the purloined parure 9 weekend bonus

 

Chapter 9

 

Presently a distinguished looking man in a doctor’s white coat came in.

“What’s all this nonsense about Scotland Yard needing to talk to me?” he opened without preamble.

“You were the doctor to Mrs. Gertrude Beauchamp, I believe?” said Alexander.

“Yes, an elderly lady who died, essentially, of old age, as all death can, in broad, be laid down to heart failure,” said Whitlaw.

“And you never thought to question symptoms of internal problems, anaemia, joint pains, memory loss, and, I suspect, though it was not mentioned, kidney failure, and death described by a nurse as following a seizure which did not resemble a heart attack?” said Alexander.

Whitlaw froze.

“All symptoms could be attributed to old age,” he said, unhappily.

“And no blame could be attached to a doctor who thought so,” said Alexander. “But if that’s making you think what I thought, in conjunction with the old lady thinking that one of her grandsons was poisoning her, an agreement to exhume would go a long way towards avoiding a scandal for you.”

“Yes, indeed; though I don’t know how lead could be introduced into her diet.”

“Sugar of lead, in the medicine, I suspect,” said Alexander.

Whitlaw blinked.

“I brought away the last bottle of sleeping draught, as one is supposed to; I believe it might still be in my bag. It slipped my mind.”

“Or providence slipped it from your mind,” said Alexander.

“What, you believe still in an outmoded religion?”

“Science is too rich and wonderful for me not to believe in God,” said Alexander. “But I don’t care what you believe in; it’s your loss if you’re a modern atheist. God knows, with the nonsense of some of the so-called moralists, it’s enough to drive any man to atheism. And look at America; banning booze is only going to drive it underground, and encourage criminality.”

“Oh, we agree on that sort of thing, anyway,” said Whitlaw, relieved. “I was afraid you were some sort of dour moralist policeman.”

“I’m a moralist in that I don’t think anyone has the right to deprive a fellow being of life, means to live, or enjoyment of life,” said Alexander.

“Well! I’ll hand over the bottle to you and endorse the autopsy,” said Whitlaw. “Not a common form of poison, and usually chronic.”

“But it crystalises out in the bottom which would make it more concentrated,” said Alexander.

“Good point. It’s a bit exotic these days.”

“Easy to make, though, from readily available commodites,” said Alexander. “I can see if there have been any thefts from local sources; you could get two ingredients from any medical facility or from a hair salon.”

“And I suppose from any roof,” said Whitlaw.

“Yes, or a plumber’s supplies,” said Alexander. 

“Let me get that bottle,” said Whitlaw.

He was gone from the room a minute or two, and Alexander admired a painting on the wall.

“You own a Basil Henderson,” he said, when the doctor came back.

“Yes, I was looking into the possibility of having prosthetics fitted for him,” said Whitlaw. “He’s not that well known.”

“He was a friend of mine; I’m going to marry his sister,” said Alexander.

“Poor child, he consulted me about her, their brother would not permit her to see me, is she still....?”

“Oh, no, she managed to get herself off it on her own, with Basil’s help,” said Alexander. “She’s not strong, but I’m sending her on a cruise after Christmas.”

“Best thing for her,” enthused Whitlaw.  “There are crystals in this bottle.” He unstoppered it and sniffed, and frowned. “Acetic sort of smell.” He tipped it and caught a drop on one finger and licked it. His eyes widened. “Sweet!” he declared. “By George, sir, you’re right. Someone used my medicine to kill her.”

“Well, if you will place that into this paper bag, and sign it beside my signature...” said Alexander.

 

oOoOo

 

“From a murdered sneak-thief to exhuming an old woman who died of old age? Really, Armitage?” said Superintendant Barrett.

“I have the proof she was murdered already, the autopsy will confirm it,” said Alexander. “The manner of her degeneration and death as described by the nurse, who was with her all the time; and the test the doctor did on her last medicine.”

“The hell! That puts a different complexion on things,”

“Believe me, sir, I don’t want to dig up bodies willy-nilly, but when they’ve been buried without proper investigation, yes, I do. The doctor made an honest, and reasonable at the time, diagnosis because the nurse was too diffident to discuss her concerns with him, or to tell him that the old woman believed she was being poisoned. It’s perhaps a side issue, but....”

“Murder is never a side issue, Armitage!” barked Barrett. “Damn you, boy, you have me violently agreeing with you.”

“The primary case is the torture and murder of Marty,” said Alexander. “That the little sod, whichever little sod it was, killed his grandmother – or mother, we can’t rule out that Gertrude was wrong in accusing the younger generation – is merely additional evidence to his ruthlessness. Or hers, if we include the daughters-in-law.”

“You have one grandson in custody.”

“He took a few swings at me and tried to kick me. I fell over a footstool trying not to hit him back and get accusations of police brutality,” said Alexander.

“Is he chummy, do you think?”

“I doubt it,” said Alexander. “He’s more likely to have beaten Marty to a bloody pulp, not to have pulled out teeth and fingernails.  It takes some brute strength, but it’s more... cold. Nastier.”

“Yes, I take your point. Poisoning an old woman is rather nasty too.”

“Yes, poor old dear, and worse than that, clouding her mind with the poison chosen.”

“And what was that?”

“Lead acetate. You might know it as ‘sugar of lead.’”

“I’ve heard there have been a few accidental poisonings with that.”

“Yes, and it’s been used in a couple of suicides, and proving murder without it being in the bottle of medicine would be bloody difficult, because a clever counsel would have it that the old woman liked her wine in a pewter mug or something to suggest accidental death from the wine leaching the lead out of the pewter.”

“Yes, I see.  And the doctor is ready to swear his medicine was poisoned? That makes him a rare breed.”

“He also knew my late brother-in-law to be,” said Alexander.

“Late brother-in-law to be? What an excruciating mix of tenses,” said Barrett.

“I know. But I can’t figure out a better way of putting it.  My Ida is prepared to go on a cruise, by the way. Her top choice would be Egypt and a trip up the Nile to poke her nose into Howard Carter’s diggings.”

“I... I’ll ask Alma.”

 

 

oOoOo

 

“And what precautions, Major, ’as you taken agin bein’ set on in your sleep to nick the parure?” asked Campbell, as he drove Alexander to Liverpool Street Station to pick up Ida.

“None whatsoever; beyond nicking Freddy,” said Alexander.

“Well, wot if ’e ain’t chummy?” asked Campbell.

“Oh, I don’t think he is chummy,” said Alexander.

“You’ll be the ruddy death o’ me... sir,” growled Campbell. “If ’e ain’t chummy, what good does locking ’im up do?”

“It provides him with a water-tight alibi,” said Alexander. “Think about it.”

Campbell thought about it.

“Oh!” he said. “While ’e ’as an alibi, chummy can’t blame it on him.”

“Indeed,” said Alexander. “Pick up anything from chauffeurs?”

“Nothin’ I couldn’t of told you from ’earin’ about them off of you,” said Campbell. “There was a bit of a domestic over you nickin’ Freddy; Mr. Alec was all for getting some bit o’ ’aybybush corpus, and Mrs. Alec, Mrs. Penelope that is, said Freddy was best left where ’e was, and Mr. Alec slapped her, and she put a knitting needle in his nostril and said it wouldn’t take much force to shove it into his brain, and most doctors would sign a death certificate as brain embolism caused by stress. They would too,” he added.

“Well, well! A mother’s defence of her young is always fierce, but it shows the lady has ruthlessness,” said Alexander.

“Because she understands why you have Freddy,” said Campbell.

“Yes, and the term is ‘a writ of habeus corpus’ a demand to have the body – live, that is, produced and not thrown into jail without trial.  I fancy Freddy will accept protective custody unless he’s denser than I think he is.”

“Which he may be,” said Campbell.

“But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, if indeed I do,” said Alexander. “Tell me more.”

“Well, the servants fear Freddy; they reckon he’s half crazy. Mr. Thomas can be a demon he’s drunk, which is to say, most of the time. Mr. Eric is reckoned the best of the bunch. The servants reckon that Mr. Thomas was all over blood for walking through a French window. He’s done something of the sort before, apparently. Mr. Eric has knocked dahn both his brothers in the past. Mr. Alec’s idea of discipline is flogging tied to the flagstaff in the back garden.”

“Lovely people. Did you get to the Arthur Beauchamps?”

“Yes; ’imself is a nothing sort of man; it’s the missus you have to look out for.”

“Violent, is she?”

“Naow. Not as such. They call her the Icicle, but she’s done things like stubbed out a cigarette on a maid’s face for being late back on her day off, so that nobody’ll want to keep ’er out late again. But she don’t lose her temper. She just suddenly lashes out. The boys... well, Mr. Charley isn’t a boy, really, he’s at university, and both of them have always cheered to be going back to school.”

“Does she abuse them?” asked Alexander.

“There’s a cupboard the maids aren’t allowed to open,” said Campbell. “Mind, the boys aren’t averse to being nasty, to each other. They all closed up after that.  The family has no pets but there’s a kennel in the garden, and an old bird cage in a loggia affair used for lumber out back.”

Alexander nodded, and then saw a trim black head which he knew, under a ridiculous confection which could not, in any man’s language, be called a hat. Behind her was the tall, neat figure of Gladys, Ida’s maid.

“There’s Ida, just off the train; give her a toot. She knows morse, you can tootle her name,” he said.

Campbell parped out ‘pip pip parp pip pip pip parp’ and Ida came running.

“Now, that was clever, to spell me out,” she said, throwing baggage into the back seat as Alexander got out of the front seat to open the back door for her. She wound herself around him and he kissed her, hard.

They got in the back seat and Gladys got in the front.

“Bertram’s Hotel, Pond Street,” said Alexander.

“Not the Ritz?” said Ida.

“You wouldn’t like it, poppet,” said Alexander. “It’s pretentious. I’ll take you dancing at Claridge’s sometime; they have live jazz.  Did you prefer Kensington House?[1] It’s not far from Gertrude’s house; I just thought Bertram’s is nice and quiet.”

“Kensington House Hotel, please, Campbell,” said Ida. “And yes, partly to exert my stubborn streak, but also I want to be near the centre of it all.”

“Bertram’s is a bit off the beaten track,” said Alexander. “Nothing ever happens there. Full of old fogeys, like the Bellona Club.”

 

oOoOo

 

Having seen Ida ensconced in the hotel, Alexander went back to Scotland Yard to catch up on paperwork.

Mary looked up from typing up a report.

“Here’s a lad who managed to run to earth all your persons of interest,” she said. Alexander’s eyebrow went up.

“Joe Munday, did I remember that right?”

“Yessir,” said Munday.

“I issued the photos to different groups, how did you manage to run them all down?” asked Alexander.

“One of the chaps looking for Mr. Freddy’s movements took ill, sir, so I took his photo as well,” said Munday.

“Watch it, lad, you’re bucking for promotion,” said Alexander. “We’ll have you after my job next.”

Munday flushed.

“I wouldn’t mind being in the detective division,” he said.

“Well, let’s hear how you did, how you got your information, and I’ll go through what you did right, anything you could have done better, and I’ll add you to my notes as a bright lad to keep an eye on. Don’t be pushy, mind, but make sure you’re indispensible to whoever’s running a case you’re used in. If you volunteer for mine, I’ll always listen. If you volunteer for some people, speaking up will get you a black mark and your nose snapped off, and you didn’t hear it from me, but one of the least tolerant is an Inspector Morrell.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I’m aware of him,” said Munday.

“Well, stay out of his way,” said Alexander. “Now, what have you uncovered?”

“My initial assignment was the movements of Mr. Thomas Beauchamp,” said Munday.

“Henceforth, just Thomas, for convenience,” said Alexander.

“Yessir,” said Munday. “Mr. ... uh, Thomas was to be found in the Bull and Bush from lunch time, whence he was ejected at closing time. He managed to find an off-licence which sells Sunday magazines, and intimidated the storekeeper into selling him a couple of bottles of whisky. I said it wouldn’t be official; was I right?”

“The trail is more important, but keep your eye on that store. He might not need much intimidating. Frankly, there are more important things in life than the licensing laws, but I never said so, and if someone will buck the law in one thing, he might be ready to buck the law in other things.”

Munday nodded.

“I’ll remember that,” he said. “Anyway, by the time the cinemas opened, he must have been totally bladdered; he drank both bottles. I found some witnesses, they described it as disgusting.  He went into a Regent Cinema, and snored through the main feature, the news, and the management threw him out.  I found the projectionist, who saw which way he went, and he found another pub until closing time. Then he went in search of an off-licence, which was, of course, already shut. He found a private party, and gate-crashed it, and kicked up a shindy because it was a Church Sociable and they were drinking lemonade. He walked out into the night through their conservatory, which, one may assume, is when he got cut.  He was nicked on the embankment at about two, and managed to elude the constable who was trying to run him in and legged it. That’s the last I have. I furnished his name to the people with the conservatory so they can sue him. Was that right?”

“Morally, if not necessarily inside your purview,” said Alexander. “So, we have the time between the private party and the embankment unaccounted for, and the shorter time between that and his reaching home.”

“Unless he’s looking to upstage Rudolph Valentino and Michael Fairbanks, he wasn’t in a fit state to do anything violent, let alone cross London,” opined Munday.

“But you have to assume the possibility that he is, and keep him open as a suspect even when saying that in the balance of probabilities he is innocent.  You manage to get about smartish.”

“I have a pushbike,” said Munday.

“Good man,” said Alexander. “And now, Freddy.”

 

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[1] Now The Milestone Hotel