Felix Francis - Guilty Not Guilty

5. Some people have a philosophical desire to die in a manner of their choosing. They often have a terminal illness, which may have future painful or debilitating consequences. They are not psychotic, impulsive, depressed or crying out for help, they simply wish to take control of where, when and how they pass on.

6. By mistake — a few people will always stab or shoot themselves by accident and, a generally more recent phenomenon, some men, seeking sexual arousal by deprivation of oxygen to the brain, either attempt self-strangulation by hanging or they place a plastic bag over their heads. Occasionally, such practices simply go too far, resulting in their unwanted deaths. The actor David Carradine, of Kung Fu and Kill Bill fame, died from autoerotic asphyxiation caused by hanging from a rope in a hotel wardrobe in Bangkok. Although suspended at quite a low level, much lower than his own standing height, the conclusion was that he had accidentally become unconscious, causing the majority of his bodyweight then to hang on the rope, which had resulted in his death.

Well, one lived and learned.

Amelia had written ‘THIS IS ME’ in the margin alongside number 3 — Depression. She had then underlined it twice with such heavy strokes of the pen that they had almost torn right through the paper.

I put the booklet down as tears again welled up in my eyes, not so much from grief at her loss, even though that was raw too, but at the frustration I felt that I hadn’t been more useful to her when she was alive. Why had she not shown me this? Why had we not talked about it more?

But we had. Of course we had. All the time.

If I’d told her once, I’d told her a million times that I would not be better off if she was dead, and here I was to prove it — blubbing like a baby and totally lost without her.

Strangely, I clung to the fact that Amelia hadn’t killed herself. Autoerotic strangulation is almost exclusively a male activity and, anyway, it is impossible to kill yourself with a ligature without actually hanging from something. As soon as you become unconscious the pressure releases and you recover.

I sat on the floor and read through the rest of the booklet.

In its totality, it was far from being a manual of how to commit suicide, more it was a recipe for how to stay alive through difficult times, and I was glad of that. I hoped that Amelia had found some strength from its pages.

The daylight was fading by the time I had finished reading so I stood up, turned on the electric replacement, and continued my search for Amelia’s notebook.

I was sure it wasn’t in the desk so I did a systematic search of the rest of the house, opening every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen, emptying the sideboard in the dining room and going through all Amelia’s clothes in her wardrobes. I also searched her bedside cabinet and those in the bathroom, once again. I looked under all the beds and on top of all the bookcases. I even turned the pockets inside out in the coats hung near the back door.

Nothing. At least, no blue-covered notebook.

Amelia had always been extremely good at hiding things and I had never once come across my birthday or Christmas present by accident before the due day.

I tried all her multitude of handbags but they were mostly empty, and those that weren’t contained such mundane items as tissues, hairclips and the ubiquitous lip salves. Hat boxes contained just hats, and there were no notebooks lurking in the depths of her boots, nor anything else for that matter.

I even opened the fridge and the freezer again to see if she had wrapped it in a plastic bag and popped it behind the butter or under a bag of frozen peas.

No joy.

I couldn’t think of anywhere else to look.

Perhaps I’d try her car.

I was just collecting the keys when there was a knock on the front door.

Wary of what had happened that very morning in Mary Bradbury’s cottage, and not wanting another confrontation with a knife-wielding Joe, I went into the sitting room and looked through the window to see who it was.

Dave and Nancy Fadeley stood expectantly on my doorstep, each of them bearing gifts.

‘Hello, you two,’ I said, opening the door.

‘We thought you might need some company,’ Dave said. He held up a bottle of red wine. ‘And we can’t have you getting blind drunk on your own, now can we?’

‘And I thought you might need something more to eat,’ Nancy added. ‘So I’ve brought over a casserole for us all to share.’

‘How wonderful, thank you. Come on in.’

I led them towards the kitchen but Nancy hung back.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, but there were tears again in her eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said, wiping them away with her sleeve.

‘Don’t be. I’ve been crying all over this house. It’s very painful.’

‘Would you prefer to go back over to our place?’ Dave said. ‘We nearly called you but we thought you might not answer.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. Somehow better to face the demons than to bury them. Let’s have some of that wine.’

We went into the kitchen, Nancy included, and I fetched three glasses from a cupboard.

‘None for me,’ Nancy said. ‘I have a slight infection — women’s problem — and I’m on antibiotics. So I’m afraid it’s no booze for me for another week.’ She pulled a face.

‘What would you like instead?’ I asked. ‘I don’t have much that’s non-alcoholic.’

‘Tap water will do,’ she said. ‘Unless you have any coffee.’

‘Instant?’

‘Lovely.’

Dave poured two glasses of red while I switched on the kettle.

‘I’m afraid I have no milk.’

‘Black will be fine,’ she said. ‘But I’ll have it with one sugar to take away the bitterness.’

Sugar , I thought. She’d be lucky. Neither Amelia nor I ever took sugar.

There were three white circular tins on the worktop behind the kettle with the words TEA, COFFEE and SUGAR painted on them.

I spooned some instant granules from the COFFEE tin into a mug and picked up the SUGAR one. It felt worryingly light. I pulled off the lid and was relieved to see just a little of the sweet stuff at the bottom.

And there, lying above it, was a small blue-covered notebook.

I laughed out loud, which Dave and Nancy found rather disconcerting.

‘Sorry,’ I said, lifting out the treasure and showing them. ‘I’ve been searching for this notebook all afternoon. I’ve turned the whole house upside down. And I’d have never found it if you two hadn’t come over. Thank the Lord for antibiotics.’

We sat on the bar stools at the kitchen counter and ate the casserole, which was excellent — would I expect anything else from Nancy? — and Dave and I drank all of his bottle of red wine and most of another of mine, with him consuming the lion’s share. Not that I hadn’t been a willing accomplice.

‘So the police let you go,’ Dave said when he had enough alcohol in his bloodstream to pluck up the courage.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can prove that I was in Birmingham the whole time.’

‘So who the hell did kill her?’ he said, slightly slurring his words.

Nancy gave him an exasperated look as if to express the view that he shouldn’t be mentioning such things, not here, not now, and especially not in this kitchen.

But it was she who then answered the question.

‘Her brother,’ she said.

‘Exactly,’ I agreed, trying not to slide off my barstool. It had been some time since I had drunk so much claret.

‘Amelia often told me she was frightened of him.’

‘Did she really?’

‘Yes, and she said it to me again last week, on the night before she died. Perhaps I should have done something about it like mention it to the police. Maybe I still should. I would have done but they seemed so sure that...’