The towering iron gates, emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms, were guarded by two uniformed constables, the raindrops glistening on their helmets and capes, while huddled under umbrellas on the opposing verge were perhaps a dozen pressmen. Cameras flashed as the big car paused briefly at the lodge, and a single brave soul in heavy overcoat and trilby dashed towards them, only to be sternly intercepted. 'Are you going to see the mummy, Chief Constable?' he shouted.
'No,' muttered Sir Neville, 'the kitchen cat.'
Felix smiled politely. 'Have you arranged for a postmortem yet, sir?'
Sir Neville shook his head. 'Not exactly. I hope you don't mind, but you'll probably find our Doctor Carrington here. Fact is, he downright insisted on coming. You're not obliged to have him and I told him so, but he's our top man, and also the family physician, which might prove useful. As I said on the telephone, this is the Yard's case now and welcome to it. I'm just here to anoint you with authority. I shouldn't need to, of course, but they still think they own the county – well, the Duke does – and it's probably best to humour him. As soon as I decently can I'll clear off and leave you to it. Just try to make it misadventure, there's a good chap — a twelve-year-old murder we do not want.' He raised his stick and tapped redundantly on the open privacy screen. 'Stop a minute, Constable. Now, gentlemen, what do you think of that, eh?'
The driver obligingly kept the windscreen-wipers working, revealing a splendid prospect of rolling parkland embroidered with clumps of trees and single, ancient oaks. Close by, a herd of long-horned cattle decoratively grazed, and below them, at the head of a wind-ruffled lake, stood the vast and sprawling edifice that was Godwinstowe House.
'This lot's been landscaped, believe it or not,' said Sir Neville, waving an expansive arm. Can't quite see it myself. Not at its best today, of course.'
'I think you'll find it's by Capability Brown, sir,' said Felix. 'It's very much his style.'
Sir Neville raised an eyebrow. 'That so? Care to have a guess at the building?'
The Inspector smiled and drawing up his notes in his mind's eye, began to quote from them. '"The estate dates from the fourteenth century, granted to Sir William DeQuinsey for service in the battle of Crécy. There was an early Tudor house on the site but the present building largely dates from fifteen-seventy, having passed by marriage to the Mortimer family. Thomas Mortimer, whose wife, Sophie, was a mistress of Charles II, was created Duke in sixteen sixty-five. The eastern facade, dating from seventeen-twenty and incorporating elements of the Palladian and Baroque is by Giacomo Leoni, whilst the long galleries, containing works by Stubbs and Canaletto, are early nineteenth century. The house is believed to contain over one hundred and fifty rooms and has the longest frontage in the south of England at two hundred and thirty feet." Am I right, Sergeant?'
Sergeant Edward Rattigan turned his broad and pugilistically ruined countenance towards them. 'Not forgetting the lake, sir, by Sabini, eighteen-twenty. Stocked with Himalayan trout, I believe.'
Sir Neville raised both hands in astonishment. 'You too, Sergeant? I'm much impressed! Do you always research your cases this thoroughly?'
'You just never know what might come in handy, sir,' said Rattigan, and Felix could swear he winked at the driver.
'Well I can begin to see why they sent you chaps. I might as well tell you, I was expecting someone more senior, but no doubt they know what they're doing. Just remember that unless we get some answers, those fellahs at the gate are going to have a field day.' He sketched in the air an imaginary headline. '"Missing bride found in attic. Police at a loss to explain." Doesn't do much for our credibility does it? Talking of which, do you see the leaded roof above the central parapet? That's the one. Thirty yards if it's an inch, and stuffed with junk — pictures, furniture, toys, you name it. The body was at the far end. Did we search it? Of course we did, and the whole darned house likewise. Went through the lot with a fine-toothed comb. Not there! I'd have staked me pension on it.'
'Who was in charge, sir?' asked Felix.
'Detective Superintendent Cobb. Chief Inspector, as he was then. Off sick at the moment — bronchitis. I don't suppose he'll mind if you want a chat with him. I contemplated putting his assistant on it, name of Drew. He's a good man in his way but a bit plodding and unlikely to have your experience. This is a quiet county and we don't murder each other that often, so I decided to call in the experts. Not to say it is murder — that's for you to decide. Cobb was of the opinion, and in his defence I should say it was the general consensus at the time, that she'd probably got cold feet and bogged off. So, I think, did the family, and as none of them seemed eager to pursue the matter we left it on file. Shortly afterwards, of course, the war started and we had other things to think about. Drive on, Constable. Park at the front.'
'How was she discovered, sir?'
'Repair work — leaking roof. The builders were larking about up there in their lunch break and one of them opened the trunk, nosy beggar.'
'And got more than he bargained for.'
'You might say that. I'll tell you, Felix, I've seen some gruesome sights in my time but that poor creature beats the lot. She'd give you nightmares.'
Godwinstowe House, it transpired, was best appreciated from afar. Gratefully emerging from the fug of the Daimler, Felix pulled down his hat-brim against the rain and peered critically up at the immense facade, noting the flaking paint on the sashes, grass sprouting from a downpipe hopper and other signs of neglect. Clearly Lady George had brought to the marriage a not unlimited fortune. It remained, nevertheless, an impressive building, its heroically proportioned portico dwarfing the little party as they mounted the steps to the front door. Ushered in by a bowing footman, they discovered an entrance hall of corresponding grandeur, the dark, ancestor-hung walls enlivened by a staircase of whitest Carrara marble, rising to a columned and balustraded peristyle on the second floor. The place struck chill and echoed to their footsteps.
'Not what you'd call homely, is it?' muttered Rattigan, unimpressed.
Felix handed his overcoat to a roundy-faced little maid who bobbed and smiled as he hung his scarf playfully around her neck. Essential to cultivate the servants, he thought. In a place like this they'll know everything.
'Filthy weather, eh Sam?' boomed Sir Neville. 'You're in the right place, my lad.'
'Most unpleasant, sir,' agreed the footman. 'Here is Lord George, sir.'
Striding towards them down a lofty and seemingly endless gallery was a tall, well-set-up man with bluff, weatherbeaten features and fair, thinning hair. Felix knew him to be thirty-six. He was dressed for riding, and his well-worn boots and patched jacket rather suggested a working farmer than the heir to a dukedom.
'How do you do, Inspector,' said His Lordship, brusquely shaking hands. 'I'm sorry we have to meet under such dreadful circumstances but I suppose you're used to that. I'll introduce you to my father in due course but in the meantime I expect you'd like to join your chaps in the attic. Sam will show you the way. Come on Neville, let's get you something to warm you up.'
Well that's put us in our place, thought Felix. I'll bet we're for the backstairs.
The handsome, slightly foppish young footman gestured to them to follow. 'Your men have been here for an hour or so, sir, and Doctor Carrington is with them. If you'll come this way.' He held open the expected green baize door and ushered them into a small inner hall. 'Straight down that passage is the tradesman's entrance, sir. You might find it more convenient for coming and going. The kitchens and servants' hall are down those stairs and the attic is three floors up. Bit of a climb, I'm afraid.'
They toiled up the shadowed stairwell, such illumination as it possessed appearing to come from the very top.
'These doors lead into the house, presumably?' said Rattigan. He was a big, stout man, and already breathing heavily.
'Yes, sir, two on each floor, although the left-hand ones aren't used now. This is the only access to the attic; or I should say, this particular att
ic. There are several.' He paused on the top landing, waiting for them to catch up. Sleety rain rattled on the skylight above them. 'Here we are, sir. I'd best warn you, it's pretty well chock-a-block; one can scarcely get through.'
'Much used?'
'Never used. Nothing new has been added since I've worked here, that I recall.'
'How long is that?'
'Five years, sir.'
'What's down that corridor?'
'Servants' quarters, sir, for when there were more of us. All empty now.'
'Were they occupied at the time of the wedding?'
'I'm afraid I don't know, sir. I could ask.'
'No, don't worry at the moment. Suppose there had been a fire up here? How would people have got out?'
'There's a fire-escape, sir, at the far end. Though I can't recommend that you use it; it's very rickety and quite rusty, judging by further down.' He pushed open the attic door. 'I won't come any further, if you don't mind, as we've been instructed not to. You can't miss your way; it's just a series of linked rooms. If you need conducting to anywhere else in the house, come down to the hall and knock at the door marked Butler's Office. If I'm not there, Mr Pearson may be, or the night footman. His name is Peter.'
'Who is Mr Pearson?'
'His Grace's butler, sir.'
'How many staff do you have here, Sam?'
'I believe nineteen at present, sir. That's indoor staff, and another six or eight outside. If you have more questions, I'll be happy to answer them, but I ought to go back now. I may be needed.'
They watched him hurry below.
'You'd think we'd come to read the meter,' grumbled Rattigan. 'As for that old gasbag, he's what you get when you turn politicians into policemen. Waste of a uniform.'
'The biographical stuff might be useful,' said Felix, who liked to find some good in everybody. 'I must admit, it's not quite the reception I was expecting, but perhaps he's right and they need to be talked into accepting us. And you really ought to be careful, you know; he could easily have been a fishing enthusiast.'
'What, standing about in a river on his tod? Not his style. That sort needs an audience.'
The first room was perhaps thirty feet long, the ceiling scarcely above their heads and the walls sloping slightly inwards. It was, indeed, packed to impenetrability with discarded junk in the usual unwanted but too good to throw away category. A single dormer window, small, circular and dusty, provided a meagre light.
A good many of the items appeared to be toys, and Rattigan bent to examine an elegant Noah's ark, its animals piled untidily within. 'Nice workmanship,' he observed.
Felix picked up one of the elephants. It was beautifully carved, with even the folds of its hide faithfully reproduced, but its tusks, which had the look of real ivory, were broken stumps. 'Pretty thick layer of dust. Makes you wonder where it all comes from. There's a distinct draught, though.'
'That'll be from the building work I expect.'
An unframed aperture led to an equally congested room of similar size, followed by another, their jumbled contents dating from steadily further into the past. Only a meandering central gangway remained clear. There was some evidence of items having been hurled aside, perhaps by the original searchers.
'Harpsichord?' enquired Rattigan.
'Spinet, I think. A dealer would give his eye-teeth for some of this. Hello, they're not working in this weather, surely?'
The noise turned out to be from a flapping tarpaulin. A chimney-breast comprised most of the attic's end wall and the heavy canvas appeared to be roped to the chimney. A trickle of moisture nevertheless found its way down the bare brickwork, to be caught at the floor by a rolled dust-sheet. In the greenish, tent-like gloom they found the rest of Felix's regular team: his photographer, Detective Sergeant Nash, and Detective Sergeant Yardley, one of the new breed of fingerprint specialists. With them was a tall, austere-looking man in his fifties, neatly dressed but with his coat off and his sleeves rolled to the elbows.
'Morning, sir,' said Nash, raising his voice above the clamour of the elements. 'Doctor Carrington, this is our boss, Detective Inspector Felix, and this is Sergeant Rattigan.
The doctor acknowledged the newcomers with a bow. 'I won't shake hands, gentlemen.' He held them up. 'Not very nice.'
Rattigan joined Yardley at a large cabin-trunk of indeterminate age. Its top was propped open with a batten and he peered in. 'That's upsetting,' he said, and after a moment turned away.
'I'm glad you said that,' said Yardley. 'It is, isn't it?'
'So this is the lady,'said Felix briskly, but his smile died when he saw her.
The unfortunate subject of their investigation lay on her back on the unpainted floor of the trunk. It was little more than four feet long, so that her knees were of necessity raised, and her head bent awkwardly forward onto her breast. She was severely emaciated, the bones of her legs, forearms and claw-like hands clearly visible beneath the blotched and discoloured flesh. A still-lovely satin and lace wedding gown hid her torso, but the hem had ridden obscenely up to reveal her shrunken thighs. Her long, straw-coloured hair had come unpinned to tumble about her shoulders, but her features were not so well preserved; her eyes showed only greyish whites, her cheeks were sunken, and her lips drawn away from her teeth in a dreadful frozen grin. Felix, who had been through the war, had seen far worse, but what immediately moved him, as it clearly had the others, was the cruel theft of this young woman's life, just at the moment of her greatest happiness.
'Mercifully dead,' remarked the doctor. 'Or not conscious anyway.'
'Because she would have struggled to get out?'
'Yes. I see no evidence of that, do you?'
'What sort of evidence would that be, Doctor?' asked Yardley.
Doctor Carrington shrugged. 'Broken fingernails, splinters under them, perhaps a contorted position. No damage from kicking and so on, although that's more your department.' He turned to Felix. 'You'll be getting Howard Benyson down here presumably? If so, I'd advise all speed. She's no doubt been preserved until now by the dryness of the atmosphere. This weather will be doing her no good at all.'
Felix looked up at the sagging tarpaulin. Puddles of rainwater had settled upon it and were beginning to drip. 'I've been wondering about that,' he admitted. It was unlikely, he thought, that the Yard's presiding genius would be immediately free, and he could hardly be expected to arrive in less than three or four hours in any case. Also, this chap knew the family, which could be useful. 'I understand you're the Mortimers' physician,' he said.
'Yes, I am. Not that I see them much; they're disgustingly healthy, even the children. I attend the Duke occasionally and that's about it.'
'There's no doubt this is Lady Mortimer, I suppose?'
The doctor made a cautious little moue. 'No, I don't think so; though you're quite right to ask.' He folded back some sheets on his clipboard and passed it over. 'Their Lordships have formally identified her – largely, I suspect, on the basis of her wedding gown – but given the state of her, I felt I should check her dental record, which fortunately we've got. Note the fillings to the first and second right lower premolars. There's also another to the back of the upper left lateral incisor and an impacted upper third molar, which you won't be able to see but which I've established is there — all a perfect match. I think we can say it's Her Ladyship, right enough, although how the poor girl came to be here I cannot imagine. Incidentally, they call her Lady Genny or Lady Genevieve within the house. Watch out for the Duchess, though. She's an absolute stickler for protocol.'
'I'll remember that. Where are you based, Doctor?'
'King Alfred's. Welmford General, as they call it now.' He paused for a moment, as if unsure whether to continue. 'Inspector, I may as well admit that I'd like to work on her, both for Their Grace's sake and – ghouls that we are – out of professional interest, but I do realise you might prefer Benyson.' He continued to regard the corpse, the question hanging in the air.
'You k
now Doctor Benyson?'
'Only by reputation. I won't pretend I'm in his league.'
'But you're here and he isn't. Is that what you're saying?'
The doctor smiled. 'It's your decision, Inspector.'
'All right, you'd best have her. How soon can you get her away?'
'Thank you Inspector, that's greatly appreciated. I can take her now, if you wish. I have my shooting-brake with me and she'll be comfortable enough in the back. I'm wondering if it might be easier to move her as she is, trunk and all, if we can find someone to carry it.'
Felix saw Yardley shake his head. 'No, we'll need to hang on to that. Nash, cut down to the butler's office, will you? It's off the main entrance hall. See if you can rustle up a stretcher, and something to act as a shroud.' He turned again to the pathetic figure before them. Any observations Doctor, before she goes?'
'Not really. There's evidence of damage to the skull. I'll need to look closer at that. No penetrating wounds or other obvious injuries, or not that I can see in her present position. No noticeable bloodstains on her or the trunk. I ought, however, to caution you, you know, against expecting too much. The preservation is certainly impressive but that may not mean a great deal forensically. I'll return you the clothes, of course.'
They watched the doctor bear his dreadful prize away, a terrified-looking hall-boy at either end of the stretcher.
Death of a Lady (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
