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.”

 

---

[1][1] Introduced in 1916

[2] Not known as Art Deco until 1968

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.”