Murder in Oils 8

 

Chapter 8

 

Alexander woke refreshed. He gave Campbell an errand before breakfast, loaning him a pair of white cotton gloves, and strolled out to the dining area to find that breakfast was a buffet affair with chafing dishes to keep things hot. There was a toaster of the most modern kind, and bread sliced ready for it, very evenly and thinly cut, he noticed approvingly.  Gladys was a treasure if it was her hand! He ignored the corn flakes, checking under each lid to find out what there was, and helped himself to a pair of kippers which he arranged lovingly on buttered toast with a pat of butter on top of them to melt as he dissected out the bones.  This delectable treat was followed by more toast with sausages and a poached egg.

Ida emerged from the kitchen in her frilly pinny and cap she had worn to look like a Lyon’s nippy.

“Sure, and we’re hopin’ sorr foinds it all t’his satisfaction,” she said, in a cod Irish accent.

“You’re adorable, Ida,” said Alexander, and then flushed.

So did Ida.

“Delectable and eligible young men have no right to be charming when they don’t mean anything by it,” said Ida, a little breathless.

“I meant it,” said Alexander. “I should like to court you.” He winked. “And steal Gladys as your maid if she can cut bread this well.”

“Oh, that’s me,” said Ida. “I’m quite capable of doing Gloria’s job as she reckons she is too much in pain to cope. I tried to get a look but she wasn’t having any of it so I don’t know if she’s acting the hypochondriac or if Anna is being spiteful in downplaying her woes, or a little bit of both. As to cutting bread and poaching eggs, it’s all about knowing the tricks; the bread is yesterday’s and so suitable as toast, but it cuts more easily; and you put a dash of vinegar in the water when poaching eggs. I’ve never used a poacher, though they do make them a nice shape.”

“Did you cook the eggs too? Poached to a nicety,” said Alexander.

“Well, I know any idiot can boil eggs, but I can’t,” said Ida. “I can see what poached or fried eggs are doing, but I never seem to get soft-boiled eggs right.”

“Why, there’s a trick to that, too, as a bachelor knows,” said Alexander. “When you ‘swim’ your eggs to check they are good, you can tell how old they are by how high they float in the pan, the older ones rise higher than the newer. Newer eggs need about 4 minutes, older eggs six or seven. That’s if you put them in boiling water. New eggs take three minutes after it boils if you put them into cold, which I’m afraid I usually do.”

“Oh! Then I’ll try that. Of course, they don’t keep for a buffet board anyway. Poached eggs are a bit more forgiving.”

“I take it morning rising is not regular?”

“No, and I’m about to put together a tray for Gloria; Anna will be down soon, and David at about eleven. His man takes him coffee and a poached egg on half a slice of toast, cut diagonally, precisely corner to corner, and his egg made in a poacher so it is perfectly circular, and arranged just so on the toast. The other half of the slice is carefully jammed with strawberry jelly to exactly a quarter inch thick all over which is why it has to be jelly not jam, he can’t abide bits. Tomorrow, being the funeral, we shall all be getting up and I will cook some rice and throw any left over eggs and kipper into it with some curry powder for kedgeree, which may not be the most appetising but who is thinking about what they are eating for funerals?  That’s if they are still going ahead?”

“They are,” said Alexander. “All sorted. Uh, why does David have breakfast in bed?”

“Oh! He will be dressed and in his private sitting room. He doesn’t like to look at the disorder of the way other people eat breakfast, it puts him off his food. He can manage by dinner time. And we usually have sandwiches and cakes with tea at three o’clock which are not too untidy for him.”

“Dear me, he really does take things to excess,” said Alexander.

“I suspect if hens could be bred to lay square eggs, David would invest,” said Ida. She helped herself to kippers, and plonked her own poached egg on top of it, which she devoured daintily, but with evident enjoyment.

“It’s nice to enjoy food again,” said Ida.

“It’s nice to see you enjoying food,” said Alexander. “What a sweetheart you are, and what a horrid time you’ve had!”

“Do you say that to all witnesses?” asked Ida, wistfully.

“What? No! Perish the thought! I normally remain aloof and distant, but... dear me, Ida! I... I appear to have become ridiculously fond of you in the shortest time!”

“Well, then, you had better court me so you know all my faults as well as my virtues,” said Ida.

“What shoes do you wear?” asked Alexander.

“Oh, I’m not extravagant to keep,” said Ida. “I don’t like fashion shoes; too uncomfortable. I have strap patent leather pumps with a low cuban heel.”

“Good,” said Alexander.

“Are you mean about hats? I don’t wear hats if I can avoid it either, but I would expect new hats from time to time.”

“Eh? No, I’m not mean about things like that.  I just wanted to eliminate you from Helen’s death.”

She went white.

“I... I suppose you have to treat me as a suspect,” she said.

“I was pretty sure I had eliminated you, but now I can prove it,” said Alexander. “What about Gladys?”

“Very sensible lace-ups, with old-fashioned round toes for comfort,” said Ida. “She has a pair of winkle-pickers for best, but they have quite low heels, like mine, because she can’t afford to hurt herself on unaccustomed shoes on days off. She’s not frivolous like some maids.”

“I’m glad you have her, she is partisan for you,” said Alexander. “Do you think she would procure me one each of the shoes of the other women in the house?”

“Not a problem, I’m sure,” said Ida.

“What are the chances of getting the shoe of Lady Baskerville?” Alexander asked.

“You take that suggestion seriously?”

“Ida, I have to take every suggestion seriously,” said Alexander.

“I... I could ask Gladys to offer to look after Cyril so that Cecily could come to the funeral, because Saturday is her maid’s day off. Gladys said she didn’t really want to go, as she preferred to remember them living; and so do I, but it would look odd if I did not go. I expect Cecily’s maid would stay if she had to, but she’s no sort of companion for a high-spirited boy, and Gladys has brothers, and took her child-nurse badge.”

“If she would be willing, I will be grateful, and if there is any trouble, I will find her a place until you are able to take her on as your maid,” said Alexander.

“I imagine she’d be much relieved,” said Ida. “Servants are hard to come by, these days, but fired for prying, even if asked by the police, would not be looked on kindly.”

Anna Galbraith came in, slouching somewhat towards the buffet.

“I do not find it amusing that you dress as a maid, Miss Ida,” she said. “Who did the cooking?”

“I did,” said Ida.

“So, should I fear for my life?” asked the nurse.

“That’s not very funny, under the circumstances,” said Alexander, dryly.

Anna flushed.

“I suppose not; but I cannot think that a girl bred with a silver spoon in her mouth can produce palatable food.”

“I used to hang around cook in our former house,” said Ida.

“I enjoyed what she made,” said Alexander.

“Oh, men; they will eat anything,” said Anna. “Except David, and he eats like an old maid. That governess will be down shortly, and she will decry a lack of soft-boiled eggs, will help herself to tea so thin it can hardly struggle out of the pot, a piece of bread-and butter, which she will attempt to dip in her poached egg in lieu of boiled egg, she will leave the white, and have a piece of bread-and-jam, decrying that the bread is dry, because it is bread for toasting.”

“I have to say, Anna has her to a ‘T’,” said Ida.

Miss Truckle minced in.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I suppose if Gloria is still hurt we won’t have any breakfast.”

“And there you would be wrong, Miss Truckle,” said Ida, who discreetly whipped off her cap and was untying her pinny. “I made breakfast.”

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Truckle. “Let me see... oh! How can anyone face kippers at a time like this?”

“I enjoyed mine,” said Alexander.

“So very hearty,” said Miss Truckle. “No soft-boiled eggs... I hope the poached egg is cooked all through. It will have to do.  And this bread is so hard! Even jam will scarcely soften it.”

“It’s for toasting,” said Ida. “I can get you a slice of soft bread, if you want me to start the new loaf.”

“Oh! I will manage,” said Miss Truckle. “Much will be wasted, you have made too much.”

“I have to take up a tray to Gloria yet, and Major Armitage is eyeing those last kippers with lustful eyes, so we may not have kedgeree tomorrow; I can chop up the sausages and egg with onion and potato in a potato bake, and the last of the dry bread will make a fine bread-and-butter pudding. I am quite capable, you know, of looking after myself, and the household,” said Ida. “We lived in a poky little cottage whilst this place was being built, and I shopped, cooked, and cleaned for David and Basil, though Campbell helped with the heavy work.”

“Oh, dear! You should not have had to be a skivvy!” cried Miss Truckle.

“I quite enjoyed it, actually,” said Ida. “Only then, David packed me off to finishing school for a couple of years, because some busybody complained that it was unseemly that a sixteen-year-old lady should be maid of all work to two gentlemen, even if they were her brothers.  Goodness knows how they managed.”

“By Campbell being resourceful, no doubt,” said Alexander, amused at how closely Anna had guessed Miss Truckle’s behaviour.  She was, indeed, dipping ‘soldiers’ of bread in her poached egg’s yolk.

 

When Ida took a tray up to Gloria, Alexander strolled out to visit Dr. Craiggie.

“I wish you will look in at Foursquares to look at Miss Wandsworth,” he said. “She had a shock and spilled a tureen of soup. Nurse Galbraith patched her up, but I’d like your opinion.”

“Do you trust it?” asked Craiggie, bitterly.

“About the living? You’d be out of business if you were a bad doctor,” said Alexander. “I think you are too partisan a coroner, however.”

“Well... I was shown up as a fool,” said Craiggie.

“Misguided,” said Alexander, pacifically.

“I’ve written to resign from the position rather than have it taken from me,” said Craiggie.

“I can respect a man big enough to acknowledge a fault,” said Alexander. “David can’t.”

“No; he’s an interesting study, but I wouldn’t like to live with him,” said Craiggie. “He’s lost without Helen, I think, which makes him bluster more; but none of those women have a chance with him, except maybe the governess, too forceful.” He added, “I’ll go right there; can I give you a lift back?”

“No, I asked to have any letters or parcels to me directed care of the post-office. Where is the post-office?”

“In the side of the bakery,” said the doctor. “No newsagent here, the newspaper is on sale in the fishmonger’s shop. And the fishmonger’s uses up surplus because they do fish and chips in the evening.”

“Really?  Tell Ida not to make dinner, I’ll order fish and chips sent up to Foursquares for eight.”

“You are getting your feet under the table.”

“With Gloria hors de combat, Ida’s taken on the job. If I take the responsibility for feeding the family and servants for dinner, David can’t snipe at her,” explained Alexander.

“Good point,” grunted Craiggie. “Maybe I’ll invite myself to dinner; I haven’t had fish and chips in an age. My sister keeps house for me and she disapproves of fish and chips as low.”

“The more the merrier,” said Alexander.

 

The bakery took up two shop fronts, and the smell of fresh bread was enticing.  Inside, the two shops had been knocked into one, and the greater part of one of them comprised a cafe, serving anything which was available in the bakery with a cup of tea or coffee. There was room for three small tables, and to one side was a counter with the sign, ‘Royal Mail.’ Alexander went to ask for any mail for him, and was presented with several bulky letters. He paid for the service of holding them, bought a cup of coffee and a cream bun, and examined his mail. A ten by eight photograph showed the shoe print, at a scale of one-to-one; and another also at full scale, showed the wound on Helen’s head, and a wider bruise on her arm than the balustrades, the break also apparent.  Hammond’s execrable handwriting on a note, paperclipped to this photo, read, ‘This bruise was more apparent on the photo than it was last night; I should say confirmation of being hit by a large vase. Note how the bruising fades off as if the weight was less as might be consistent with a roughly cylindrical object.’

Alexander gave a low whistle; it was very clear.

There was also a typed transcript of the autopsy findings, and an addendum covering the examination of the painting, and the conclusions, born out in the photographs, that a vase or similar object had caused the broken arm as a defensive wound.

The laboratory had also confirmed that there had been hemlock in with the herbal tobacco. A note said that the amount was hard to calculate from the burnt dottle, but that even small amounts of hemlock could prove deadly, especially to anyone in poor health or with respiratory ailments. Alexander grimaced.  Basil had fought smoke in his lungs as well as burned legs, and the strain on his heart must have been considerable. He was quite superhuman in his will-power to have painted at all. But that was Basil. Alexander blinked hard on tears of grief, and wished he had visited before; he had not seen Basil for two years, since they met up in a Lyon’s coffee shop in London, and Basil mentioned in passing that his sister was not very well, and he wanted to get back to keep her amused.

Alexander got himself under control.

Basil had said to him as well that he could not be expected to live long, and that he hoped Alexander would keep an eye out for his sister. He had never even known her name was Ida! And he had made reassuring noises, teased Basil that he would outlive them all – which had, at least made Basil laugh – and promised lightly to care for the girl if their brother was unequal to the task. Never expecting to find himself called on that; and not averse to doing so. But caring for Ida was as much about helping Ida to care for herself.

Alexander came from a family where strong, independent women were the norm, and believed that it was important for a woman to be able to be independent, even if she chose to enter a partnership in marriage. After all, one never knew what might befall.

He finished his cream bun, and went into the fish shop.

“Can I make an advance order for fish and chips to be delivered at eight?” he asked.

“If it’s worth my time,” said the fishmonger.

“Ten fish suppers for Foursquares,” said Alexander.

“I don’t appreciate practical jokers,” growled the fishmonger.

“Who’s joking?  I’m happy to pay ahead of time and a fee for delivery,” said Alexander

“That toffee-nosed lot will never eat fish and chips.”

“Well, they’ll go hungry then. The housekeeper is hurt, and I told Miss Ida I’d sort out dinner,” said Alexander. “I’m sorting out dinner.  I’d have paid a hundred guineas and killed a dozen Huns for a fish supper many a time on the front lines, and so would Mr. Basil, rest his soul, who was a friend of mine. And if David Henderson doesn’t like it, he can do the other thing.”

“Ho! Well if you can stand up to Mister-I-Am, good on you, squire,” said the fishmonger. “Mr. Campbell came in more than once for a fish supper for Mr. Basil, when he didn’t want to eat with the family. Ten fish suppers, tuppence delivery because I have to keep the boy up, and I’ll throw in a few sausages in batter as well.”

“Many thanks,” said Alexander, fishing out a shilling and a sixpenny piece. “Keep the penny change, neighbour, for the lad,” he added.

 

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.

 

murder in oils 6

 

Chapter 6

 

Alexander gingerly sat down in a bright green square armchair, and found it more comfortable than it looked. He had helped himself to a plateful of mixed sandwiches, and some sausages on sticks with silverskin pickled onions, cheese, or pineapple.

“You make charming finger-food,” said Alexander to Ida as she perched on the wide arm of his chair with her own plate.

“We got in the onions and pineapple for the wake, but under the circumstances, it seemed a shame not to use them,” said Ida. “I don’t, somehow, think there will be many to the wake, David did have some idea of using the village hall – it’s behind the church – in an army surplus Nissan bow hut.[1] The old guildhall isn’t really big enough for receptions and the like, unless you enjoy being elbowed.”

“Timber framed building next to the pub, sliding sideways?” asked Alexander.

“The very same. But it’s been sliding sideways since at least 1488, so I doubt it’s going to go any further,” said Ida. “It’s a similar vintage to the house where I was born, on the other side of the village. It’s been let to some businessman for years because David wanted what he called a decent, modern house.”

“What a shame he fetched up here, instead of one,” said Alexander. Ida giggled.

“David thinks this house the paradigm of dwellings,” she said. “If my legacy had been enough I might have forgotten university to buy him out of Heywood Hall. It’s the name of the family who used to own it; it came to one of my ancestors about 1820. David says that if we had been manorial holders time out of mind, he might have put up with it for the kudos, but there’s no kudos in buying up old places.”

“You must take me over to see it, if that’s possible without trespassing.”

“Oh, easily; and if we go when the leaseholder is in London, Mary Fringford will show us over it. She’s the housekeeper, but she wouldn’t move to some ‘Nasty glass cube which looks like it ought to be a prison’ so David retained her and a few servants to see to tenants.”

“When does the lease run out?” asked Alexander.

“1925,” said Ida. “It was a ten year lease. David built this house before the war.”

“I have seen some gracious buildings in the style they are calling ‘Le Style Moderne,[2]’ but this isn’t one of them,” said Alexander.

“It’s ghastly,” said Ida. “There, a couple of sandwiches down the hatch and I feel much better; shall I go see how Gloria is, and take some sandwiches for Nurse Wandsworth?”

“Yes, do,” said Alexander.  “And assure Gloria that if any accident caused Basil’s death, she is not to worry.”

“But you think the hemlock poisoning was purposeful.”

“Yes, but introduced by whom?  Gloria was known to make the tobacco.”

“And could therefore be left as the scapegoat?”

“It is possible,” said Alexander.

“I can’t believe it of Gladys, who might have the knowledge, being a country-girl and having been a Girl Guide,” said Ida. “I have the knowledge.  So does Miss Truckle, and I would assume a nurse like Anna would know.  So would Cecily, Lady Baskerville, for that matter.”

“And who,” asked Alexander, “is Lady Baskerville?”

“Another survival from old times,” said Ida. “The family, I mean; Cecily is the same age as Basil, and her husband did not come back from the war. She lives in a cottage in the village with her little boy, Cyril, who’s nearly six.  It was a whirlwind romance and marriage when Major Baskerville was on leave. There’s no money, of course, and her faithful Aggie does all the heavy work and stays for her board and keep, and Cecily does her own cooking and washing up. I don’t say she hasn’t looked at David as a meal-ticket, though I don’t know if she’s precisely in love with him, she still misses her Dennis, but for Cyril, she’d make herself. I... mother love is supposed to be terrible and ruthless, do you suppose...?” she tailed off.

“It depends if she had access to the house,” said Alexander.

“Oh! It’s not kept locked at all,” said Ida. “Anyone can walk in at any time, and Cecily used to come and visit Helen most days while Cyril was at school.”

“I see,” said Alexander. “You just opened up the suspects to encompass the entire village.”

“Well, just because anyone could come in, it doesn’t mean they would,” said Ida.

“Who else might?”

“Well, only the tradesmen, if they were leaving things, though they’d usually go round the back, to the kitchen,” said Ida. “The postman would come into the vestibule, and leave any letters or parcels. We don’t have a butler, so David sorts the mail. He reads mine first,” she added, resentfully, “Though I do kind of understand that, in case one of Jonathon’s set wanted to send me a cigarette to get me addicted again.”

“And does Jonathon live nearby?”

“His folks live in Fringford; I think he lives in London,” said Ida. “I wonder if there are any more rolled pork with stuffing and applesauce sandwiches left; they came out very nicely, even if warm sandwiches aren’t ideal.”

“Finish mine,” said Alexander.

“Thanks, I don’t mind if I do,” said Ida. “Did you like them?”

“Very much,” said Alexander. “Do you think Jonathon or his set would go to the trouble of killing to get you addicted again?”

Ida considered.

“Ethically and morally, I doubt it would trouble him.  Making that amount of effort for one person? I don’t see him working up that much sweat.” She slid off the arm of the chair to go and construct a plate of sandwiches for the nurse.

“You need not think that flirting with her will get her much of a dowry, even if she isn’t likely to drag your name through mud,” said Miss Truckle, spitefully. She looked older than her years.

“My dear woman, I could buy Henderson out; acquit me of being a gold digger. Miss Henderson has been able to give me a pithy description of a lot of people of interest,” said Alexander. “And don’t take out your spite on me because Henderson has fired you. It isn’t fair, he should have ascertained that you understood the situation in the first place, and should have taken more notice of his sister. But then, that’s Henderson for you.”

“It’s your fault, pointing it out,” she hissed.

“Well, maybe it is, because seeing a vivacious young woman treated like an imbecile angered me, rather,” said Alexander. “But you could have asked questions, rather than pushing on bull-headedly in belittling the girl in public. That would have been nasty even if she had been feeble-minded, and dressed to impress rather than to make a point. She is beautifully turned out, and far more obviously a lady than some of the jazz set and flappers one meets.”

“She has good taste,” said Miss Truckle, grudgingly. “But what am I to do? Mr. Henderson never gives references if he sacks anyone.”

“You know this for sure?” asked Alexander.

“Oh, yes; Foster is his man, now, but when I first came here, his man was one Brian Keller. Mr. Henderson thought Keller was making up to his wife, and fired him, and struck him when he asked for a reference.”

“Hell’s bells!” said Alexander. “And here’s someone who might have a grudge against the family and nobody thought to mention it?”

“Oh, dear! Ida wouldn’t have noticed,” said Miss Truckle. “You have to be fair to me, when I first came, she would sit and stare at the wall for as much as twenty minutes at a time, completely oblivious. She gave every impression of not being all there.”

“I suppose it could be an artefact of her mind clearing itself,” said Alexander. “He should have been frank about her problems.”

“Indeed, he should,” said Miss Truckle. “Had I known what was wrong, I would have given her more apparent freedom, and watched her more closely in other ways.”

“Well, I’ll write you a reference as someone who has had experience with a girl who has had addiction problems, if you can manage that,” said Alexander. “Tell me about Keller. Does he live nearby?”

“Yes, he’s a village man,” said Miss Truckle. “He works for Miss Midwinter, the milliner, a genteel lady who sells haberdashery as well. He buys in gents’ goods to sell through her, and does ironing for anyone who wants it. It isn’t much of a living, but he isn’t a proper gentleman’s gentleman. It’s not pleasant visiting the haberdasher when he’s there, he leers at one so horribly, though that might be because of us being from Foursquares. Ida hates it, which is why I took her to Harrods.”

“I see,” said Alexander. “And doubtless he knows that the house is never locked. And if he was still after the services of the late fair Helen, he might have gone in search of her, and in a struggle at the top of the stairs, she might have fallen. As a former member of the household, he would know about Basil’s tobacco.”

“I... I think Basil would have wheeled himself out to confront him,” said Miss Truckle. “You can’t fault his bravery, however ripe his language and how unsuitable for a young girl to hear... but as her brother, one could scarcely... oh, dear, but Keller was in the infantry in the war, and he’d know how to kill someone, wouldn’t he? Or maim them enough that it would be easy to poison him... Oh, dear!”

“Certainly someone of interest,” said Alexander. “Anyone else with a grudge against Mr. Henderson?”

“Oh, dear! I cannot think... no, it is too trivial,” said Miss Truckle.

“Sometimes, things which seem trivial are very important,” said Alexander, encouragingly, with a surreptitious glance at his watch. Getting evidence from a witness in full flow was more important than being on time for something which was not his speciality.

“Well, Mr. Henderson quarrelled regularly with the tradesmen, over inflation, you know. I don’t perfectly understand it, but I am sure that Mr. Lloyd-George did his best, and though one might deplore his private life and lack of moral continence, he is a very good Prime Minister, or was, I should say, now we have Mr. Law, and we will see if inflation improves.”

“It’s caused by the removal of young men from the work force into the army, creating scarcity through a drop in manufacture of goods not necessary to a war economy,” Alexander explained, kindly.

“Oh! If anyone had only explained it as clearly as that, I am sure I would not be muddled at all,” said Miss Truckle.  “And of course, things haven’t been grown or canned, at least, not the sort of luxury goods Mr. Henderson expects to have all the time.”

“However did he manage during the war, when getting a manservant was virtually impossible?” wondered Alexander.

“Oh! He had the use of the servants at Chequers, where he was supervising building underground bunkers and passages, and the like,” said Miss Truckle. 

“Here, I say, you can’t talk about things like that!” said Alexander, horrified. “Top secret and so on; how on earth do you know about it?”

“Oh, dear! Well, he mentioned it,” said Miss Truckle. “I didn’t realise it was top secret!”

“He’s a bloody fool,” said Alexander, forcefully.

“Oh, dear!” said Miss Truckle.

 

Alexander set off for the church just after the clock on the tower, around the side from the sundial, over the teaching porch, struck nine. He saw a couple of cars pulled up outside the church, one of them the rather battered Blitzen-Benz of the police surgeon, with which that worthy regularly left the speed limit smashed into more pieces than some of his clients. The other looked more respectable than the bullet-shaped racing model, a Hillman several years old.

He walked round the church until he found a light emanating from underground, and went down the steps into the crypt, where a generator hummed noisily to power a couple of powerful lights.

“What kept you?” asked Dr. Andrew Hammond.

“Witness,” said Alexander.

“Am I looking for anything in particular?”

“Samples from the man to show his blood level of coniine, he may have been smoking it, or it may have been otherwise presented, and his tobacco treated to hide where it came from.”

“I’ll do a full organ work up then,” said Hammond. “The woman?”

“Any evidence that she landed on her front at any point during her fall downstairs, and any evidence to suggest that she did not,” said Alexander. “Also a full look at the wound on her head, to check it was what killed her, and what shape we might have, and a look at her stomach contents and bloods to see if she was in any way stupefied when she fell.”

“And the kitchen sink?” asked Hammond.

“If it’s in either of them, yes,” said Alexander. “Harris is here, I see, clutching a package, and when you’ve committed to your results on the woman, I want you to look at the painting and see if it is consistent with how you believe she met her death.”

“Well, make yourself comfortable; this here is Doctor Craiggie, who was called in by the vicar.”

“And I am outraged that you should question my word, young man!” burst out Craiggie.

“I’m outraged that you should write off as suicide the death of a young man who loved life and fought to keep it, and put down as laudanum poisoning symptoms which included voiding himself, vomiting, and dilated pupils,” said Alexander.

“Well, what else might it be?” demanded Craiggie.

“That was for the coroner to discover, and with such results, the opposite to the symptoms of Laudanum poisoning, you should have called for an autopsy,” snarled Alexander. “I’m within an ambsace of arresting you for compounding a felony by wilfully concealing the signs of murder, because if you aren’t an accomplice to the killer, you’re a bloody senile old fool.”

“How dare you!  I was merely trying to avoid a scandal of two sudden deaths....”

“And blackened the name of Basil Henderson as a coward to take his own life when he was the last man on earth to have taken such a route!” shouted Alexander. “Basil was a friend of mine, and you have no right to sully his memory!”

“Gentlemen, please, I don’t want to have to listen to either of you,” said Hammond. “If you are going to fight, go outside and do it, and don’t expect me to patch up either of you for at least three hours.”

Alexander compressed his lips.

“I think it will be a good object lesson for Dr. Craiggie to see how many things he missed, and also to present his initial observations when he was called out after the death of each of them was discovered,” he said. “I pulled the coroner’s report and it was sketchy to say the least.”

“I didn’t want a good family to be caused a scandal!” said Craiggie, again.

“And when the killer kills again because of how much Miss Ida knows?” asked Alexander.

Craiggie paled.

“Surely nobody would kill that sweet child?” he demanded.

“Why not? Someone killed a woman said to be very sweet of nature, and also a man I know to be cultured, intelligent, damned talented, and a fine man and hero,” said Alexander.

“I... I had no idea it was murder,” said Craiggie, who was grey in the bright light. “I thought maybe an argument had got out of hand, and the lady fell... and Basil was always sweet on Helen... it seemed....”

“Convenient?” asked Alexander.

“Well... if you put it that way....”

“It does sound bad, doesn’t it? And it was,” said Alexander. “I’m not even sure if it’s legal for a coroner to be the family doctor of the deceased; opens up too much the chance of devil doctors poisoning their own patients for legacies, and writing them off as natural deaths. And don’t tell me it doesn’t happen, because it does.”

“The few unscrupulous who break the Hippocratic Oath...” muttered Craiggie.

“Which says, if I recall correctly, ‘First, do no harm,’” said Alexander. “And harm you have caused.”

 

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[1][1] Introduced in 1916

[2] Not known as Art Deco until 1968