Murder in Oils 1

 In which one of Jane and Caleb's descendents is still in the same business of solving crime; an inspector at Scotland Yard, Alexander Armitage is about to tangle with some very evil people. 

I'm on chapter 17 so well enough ahead to post.

Chapter 1

 

The girl – young woman, he supposed – was pale and thin, with long, dark hair, eyes too big in her face, and she was twisting her hands together.

“Please, you have to believe me; I am sure it was no accident that Helen – my sister-in-law – fell downstairs. I think she was murdered and so was my brother. He would not take an overdose of laudanum, he would not, he’s not that sort of man.”

Inspector Alexander Armitage took the girl by the elbow, and led her into his office, making a sign to his secretary.

“You are gabbling, my dear young lady, and you will give me a straighter story when you have had tea and scones,” he said. “Mary, my secretary, will procure us some sustenance from the Lyons cafe, where I have an account.”

“You’re going to treat me as a child and brush off my opinion like everyone else, aren’t you?” said the girl. “I never meant to get into that awful set, but if someone offers you a cigarette, one is embarrassed to refuse it, and I didn’t know what opium smells like, or that I was being set up to be made into an addict. I got off it all on my own so David didn’t have to send me to a clinic and be embarrassed, and I am not unreliable! Nor am I a child, I am almost twenty-one, and I resent being treated like a little girl because I was stupid once when I was eighteen.”

“I don’t even know who you are, or why I should have any reason to discount something you clearly believe,” said Alexander. “You may, or may not, be mistaken, but if there is any doubt, your beliefs should be investigated.”

“Oh!” she said. “I am Ida Henderson; my sister-in-law was Helen Henderson, married to my brother, David.”

“Who is also dead?”

“No, of course not!” she flared.

“Excuse me, you said your brother was murdered as he would not take an overdose,” said Alexander.

“Oh! Oh, I can see why I confused you if you do not know the family,” said Ida. “My other brother, Basil is dead. Yes, he was at least half in love with Helen; she was loveable, if a bit suffocating. But a man who crawls out of the burning wreck of his Sopwith Camel, and back through allied lines, and survives becoming a double amputee, and takes up painting to deal with his problems does not kill himself. Besides, your name and Scotland Yard was scrawled on his pallet scored through the paint with his palette knife.”

“No, quite so,” said Alexander. “Do you mean Captain Basil Henderson, DSO?”

“Yes! Do you know him?”

“Slightly, yes; I was in the tank that found him crawling, and took him back over lines,” said Alexander. “My family having a military history as well as in police work.  And having many generations of police behind me, I have that odd crawling feeling which tells me there’s something to look into.” Alexander’s ultimate ancestor had been known as ‘the gentleman Bow Street Runner’ before he took to freelance work, having been invalided out of Wellington’s army. And every generation thereafter had had either a private investigation agent or a member of the regular police since such were established by Robert Peel.

“You must be Major Armitage, then,” said Ida. “Basil spoke about you; you visited him in hospital when his friends were embarrassed to do so, and told him how your ancestor was told he would never walk again, and must leave the army, so he took up police work.”

“It’s a small world,” said Alexander. “Now, let’s clear up this drug nonsense; you became addicted to opium, and got over it?”

“Yes; and Basil helped, he would sit and talk to me and read to me, and play chess for hours at a time. It... I felt so good at first, and I didn’t realise why, and then Jonathon, who had given me the cigarette said I’d have to pay for another. And... and I did... but I realised I wanted more and more. So I went to David, and told him, and he shook me hard, and said we should have to find a clinic, and I said I could stop. And I did!  It was awful, so much pain, and being sick, and... and tummy upsets, and nausea, but I kept saying to myself, if Basil could survive losing his legs, I could survive losing fancy cigarettes.  I think David went to the police over Jonathon but I wasn’t taking much notice. I ended up with a heart murmur from it, but that doesn’t mean I need to be treated like an imbecile invalid or a little girl.”

“Indeed, the opposite; someone with the strength of mind to go through withdrawal from such an unpleasant drug is someone quite amazing,” said Alexander.  “Ah! Tea and scones,” he added as a tap on the door preceded his secretary with a tray.

“They’re out of clotted cream, sir, only jam,” said Mary, putting down a tray.

“Never mind,” said Alexander. “Thank you, Mary.” He frowned. “If you are almost twenty-one, then this must have been before the act in 1920 banning the import or manufacture of smoking opium or opiods, so nothing could be done, though there might be something about inducing a minor to take a harmful substance through false pretences.  You’d have had to have gone on the witness stand, however.”

“Which I have not; and David would not countenance it,” said Ida. “And I don’t much like re-living it, but it explains my status in the household, tolerated barely and treated as a naughty child.  I have not been allowed to go to university, but I will when I am twenty-one, because I have been saving my own money, as I have a legacy from a great aunt. They can’t stop me, can they?”

“Only if they have you declared unfit and put in an asylum,” said Alexander. “And I’d testify against that. Do you realise you are talking yourself into being a suspect in killing a jailor?”

“I resent Helen’s outlook, but not Helen, she is... was, I mean, a kindly person and well-meaning,” said Ida. “And Basil!  Basil gave me my life back.  He taught me to draw; he has been an artist since he came back from France. And when I had ascertained that Helen had no heartbeat, I drew how she lay at the bottom of the stairs, because I thought the police would want to know, in case anyone moved her, which they did. And David said I was ghoulish.  He threw several fits when it was found that Basil was dead, and had been painting the staircase too.  He... he was experimenting with cubism, so it’s a bit confused.”

“I can’t say I am a connoisseur of the style,” said Alexander.

“Basil says... said... that it’s a crazy way of getting a heap of things happening all at once on a canvas without having to draw them all out because they are implied,” said Ida. “His first attempt was a ballerina, and he’s got the first painting where he’s drawn out every move of a pirouette most meticulously and just put a few squares on it, but he worked from that, and there is a kind of movement in the later ones. I can’t say it floats my boat, either, but Basil sometimes has – had days when he could barely move, and then he wanted to distract himself with something quick to work on.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Alexander. “He was painting the staircase she fell down?”

“Yes; we have a very modern house, and apart from Basil’s living rooms, the downstairs and mezzanine is very much open plan. His studio has curtains on a window into the atrium, but he keeps them open a crack to see who is going in and out. If it’s me, and he wants a chat he calls me, and if it’s David, he picks a quarrel with him, if he’s in bad pain, if it’s Miss Truckle, he insults her. Actually, he insults most people, but not always in a way they realise. Oh! And he is dead!”

She burst into tears.

Alexander plied her with tea and a handkerchief and pushed a jammed scone into her hand.

Ida was young enough to eat it without thinking, but concentrating on that calmed her down.

“So, who is Miss Truckle, and who else is in the household?”

“Miss Truckle is my jailor; David said I was too delicate for university and engaged her as a governess. She treats me as if I am feeble-minded. She teaches me to paint pretty little water-colours and play the piano; Basil shows me how to find line and form, and construct a strong image. I gave her the slip in Harrods, and went out dressed as a Nippy, because I am wearing a dark blue dress and at a distance with a white apron and cap, most people imagine black. I climbed over the division in the dressing rooms. Anyway, the other members of the household are Gloria, Miss Wandsworth for best, who’s cook-housekeeper, and she was at university with Helen. Basil has painted both of them many times, together and separately, as Gloria has brown hair and Helen blonde, mostly as Greek goddesses in the Renaissance style. He does a style for a while then goes on to something else, you see.”

“A man who is either devoid of talent, or too talented for his own good,” said Alexander.

“The latter; he is very good,” said Ida. “He likes to paint seagulls and they almost fly off the canvas. He started off in the Royal Naval Air Service, on triplanes. He was sent to the front as they were short of pilots.”

“Yes, the lifespan was not long,” said Alexander.

“But Basil survived it, even if he did lose his legs; he was hoping for prosthetics for his lower legs, you know,” said Ida.  “Anyway, Gloria is over Gladys, the maid of all work, and Gregson, the man of all work, but has no say over Foster, who is David’s man, or Campbell, who is Basil’s, and who is disobliging as a matter of form, I think, being his old batman from the Camel Squadron.”

“David was too young to serve?”

“David is the eldest. He was born in 1890, so he’s thirty two now. He does something in the city that he was able to use not to be called up. He probably bribed someone as well, and kept well out of it. Basil joined up right away. He was just eighteen. Anyway, do you want the household or not?”

“I do, I am sorry, but you are giving me good background,” said Alexander.

“Oh, I see,” said Ida. “Helen had a late miscarriage almost a year ago, and she was very ill with it, so there’s also Miss Galbraith, the nurse, who is also her companion. She’s quite decorative in a rather full-blown way, but Basil has only painted her ironically with her face described by the shadows of the stamens in a peony, one of those lush pink ones which falls almost as soon as it is open.”

Alexander wondered whether Basil considered that Miss Galbraith was happy to fall as soon as she had opened in more ways than one.

“Why would anyone murder your sister-in-law?” he asked.

“Because any one of the other women, including Gladys, would love to marry David, because he is tall, good-looking, rich, urbane, ambitious, and did I mention rich?” said Ida. “I expect if you shake them up they will point out that I am sadly unstable and possibly have little idea of my urges and impulses. Both Gloria and Miss Galbraith are amateur psychologists, and read the work of Freud avidly. Miss Truckle is just of the belief that I should be treated like a tiresome child. She sends me to bed at seven,” she added. “I think David finds it amusing.  I’m in the habit of climbing down the stonework and in Basil’s window.”

“It’s a thin motive, but murder has been done for less,” said Alexander. “And often enough by nurses. Describe Helen and the other women.”

“Helen; all ethereal, blonde, and fond of drifty drapy garments,” said Ida. “She isn’t a natural blonde, though, she has darker roots.  I’d say she was a honey blonde, but it’s not ethereal enough. Now, Gloria is a shade or two darker, a rich honey brown, with gold highlights. She’s slender and a good dancer. Her folks lost all their money after the war, which is why she has to be a housekeeper, and Helen gave her the job out of pity for her. Gloria hasn’t a bad word to say about Helen, and praises her for her kindness all the time, but it never has stopped her looking admiringly at David. I expect she will hope to fill Helen’s shoes, now. Gladys is a silly girl who moons about and casts herself in positions she fondly believes are romantic, with big doe-eyes cast at David, though I suspect she’d be the first to squeal and give notice if he did take her to his bed. She has ideas of what she wants, but then wouldn’t want it, and I’m sorry to be vague, but I’m afraid I’m still a virgin.”

“I consider that commendable in a young lady,” said Alexander, severely.

“Oh, that’s quite all right then,” said Ida. “One has the impression that, like smoking, it’s something to aspire to. Not being virginal, I mean.”

“I would hope you don’t smoke, either,” said Alexander.

“No, it’s rather horrid,” said Ida. “Which is how I was so fooled because I was afraid to look a ninny in front of sophisticated people.”

“Poor child that you were; you know better now,” said Alexander.

“Yes, as Basil always says, dare to be different,” said Ida. “Where was I? Oh, yes, the Galbraith.  Overblown, rather greasy skin, does not strike me as suitable as a nurse. But professional enough in her behaviour, and solicitous of Helen. I would have thought it would have been easier to kill Helen when she was still so helpless, but maybe her professional pride wouldn’t let her fail to nurse Helen back to health.  Is that too much psychology?”

“No, it’s got some logic to it,” said Alexander. “How old is Miss Truckle? You gave me the impression of an elderly lady.”

“She’s still the right side of forty,” said Ida. “David wanted someone I could relate to, as he put it, someone ‘close to us in age’ which is closer to him than me, there being quite eleven years between us.  She gets all flustered and coy when David comes into the room. I say room, downstairs is regions between pillars and partial walls, but there is a music room which can be closed off with folding screens.”

“How long has your brother been married?”

“Four years. I was still at school, right after the war,” said Ida. “I was going to go to Oxford to read literature but I was hoping to find an antiquarian and learn about digging up old skeletons from the past. Who, not being known to me, would be more palatable than dead bodies in the present.”

“I’ll be calling; you go home and lie low,” said Alexander.