Murder in oils 4

 

Chapter 4

 

“Madam,” said Alexander, “As a former officer in His Majesty’s cavalry, where I reached the rank of Major, which was when I befriended Basil, I rather resent being miscalled by a servant.”

Gloria flushed.

“I am a gentlewoman! I have fallen on hard times, and my friend, Helen, offered me a place where amongst the family I might be treated as I should be!”

“See how you like it,” said Alexander. “What’s sauce for the gander, is sauce also for the goose, and I’ll thank you to remember that I come from a family who has moved in social circles the Hendersons have never aspired to. I don’t usually make an issue of it, but under the circumstances, it is important that I am a gentleman to make the enquiries into the deaths of Helen and Basil Henderson, with more delicacy, finesse, and discretion than some of my colleagues could manage. You are very lucky that I was sent, not someone who starts with the premise of treating everyone in the household as a suspect. I will be staying in Basil’s room, and eating with the family. And Miss Henderson has been guilty of no impropriety, as the studio with its wide windows where we can both be overlooked scarcely constitutes a man’s bedroom, does it?”

Gloria flushed.

“I saw you from outside but there is no saying what Ida might do; she is prone to impulses and is sadly unstable mentally,” she said.

“Oh, I’d have said she was a great deal more mentally stable than Mr. David Henderson,” said Alexander.

“You don’t know her as we do... sir,” said Gloria. “The poor girl has delusions and all kinds of problems. If she’s said anything to you about her family, the chances are it’s all moonshine.”

“Oh, so you weren’t friendly with Helen Henderson at university?” asked Alexander, innocently. “Bear in mind, I counted Basil as a friend, and I knew David Henderson at Oxford, and he was a tick then, and he hasn’t improved much, that I can see.”

“You have no call to be rude,” said Gloria.

“Probably not, but I make the excuse of being an old friend of the family,” said Alexander. “And I was about to pop into the village, so you’ll excuse me, I’m sure.”  He picked up the cubist painting from the easel, and walked out of the door past the housekeeper, out of the front door and down the drive.

“Well!” said Gloria. “What’s he taken that painting for? Load of modern nonsense, all squares and triangles.”

“Perhaps he thought someone put poisons into Basil’s paints and he died from the fumes,” said Ida, brightly. “I expect he’s going to have it scraped down and subjected to tests.”

“Load of nonsense,” said Gloria. “Everyone knows your poor brother did away with himself.”

“Oh, Gloria, you know how positive he was; you can’t believe that, surely?”

“If you start getting morbid ideas, miss, you’ll be ill again.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” said Ida.  “Leave me to enjoy Basil’s paintings, Gloria; David said I could have my pick of them, and I want to spend my time choosing.”

“You’d better do it before that man comes back,” said Gloria. “Poking into things that don’t concern him, just because Basil had hallucinations when he took laudanum. If he did write to Scotland Yard, ten to one it’s all nonsense.”

“Well, if it is nonsense, at least a friend of Basil’s will understand that,” said Ida.  “And will keep it quiet, if so.”

“Well, let us hope so,” said Gloria. “Run along, now; I need to clear out Basil’s things so that Mr. Armitage can sleep here.”

“I don’t think so,” said Ida. “Mr. Armitage wanted to be in Basil’s room to go through any papers he may have left. I am going to have to insist.”

“Foolish child! You did not understand properly; he will want Basil’s belongings on hand, but not to sleep in his room without some housekeeping done.”

“Why, Gloria, you complain that all I do is make you extra work, so why don’t I change the sheets, and air the room, and make room for Mr. Armitage?  I’m perfectly capable, and it will save you the effort.”

“What is going on in here?” David Henderson came in.

“Oh, David, it does make Gloria extra work to have to sort out Basil’s room for Mr. Armitage; and I am his sister, it should be my job to clear his things,” said Ida.

“Yes, of course it should,” said David. “I am glad to see you taking a sense of responsibility at last. Gloria, if we have to feed that man, you will be wanting more housekeeping money to make sure he does not think us mean.  I want his pretentions depressed, acting like he is a gentleman and our equal.”

“The fellow claims to be a friend of Basil’s and to have known you at Oxford,” said Gloria.  “He was a major during the war.”

“Oh, hell,” said David. “I have no recollection of him.  Well, we must make a display, so he does not look down on us, then, how tiresome of him.”

 

oOoOo

 

The village church was medieval, built of cobbles between corner facings of some creamy stone, similar to those of which the local houses were built. It had an old teaching porch, and a spire which looked like some Victorian addition. An old wall-mounted sundial was on the wall of the tower. The five-mullet star of the De Veres of Oxford was freely scattered in the stonework, and the arms of  some other local families Alexander did not know. The graveyard was indifferently kept, and many of the stones were buried in long grass.  The rectory next door was a fine Queen Anne building in stone, though like the churchyard, the garden was sadly overgrown, and Alexander went to the door to knock.

The door was answered by a lugubrious man in rolled up shirtsleeves and a stained waistcoat.

“I’ve come to see the vicar,” said Alexander.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said the lugubrious individual.

“Scotland Yard,” said Alexander, showing his credentials.

The man peered at his identity.

“You’d better come in,” he said, unwillingly. “But you won’t get nuthin’ out o’ me; I never seen nuthin’.”

“I hardly expect you to do so, since I assume you are the reverend’s man of all work, and have no call to be in Foursquares,” said Alexander.

“Foursquares!  Is that what you’re here about? Nuthin’ about no homebrew whisky wot I’ve never seen?”

“I don’t really care if you’re brewing up in the crypt, so long as you’re careful not to poison anyone or blow up the church,” said Alexander.

“Well, I know nuthin’ about it anyway.  So that sour old bugger, Henderson, did do away with his wife to get a fancy woman?”

“Is that what people say?” asked Alexander.

“Well, stands to reason; she can’t give him a child, and that nurse is a piece of all right,” said the man.

“Oliver!  Who is it?” a melodious well-educated voice asked. A man in clerical garb stepped out of the side room, and appeared to be the owner of the voice. He looked like a country vicar, clean-shaven and austere in face and bearing.

“It’s some copper about the Henderson killings,” said Oliver.

“Oliver, now, you should not spread malicious gossip,” said the vicar. “I’m Richard Brinkley; how may I help you? I hope you are not here because of local gossip.”

“I’m an old friend of Basil Henderson,” said Alexander. “He was no suicide, and that throws doubt on the death of Mrs. Helen Henderson. I am hoping to get a team down to perform an autopsy before the funerals, but if not, you may have to delay them.”

“Dear me! Can you do that?”

“I’ve applied to the Home Office, and the order should be through by now. But I came to you first as a matter of courtesy,” said Alexander.

“But there was an inquest,” said the Rev. Brinkley.

“A very rapid, not very full one; such that there may be questions over Dr. Craiggie being an accessory after the act, if murder is proven.”

“Why, that’s preposterous! If Basil did not commit suicide, surely it was an accident, that he took an overdose of laudanum without remembering he had already taken some?”

“I have every reason to suppose that it was not laudanum which killed him,” said Alexander. “I want an autopsy to confirm this. His tobacco had a musty smell like mice.”

“I don’t understand,” said Brinkley. “If mice got into his tobacco, surely that can’t kill? And would be accidental?”

“Consider Socrates,” said Alexander. “May I use your telephone? I want to ask for someone to be sent down without using the family telephone.”

“I... yes, of course,” said Brinkley.

Alexander spoke on the telephone, and turned to Brinkley.

“The police surgeon will be down about 9pm. I will join him, and perhaps you will like to witness. He will perform the autopsies overnight; you will put him up before he returns to London so the poor man can get some sleep?”

“Most certainly,” said the bemused vicar. “I... most unpleasant. I cannot say that David Henderson is the most pleasant of people, but I find it hard to think of him as a murderer.”

“I have not intimated any suspect to you or to your man; and I advise both of you to avoid jumping to any conclusions.”

“Dear me, if it is that poor deranged girl, I suppose it will be an asylum matter,” said the vicar.

“Deranged? Is that what that fool man calls Miss Henderson?  The girl was duped into smoking opium and is cured, I see nothing deranged in someone strong enough to throw off such a curse.”

“But did she not try to kill herself and was sent to hospital?”

“She was punished for accepting a funny cigarette by being put on bread and water until she had a heart attack from the withdrawal allied with starvation,” said Alexander. “And she’s probably in danger at the moment from someone who might try to make her look suicidal. One reason I want all this kept quiet. Oliver! If you breathe a word of this to anyone, so help me, I’ll remember all the things you haven’t seen.”

“I’ll keep mum,” said Oliver, sulkily.

“You’ll want to see the crypt is clear as well, as doubtless the autopsy will be held down there,” said Alexander.  He was relieved to know that the parcels he had sent with Campbell had arrived at the laboratory; the man must have driven faster than was strictly safe. Alexander muttered a brief prayer as he passed the church that Campbell would return safely.

 

The village was not large, and extended essentially down three roads which met at a village green. The church was one side; the village pub was on the other. Alexander sauntered over to the half-timbered structure bearing the sign of a sparkling white sheep, the pub being named ‘The Cleene Sheep.’  Alexander lifted an eyebrow at the reference to Chaucer, whose ‘cleene schepe’ were led by a far from satisfactory shepherd, a dig at the clergy at the time. More likely it was to do with washing fleeces. Alexander stepped inside, and saw Harris, immediately. He walked over to Harris.

“Hullo, boss, just having a pint. Can I get you one?” said Harris.

“I’ll buy my own, though thanks all the same,” said Alexander. “A pint of cider, please; and the real thing, not the rats piss they sell in London, since the hour has struck at which the law-abiding Englishman may drink.”

“If you can sink a pint o’ scrumpy, you’re a man,” said the landlord.

“I believe I can handle one,” said Alexander. “I won’t go any further than that, though, I know my limitations, and I don’t get much opportunity for a decent excursion into the country.”

A cloudy, amber liquid arrived.

“I ain’t got fairly started yet, boss,” said Harris, in a low tone. “But there’s some belief that Henderson did away with his wife to marry the nurse.”

“I heard a similar tale,” said Alexander, sotto voce. “What I really wanted was to place this painting into your hands and safe keeping. The autopsies are at nine tonight; bring it with you.”

“Bit of a daub, isn’t it?” said Harris, glancing at the painting.

“It’s not my cup of tea, but the idea is to depict a sequence of events or a subject from several viewpoints, all on one picture,” said Alexander. “There are some tell-tale marks of the paintbrush twitching towards the outer edges of it, which are a testament to the poisoning of Mr. Basil Henderson as well as his witness-eye view and dying deposition of his sister-in-law’s death. Guard it carefully; if the inn has a safe big enough to take it, ask the landlord if you can lock it in there, or a gun cabinet, or the expensive liquor cellar, or whatever.”

“I’ll do that,” said Harris. “Marvellous how you can work out anything from it; other than a set of stairs and a few random limbs.”

“It takes a bit of knowledge to interpret,” said Alexander. “But I’ll go bail that there’s a body sliding feet first on the arse down the stairs after having been clobbered by a figure at the top of the stairs.  Which is poised in such a way as to catch my interest.”

“If you say so,” said Harris, dubiously. “I hope your whole case won’t hang on it; a judge ain’t going to take much account o’ that modern muck, judges only like paintings of murder if they’re nice and clear and look like what they are meant to be.”

“Yes, well, most judges are too philistine for words,” agreed Alexander.  “Did I give you enough?”

“Yes, I’ve got a chit for my room and board,” said Harris. “And the barkeeper’s daughter all over me like chickenpox, wanting to know all about what it’s like in London.”

Alexander laughed, and downed his pint, to the covert admiration of the watchers.  To their further admiration, he got up and walked out of the inn in a straight line.

The effects were starting to hit him as he reached the drive of Foursquares. Off the road, Alexander performed some very athletic dance moves which were a family tradition, squatting and stretching, leaping, turning, and somersaulting on the lower lawn.

Feeling that he had sweated most of the cider he walked up to the house.

A window which was also a door opened onto a balcony, or terrace, or scaffolding, whatever you called it.

“Mr. Armitage?” Ida stood there. Alexander ran up the steps.

“I was induced to drink a pint of scrumpy because I thought it would build good relations with the villagers,” he said, ruefully. “It was stronger than I thought.”

“You need to down a couple of pints of water and flush it out,” said Ida. “Come in, and I’ll ply you with water.”

“What an excellent girl you are,” said Alexander.

“Where’s the picture?”

“Safe with Sergeant Harris,” said Alexander, gulping down water. “Autopsies at nine; I hope that is not going to interfere with dinner?”

“No, we dine at seven thirty,” said Ida.

“Thank goodness, I have an hour or more to recover from the scrumpy, and I should have time to digest before my digestive system is assaulted. And I beg your pardon, these are your loved ones.”

“It has to be done. And you have to be impersonal.”

“Thank you for understanding.”