‘Yes, along with Sir Ross’s parents and countless other ancestors. They were interred within a few years of each other you know, the parents and then your aunt… sad times, sad times,’ the vicar said, shaking his head. ‘The vault hasn’t been opened since then, thankfully.’
‘So it’s not possible to go down there,’ David said with disappointment.
‘Oh no,’ the vicar said with some distaste. ‘The vault is only opened on the death of a Webley in order to inter the body.’
‘I see,’ David said, then looking at the structure again, he asked, ‘it looks kind of abandoned, doesn’t anyone ever come and visit it at all?’
‘Sadly not. Since Sir Ross sold the Manor and moved away, he hasn’t been here once to my knowledge. I keep track of him by reading the papers, but I haven’t seen him in person for the best part of twenty years.’
‘That’s disgraceful,’ David said with disgust. ‘Would you mind if I tidied it up a little while I’m here? I hate to see my aunt’s final resting-place in such a mess.’
‘Not at all, you carry on, but you will have to excuse me, I must get back to my sermon.’
‘That’s fine, thank you for all your help and the interesting information. You have a fine place here.’
‘We are rather proud of it,’ the vicar said, ‘even though pride is a sin.’
‘That reminds me,’ David said, ‘there was one other thing I wanted to ask you. Do you happen to know the name of the doctor who attended my aunt when she was sick?’
‘The Webleys always had Doctor Mason from the village, didn’t trust anyone else.’
‘Does he still live here in the village?’ David asked.
‘Certainly, but he doesn’t practice any more, except for one or two special patients. He must be over seventy by now. He still lives in his old surgery in the High Street, three doors up from the pub. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you again for all your help, and I’m sorry I interrupted the work on your sermon.’
‘Don’t apologize, dear boy,’ the vicar chuckled. ‘I’m sure my parishioners will secretly thank you if it ends up five minutes shorter. Well, must be off, it was nice to meet you.’
David watched as the vicar ambled off down the path chuckling to himself, then took out the Swiss Army Knife which he’d bought earlier in the week, stripped off his jacket, and set about the ivy and moss which was threatening to engulf his aunt’s vault.
Half an hour later, under the bewildered gaze of the two men watching discreetly from the other side of the graveyard, he had the vault looking much better. He’d cut away all the ivy to reveal the Webley family crest and motto, and had scraped most of the moss from the marble, leaving it all in a neat pile beside the path for the resident gardener to dispose of. Satisfied with his work and feeling that he’d paid just homage to his aunt, he sat cross-legged on the grass in the shade of a nearby oak tree contemplating all he’d learnt from the vicar. The fact that Webley had not been to visit the grave in over twenty years didn’t surprise him at all. In fact, it reinforced his opinion of the man. And the way Webley had seemed to rush Aunt Freda into marriage just before she got sick was suspicious also. He wondered what, if anything he would learn from the doctor about that.
With that in mind, he got to his feet, put his jacket on, took one last look at the vault then set off towards the churchyard entrance and the High Street. Five minutes later, he was knocking on the doctor’s front door and was getting no response. He was about to knock again when an old woman walked by and said without stopping, ‘If it’s the doctor you’re after, he’s probably in the King’s Head.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ David called after her, then walked the short distance to the pub. Although it was only a little after eleven-thirty, there were already several old men sitting up to the bar enjoying a drink. David walked in and said to the barman, ‘I’m looking for Doctor Mason? I was told he might be in here?’
The most dignified of the old men at the bar, a ruddy-faced cherub of a man wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, turned to him and said, ‘I’m Mason, what can I do for you?’
David held out his hand to the doctor and said, ‘My name is David Wiseman, I’m Lady Freda Webley’s nephew.’
The doctor looked thoughtful as he shook hands then asked, ‘What brings you to our village, Mr. Wiseman?’
‘I’ve come up to visit my aunt’s grave and to try to speak with anyone who might remember her.’
‘I remember Lady Freda very well,’ the doctor said solemnly.
‘Is there someplace we can talk in private?’ David asked. ‘There are some things I need to know.’
Addressing the barman, Mason said, ‘Another whiskey for me and whatever Mr. Wiseman is having, in the snug if you please.’
David asked for a Coke, then followed the doctor into the snug bar at the back of the pub. Their drinks arrived a few moments later. Seated across a small table from each other in one corner, Mason sipped his drink then asked, ‘Now then, what was it you wanted to know?’
‘I was wondering if you might have any idea what brought on the heart attack that killed my aunt?’ David asked.
‘That’s easy,’ Mason said. ‘It was an epileptic seizure.’
‘Epileptic seizure?’ David repeated incredulously. ‘But the death certificate just said she died from a heat attack.’
‘I don’t know where you got that idea from,’ Mason said confidently. ‘I wrote out and signed the death certificate myself, and it most definitely stated the cause of death to be cardiac failure following a severe attack of grand-mal epilepsy. I remember it distinctly.’
‘But my aunt didn’t suffer from epilepsy,’ David insisted. ‘As far as I know, she’d never had a day’s illness in her life.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mason scoffed. ‘Sir Ross himself told me she had a long history of severe epilepsy, that it ran in her family, and that her brother had died during an attack just the year before.’
‘Her brother,’ David said emphatically, ‘was my father, and I can guarantee you he was not an epileptic and that it does not run in his family.’
Mason looked dazed and confused for a moment, then asked, ‘But what possible reason could Sir Ross have had for lying about it? The lady was definitely suffering convulsive seizures, I witnessed one of them myself!’
‘What were the seizures like?’ David asked.
‘The onset of the attack I saw was signaled by screaming followed by a loss of consciousness. She stopped breathing and her entire body was gripped by a spastic muscular contraction, which made her face livid and her back arch. After that, her back muscles contracted and relaxed so violently that we were forced to pin her down to stop her injuring herself. When the convulsion finally subsided, she was exhausted and slept heavily.’
‘And how were you treating her?’
‘There’s no specific cure for epilepsy, but seizures can be prevented or reduced in frequency by using anticonvulsant drugs. I tried her on severaclass="underline" phenobarbital, ethosuximide, and valproic acid.’
‘And did she respond to any of them?’ David asked
‘No,’ Mason said gloomily. ‘I have to admit she just kept getting worse. I had spoken to Sir Ross several times about getting her to a clinic for some special tests. I particularly wanted to have an electroencephalograph examination.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a device that records the patient’s brain waves allowing diagnosis and study of the disease in the individual.’
‘And what did Webley say about it?’
‘He thought she would be better off at home than in a clinic.’
‘Then what happened?’ David asked.
‘I had been going up to the Manor every day for about two weeks, and she was getting steadily worse. She’d reached the point where she was suffering repeated convulsions interspersed with bouts of delirium, confusion and depression. On the day of her death, I visited in the afternoon and she was so bad that I insisted to Sir Ross that she be moved to a clinic. He finally agreed to let her go and asked me to fix it up for the following day. Unfortunately, about ten o’clock that night, I had an urgent telephone call from the Manor and rushed up there at once, but I was too late. Lady Freda had suffered a massive seizure and her heart had given out.’