Nov 24, 20176 min read

Garden Grove: 4 Sick Workers and Senility – Mrs. Crampchet by LV Gaudet

Garden Grove Cover - McNally - front cover

A police officer knocked on the old lady’s door. He waited, knocked again, waited. Constable Timothy Berkham is a young man and new on the job, having graduated his training only six months ago.

She didn’t come to the door.

Constable Berkham walked around the outside of the little old house, looking in the windows, and saw movement somewhere deep inside past the old yellowing age-stained lacy curtain of one of the windows.

He went to the front door and knocked again, calling out.

“Hello!”

He knocked again.

“Hello, Mrs. Crampchet?”

He peered in through the window by the door.

“Mrs. Crampchet, I know you’re in there,” he called out. “I can see you.”

He knocked again.

“Mrs. Crampchet, it’s the police. Please come to the door.”

He heard movement inside.

The old lady did not come to the door.

He tried the door. It was Unlocked.

The door creaked loudly when he opened it. The worn hinges were long overdue for some lubricating.

Constable Berkham took a step inside, nervous. He paused just inside the front door, looking around and leaning to look through an interior doorway to the rest of the house. The front door opened to the living room and from there he could see a short hallway with an entrance to the kitchen.

The idea of walking unwelcomed into the residence of a suspect and knowing they’re in there but they won’t come to the door made him very nervous. It’s a dangerous situation where the suspect could be hiding anywhere, just waiting to strike before fleeing. It was his first time having to actually do it outside of a training exercise in his class. Normally he would have waited for backup.

But this was a different kind of nervousness and this is a wellness check, not a criminal arrest.

This is a frail little old lady, possibly a very confused old lady who may be in some stage of dementia. And, from the poisoning of the work crew, may herself have been poisoned by her own baking.

Young Timothy Berkham had never entered anywhere uninvited before. He felt like a burglar, an unwanted and unwelcome intruder, not a police officer.

“Mrs. Crampchet,” he called out. “Hello? Mrs. Crampchet? Police. Can you come to the door please?”

He heard the sound of movement from another room, muttering, and then the heavy clunk of something being dropped. It sounded breakable and very heavy, china or some kind of pottery maybe. It didn’t sound like it broke.

“Mrs. Crampchet?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the old lady croaked back, her voice frail and wavering. “What do you want?”

“Uh, Mrs. Crampchet? I’m Constable Timothy Berkham. I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

She shuffled out from a bedroom in the back of the house. A large heavy vase lay on its side out of sight on the floor behind her where she had dropped it.

She moved down a short hall and through another doorway to the kitchen.

Berkham saw movement. The old woman appeared in the hallway where it met the living room and kitchen doorways and went into the kitchen. He could just make her out as she came and went from sight, doing something in the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea dear?” she called out.

“Uh, no thank you ma-am. Mrs. Crampchet? I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?”

He paused.

She didn’t answer.

“Mrs. Crampchet? I’m coming in.”

One of the first things he learned was to always announce yourself before entering an uncertain situation. Do not surprise the occupants and do not make them panic. A panicked suspect acts without thinking, making the situation less controllable.

He approached the kitchen cautiously. She was out of sight now but he could hear the old woman moving around. He found her there preparing for tea.

“Mrs. Crampchet?” he said as he entered the kitchen.

“Hello dear. The water is almost ready for the tea,” she said.

An old kettle sat on the burner of an old stove. The light isn’t lit to show the element is turned on, but the knob is turned. The plastic covering the light is yellowed with age and turning brown, a sign it is likely burned out, charring the plastic when it went. A faint wisp of steam trailing up from the spout and the slow ticking and hissing of the metal kettle heating up told him the stove element is in fact working.

Delicate little teacups teetered dangerously on their dainty little saucers as the old woman shuffled to the little table carrying them. The cups rocked and tinkled against the saucers, almost tipping over as she put them down.

“Mrs. Crampchet, can you tell me about the pastries you brought to the men at the Garden Grove construction site?” Berkham asked.

She shuffled over to the cluttered counter, picking up a tin canister and spoon. She shuffled back to the table and struggled with the lid for a moment, paused, then held the tin out.

“Would you mind dear?”

He looked down at the offered tin before reaching to take it. He didn’t move to take the tin.

“Uh, Mrs. Crampchet?”

“Hmm?”

“Mrs. Crampchet, that’s not tea.”

“Oh?”

She looked down at the canister in her hands, turned it over.

“Coffee” it said.

“Oh dear,” she muttered, shaking her head and tut-tutting to herself.

She shuffled back to the counter and changed canisters, bringing back the one marked “Tea” this time.

After having him open the canister, complaining how hard it is with her arthritic hands, she spooned some of the loose tea leaves into the little cups. She shuffled back to the counter to return the canister to its place.

As he watched, Berkham wondered why she didn’t use a teapot like people usually did with loose tea leaves. It couldn’t be good with all the leaves in the cups.

“Mrs. Crampchet, I need you to tell me what you put in those pastries,” Berkham said.

“Would you like some sugar, dear?” she asked, shuffling back to the table with another canister. Putting down the canister, the old woman carried the kettle to the table using an old folded tea towel and poured it into the cups.

The water had an unhealthy looking yellow color.

Returning the kettle to the stove, she shuffled back to the table, opened the canister, and started spooning the white powder into one of the little cups. The fine powder floated on top in a clump before finally beginning to sink.

“Sugar?” she asked, ready to spoon some into the other teacup.

“Uh, oh-no thanks Ma-am.”

He looked at the canister she held.

It said “Flour”.

“Mrs. Crampchet, about those pastries,” he tried again. This was getting nowhere.

She looked at him as if he’d just shown up and she’d never seen him before. Confusion furrowed her brow. Then a smile creased her age withered lips.

“Johnny?” she asked, a little unsure. “Johnny? My Johnny!”

She rushed over as fast as her arthritic shuffle could and threw her arms around him, trying to pull him down to kiss him.

“Oh Johnny,” she cried. “You’re here, you’re here!”

She looked toward the door, and then looked back up at him, clinging to him.

“Your father will be home any minute now Johnny.”

He gently extricated himself from the little old woman.

“Uh, Mrs. Crampchet, I have to go now.”

He made a quick getaway. His report would show that the poisoning of the men at the Garden Grove Meadows construction site was accidental in his opinion, based on the old woman’s failing mental faculties.

A visit by a social worker would be requested to make sure the woman’s needs were being looked after and to determine if she should be put into a care home.

Following the young officer to the door, she called out to him in her feeble age withered voice.

“Johnny, don’t go. Come back Johnny, dinner is almost ready.”

He looked back once at the confused old woman staring at him from the open doorway. Her look suggested she wasn’t sure if he was coming for a visit or leaving. She gave him a little uncertain wave and he beat a hasty retreat to his car.

She closed the door behind him and turned, humming, and shuffled back to the kitchen to dump out the ruined tea.

A smirk creased her aged lips.