murder in oils 7

 

Chapter 7

 

“I’ll review the woman first,” said Hammond. His secretary picked up his pencil to make shorthand transcription. “Livor mortis on the back well developed, but the time elapsed means that I may be able to discern the difference between it and bruising.  That there are scrapes to the skin on the back and buttocks, consistent with sliding on a regularly uneven inclined plane which might be supposed to be steps or stairs from the distances between the scrapes. There appears to be a bruise extending onto the left arm, showing as a number of stripes, consistent with striking balustrade or fencing structures of a hard nature. The radius appears to be broken, suggesting that the lower arm went between the uprights as the body continued moving at a rapid pace under the influence of gravity. There is a bruise on the right shoulder which is of a curious shape and appears almost to be penetrative, with a lighter shadow bruise towards the front of the shoulder.”

Alexander moved over to look.

“Pardon me making an observation, but would the mark be consistent with a female shoe, kicking at the shoulder to increase the momentum of the fall?”

“I would not disagree,” said Hammond. “Phelps, photographs of all these points, if you please.”

The secretary was also the photographer, and probably belonged to the second car, along with the equipment.  He measured distances, setting up the folding camera, adjusting the length of the body after consulting his tables, and slid in the first plate, the ruler in place on the first wound. The cap removed whilst he counted seconds, the first shot was done, and he turned the plate-holder round to expose the film on the other side.

Several plates later, all meticulously labelled and stored, Hammond was ready to look at the front of the corpse of Helen Henderson.

“Yes, that shoulder bruise is now easier to see; another shot, Phelps,” said Hammond. “Clearly a female shoe.”

“And I was so certain David had pushed her accidentally!” gasped Craiggie, in horror, mopping sweat from his forehead. “He was so keen to have it covered up....”

“Which, I fear, is just David,” said Alexander. “I can’t even suggest it as evidence of protecting a lover, because I think David would want any death out of the way quickly and quietly.”

“I... I don’t disagree,” said Craiggie.

“There are no apparent wounds on the front of the body, save the putative foot-print,” said Hammond. “Except the blow to the temple. As this is on the other side to the wounds caused by balustrades, I suggest that the hypothesis of a blow to the head by a newel post or decorative knob is unlikely.”

“There aren’t any, in any case,” said Alexander. “I looked, particularly, and the only sharp corner is about halfway down and on the other side.”

“The wound is curved in nature, blunt force trauma, cracking the temple like an eggshell,” said Hammond.

“Would it take any particular strength to make that wound?” asked Alexander.

“Not with a heavyish implement; the weight of it descending in an arc would be sufficient even for someone of low strength, assuming they could lift the implement so high.  I would not like to speculate too far as to what kind of implement it was, but if I were permitted to hazard a guess, I should guess it to be a flower vase of some kind.”

“There’s a brass vase at the top of the stairs,” said Alexander.

“Then you had better take its measurements, weigh it, and see if there are traces of blood on it, an unlikely long-shot, but worth trying.  I’ll see if scrapings from the wound show traces of brass verdigris under the microscope.”

“And I’ll be looking at shoes as well, an elegant enough foot, but the winkle-picker shape is common enough,” said Alexander.

“I don’t need to probe the wound to say that it would be fatal, if not immediately, then within hours at most,” said Hammond. “So, the last thing to do is to open her for a sample of stomach contents, and see if I can get any blood from the liver.”

“You do what seems good to you; out of my pay grade,” said Alexander.

“Squeamish, are you?” said Craiggie. There was the hint of a sneer.

“Doctor, I’ve shovelled up the remains of a friend who decided to sleep under the tank in the wet, when it settled in the mud, and the only thing we could do for the kindest, quickest way for him to die was to start the thing up and drive over him,” said Alexander. “Yes, I’m squeamish. I’ve seen enough death for a lifetime, in various gruesome ways you couldn’t even imagine if you weren’t there.”

“Sorry,” muttered Craiggie.

Hammond went about his work with deft efficiency, sewing the corpse back up when he had finished.

 

Next was Basil’s body, the stumps of his legs livid with rigor, and Alexander swallowed hard, remembering the burned off feet and cooked lower legs of the man when they had heaved the determined, crawling figure into their tank.

“It smells like pork,” said Alexander, fighting a wave of nausea over what he had eaten for dinner. “Cooking flesh. Like his legs were when we found him.”

“Dear God!” said Craiggie. “You’re Major Armitage.”

“Yes,” said Alexander. “I’m Major Armitage, and I know what burning human flesh smells like from up close and personal. Do you?”

Craiggie gagged, and ran out of the crypt.

“Unkind,” said Hammond.

“When he was ready to condemn the bravest man I know to a suicide’s grave, after he used his dying moments to try to leave a clue cryptic enough to fool the murderer and clear enough for me to read?” said Alexander.

“Really?” said Hammond.

“With his dying moments and until the creeping paralysis pulled his brush from his hand, he painted the murder that he witnessed, but he did it as a cubist painting.”

“Novel,” said Hammond. “Yes, I’ll look at it when I have my samples.”

“His man told me he had vomited and soiled himself and had dilated pupils, but was still alive when he found him,” said Alexander. “He called through to Craiggie who had been called out because Helen’s body had been found.”

“Definitely suggestive. The eyes dilate after death, though they may contract with rigor,” said Hammond.

“He was dead when I came through,” said Craiggie, coming back down. “His skin elasticity had gone, and I thought the wide pupils due just to death. I was surprised he had soiled himself, but Campbell did not tell me he had done so when he was alive, and he had cleaned up the vomit.  A man can lose the contents of his bowels as the muscles relax with death.”

“True,” said Alexander. “I apologise; I let my personal feelings for a friend stand in front of my professionalism.”

“I understand,” said Craiggie. “He had been through so much; I could readily see him giving up when the woman he loved died in front of him and there was nothing he could do about it. Especially if David had been involved.”

“Basil would have blackmailed David into sending him to the best clinic he could find to fit prosthetics,” said Alexander.

“I don’t say you’re wrong,” said Craiggie.

Hammond finished up his work, just after the clock chimed eleven.

“Nice, fast business,” he said. “They can go ahead with the burial, I have anything I might need.”

“Now look at this painting,” said Alexander. “Perhaps we can convene to the rectory and have a cup of tea.”

“That would be welcome,” said Hammond.

 

The Reverend Brinkley welcomed the autopsy party in, late though it was, and plied them with tea and biscuits.

“I confess I am interested to see this painting,” he said.

Harris propped it up on the dresser.

“Oh, my,” said Brinkley. “Very... avant garde.”

“I think that Basil reckoned that his killer did not understand, and would overlook cubism,” said Alexander. “Now, what appears plainest to me is this pair of legs descending as if the body is sliding down on the back or buttocks.”

“Consistent with my findings,” said Hammond. “The figure at the top, is it Helen before falling, or is it another figure?”

“It looks to me like another woman, with brown hair, holding something in both hands to strike,” said Alexander.

“Look at the falling figure,” said Hammond, in excitement. “The left arm is, I think, up, defensively and that would better explain the broken radius than through catching through the balustrades. If the first hit broke her arm, and the second her head, it fits much better.”

“You’re right,” said Alexander. “Now all we have to do is figure out which woman did it.”

“But... isn’t it all about the village that David is carrying on with the nurse?” asked Brinkley.

“It may well be; but it doesn’t make it so,” said Alexander. “Ida taxed him with the rumours and he was genuinely shocked.”

“Well, who else has brown hair?” asked Harris.

Alexander gave a grim smile.

“The housekeeper, the maid, the governess, at a stretch, Ida, and I don’t know about Lady Baskerville who has also been mentioned as having an interest.”

“Golden brown, much the same colour as Miss Wandsworth,” said Brinkley. “But I cannot believe anything so fantastic.”

“Shershay La Shoe,” said Harris.

“Cherchez la femme, certainly, and hope the shoe size will help,” said Alexander. “They all wear similar shoes, though.”

“I’ll have a courier bring you a life-size print tomorrow,” said Hammond. “But being on a curved surface, it won’t be perfect.”

“It’ll help,” said Alexander. “It lets out both David, and Brian Keller.”

“Keller’s a suspect? Why?” asked Craiggie.

“He was David’s valet and David did not like his too friendly manner towards Helen, I am told,” said Alexander. “David let him go without a reference.”

“But wouldn’t he kill David, not Helen?” asked Brinkley.

Alexander lifted one shoulder delicately; to a critic, it could not be called a shrug, but it was eloquent.

“I had a hypothesis that a jealous and vengeful man might decide that if he could not seduce the woman in the case, he would kill her to deprive his rival, and make it seem that her own husband had done it for a touch of extra torture,” he said. “Melodramatic, I know, but passions in the small pool of a village can run high, and melodramas occur.”

“That’s true enough,” said Brinkley. “And Keller is the brooding type who might even consider it. He’d also spend time seducing one of the women in the household to help him.”

“Well, that’s something else to consider,” said Alexander. “Thank you, reverend.”

“I hate to speak ill of any of my congregation, which strictly, Keller is not, as he is not a churchgoer, but I’ve heard tales from the foolish young women he has deprived of their maidenheads and then abandoned.”

“I’m surprised an outraged father or brother has not been to reason with him,” said Alexander.

“Most of them won’t give his name to their parents, and though I am obviously not Catholic, they expect me to keep their secrets. As I am not bound by the confessional, I see nothing wrong in passing it on, unofficially, since it may be a police matter.”

“What a splendidly enlightened attitude,” said Alexander. “Well, thank you all for your time, gentlemen, I am getting back to my bed.”

“And let’s hope nobody murders you in it, sir,” said Harris.

“Ah, let’s remain always on the bright side,” said Alexander.

“Oh, I can’t manage that, sir,” said Harris. “I can’t see any villain succeeding.”

Alexander laughed at this rude sally, slapped Harris on the shoulder, and made for Foursquares, whistling. He walked up the drive silently, however, and to one side, near the ornamental bushes the other side from the lawn, and slipped up onto the balcony to tap on the French window.

Campbell let him in.

“Any news?” he asked.

“Helen definitely slid down on her back, and was helped by a female shoe,” said Alexander, in a low voice. “And all other tests are in train. How is Gloria?”

“According to the nurse woman, making more fuss than is necessary,” said Campbell. “The soup splashed her but most of it went on her dress. It only scalded her a little on the ankles, and with soothing cream and a dressing she should be as right as rain tomorrow.”

“Well, we shall see how she does, and Ida can go and change her dressings for her, and see which is making the most out of exaggeration,” said Alexander. “I’m damn’ tired, Campbell; and I wish you’d bring your camp bed into my bedroom and lock the door so I can sleep deeply.”

“Yessir, as you wish,” said Campbell, padding in his striped pyjamas to collect his camp bed and kit bag.

Alexander undressed, cleaned his teeth, and fell into bed where he fell asleep to dream of Basil frantically painting the key to a maze to rescue Ida, but the maze kept changing.