Don’t bother about her,” said Suzy. “I was Mr Formby’s bridge partner today and we were winning,” she said. “Now he has spoilt it all.”

Cleo knelt to feel Mr Formby’s temperature. He could just have fainted. He looked quite peaceful. A little sniff told Cleo that he had possibly passed out. From where she was kneeling she could see the vodka bottle under the table. She reached for it and got up.

“Did you all drink some of this?” she asked, holding up the half-empty bottle.

“No,” said all three ladies. “Only Mr Formby.”

“So he had drunk the top half on his own, I assume,” said Cleo.

“He always brings a full one so I suppose he had,” said Silvie.

“And you are…?” said Gary.

“Silvia Clark, but you can call me Silvie. This is Sandra, or Sandra Bright in real life, and this is Susanne or Suzy Smith-Copeland.”

“How do you do Ladies,” said Gary. “I hope you aren’t related to the Three Witches in Macbeth.”

The women tried to smile.

“They brewed poison in their cauldron,” Gary continued, hoping to raise the women’s spirits, but they looked at one another uneasily. “I hope you didn’t brew something in tha bottle.”

“We wouldn’t do that, would we?” said Suzy.

Cleo noted the women’s discomfiture. Shock, she decided.

 “On the other hand, you may be the Three Graces,” he said.

 “We are the Three Esses,” said Sandy crossly. “And that is Mr Formby.”

“I was only joking,” said Gary.

“Is he dead?” Suzy asked.

“Stoned and stone,” said Cleo, “He has not been dead long and he was quite pickled anyway, so he would not have cooled off very much yet.”

“Use my mirror,” said Suzy. “That’s what they do in movies.”

“Pickled? Mr Formby?” said Silvie. “He was respectable.”

“I expect he was,” said Gary.

Before Suzy had found her mirror, for which she was delving in a seemingly bottomless tote bag, Mrs Peel returned, closely followed by Chris and his colleague Ned, who carried a large box full of equipment. Ned unpacked some of it and Chris proceeded to ascertain whether Mr Formby was dead or simply in a coma. Then he set up his laptop for the inevitable fingerprinting. You coud never rule out funny business and these women looked guilty.

“Dead,” he said finally. “Not more than two hours. Did any of you see it happen?” he asked, looking at the Esses.

“He fell off his chair. Just like that,” said Silvie, repeating her mime demonstration.

“Had he been slurring his speech?” Chris asked.

“Not more than usual,” said Suzy. “Did he have a stroke?”

“It’s possible,” said Chris as Ned packed up the medical equipment.

“Can you get a box out of the van for all this stuff on the table, please Ned?”

Ned nodded.

“Can you call an ambulance, Mrs Peel?” said Chris, who could read the name on her badge.

“I’ve done that”, said Mrs Peel.

“Is the gate open, Mrs Peel?” said Cleo.

“I left it open,” said Chris.

“No one leaves the gate open,” said Mrs Peel, going away again, presumably to keep an eye on who came and went so that she could open the gate when required.

“We’ll just have to wait,” said Chris. Ned came back and started wrap up the china and anything else on the table.

“We’ll have to have your prints, Ladies,” said Ned, opening the programme on the forensic laptop that sported a digital fingerprint programme. “Just press your fingertips on the hand image like this and the result is appear on the monitor after a few seconds.”

Ned typed the lady’s name before each test and was satisfied with the results.

“What about Mr Formby?” said Sandy. “He has fingers, too.”

“We’ll do all that at Headquarters, Mrs,” said Ned.

We’ll leave you to it then,” said Gary.

Mrs Peel returned. The ambulance and Dr Mitchell would arrive soon. Dr Mitchell had been delayed at the surgery.

“I can issue a death certificate. No point in dragging a doctor here,” said Chris.

“He’d want to come,” said Mrs Peel. “They’re neally all privately insured here. He can check some blood pressures, then the visit will be worth his while.”

Astute of Mrs Peel, Gary thought.

“Is there somewhere private where we can chat with these ladies?” Gary asked.

“You can go through there,” Mrs Peel said as she pointed to a door behind the paravants.

***

Interviewing the three bridge players was a necessity seeing as they were witnesses. Gary rightly assumed that they would tell the same story, but he would interview them separately when he had read Chris’s report on how Mr Formby had met his death.

The interview was short. As predicted, the trio corroborated everything any of them seid, with the possible exception of Sandy, who was garbling and stuttering.

“Get a life or shut up, Sandy!” Suzy shouted.

Dorothy would have smelt a rat, Cleo decided.

Gary just wanted to get out fast.

***

Formalities completed, Cleo and Gary left. On the way through the lounge they were bombarded with questions from the now thoroughly awake residents. The explaining would be left to Mrs Peel, Cleo said, but Gary turned round at the exit from the lounge to the reception hall, called for attention  and asked anyone who had known Mr Formby and wanted to talk about him to come forward in the next fifteen minutes they would wait at reception, or they could later call the phone number they would leave there.

Only one person reacted to this appeal. It was Mr Formby’s drinking friend and no, he had not known him before they came to the residence.

“My name is Louis,” the man said. “Louis Battle. I was quite friendly with Andy here.”

“Did Mr Formby drink a lot?” Cleo asked.

“What do you mean by ‘a lot’?”

“For example, a whole bottle of vodka when he was playing cards with those three ladies,” said Cleo.

“Is that what they said?” said Louis. “He could hold his drink, but I think a whole bottle of vodka in one sitting would even have been a challenge to him. I’m sure he diluted it. He probably wanted to impress the ladies.”

“So he was a ladies man, was he?” said Cleo.

“Not really. He kept them at bay, but they amused him so he played cards with them. He also liked to watch them fighting for his attention.”

“Quite a sport,” said Gary.

“I’ll let you into a secret, Sergeant,” said Louis Battle.

“That’s Chief Detective Inspector Hurley, Mr Battle, to give him his full title,” said Cleo.

“Sorry if I demoted you, Inspector,” said Battle. “As I was saying, Andy had a bit of a problem.”

“You didn’t actually say what kind of a problem, but you could explain now,” said Gary.

“Andy wasn’t a man for the ladies, if you know what I mean, but those women didn’t notice and it was better to be seen with them rather than being pally with men on the premises, if you know what I mean, Mr Hurley,” said Battle, winking broadly at Gary, which amused Cleo no end.

“Does that mean he went out to find companionship?” Gary asked.

“He had me, Inspector, so his outings were not very frequent.”.

“I prefer the ladies myself,” said Gary.

“What a pity,” said Battle. “But there isn’t anyone interesting here. They are all too old,” he said. “And the last interesting man has gone from us, bless his soul.”

“How old are you, Mr Battle,” said Cleo.

“Not a day over 70,” he said.

“I’m impressed,” said Cleo, wondering how many days over 70 he really was.

It was clear to Gary that there was not much information to be learnt from this peacock of a man.

“It was nice talking to you,” he said. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that might shed light on Mr Formby’s fate, let us know.”

“Of course,” said Battle. “Cheerio for now.”

***

“To be honest, I’d rather deal with those three women than with that camp guy,” said Gary as they walked home. “I think he fancied his chances with me.”

“Those camp guys are usually quite observant,” said Cleo.

“I’ll leave him to you then. That kind of guy prefers older women.”

“And younger men with wavy black hair,” said Cleo. “Like the ones you can pick up on railway stations.”

“I’ll ignore that, Mrs Hurley.”