Murder in Oils 5

 

Chapter 5

 

 

Flushed out thoroughly, Alexander was ready to go in to dinner, having helped Ida to flatten and pack the many canvases which were lying around. Campbell sidled in and joined in without comment.

“I’ll guard  them, squire,” he said.

“If David doesn’t want them, I do,” said Ida. “Though I’ll likely sell those of Gloria, and the peony.”

“It’s a lovely satire; I think I could recognise her from it,” said Alexander. “Her looks appear to be admired in the village.”

“Oh, she’s beautiful in her own way, I suppose,” said Ida. “Anna Galbraith is part Spanish, and has an exotic enough look to make people look twice at her. Her features are regular, and she’s not as greasy as I feel she looks, if you know what I mean.”

“Inclined to be oleaginous of manner and you feel it in the way you look at her?” asked Alexander.

“Oh, you are very good at interpreting what I mean,” said Ida. “She’s a refugee from something in Spain; they are busy having uprisings and extremists, and she is scared of Bolshevists but she’s a good enough nurse. I expect she will leave after the funeral; there’s no reason for her to stay on.”

“Unless David decides you need a full time nurse, my girl,” said Alexander, grimly. “When is your birthday?”

“January,” said Ida.

“Well, if you have trouble, I have apprised the vicar how things really are,” said Alexander. “And here is my parents’ address; go to my mother if you are in need. She won’t take any nonsense from anyone.”

“Thank you,” said Ida. “I’d better go and dress for dinner.”

“Me too,” said Alexander.

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander was impeccably clad for dinner. He favoured a dinner jacket or tuxedo jacket over tails, and remained soberly and conventionally clad with a black waistcoat as well as black bow tie. He strolled out of Basil’s apartment, as Campbell locked the bedroom door behind him.

“The housekeeper might have a duplicate,” said Alexander.

“No, she don’t, either,” said Campbell. “Prying ain’t something the master liked, so he had me change the lock, and we kept a key each, and I took his keys afore they laid him out.”

“Well done,” said Alexander. “Tell me, was he sick at all, or did he, uh, soil himself?”

“He’d been sick and shit hisself,” said Campbell.

“And the size of his pupils in his eyes?”

“Huge,” said Campbell. “Not like when he takes laudanum, which ain’t as often as folks seem to think, not nowise.”

“Your testimony will be important; you be careful,” said Alexander. “And don’t go driving too fast.”

“Huh, I picked up the down train from Oxford and loaded me bike into the guard’s van,” said Campbell. “Told ‘em I was a courier for Scotland Yard, and they didn’t make me cough for a ticket.”

“You’re a cheeky bastard, Campbell.”

“Yessir, Mr. Basil used to say the same.”

 

 

There was a maid setting the table, a girl of about twenty-three or four, Alexander thought, with light brown hair bobbed under her cap.

“You’ll be Gladys, I presume,” said Alexander.

“Ooh sir! You don’t look at all like a flatfoot,” said Gladys.

“Nevertheless, though I am a gentleman, I am a police officer,” said Alexander. “I was a friend of Mr. Basil’s; we met during the war.”

“Ooh, sir! I did some nursing during the war, me being a Girl Scout, and then a Girl Guide when they changed it,” said Gladys.

“You must be a good, resourceful girl, then,” said Alexander, approvingly.

“Miss Ida was a Girl Guide as well, and she ain’t daft like they try to make out,” said Gladys. “I tries to help her, but I can’t get Mr. David’s attention long enough to explain to him.”

“Excellent! I am glad she has a friend in this sad household, and one of resource and sagacity,” said Alexander, laying it on with a trowel. It explained the silliness Ida described, however, in a girl who did seem sensible.

“That’s Kipling, that is,” said Gladys. “Resource and sagacity. I do try, sir.”

“Good girl,” said Alexander, slipping her a remuneration.

Gladys giggled, and slid out, having finished laying the table.

David came in with a woman who had to be Anna Galbraith. She had a magnolia complexion which, as Ida said, still managed to look as if it was made of greasepaint, dark eyes, and hair so dark brown it was almost black. David looked startled to see Alexander, as if he had forgotten him.

“Oh, yes, well, glad you had suitable clothes with you,” he said.

“I packed to stay with gentlefolk,” said Alexander. “Miss Galbraith, I presume?” he took her hand and kissed it with old world charm, and she blushed and tittered gently. “I’m told you have your exotic looks from Spanish ancestry.”

“My mother is Spanish,” said Anna Galbraith. “Things are a mess in Spain; and my parents feared Bolshevism would spread across the country from Russia, with all the strikes and violence. So we returned to England.”

“Very wise,” said Alexander. “I am sure you must miss Mrs. Henderson, having made a home here for almost three years with her.”

“Oh, I do,” said Miss Galbraith. “I have been encouraged to be quite one of the family, and I shall miss it no end.” She sighed. “Mr. Henderson is kind enough to retain me until after the funeral; then I shall have to register as available for nursing duties again. I don’t suppose you know anyone who needs a nurse?”

“I don’t, offhand, but I can ask around,” said Alexander. “Ah, Miss Truckle, recovered from a traumatic shopping trip?”

“It wouldn’t be traumatic if Ida were only better behaved,” pouted Miss Truckle.

“Perhaps she would not feel an imp of mischief if she felt herself to be treated like a woman near the age of majority, not like a little girl,” murmured Alexander.

“She is a little girl, mentally, anyway,” said Miss Truckle.

“She’s putting on an act for you,” said Alexander. “She managed a perfectly civil, sensible, and adult conversation with me about Basil.”

“She gave me the slip in Harrods, and went for tea and scones,” said Miss Truckle. “And then made a fool of me by returning when I had called out the police and store security to find her.”

“And I wager all of them laughed because they were expecting a child of eight or nine, not a young lady who needs no help to shop,” said Alexander.

“Mr. Armitage has enough experience to say that he thinks that Ida is not as troubled as I have feared,” said David.

“Oh, call me Alexander, as a friend of Basil’s it does seem ridiculous for his brother not to do so, even if we did clash at Oxford,” said Alexander, easily.

David stared at him, and his eyes bulged.

“You!” he said, with loathing.

“I was one of the little beasts who ragged you for a stupid mistake, yes,” said Alexander. “And it was unkind of us; I’m sorry. We liked Loring and were sorry for him. And it’s a good object lesson; you could be prosecuted for that sort of accusation without foundation out in the real world.”

David flushed.

“It was an easy mistake to make,” he muttered. “You had better call me David.”

“Oh, I doubt you’re the first to make such a mistake, or the last,” said Alexander. “And all’s well that ends well. Miss Henderson! May I hold your chair for you?”

“Thank you,” said Ida, who had just come in.  Her evening gown was in blue velvet, trimmed with beaded fringes, and her hair was up.

“Ida, dear! What have you done to your hair?” asked Miss Truckle.

“Put it up,” said Ida. “As one does for dinner. I think I might have it bobbed though; the weight of it is tiresome.”

“It would be neater and more seemly in braids, and what are you wearing?” demanded Miss Truckle.

“David, is it normal in your household to make such personal remarks about a young lady who would have made her debut but for illness?” asked Alexander. “I understand you employed Miss Truckle to give Miss Henderson a companion who would help her improve her accomplishments to give her some avocation whilst she convalesced, not some dragon of a preceptress unaware that the lady is well out of short frocks and pigtails.” He made his voice amused.

“Mr. Henderson, pray explain to this man that the girl is wanting,” said Miss Truckle, sharply.

“But she isn’t,” said David. “She’s a tiresome baggage and contrary but there’s nothing wrong with her brains.”

“But you told me....”

“I told you that she was troubled and had mental problems,” said David. “Ida, why didn’t you tell me this fool woman was treating you like a child?”

“Well, you always treat me like a child so I assumed it was on your orders,” said Ida. “Because you’re punishing me for Helen miscarrying, and I know she was ill before I came to you, because I was trying to look after her, and I knew I needed help myself and didn’t have the ability to look after her too.”

There was a long silence.

“But you said she had mental problems, and that means wanting,” Miss Truckle’s whining voice intruded.

“You’re fired,” said David.  “Ida, you do need a companion; perhaps Anna can be a companion and she has the skill to recognise if your troubles start again.”

“No, thank you,” said Ida. “I don’t find Anna any more convivial than Miss Truckle, and moreover it will fuel the gossip in the village.”

“Gossip in the village? What is this?” demanded David.

“I heard it too,” said Alexander. “I mentioned I was a police officer and was asked if I’d come to arrest you for killing your wife.”

David went purple.

“That’s preposterous!” he cried.

“And it might well be,” said Alexander. “But they were also talking about the possibility of Miss Galbraith being the second Mrs. Henderson.”

“Anna? But she’s just a friend,” said David.

Alexander waved a deprecating hand.

“You need to know what’s being said so that if anything untoward is said at the funeral, you’ll be ready for it,” he said. “Be assured, I will find out who is the author of any murder, if indeed, Basil was correct, and murders there have been, but I will discover the truth. And the innocent need not fear, because I do not listen to accusations without evidence.”

David went scarlet.

“That almost feels like a judgement on me,” he muttered.

“It’s not pleasant to be on the receiving end,” said Alexander.

“So, you think that Basil’s death might have been accidental overdose of laudanum, not suicide?” asked David.

“Oh, it wasn’t laudanum at all,” said Alexander.

“But Dr. Craiggie said it must have been...” said David, lamely.

“Dr. Craiggie appears to be an old fool,” said Alexander. “Basil’s symptoms are the opposite to those found with laudanum poisoning; and I have sent certain items for analysis, and I think it will be demonstrated quite ably that he died of coniine poisoning.  A poison found in the plant, hemlock.”

There was a crash and a scream.

Gloria had come in, carrying a tureen of soup and had dropped it.

“Miss Galbraith, see to Miss Wandsworth, I am sure she has scalded herself,” said Alexander.

Anna Galbraith leaped up and went to Gloria.

“Talking of nasty poisons, enough to upset anyone,” said Miss Truckle. “I cannot eat with such horrors discussed!”

“Hemlock? Ain’t that some Greek herb, like Moly?” asked David.

“On the contrary, David, it grows wild in the hedgerows, and it causes accidental poisoning for being mistaken regularly for wild parsley,” said Alexander. “I expect Miss Wandsworth was upset because she knows what it is, and because she made Basil’s herbal tobacco for him, and if it was an accident, then she would be censured for carelessness by any coroner.”

“I...yes, of course,” said David.

“Of course, anyone with a passing knowledge of botany, knowing that Miss Wandsworth made the tobacco, could add a deadly dose of hemlock to his tobacco,” said Alexander. “It’s not as if it would not be easy to slip into his studio, it being open-plan and shut off only by curtains, when he was taking a nap, say.”

“You will make us all suspect each other!” David sounded frightened.

“I imagine Basil did not like feeling suspicious, either,” said Alexander. “But someone in this household is bold, dangerous, and a killer. And if you will excuse me, I must eat something before I have to turn out for the autopsies I have ordered.”

“I’ll make sandwiches for everyone,” said Ida. “I doubt anyone will feel they can stomach a sit down meal, but sandwiches can be nibbled on.”

“Excellent,” said Alexander. “Just the sort of lass a policeman needs around the place.”

Ida blushed, and hustled out.

David got up abruptly from the table and threw himself into an easy chair. He looked as if his world had fallen apart.

“I only wanted to avoid more scandal,” he said, almost to himself. “And now it will be worse.”

 

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.”

 

Murder in Oils 3

 

Chapter 3

 

Ida led Alexander into the curtained off side of the largely open lower floor.

“Where’s the kitchen?” asked Alexander. “I didn’t see that being open.”

Ida laughed.

“Oh the servants’ wing is at the back and not open-plan at all,” she said. “Here’s where Basil was accustomed to sit, and... and that’s the piece he was working on.”

Alexander pulled up a chair and sat, as if in a wheelchair. He could see the whole of the staircase through a crack in the curtain, from the railings of what Ida called the mezzanine down the stairs which turned towards the door, or from his perspective, to run from left to right.

“Mezzanines are usually at half height,” he said, absently.

“Well, balcony, then,” said Ida. “This house doesn’t fit normal rules of architecture.”

“No, it looks as if it was designed by a drunkard with a hangover and a fixation for straight lines,” said Alexander.

“David designed it; he’s an architect,” said Ida. “I think he got out of the war by designing better bunkers for the top brass to hide in.”

“More than likely,” said Alexander. “I can figure out the stairs in that painting, and what look like sliding legs. She came down on her backside; why did she die?”

“According to the coroner, she must have turned and hit her head on the way down. But this is how she landed,” said Ida, reaching behind the painting for a scrap of paper. “I had to recreate it; David burned the original.”

“He has no idea how many things I could arrest him for,” said Alexander, studying the sketch. It showed the lower flight of the stairs from head on, from the direction of the front door, and showed a woman’s body sprawled out onto the lower half dozen steps as if her momentum had carried her round the corner and down as well as across the stairs.

“This discolouration on her head...?” he asked.

“The wound which apparently killed her,” said Ida. “I did not see her fall, but I cannot see how she ended up in this position if she had hit her head there on the way down unless she rolled and somersaulted, but Basil’s picture clearly shows her sliding.”

“Who knows about this painting?” asked Alexander.

“Only me – and Campbell. And he sleeps in here so nobody could extract it,” said Ida. “And here he is, Campbell, this is Mr. Armitage.”

“Major Armitage! I knows you,” said Campbell.  “I wish you might of got here before all this to-do, that I do.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Alexander. “I am here to investigate what happened, and if you will help me, I’d be most pleased.”

“Ho! Well I’ll do what I can,” said Campbell. “Couldn’t stop them killing my master, though.  I was in town, buying paints for him, and whoever did it knew that.  I got home just before he died, and I’ll go bail it weren’t Laudanum he was dying of. Paralysed, he was, but consherous, oony he couldn’t seem to get enough breath to speak.  He said, ‘Helen!’ which was Mrs. Henderson’s name, and then he started going blue.”

“The hell! That sounds like hemlock,” said Alexander.

“Plenty of it in the hedgerows,” said Campbell. “And the edible ones too.”

“I suppose it could be an accident,” said Ida. “He smoked wild parsley and elder tobacco he dried himself; could he have made a mistake?”

“Was he smoking when he died?” asked Alexander.

“Yessir, I took his pipe when it fell out of his mouth,” said Campbell.

“Bring it to me, and his tobacco pouch, and if I parcel them up to go to the laboratory at New Scotland Yard, can you get them in the parcel post soonest?” asked Alexander.

“I’ll take my motorbike and take them myself,” said Campbell. “You should be safe for a while.”

“Thank you,” said Alexander. “And I don’t have a gentleman’s gentleman at the moment so perhaps....”

“I’d be delighted,” said Campbell.

He brought the items, and Alexander sniffed, and recoiled. He wrote a short note, and folded paper bags for each item separately before parcelling them up.

Campbell grabbed a long leather duster and a leather flying helmet, and was away.

Alexander sat down again and stared once more at the painting and its surroundings.

There were other paintings hung on the wall portion which held the door and was a support for the heavy curtains.  Leaning against the wall was a cubist painting of a dancer, or dancers; hanging above it was a painting of a seagull skimming the waves, in heavy impasto; and above that was a young woman with a piquant, intelligent face, dark eyes, and brown hair with gold lights.

On the wall the other side was a fine portrait of Ida, her long hair tucked up and made to look as if it had been cut into a fashionable bob. Alexander thought it the best picture of some very fine artwork. It looked as if it had been painted either before Ida’s brush with opium, or from memory, as the girl in the picture was healthy and vivacious. There was a touch of the haunted to her eyes though.

“Done after your illness but from a picture of you younger as well as from life?” asked Alexander.

“How clever you are! Yes, Basil painted it to remind me that I could get back to where I was,” said Ida. “Is it any wonder he’s my favourite brother?”

“With David as the other, it would be hard for him not to be, unless he was someone like the Kaiser,” said Alexander, with heavy irony. He resumed his inspection of the paintings, to give him more feel of Basil since he had last seen the man.

 A landscape in the style of Constable but with a tractor, not horse-drawn transport reminded him of Basil’s impishly cynical sense of humour; a ballet dancer in the style of Degas had chickenpox. A chicken cavorted on the stage as well.

“He was damned good,” said Alexander, viciously. “Killing him was a crime against art, as well as being a crime in any case.”

“I think so,” said Ida. “Mr. Armitage! David was going to burn all of his paintings!”

“Is he a man or a machine?” demanded Alexander.

“I asked if I could keep what I wanted as a keepsake and he said yes,” said Ida. “But I want it all! Do you think you could take it away for me to keep it safe?”

“Certainly,” said Alexander. “I know how to take it off the stretchers; new stretchers are easy enough to get, and flat canvases will travel more easily. I’d put in a bid for them, but your other brother is so pigheaded I swear he’d either overprice them or refuse to sell, just to spite me.”

“Yes, he would,” said Ida. “I know how to take them off the stretchers too, I’ll help you.  If we paste brown paper over Basil’s trunk, we can pretend it was brought in for you and put your name and address on it.”

“You’re a good plotter; I’m glad you didn’t kill your sister-in-law.”

“You can’t know I didn’t.”

“Unless you’re hardened, I know for certain that you did not kill Basil, and I also know you did not kill Helen.”  She had spoken of each in the present tense, and corrected herself.

So, too, had David, but he was such an odd fellow, Alexander did not rule out the possibility that he knew enough psychology, as the family seemed to read psychology books, to do so deliberately.

And David was looking exceedingly suspicious.

Alexander could not take his eyes of the legs descending the staircase.  What was that painting he had seen when fresh out of university? Marcel Duchamp, ‘Nude descending a staircase,’ which  looked to him more like a pile of boxes in the evidence room overtoppling from being badly piled up. ‘Legs sliding down a staircase’ did not have the same ring.  Were there other portions of the body as it fell? A figure at the top of the stairs? Was that the falling woman before she fell?

“Portrait of Helen?” he asked.

Ida pointed.

A portrait of a fine-featured blonde with her arms around the woman whose portrait was above the seagull. It was in the style of someone like Alma-Tadema, thought Alexander.

There were a lot of paintings of seagulls, and dancers, including the one Alexander guessed was the one which had been the original of the one stood against the wall. It was giving him clues as to how the artist thought.

One of a biplane coming back through itself in the cubist style was a painting of the famous  Immelman turn.

“Birds and dancing legs,” said Alexander. “He painted what he could not have.”

“You understand,” said Ida.

“I understand,” said Alexander. “I wonder when the murderer realised he had seen the whole thing, and decided to kill him.  It was pretty quick witted. Have the funerals happened yet?”

“No,” said Ida. “They’re supposed to be the day after tomorrow. There had to be an inquest on both of them, you see. The bodies are in the lady chapel at the church.”

“Well, at least it’s coldish,” said Alexander. “I’ll walk down to the vicarage and present my credentials, make some phone calls, and see if we can’t get the autopsies done and dusted in time for the funeral. Who is your coroner?”

“Dr. Craiggie,” said Ida.

“Basil’s doctor? I’m not sure that’s legal,” said Alexander.

“Craiggie promised David to keep it short, quiet, and uncontroversial.”

“Compounding a felony,” said Alexander, grimly.

“You can’t think David killed Helen? They were devoted,” said Ida.

“There have been devoted couples before whose devotion was less than they wanted people to believe,” said Alexander.

“I can’t accept that,” said Ida. “Helen tempered David’s desires for autocracy. He has been in pieces, and takes refuge in being more controlling because he could not prevent her death.”

“He might have done, if Basil had noticed something wrong; and I don’t put it past him.”

“So he didn’t write to you?”

“Did you want to confess to giving your dragon the slip and coming to see me?”

“I... no,” said Ida.

“I’m someone Basil might have written to,” said Alexander. “I think it’s a small lie he’d approve of, to protect his sister. I do not like your other brother.”

“He doesn’t seem enamoured of you, either,” said Ida.

“I met him at University,” said Alexander. “He had accused one of the scouts – the servants who look after the students – of stealing, and was going all out to have him sacked and arrested.  I was able to show that not only was the scout innocent, but that David had, in fact, mislaid the items he said were stolen, having sent his trousers out for washing with his cigarette lighter, cigar case, wallet containing fifty quid, and pocket watch in the pocket. They had been removed before washing, and, on my recommendation, sent to the Dean. He got a severe wigging for taking away the character of an honest man, and some of us also debagged him to show him proper care for his trousers, ostentatiously emptying his pockets before we ran his trousers up the flagpole. But the rumours persisted and followed the poor scout, and he left the employment of the college, which is a relative sinecure, and managed, fortunately, to get a job in private service.”

“That could had ended very nastily,” said Ida, soberly. “Once David gets an idea in his head, it would take dynamite to shift it, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t have gone to him over my addiction if I’d had any other option; Basil was going through a difficult time himself at the time, and I didn’t want to burden him. And even so, he did more than David, whose idea of a cure was to lock me up on bread and water. Helen talked him out of that.”

“Just as well; it might have killed you,” said Alexander.

“Well, I had a heart attack, which enabled Helen to point out that starvation can cause such things, and that he was at risk of getting into trouble for it, if I died.  The hospital I was rushed to had a lot to say about my emaciated state.”

“Why on earth did a lady like Helen, who seems to have been well loved all round, marry him?” asked Alexander.

“Helen has – had -  difficulty making decisions, and David seemed so nice and positive to her,” said Ida, with a sigh. “She stood up to David over me, and against Gloria’s advice, and I will always love her for that.”

“Forceful lady, Gloria? The one in the picture as a romantic waif?”

“Yes, more of Basil’s irony, Gloria  Wandsworth goes on about gratitude and how she was plucked from penury, but it’s not really that bad. She was working for thirty shillings a week in a pharmacy, which when you consider she was studying chemistry, and only had to give up her degree because there was no money for her final year, is rather a come-down.”

“Indeed, yes, as is being a housekeeper. An unusual field for a woman to study.”

“Yes, she was also studying botany, hoping to go on to a Master’s degree and Doctorate and do research into the validity of folk medicine. Her loss is our gain, she makes marvellous cold cures and the like, and I have a tonic of hawthorn to help my heart. She devised Basil’s tobacco; sitting about he had... digestive problems, and was also prone to small infections, but the tobacco helped him no end.”

“A paragon,” said Alexander.

A stately woman who resembled the painting above the impasto seagull bustled in.

“Ida! You know you are too old to be found in the bedroom of another man, as I understand that policeman insists on foisting himself onto us!” she chid.

“Mr. Armitage is an old friend of Basil’s from the war,” said Ida. “That makes him almost family; and he’s a gentleman, not any old policeman,” she added.

“What nonsense you talk, child!” said Gloria Wandsworth. “Police are not gentlemen, and he will be more comfortable in the servants’ quarters.”