Victoria laughed and produced over fifty pages of notes. “I warn you, Peter Beech, some of her utterances were quite vulgar. How such language could have come out of that rosebud mouth is beyond me. The poor policeman who accompanied me kept blushing from ear to ear! Anyway, I have signed the notes and he has countersigned them, so there is no doubt that they are a true record.”
“Well done you,” said Beech fondly. “In fact, well done everybody. This has been a devil of a case.”
Epilogue
The Commissioner pronounced it the most fascinating report he had ever read, and Beech was gratified. In fact, so impressed was Sir Edward by Mabel Summersby’s report that he sent her a personal letter praising her methodical approach and inviting her to lunch, when she had recovered, so that they could discuss in detail the subject of a forensic approach to policing.
Such was the complexity of the cases they had encountered in investigating the murder of Adeline Treborne that it had taken a week of the combined efforts of Beech, Victoria, Caroline and Tollman to put all of the notes together into one report and then separately make the notes into reports for each crime. So, at the end of the week, they had provided the Commissioner with recommendations for prosecutions for six individuals:
Reginald Ingham, to be charged with multiple counts of larceny: false pretences.
Samuel Robinson, the best they could come up with as a charge was ‘corruptly taking a reward’ from customers who had shown intent to defraud the insurance companies.
Lady Patrick, three counts of attempted murder.
Sydney Baker, aiding and abetting infanticide, thirty counts.
Louise Wood, two counts of murder – Adeline Treborne and Ruth Baker.
Lily Wood, threatening to publish, with intent to extort, six counts.
Tollman had made a passionate plea, within the report on Sidney Baker, for the man’s mental capacity to be taken into consideration. He argued that Sidney was not capable of understanding that his wife had committed the crimes and that Sidney had truly believed that the babies had died of natural causes.
Victoria had felt strongly that they should argue in Louise Wood’s report that she should be spared the death penalty, arguing that grief over the discovery that her illegitimate child had been murdered had upset the balance of her mind. Beech and Tollman disagreed but, after strong and relentless argument from both Caroline and Victoria, Beech had agreed to a recommendation for a medical assessment to be included in the report.
So, everything was handed over to Sir Edward for him to read and discuss with the Director of Public Prosecutions.
Meanwhile, the team had funerals to attend.
Victoria insisted on accompanying Caroline, Rigsby and Tollman to the funeral of Joseph and Kitty Bellamy at the Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey. Joseph could have been buried in the military section but then Kitty would not have been able to lie in the same grave and Caroline, who had organised the funeral, knew that neither of them would have wanted that. She had put a notice in The Times to announce the deaths of Kitty Bellamy née Mason, one-time prominent member of the Women’s Social and Political Union, and her husband, Corporal Joseph Bellamy, late of the Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment.
The advertisement gave the date and time of the funeral and Tollman was discomfited to find himself surrounded by a full honour guard of the WSPU, complete with sashes and armbands and a wreath in WSPU colours to lay on the grave. Victoria was quietly astonished when she saw out of the corner of her eye, at a particularly moving point in the funeral, Caroline holding on to Billy’s hand for several minutes.
The following day, there was an official interment of the thirty babies that had perished at the hands of Ruth Baker. An anonymous donor had purchased a private plot in the churchyard of St Philomena’s Catholic church in Chelsea. The public had lost interest in the babies by then, so it was just a small knot of people at the ceremony – representatives of the police, the parish and Beech’s team, including Elsie, Sissy and Lady Maud, but not Mabel, who was still recuperating.
“It is apt,” said the priest, as they all stood by the plot in the dappled shade of the trees, “that the donor chose this church because St Philomena is the patron saint of babies, infants and youth. In the fullness of time, a specially commissioned memorial stone will be laid here, which will say, Psalm 127, verse 3, Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.”
Beech, looking out past the trees, reflected that Adeline Treborne’s old apartment looked out over the churchyard and it was a mere ten-minute walk to where the murderer of the babies lived. Then he noticed a familiar car parked in the street and through the open rear window he could just about see the veiled face of the Duchess of Penhere. Ah, so she knows, he thought, and he realised that she was the anonymous donor.
So, after a gruelling two weeks of investigations, report-writing and emotional aftermath, it was a pleasant surprise when every one of them received a handwritten invitation card, which said,
Elsie and Sissy of Belgravia request the presence of .................. at their residence on Saturday at 11 a.m. for a ‘Doing Your Bit’ party. Vegetables and fruits will be planted to aid the war effort. Wear gardening clothes and bring tools if you can. Lunch and tea will be provided.
Lady Maud was thrilled, and Billy laughed. “It’s nothing to do with me, honest!” he said. “This is the first I’ve heard of it!”
Tollman was chuffed. “Right up my street, this is.”
“We must break Mabel out of her enforced rest and take her along,” said Caroline. “She will love supervising everyone digging and planting.”
“Constable Rigsby,” said Lady Maud, “do you suppose your mother and aunt would mind if we contributed some food to the festivities?”
Billy laughed again. “Lady Maud, do my womenfolk look as though they mind anyone giving them food?”
Victoria had a thought. “Peter?” she said, turning to Beech. “Do you actually have any old clothes?” Everyone looked at the usually immaculately suited Beech and waited for an answer. He looked uncomfortable. Victoria beamed. “You don’t, do you? Mother, can we turf out some of father’s old clothes for Peter to wear?”
“Of course! You’ll have to have a rummage in the attic, though.”
***
Saturday came, and an excited team descended on the Belgravia house that was looked after by Elsie and Sissy. Billy had borrowed a gramophone and some records from a friend and a tinny version of a Strauss waltz was playing as, one by one, they entered the walled garden.
“What a wonderful idea this is!” enthused Lady Maud, as Sissy relieved her of a basket of scones and showed her to a chair. “I do wish we had a garden in Mayfair,” she added, “because I do so miss the gardens in Berkshire.”
Mabel was fussed over and given a chair in the shade, with arms, so that she could rest her plaster cast on something. “It’s so hot and uncomfortable,” she complained. “All I want to do is scratch inside. Ladies? Do you have a knitting needle, by any chance?” Elsie went indoors and fetched one and Mabel poked it inside her cast with a look of bliss on her face.
Tollman had come fully equipped for gardening with three spades, two rakes and several trowels. Sissy marvelled at how he had got them all on the omnibus. “Oh, I take my gardening seriously,” he said with a wink, and took them over to the corner of the garden. Billy murmured in Sissy’s ear, “You’ve given the old bloke a nervous tic, he’s winking at you so much,” which earned him a thump.
Beech finally arrived, looking distinctly uncomfortable in cricket flannels and a checked shirt, courtesy of Lady Maud’s late husband.
“You look rather fetching, Peter!” said Caroline, with an amused look on her face. Beech wasn’t convinced. He couldn’t remember the last time he had worn anything other than a uniform or a suit. At school, probably.
There was a clinking of a spoon against a teacup, signalling a speech, and Elsie Rigsby stepped forward to a modest round of applause.
Elsie explained that she and Sissy had had the idea of writing to their employer, Lady Murcheson, after seeing a picture in the paper of Queen Mary visiting a school that had turned part of its grounds into a vegetable garden. The newspaper had intimated that everyone, if they had a garden, should try to grow their own food to beat the U-boat blockade. Lady Murcheson had written back to say she was happy for the garden to be turned over to a good use for the duration of the war and she had even sent packets of seeds donated by her gardener on her country estate. “So, there we are,” concluded Elsie, “seeds and tools at the ready! But let’s have a pot of tea first!”
Tea and scones were served, with promises of pork pies and home-made pickles for lunch, with a drop of Elsie’s home-made elderflower wine from 1914.
Mabel and Tollman started an earnest discussion about the scientific planting of the proposed vegetable plot, working out the trajectory of the sun and which vegetable to plant where.
Timmy was snuffling around hoping for titbits to fall from people’s plates. Sissy nudged Billy. “Watch this,” she said with grin and she lifted up Timmy’s lead from the garden table. “Timmy!” she trilled. “Walkies!” Timmy gave a yelp and immediately shot under a bush where he lay down and looked fearful.
“What’s that all about?” asked Billy.
“It’s ever since I took him on an eight-hour hike around Bloomsbury,” she explained. “He thinks we’re going to do it again and he’s not having any of it.”
Tollman had begun digging and Billy joined him. Beech felt duty-bound to do so as well, even though he really had no idea what he was doing. Elsie and Lady Maud were having an earnest conversation about the merits of carrots, and which varieties were best, while Victoria and Caroline were poring over the record selection.
“This one,” said Victoria simply, and put it on. As the music came, sweet and pure, from the gramophone, one by one, they joined in the song.
“Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows softly come and go…”
Caroline tapped Beech on the back and offered her arms for a dance. Victoria did the same with Billy, and an unusually forward Tollman swept Sissy into his grasp. Slowly they danced around the small garden, all singing.
“Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love’s old song,
Comes Love’s old sweet song.”
“This is such a perfect day to be in a garden,” said Lady Maud softly, smiling at Elsie.
“Even today we hear Love’s song of yore,
Deep in our hearts it dwells for evermore.
Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way,
Still we can hear it at the close of day.
So till the end, when life’s dim shadows fall,
Love will be found the sweetest song of all.”
Their voices and the music lifted above the walls of the garden and into the street. A passing bus conductress, the omnibus paused at traffic lights, smiled and began to hum, which quickly formed into the words of the song.
“Just a song a twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows softly come and go,
Tho’ the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love’s old song,
Comes Love’s old sweet song.”
Two women on the bus laughed and joined in with her and soon the whole lower deck of the omnibus was singing the song. The bus then pulled away, trailing the sound of happy voices in unison behind it and taking a little gift of joy down the street and into Buckingham Palace Road.
Enjoyed A Death in Chelsea?
Read an extract from Murder in Belgravia - book 1 in the Mayfair 100 series.
CHAPTER ONE
“I Refuse to Speak to a Man”
LONDON. MAY, 1915
Lady Harriet sat before him – composed and pale. Chief Inspector Beech detected a slight trembling in her hands. She was so young, in her early twenties, and yet possessed of an impressive gravity. He spoke softly and tried to be reassuring.
“Lady Harriet, you must know that this is a very serious situation. I only want to help you.”
She pressed her lips together, whether in obstinacy or pain he could not tell, but she did finally speak.
“I have told you, Mr Beech, I can only speak to a woman – preferably one of my own class and married. I will not…cannot…discuss my husband’s death with a man, no matter how courteous and refined he may be.”
Beech sighed. “Lady Harriet, you have confessed to your husband’s murder and you refuse to enlighten us as to the circumstances. I do not want to have to place you in custody…”
“No! You can’t!” Beech’s words were interrupted by the maid, who had been hovering nearby, anxiously. “My lady is ill! She cannot be put in prison!”
Lady Harriet stirred and raised a hand to silence her maid. Beech thought he caught a small flicker of pain pass across her face.
“Esme, that will do!” she admonished her maid.
Beech noted the maid’s eyes fill with tears – not, he thought, from the admonition but from genuine concern about her mistress.
He changed tack. “Lady Harriet, do you have a physician that might attend upon you?”
Lady Harriet shook her pale face.
“There is only my husband’s doctor and I should not care to be examined by him.”
There was a small trace of venom in her voice, which Beech mentally added to the sparse information he had so far gathered.
“Perhaps a female physician might be sought?” he tentatively suggested.
Lady Harriet’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Is there such a thing?”
Beech looked at her in astonishment.
“There is an entire hospital full of female doctors in Euston Road…and there is also a London Medical School for Women.”
“What sort of women become doctors?” she replied. “Are they of good reputation?
Beech realised that he was dealing with an aristocratic young woman whose view of the world was severely limited.
“Lady Harriet, for a woman to become a doctor requires a great deal of skill and intellect, not to mention the money to allow them to train for such a long time. So, yes, I would hazard a guess that most female doctors come from wealthy families and would be, what you would call, of ‘good reputation’.”
Lady Harriet dropped her head and a small flush came into her pale cheeks as she understood Beech’s gentle criticism of her attitude.
“You must forgive me,” she said softly, “I have little understanding of the world and…this…has all been such a shock.” She raised her eyes to look at him again. Her iron discipline was beginning to fail her and a tear rolled slowly down one cheek. “Esme,” she whispered hoarsely, “I think I need some medicine…”
Esme ran swiftly to her side with a bottle and a spoon. Beech watched for Lady Harriet’s response to the medication and, judging by her shallow breathing and relaxation of her tensed hands, he deduced that it was some form of opioid and that he needed to take immediate action to have her examined.
“Lady Harriet, I shall arrange for a female doctor to attend upon you as soon as possible. Perhaps Esme could show me out?”
Lady Harriet nodded briefly and motioned Esme away. Beech stood and bowed to the dazed young woman and followed the maid into the hallway.
“Esme, may I look at that bottle, please?
Esme looked concerned but handed the bottle over.
“It was the master’s medication,” she hastily explained, “but I’ve been giving it to my lady ever since this morning w
hen…it …happened. I had to give my lady something! I think she’s in terrible pain, sir.” She looked miserable.
“You probably did the right thing, Esme.” Beech tried to be reassuring. “The name on this bottle…this is the doctor who was looking after your master?”
Esme nodded. “Doctor McKinley. He has his practice in Harley Street, number forty two…may he rot in hell!” she added with feeling.
“Why do you say that, Esme?”
The maid bit her lip.
Beech could see that she was reluctant to talk, so he reassured her.
“Your mistress is in grave danger. Murder is a serious business. You must tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything, sir,” she said sullenly. “I only know that when the master came back from the war and started being treated by Doctor McKinley, he turned into a monster. If he had been a dog, someone would have shot him and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
“Very well. I’m going to organise a lady doctor to come and see your mistress. It might be better if you put her to bed, ready for the doctor’s arrival.”
Esme looked at him piteously. “She won’t move, sir. I don’t know what’s wrong with her but she has been sitting in that chair in the library since the master died, and she refuses to move. I think she’s in terrible pain.” She lowered her voice. “You saw the spots of blood that go from the bedroom to the library. That blood is hers. God help her.” She began to cry softly.
Beech felt a sense of alarm.
“Then I must hurry. Go back to your mistress, and help will be sent as soon as possible.”
Out on the street, after a cursory word to the constable guarding the front entrance, Beech hailed a motor taxi and instructed the driver to take him straight to the Women’s Hospital. As the taxi pulled away, Beech saw the mortuary wagon arriving to remove the husband’s corpse. His mind kept going back to the face of the young aristocratic woman he had just left. He knew so many young women like her. Brought up in the cloistered world of the rural aristocracy, home tutored in “ladylike” subjects, brought to the cattle market of the London Season to be found a husband, and then married off to a suitably noble and moneyed young man. At the age of eighteen they were thrust into a physical adult relationship with a virtual stranger, which often made them miserable for the rest of their lives. In Lady Harriet’s case it had ended in tragedy. The husband, turned by his war injuries and opioid drugs into a savage, which, whatever he had done to his young wife, had resulted in him lying dead in their bedroom with a pair of scissors through his heart. And the young wife, trained from birth to be self-contained and never discuss private matters with anyone, was now in God-knows what state, physically and mentally, but refusing to ask for help or explain her act of probable self-defence.
A Death in Chelsea Page 24
