Ann Granger (15 page)

Dunn indicated the two gentlemen with him. ‘Mr Charles Roche and Dr Marius Lefebre. Perhaps their names are familiar to you, eh?’ Dunn’s eyebrows met as he scowled at me. ‘Or has Miss Martin not yet written to you?’

I’d paid little attention to the other gentleman in Dunn’s office and turned to look at him now. I saw a big old fellow with silvery mutton-chop whiskers and an anxious expression. His well-tailored black cutaway coat opened to reveal an ample silk brocade waistcoat bedecked with a heavy gold watch chain. Successful man and pillar of the community was announced in every line of his appearance. I stared very hard at him. So this was the man responsible for sending the lady who held my affections off into the countryside to consort with lunatics.

‘I had a letter this morning. I’m familiar with both gentlemen’s names,’ I said politely. (And what a pair they were, influential men of consequence to their fingertips.) ‘Am I to understand that some mishap has occurred in Hampshire?’

I afterwards wondered at the outward calm of my demeanour. Inside my head I wanted to yell out,
For pity’s sake, will none of you tell me what has happened!

‘I, too, had a communication this morning,’ said Dunn, indicating a square of paper spread flat on his desk. ‘It’s from Superintendent Howard at Southampton and informs me that an itinerant rat-catcher by the name of Jethro Brennan, otherwise called Jed Brennan, has been found murdered in the grounds of Shore House, the residence of the ladies Christina and Phoebe Roche and their niece, Mrs James Craven. This happened yesterday morning at about eleven thirty. The chief constable thought the matter important enough to send this message by means of the Electric Telegraph Company. I was a little puzzled that the murder of a rat-catcher should occasion such alarm, even in the grounds of a respectable household, to say nothing of the considerable cost of a telegraph message. But Dr Lefebre and Mr Roche have now arrived and I have some more detailed information. Doctor?’

He turned to Lefebre, inviting him to tell me what he had told Dunn.

‘Mrs Craven was found near the body, in a state of great distress, by Miss Elizabeth Martin, her companion,’ said Lefebre to me. ‘You need have no fears, Inspector, Miss Martin is quite safe.’

I was grateful for the reassurance but highly irritated at the kindly manner of his delivering it. I was also unsettled by his knowledge of my friendship with Lizzie, but then I supposed that was the reason I’d been sent for.

‘The man, Brennan,’ Lefebre went on, ‘had been called to the house to seek out a rat seen in the drawing room on a couple of occasions. Failing to find it, he’d gone into the garden with his dog to see if he could find a nest. He was stabbed in the neck, severing the carotid artery, and death must have occurred within moments, hastened no doubt, by panic on the part of the wounded man. The weapon seems to have been an ornamental dagger of oriental design that normally lay on the hall table and was used as a letter opener. Miss Martin noticed it early in the day, before breakfast, when it was in its usual place.’

‘There would have been a good deal of blood around,’ I observed. ‘The assailant must have been spattered.’

‘I would think so,’ agreed Lefebre. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of the body would be. Mrs Craven, who discovered the dead man, and Miss Martin who discovered Mrs Craven by the body and took hold of her to draw her away, were both of them stained with blood. There is no obvious culprit but Mrs Craven’s health has been of some concern of late … her mental health, that is…’

Charles Roche stirred and began, ‘I must protest, sir, at any attempt to influence the inquiry. My niece is a slip of a girl. Good Lord, Lefebre! What are you suggesting?’

‘My good friend, I suggest nothing at all,’ replied Lefebre imperturbably. ‘But the police must be informed and it might as well be at once. Otherwise it will give the appearance that we’ve attempted to conceal something.’

Oho! I thought. A shrewd fellow, our Dr Lefebre.

‘We’re requested to send a detective to Hampshire,’ said Dunn, rumbling comfortably over this exchange and addressing me, ‘in order to clear up the matter as quickly as possible. As the doctor indicates, Mrs Craven is a little awkwardly placed. But here at the Yard we’re accustomed to take all circumstances into account and don’t leap to conclusions for which there is no evidence. Mr Roche’s sisters, maiden ladies of delicate sensibilities, are deeply alarmed. The entire neighbourhood has been set by the ears. I have recommended you, Ross.’

‘I’ll leave at once,’ I exclaimed.

‘We can travel there together, if you wish,’ offered Lefebre. ‘I can tell you a little more on the way and you can ask me any questions. Miss Martin may also have her own ideas. It’s a strange business.’

‘I must remain in London for the next week at least,’ said Charles Roche fretfully. ‘I receive information daily regarding my business interests and must be here to make decisions. Naturally I’d like to go down to Hampshire with you to support my sisters – and my niece. I shall do so, at the first opportunity.’

He paused, gazing at us earnestly, to make sure we understood that however dreadful the circumstances in Hampshire, business must continue to take priority. I supposed that if one of his sisters or his niece had been found dead in the garden, he would have jumped on a train with us. There was no guarantee. I’d met his sort before. He’d keep an eagle eye on all aspects of his business affairs. Domestic emergencies, however, were another matter. In such cases others were despatched to deal with little awkwardnesses: his friend Lefebre, Lizzie, and now me.

Roche, receiving no comment from us, straightened his back and tapped his cane on the floor. ‘I wish to make it quite clear again that there is no possibility whatsoever that my niece can have any responsibility for this dreadful deed. She is very young and frail. She was lately delivered of an infant. Sadly the child didn’t survive. She’s not been well since then. Allowances must be made for that when speaking to her.’

‘I understand, sir,’ I said.

‘My sisters must also be treated sensitively. They’ve led sheltered lives and are no longer in the first flush of youth. They’ll be greatly distressed.’

‘All that will be taken into consideration,’ I assured him.

He didn’t look satisfied but what did he expect me to say? That I wouldn’t question either of his sisters or his niece, who’d found the body? It is always the same when the police have to deal with respectable people of some standing in the community. They are the first ones to write to
The Times
and complain of the rampant lawlessness in our cities and the inability of the police to do anything about it. But when the police want their assistance and dare to set a regulation boot over their pristine thresholds, then it is a different matter.

Fortunately Charles Roche was a realist. He harrumphed a little but knew he had to accept it. He took out his splendid gold watch and consulted it. He was a man of business and time mattered. It matters in an investigation, too. It was imperative I get myself down to Hampshire that very day.

Lefebre who, for all my personal reservations about him, seemed a sensible fellow and aware of the urgency, looked at me.

‘If it would suit you, Inspector, I could meet you at Waterloo in time to catch the four o’ clock express train to Southampton. I’ll await you at the gate on to the platform.’

Both gentlemen stood up and took their leave of Dunn. When they had left, the superintendent turned to me.

‘Now then, Ross,’, he said bluntly, ‘you don’t need me to spell out the situation here. If Brennan had been killed in a taproom brawl there would be no problem allocating blame. If there were an obvious candidate for his killer among his ruffian acquaintances there would be none. The local constable would have collared the culprit by now and he’d be awaiting trial in Winchester gaol. But unfortunately for us there isn’t handy villain and our rat-catcher was struck down in the grounds of a house belonging to people of some consequence in the community. Sitting by the body in some considerable distress was a young woman of unimpeachable background, but unfortunate medical history, with a wealthy uncle of influence in business circles here in the capital. The said local community is consequently in an uproar, and when the news spreads around London, as it will for it concerns the established firm of Roche, well, all that upsets the powers responsible for the smooth running of all corners of Her Majesty’s realm however remote. Oil, Ross, is to be poured on troubled waters.’

‘And scandal snuffed out,’ I said mildly. ‘Charles Roche isn’t the only one anxious to absolve his niece of any suspicion, her state of mind being what it apparently is.’

‘Oh, as to that,’ rumbled Dunn, ‘doctor or no doctor, you’ll have to make up your own mind. Normally I wouldn’t be sending
you
as you are acquainted already with a member of the household and personal relationships could muddy the waters. However, if I keep you here you’ll be fretting and worrying and that’s no use to me. Besides, I know Miss Martin to be more than usually observant. I’m obliged to admit she’s been of help to us before. I
am
sending you and trust you’ll keep your mind on your job.’

‘Of course!’ I replied indignantly. ‘I’d like to take Sergeant Morris with me, if that’s possible.’

‘Oh, take him, by all means,’ said Dunn. ‘I dare say Mrs Morris won’t mind his temporary absence. Have you time to get home and pack a bag? You can take a cab and charge the cost to the Yard, in the circumstances. Superintendent Howard tells me in this…’ Dunn waggled his stumpy fingers at the telegraph form as if it might jump up and bite them ‘… that a room will have been reserved for you at an inn near the scene of the crime. It’s called The Acorn. They can probably lodge Morris too. I wish to make it clear, Ross, that although Howard seems to think expense of no consequence, I do not expect
you
to communicate with me by electric telegraph unless it’s directly to apprehend a fleeing murderer! You can write – or put Morris on a train with a report. While you’re gone I’ll set some enquiries going here regarding the dead man, Brennan, as he’s believed to have lived in London when not wandering the countryside exterminating vermin – or getting himself exterminated. Oh, and Ross.’

I was halfway out of the door and turned back.

‘Watch yourself,’ advised Dunn. ‘They’re a funny lot in the country. Tell your young lady to take care as well. She has a great curiosity to know what’s going on and that can be dangerous.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied with feeling.

‘And Ross!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Remember,’ warned Dunn with awful emphasis. ‘The honour of Scotland Yard is in your hands. I won’t have country constables sniggering at our failure. Come back with a positive result!’

*   *   *

I managed to find Morris at once, thank goodness, and sent him scurrying off to fetch an overnight bag while I made a similar dash to my own lodgings. It was a narrow squeak getting to Waterloo to catch the train but we made it, having with difficulty found the right platform. I can’t imagine how many letters of complaint the Railway receives from frustrated travellers.

I saw Dr Lefebre awaiting us, surrounded by smoke and steam, hustle and bustle, but still looking as though he had stepped from the pages of a gentleman’s magazine, even with a white silk scarf draped like a bridal veil over his expensive hat.

Morris, who hadn’t seen him at the Yard, murmured, ‘Bless me, is that the cove, sir? Regular fancy man, isn’t he?’

I had no time to reply (though I agreed heartily). I advanced on Lefebre looking, as I well knew, red faced and dishevelled, and apologised for cutting it so fine.

‘No matter,’ said he, ‘have you your tickets?’

Then came a moment of embarrassment. We were indeed provided with travel warrants but Scotland Yard being thrifty in the matter of expenses, they were third class. Dr Lefebre, naturally, held a first-class ticket.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Join me in the first-class compartment and I’ll pay the difference when the guard comes round.’

I didn’t want to lose the opportunity of a long conversation with a material witness about the events at Shore House, but acceptance of his proposal would put me under an obligation to him. That was not only awkward from a personal point of view, but also from a professional one.

I cut the Gordian knot with: ‘Sergeant Morris can travel third class. I’ll join you, Doctor, in the first-class compartment. I’ll pay the difference myself and trust that I’ll be recompensed by Scotland Yard.’

There was no guarantee of this; the Yard being in thrall to the taxpayer – who is of the opinion officers can undertake almost any investigation at no cost whatsoever to the citizen. But in the circumstances I trusted Dunn to argue my case.

So Morris, looking somewhat disappointed, went off to find himself a seat in third class and spend the journey fending off smoke and occasional glowing cinders flying through the unglazed windows. I joined Lefebre in the unaccustomed luxury of first.

We were in luck. Only one other person shared the compartment with us, an elderly female entirely swathed in black. She had with her a wicker basket containing a large cat, apparently of the Persian variety. It glared at us through a small barred aperture remarkably like the peephole in a cell door, as if of the opinion we alone were responsible for its incarceration. I fancied it bore a strong resemblance to a house-breaker I’d charged only the previous week.

‘Now, Percy, you must be good!’ its owner coaxed it. ‘You shall have a piece of chicken for your dinner when we arrive. You like chicken, don’t you, Percy?’

I wondered if the whole journey would be punctuated with one-sided conversations with Percy but no, the old lady promptly fell asleep as soon as we began to move. Percy settled down in his portable prison and dozed off too.

Dr Lefebre and I began our conversation in subdued tones to a background duet of small snores from the wicker basket and slightly louder ones from the old lady.

The doctor had taken off the silk scarf and put it tidily away in a pocket. He now produced, from another pocket, a small, rather crumpled, folded sheet of paper, which he handed to me. I unfolded it with care and puzzlement and saw it appeared to be a rendering of account from his bootmaker.