by Laura Wilson
Stratton sighed. ‘I’m not sure that it fits…But I think he killed Byrne in order to protect his identity as Dacre, and when he discovered we’d arrested Fay – his girl – he felt as if he was beginning to lose control of it all. That was why he came to kill me. He was confused by then, everything was unravelling. I wonder if he hadn’t had a bit to drink, too. And something tells me that he might not hesitate to kill in the future if he sees it as a means to an end. Anyway, coming back to my original point, a mental hospital is an institution, and he seems to like those. I think it makes him feel that he belongs somewhere.’
Ballard raised his eyebrows. ‘Who’d want to belong in a loony bin?’
‘If I’m right,’ said Stratton, ‘the lunatic who took over the asylum.’
Seventy-One
‘How would you feel, Ballard, if you’d employed a man like Dacre and then discovered he was a fraud?’
‘Bloody embarrassed, sir.’
‘Exactly. Remember the way Professor Haycraft was talking about him, at the Middlesex? I had the impression that he’d almost rather not have known Dacre was an imposter. And after that, he was unwilling to admit that the man had been any good as a doctor at all.’
‘Yes, he did. But he must have been, mustn’t he, sir? Good, I mean. With not being trained, he’d have had to learn all that medical stuff in a very short time. His memory must be excellent – all those facts.’
‘So there’s no reason,’ said Stratton, ‘why he shouldn’t do the same with psychiatry. And people like him,’ he added, remembering his own response on first meeting Dacre, ‘trustworthiness, common sense…He’d be able to get into a position of power without making enemies, I think. Let’s start with the asylums near Northampton, seeing as that’s where the letter was posted. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but you never know. We need the names – full names – of every single member of staff, and we’re looking for Dacre, Thomas, Todd, Watson or Strang in the first instance. If you make up a list and get started, I’ll just—’
The telephone rang and Stratton paused to pick up the receiver. Cudlipp’s voice announced that a Mrs Strang was on the line wishing to speak to Sergeant Ballard. ‘He’s with me,’ said Stratton, ‘you can put her through.’
‘John Strang’s mother. Wants to talk to you. Let’s hope it’s useful.’ Stratton handled over the receiver.
‘Good morning, Mrs Strang. How may I help you?’ said Ballard, and then, after a pause, ‘No, not at all. Quite the right thing.’ After a second, longer, pause, during which he scribbled in his notebook, he said, ‘I see. And when was this?’ then ‘That’s very helpful. Thank you…Yes, of course we shall. Thank you very much.’
When he’d replaced the receiver, Ballard said, ‘That was interesting, sir. She said she’d been thinking about her son, and she remembered how he’d got bitten by a dog when he was a kid, on his right hand. Left quite a scar, apparently. Said she wasn’t sure if she ought to let us know, only when she spoke to her friend, she said she ought to talk to us.’
‘Good for her friend,’ said Stratton.
‘It was strange,’ said Ballard, ‘but she seemed quite…well, diffident about it. As if she didn’t really care one way or the other. I think it’s because it’s too much, really, for her to adjust to – I mean, there she was for all those years thinking he was dead and now it turns out he probably isn’t. I reckon she’s sort of stopped minding. They say mothers aren’t supposed to, but—’
‘But everyone’s different,’ said Stratton. ‘And anyway, bearing in mind that he deceived her, you can’t blame her for not rushing out to buy a fatted calf.’
‘Sorry to ask, sir, but do you remember seeing a scar, when you met him?’
‘Mmm…’ Stratton grimaced, trying to picture Dacre’s hands, but the images this gave rise to – the piles of bloody towels, Jenny’s poor white face so near to his own, her last, labouring breaths – made him push the subject away. ‘Can’t think. I’ll telephone Fay Marchant and see what she can remember. And you’d better get started on all those loony bins.’
Ballard left the office and Stratton found the number for Fay’s parents’ house and asked for the call to be put through. A smart-sounding woman answered.
‘Good morning,’ said Stratton, consciously elevating his accent. ‘Might I speak to Miss Marchant, please?’
‘Certainly,’ said the woman. ‘Who is calling?’
‘It’s Detective Inspector Stratton, from West End Central.’
There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end. ‘Good heavens. There’s not…she isn’t…there’s nothing wrong, is there? I mean,’ continued the woman, thinking aloud, ‘she wasn’t involved with that business at the hospital…’
‘Goodness, no,’ said Stratton, easily. ‘Am I speaking to Mrs Marchant?’
‘Yes…I’m sorry.’ The woman sounded flustered. ‘It’s just that…oh, dear…Such a horrible business, that doctor being hit over the head, and that poor nurse, and then the other one…’
‘There’s nothing to be alarmed about, Mrs Marchant.’ Fay’s mother, he thought, was obviously the anxious type – probably patting her chest with a fluttery hand right at that moment. ‘Miss Marchant has been most helpful to us over that…unfortunate matter,’ he continued, in his most avuncular tone, ‘but I’m afraid that I do need to trouble her with another question. Incidentally, who told you about the doctor being hit over the head?’ This wasn’t something that had been released to the newspapers – they knew only that Dr Reynolds had died in suspicious circumstances.
‘My daughter, I suppose. She won’t have to appear in court, will she?’
‘I’m afraid there’s a possibility of that,’ said Stratton, adding, with what he hoped was a reassuring chuckle, ‘but only as a witness, of course.’
‘Oh, dear…’ Stratton heard a female voice in the background, and Fay’s mother, evidently recollecting that this conversation was taking place on the telephone, said, ‘Just a moment,’ and handed over the receiver.
‘Hello?’ said Fay. ‘Can I help?’
‘It’s Detective Inspector Stratton, Miss Marchant.’
‘So I gathered,’ said Fay, and then, guardedly – Mother was clearly at her elbow, ‘what is it?’
‘It’s about Dr Dacre, Miss Marchant. Perhaps you could tell me…did he have any distinguishing marks? I mean,’ he added, ‘on his face or hands?’
‘Oh, I see.’ Fay’s relief was audible. ‘Well, there was a mark on his hand. A scar, from a dog bite.’
‘Which hand?’
‘I’m just trying to picture it…The right, I think.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did it look like?’
‘A sort of crescent shape. At the base of the thumb. Going up towards the forefinger.’
‘Thank you, Miss Marchant. I’m sorry to trouble you at home.’
‘That’s quite all right, Inspector. I probably shouldn’t ask this, but have you found out who he is?’
‘Not yet, but you’ve been very helpful. By the way, where did you hear about Dr Reynolds being hit over the head?’
‘Dr Dacre told me. With a brick, he said.’
‘Did he say how he came by that information?’
Fay thought for a moment and said, ‘No, I’ve no idea. Perhaps Dr Byrne told him. Is it important?’
‘Not really. Thanks very much for your time, Miss Marchant.’
‘Not at all. Well, goodbye, Inspector.’
Fay put the telephone down, and Stratton imagined her on the receiving end of a lot of breathless questions and exaggerated fuss. Probably a few palpitations, too, if he wasn’t mistaken. Wherever she got her sangfroid from, he thought as he went to the Communications Room to find Ballard, it wasn’t her mother.
He stuck his head round the door and motioned the sergeant to come outside. ‘Did Strang’s mother describe the scar?’
Ballard pulled out his notebook and flicked through th
e pages. ‘A half-circle, she said. Near the right thumb.’
‘Fay Marchant said that Dacre had a crescent-shaped scar at the base of his right thumb. And he gave her post-mortem information on Reynolds, so it looks like we might be getting somewhere. You got that list?’
‘Just coming up, sir. I’ll bring it through.’
They divided the list of mental hospitals into two and started work. After two and a half hours Stratton, who had ticked off most of his, and whose hand ached from taking down all the names, hadn’t come across a Strang, Lister, Todd, Thomas or Dacre. He was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t been a completely hare-brained idea when Ballard came in, looking unusually pleased with himself.
‘Which name is it?’
‘None of them, sir. There is a Professor Thomas, but the Christian name is Oliver and he’s been working in the same place since 1929, so it obviously isn’t him. However,’ Ballard slid his notebook under Stratton’s nose, and indicated a name ringed in red pencil. ‘Look. And again…’ he flipped through the pages, ‘here. Two Dr Christopher Rices, one at the Maudsley Hospital, working with children – they’ve all been evacuated to the country somewhere – and one at the Northfield Military Hospital, near Birmingham. You know how we were just talking about taking real people’s identities, sir – I thought that might be a possibility, but the person concerned wouldn’t necessarily have to be dead. I know it’s a pretty small field, but he could have dreamt up a different background from the original chap, and what with all the ad hoc arrangements and changes of address and so on, it’s easy for things to slip through the gaps. Besides which, Rice isn’t such a common name, sir, so when I came across the second one I asked when he’d taken up the post. It was the middle of December, sir. Then I telephoned the first lot again, and asked about their Dr Rice, and they said he’d arrived the week before, on the fifth. Odd, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Either that or it’s a mighty coincidence. I suppose that’s possible, but…’ Seeing that Ballard’s grin was widening to Cheshire cat proportions, Stratton said, ‘You’ve got something else to tell me, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
Ballard nodded enthusiastically.
‘Out with it, then!’
‘Well, sir, once I’d got that far, I thought it might be a good idea to telephone Northfield – that was the first place I tried – back, and ask about Rice’s paperwork. They got very sniffy at the suggestion that it might not be in order, but they checked, and…this is where it gets interesting…’ Ballard paused for effect.
‘Ooh, you little tease,’ said Stratton, in an atrocious imitation of an old roué. ‘Get on with it.’
‘One of his references was from none other than Professor Haycraft of the Middlesex Hospital.’
‘My God. What about the other one?’
‘There isn’t another one. The secretary got all flustered when she realised and told me it must have been lost in the post. You know the sort of thing – enemy action.’
‘I do indeed. Well, well, well. How very convenient. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Ballard, but it must have been something good. See if you can locate the real Dr Rice, will you, while I have a word with Professor Haycraft.’
Seventy-Two
‘Not more trouble, I trust?’ Professor Haycraft sounded more detached than ever, as if he expected Stratton to tell him he’d lost his dog, or his aunt had had a bilious attack.
You bloody old fool, thought Stratton. If you’d got off your arse and checked Dacre’s references in the first place, Dr Byrne would still be alive, for a start. ‘Just a question, Professor,’ he said, as smoothly as he could manage. ‘It’s about a Dr Rice – Christopher Rice – at the Northfield Military Hospital. A psychiatric doctor.’
‘Ye-ess…?’ Haycraft spoke cautiously, and Stratton pictured him holding the telephone receiver as far from his ear as possible, as though it were a grenade that might explode at any moment.
‘I believe you wrote a reference for him.’
‘You’re asking me if I wrote a reference?’
No, thought Stratton, I’m asking if you dressed up in a gymslip and spanked the man with a hairbrush. ‘Yes,’ he said.
During the umming and aaahing and paper-shuffling noises that followed, Stratton realised that he was grinding his teeth, and hastily moved the receiver away from his mouth.
‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Dr Christopher Rice.’
‘And you say he specialises in psychiatry?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘Well, apparently you wrote a reference for him in late November or early December last year, for Dr Reinhardt of the Northfield Military Hospital.’
‘No. I’ve heard of Reinhardt’s work, of course, but I had nothing to do with any reference for this man Rice.’
‘So you didn’t write the reference?’
‘Certainly not. The man has obtained his post under false pretences. I cannot let my name, or the hospital’s, be used in this fashion. I shall speak to Dr Reinhardt at once.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that, sir.’
‘Allow? But—’
‘This is a police investigation.’ Stratton was aware that he’d raised his voice several decibels. ‘I must insist that you don’t do anything of the sort.’
‘But—’
‘I shall make it clear to Dr Reinhardt that you did not supply the reference.’
Haycraft mumbled something Stratton didn’t catch, then – giant penny dropping with an almighty crash – he said, ‘Is this to do with that man Dacre?’
‘We are looking into it, sir—’
‘And you’ll let me know, won’t you? This is a serious breach of—’
‘I’m quite aware of how serious it is, sir.’
‘Well, I…I shall…’ More mumbling followed, as Haycraft, torn between the desire to revert to his usual vague pomposity and the consciousness of his negligence, tried to find the right tone.
‘I’ll say goodbye, then. sir.’ Stratton cut across him and put down the receiver.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair, willing himself to relax as he waited for Ballard to return. He tilted his head back and, focusing on a particularly dark patch on the ceiling, which, after decades of smoking by the room’s inhabitants, had an all-over greasy, ochre-coloured coating, he thought, we’re finally getting somewhere. As well as the prickings of hope, there were other things playing in his mind, faint but persistent, like a poorly tuned wireless in the next room. But they could wait until the time came. First things first. He sat up straight and banged his fist down hard on the desk. ‘The tables have bloody well turned,’ he said to his invisible adversary. ‘I’m in charge, now.’ All things considered, he reflected, rubbing his smarting knuckles, it really was well overdue that life – or fate, or God, or possibly all three – stopped kicking him in the balls. It was time to go to work.
Seventy-Three
Stratton sat with Dr Rice in the Smoking Room of the latter’s London club, feeling completely out of place. They had ascended the enormous staircase, hung round with oils whose patina of age and grime made it almost impossible to make out their subjects, with a ceremonial chair, as big as a throne, on the corner of each landing. Everything was mahogany and leather, and either brown, holly green, or beef red. The ceiling was ornate, and there were framed ‘Spy’ cartoons on the walls, and bronzes of moustachioed men on polo ponies and busts of fierce-looking statesmen with chipped noses on the surfaces. The elderly servants wore black knee-breeches, and knew as well as Stratton did that he did not belong. Don’t give yourself airs, said their eyes. We know you’re one of us.
Dr Rice was, Stratton thought, in his middle fifties. He looked like a sportsman – lean and muscular, despite the thinning hair. He had a rather languid manner, which seemed unsuit
able for children, and Stratton wondered if he altered it when he was at work. When Ballard had tracked him down, he’d turned out to be ‘in town’, and immediately agreed to meet Stratton. Now they were drinking muddy coffee, and Rice was staring intently at the photograph of Todd.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Don’t recognise him. I might have seen him before, but…’ He spread his hands.
‘How about this?’ Stratton passed over the photograph of Todd which Ballard, during his absence, had had doctored by a police artist to remove the moustache and darken the hair. It was pretty crude, but the likeness wasn’t bad.
‘Now, he does look familiar. I’ve certainly seen him before.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘But you’re sure you’ve seen him?’
‘Oh, yes. Before I explain, perhaps you could tell me why you require this information? Your sergeant was somewhat, shall we say, vague, on the telephone.’
‘An enquiry into obtaining employment under false pretences, sir.’
The eyebrows rose gracefully. ‘Then of course I shall co-operate. I first encountered this man when I was staying with my niece and her husband in Ferny Stratford, which is a few miles from Bletchley. My niece’s husband is the local doctor. He was called to Bletchley railway station because there was a man there who’d been sitting on a bench all day and the porter couldn’t get any sense out of him. When spoken to, he became distressed and appeared not to know who, or where, he was. When I questioned him several days later, I had the impression that he thought he’d blacked out – fainted, perhaps – but he hadn’t been observed to fall down at any point. Dr Lonsdale – that’s my niece’s husband – brought him home and asked me to examine him. I couldn’t get any sense out of him either, at first. He was dazed, bewildered, kept asking where he was. I thought he must be concussed. As I said, nobody had seen him fall, and there hadn’t been any sort of altercation noticed on the platform, so I can only suppose that the trauma had occurred before he arrived there.’
