Ghosts of Mayfield Court

by Russell, Norman

  The dark, shuttered brick house would have been entirely anonymous but for the brass plate telling all and sundry that it was the residence of Dr Igor Zhdanov, Consultant Physician, who would see you by appointment only.

  There was a nameless public house in the court, and Bottomley went in. It was dark and empty, and smelled of stale beer and tobacco smoke. A defeated-looking man in shirtsleeves sat behind the small bar, reading a newspaper. He looked up as Bottomley came in, and put the paper down.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ he asked.

  ‘Give me a glass of London gin,’ said Bottomley. ‘You can leave the bottle on the bar.’ He downed the gin in one gulp, and immediately poured himself another.

  ‘That house next-but-one to this,’ he said, ‘there’s a foreign doctor lives there.’

  ‘Is there?’ said the morose man.

  ‘Yes, there is. Now what I want to ask you, is this: have you ever seen that doctor come out from his house accompanied by an old man? Or have you seen him putting an old man into a carriage?’

  Bottomley poured himself out a third gin. His speech began to acquire a kind of slur, but his eyes remained bright and alert.

  ‘What’s it to you what the doctor does? He minds his own business, and I mind mine. You’d better drink up and be off with you. Who are you, anyway?’

  Bottomley produced his warrant card, and laid it down on the bar counter.

  ‘That’s who I am,’ he said. ‘And that’s why you should keep a civil tongue in your head. Did you ever see this foreign doctor bundling an old party into a cab?’

  The landlord rescued the gin bottle, and put it on a shelf behind the bar.

  ‘I might have done,’ he said, with what he hoped was an air of nonchalance.

  Bottomley smiled, rummaged in one of his pockets, and produced a half-crown, which he put down on the bar beside his warrant card. Then he suddenly reached across the counter and pulled the landlord up and over by the lapels of his coat.

  ‘Did you see him? It’s murder, friend, and if you don’t tell me what you saw, I’ll take you up as an accessory. So tell me, and earn yourself two and a tanner. Did you?’

  ‘Yes, guvnor, I did. There’s no need for pugilistics. Strewth! I never seen a man knock back so much gin and stay upright. It’s going to cost you one and eight.’

  Bottomley slammed down a few more coins on the counter and retrieved his warrant card. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  The man lowered his voice, and glanced around the empty bar.

  ‘It was last Friday, guv,’ he said, ‘and no later than half past four in the morning. I have to be up by then, to get this place ready for the market porters who swarm in here at half past five. I saw a cab – well, it may have been a private fly, I’m not sure – draw up outside Dr Zhdanov’s house. The door opened, and the doctor appeared. He was with another man, and between them they helped an old gentleman into the cab.’

  ‘How did the old man look?’

  ‘He looked far gone to me, poor old soul. All three got into the cab, and were driven away. It’s a kind of nursing home, you see, and that would have been one of the patients. Maybe he was cured, and they were taking him home. He was a clergyman.’

  ‘Was he, now? How did you know that?’

  ‘He was wearing black, and he had a clergyman’s collar on. Is that all? Can I be left in peace, now?’

  Bottomley walked slowly towards the door, and there was a slight stagger in his way of walking that told the landlord that he was not quite himself. Not drunk, but not quite himself.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, landlord,’ said Bottomley, ‘coincidence is a wonderful thing. The very morning that your neighbour Dr Zhdanov was taking his old clergyman patient home, having cured him of whatever ailed him – you did say he was taking him home, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s what I assumed, Officer. It’s not an offence, is it, to assume something like that?’

  ‘No, it’s not an offence, I just wanted to make sure that that’s what you suggested. Well, here’s the coincidence. At the very time, last Friday, that Dr Zhdanov was taking his old clergyman patient home, somebody else was taking an old clergyman into Kensington Gardens, in order to drown him in the Long Water. And guess what? Your old clergyman and the one found drowned in the Long Water were one and the same person. It makes you think, doesn’t it? Or are you more stupid than you look? Say nothing about this to anyone. Meanwhile, I’ll bid you good day.’

  ‘Here, Sergeant, drink this black coffee. You should keep off the bottle when you’re on duty. Still, you’ve done well. I’ve heard mention of this Dr Zhdanov. Now we can kill two birds with one stone.’

  Inspector Blade put an enamel cup of steaming coffee in front of Bottomley, who was sitting on an upright chair near a tall filing cabinet in the inspector’s office. He looked suitably contrite. After he had left the public house in Chatham Court, Bottomley had visited two more hostelries before making his way to Little Vine Street. When he got there, he was decidedly unsteady on his feet. He leaned against the filing cabinet, and sipped his coffee.

  Inspector Blade left the office, and Bottomley could hear him shouting for someone as he stood in the corridor. Somebody else shouted back, and in a moment Blade returned with a burly uniformed sergeant, a man in his late fifties, who was carrying a bloodstained cricket bat.

  ‘If you’d given me another minute, Mr Blade,’ he grumbled, ‘I’d have had this offensive weapon properly docketed. Now I’ve got to carry it around with me until you’ve done with me—’

  ‘I’ll do with you all right, you cheeky man,’ said Blade, half laughing. ‘Docketing? I’ll dock you a day’s wages if you don’t button your lip. Now, what I want you to do, Sergeant Humphries, is tell me all you know about Dr Zhdanov of Chatham Court. You tangled with him once, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, sir. It was a couple of years ago, when he lived in Grace Street, just by the Monument. He was a vet – what they call a veterinary surgeon – and he made a living by putting down poor old dogs and cats who’d reached the end of the road.’

  Sergeant Humphries glanced questioningly at the recovering drunk slumped against the filing cabinet.

  ‘Sergeant Humphries, meet Sergeant Bottomley, of the Warwickshire Constabulary. So he was a vet? What did he do, besides putting down people’s pets?’

  ‘Somebody called at his premises after hours to collect his deceased terrier, sir, in order to give it a Christian burial. This man found the back door unlocked, and went in. There was a smell of chloroform in the air, and he – this man – saw a young woman lying unconscious on a trolley, while this Dr Zhdanov was bending over her with some kind of instrument in his hand.’

  ‘I see. And this man who called for his dog reported the incident?’

  ‘He did, sir. But when we went round to his premises, which we did straight away, the young woman was still there. She was drinking a cup of tea, and Dr Zhdanov was standing beside her, smirking behind his great black beard. The young woman, he said, had called to collect her kitten, but had suddenly been seized with a choking fit. Realizing that she would die if he didn’t take action, he had laid her on the trolley, and with the aid of one of his instruments had removed a brazil nut from her throat. He actually showed us the nut in question. The young lady was ever so grateful, she said, and we left. But we knew, sir, what he was doing, and what she’d asked for. Both were criminals, and each covered for the other. A man who will do that, Inspector, will do anything. Now, as to this offensive weapon—’

  ‘Take it away, Sergeant Humphries, and take yourself off with it. Then detail two constables, and have them standing ready. Find PC Roberts, and tell him to run round to Mr Beak in Swallow Street, and get him to sign a warrant of search and arrest.’

  ‘Sergeant Bottomley,’ said Inspector Blade, ‘we’ll cook this Dr Zhdanov’s goose by making his co-conspirator, Dr Morrison, confess all. It won’t be difficult, if we leave him to conclude that all is known. We’ll have to wait a bit for P
C Roberts to return from the magistrate’s. Meanwhile, you’d better go out to the ablutions, and smarten yourself up. If you’re working with me, you have to be a credit to “C” Division.’

  Blade dropped his half-bantering tone, and looked at Bottomley gravely.

  ‘Today, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we should be able to wrap up this murder of poor Mr Walter Hindle. I have the results of the post mortem here. He died from drowning, right enough, but traces of chloral hydrate were found both in the stomach and around the lips. He had been rendered semi-conscious, and then deliberately drowned.’

  ‘That landlord, sir,’ said Bottomley, rising to his feet, ‘he saw Zhdanov and an accomplice dragging Mr Hindle out to a cab, but his evidence is uncorroborated. And our theory as to how the body came to be in the water is just that – a theory. We can’t link the drowning definitely to Zhdanov.’

  ‘I know, Sergeant, and that’s why we must employ a certain amount of bluff. The genial but shifty-eyed Dr Morrison is the weak link in this chain of deceit and murder. Leave him to me. I’ll use Morrison to bring Zhdanov to the gallows.’

  Inspector Blade had planned a frontal assault, and proceeded to carry it out. The portly Dr Morrison’s ready smile did not survive for more than a few seconds.

  ‘Edward Morrison, I have here a warrant for your arrest, which I intend to execute immediately. The house is surrounded, and it would be fruitless to attempt an escape. I charge you that you did, on Friday, 31 August, 1894, conspire with another unknown to drug and render senseless the Reverend Walter Hindle, and that you did put him into that body of water called the Long Water, in the parish of Kensington; and that you did murder him. Sergeant Bottomley, secure him, and take him out to the van.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ Dr Morrison, wringing his hands in anguish. ‘I told you when you came here: Mr Hindle wandered off, through a door left open by the carelessness of an attendant—’

  ‘It won’t do! Your guilt is known. You conveyed your victim away from these premises to number 11, Chatham Court, assumed to be another of your properties, and there you drugged him prior to taking him to Kensington, where you drowned him. Sergeant, take him away.’

  ‘I tell you it wasn’t me! I tried to stop it, but I could not. Yes, I lied to you when you came here: but I did not murder Mr Hindle. He was taken away by his nephew, who delivered him into the hands of Dr Zhdanov, a criminal poisoner.’

  ‘Place your hands behind your back,’ said Bottomley, and when the wretched man had done so, he slipped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists and locked them.

  ‘We’ve never heard of any Dr Zhdanov,’ said Inspector Blade dismissively. ‘You’d better say nothing more until you appear at your trial for murder.’

  Dr Morrison cried out in anguish and pulled himself away from Bottomley.

  ‘It’s true, I tell you! I’ll tell you everything you want to know. What is that shrieking? What is happening?’

  ‘One of my sergeants has just arrested your nurse as an accessory. She’s up for murder, too. Come on, Sergeant. Let’s get this business over and done with. Take him out.’

  ‘Dr Zhdanov is the killer, not I. Why don’t you go and secure him before he bolts? He’s the killer, and he lives in Chatham Court. It was Mr Hindle’s nephew who came here, and took him away. I knew he was going to entrust him to the tender mercies of Zhdanov, but I was too weak to make a protest.’

  ‘And I suppose this Dr Zhdanov was acting off his own bat, was he? Maybe he just liked drowning aged clergyman? You’ll need a better defence, Morrison, than all this bluster.’

  ‘This whole business was brought about by a woman called Lady Carteret. See, look in my desk, the third drawer down: you’ll find all the relevant documents there. It was she who committed Mr Hindle to my care. She, and her husband, Sir Leopold Carteret.’

  At a nod from Blade, Sergeant Bottomley unlocked the handcuffs, and withdrew them.

  ‘You will be a material witness against this Dr Zhdanov,’ said Blade. ‘You can remain at liberty for a while, but I warn you that you will be under constant surveillance. You will appear before the magistrates next Monday, where bail and recognisances will be set. Meanwhile, you had better arrange for competent medical supervision of this establishment. That’s all.’

  ‘We’ll bring in Dr Zhdanov this afternoon, Sergeant Bottomley,’ said Blade, when they left the house. ‘This Morrison may escape with a short custodial sentence. He’s a shady customer, but I don’t really think he’s a murderer.’

  ‘I’d like to thank you, sir,’ said Bottomley, ‘for everything you’ve done to help me over this case. It’s very much appreciated, if I may say so. It’s time I returned to Warwick – there’s work for me to do there. I’ll catch the eight o’clock evening train from Paddington. It’s time for us – the county police, I mean – to bring that woman’s depredations to an end.’

  Bottomley raised his hat, Inspector Blade saluted, and the two men parted.

  Later that afternoon, Inspector Jackson, working on a report in the back room at Warwick Police Office, was handed a telegraph message that had just been received from Charing Cross Telegraph Office in London.

  JACKSON, WARWICK PO. HINDLE MURDERED BY AGENTS OF LADY CARTERET. MURDER PROVEN. ARRESTS TO FOLLOW. WILL RETURN TOMORROW. BOTTOMLEY.

  15

  Catherine’s Narrative: An After-Dinner Interlude

  The following day, which was a Friday, we spent the morning touring the estate, and its outlying farms. We made the tour partly on foot, and partly in a smart pony and trap, driven by Sir Leopold Carteret himself. Providence Hall stood in extensive grounds, including the deer park, and once again I was impressed by how well tended everything was. The farms were clean and prosperous, and considerable deference was shown to Sir Leopold by the various labourers we encountered.

  When Michael and I came down to breakfast that morning, we heard that Lady Carteret had passed a disturbed night, and was breakfasting in her room. So it was Sir Leopold, Michael and myself who ventured out to view the estate, on what proved to be a lovely September morning.

  ‘My wife is often troubled by restless dreams,’ Sir Leopold told us. ‘They can leave her quite debilitated, you know; but we get by. Yes, we get by.’

  Sir Leopold Carteret was a quietly spoken self-effacing gentleman, with an air of courteous enquiry that I found rather endearing. Everything one told him seemed to hold his entire interest. For instance, I happened to mention that I had been educated at Holbrook Girls’ Academy in Hampstead.

  ‘Holbrook Girls’ Academy?’ he had said. ‘Really? How very remarkable. And at Hampstead, you say? Well, I find that most interesting. And it was a school solely for girls?’

  He had continued his questioning until the subject was exhausted, and yet, on mature consideration, I realized that he had asked no real, pertinent questions at all. All that he had gathered was the name and location of the school; evidently that was enough to satisfy him.

  Lady Carteret appeared at luncheon, looking a little pale, but in every other respect her old self. She liked me well enough, I felt, but she had taken a particular liking to Michael. She sat beside him at table, and conversed with him in low tones, while I listened to Sir Leopold telling me about his ancient family, and the part that some of his ancestors had played in great affairs of state.

  When lunch was over, I asked whether I could wander through the extensive conservatory that was reached from an elegant Regency music room at the back of the house, and my hostess readily agreed. Sir Leopold declared that he was going to his study to smoke a cigar and read The Times. I half expected Michael to accompany me, but he left the dining room deep in conversation with Lady Carteret. It was ridiculous, of course – she was old enough to be Michael’s mother – but I felt a twinge of jealous resentment as I watched them walk away together.

  It was hot in the conservatory, and the air was perfumed by the many exotic plants growing in brass and china tubs. There was, too, a profusion of ferns, and a numbe
r of woven cane basket chairs placed in their shade. I sat down, and within minutes I had fallen fast asleep.

  I woke with a start, and rose to my feet. I consulted the watch that I wore about my neck on a silver chain, and realized that I had been asleep for no more than twenty minutes. I could hear voices quite near to me, and, venturing further along the conservatory, I saw that it had another exit into the library of Providence House. It was here that Lady Carteret and Michael had gone, for I could see them standing together at an open desk placed beside one of the tall, carved sets of bookshelves filled with old, calf-bound books and annuals.

  ‘There it is,’ said Lady Carteret, holding up a document for Michael to see. ‘It was a Deed of Release, right enough, but its contents are more baleful than I could have imagined. True to his honour, he never opened it.’

  ‘Why has it not been destroyed?’ asked Michael. ‘And what was so baleful about it?’

  ‘What would have been the point of destroying it? A document of that nature will have been copied. I’d not thought of that possibility, but Sir Leopold made enquiries, and it’s true enough. And it’s baleful, because it makes open provision for descendants of either line – people who were not born when the deed was drafted. It is not a closed deed.’

  Evidently Lady Carteret was regaling Michael with some passage in the family’s history. I turned to retrace my steps to the dining-room passage, but something that Lady Carteret was saying caused me to linger near the door, still hidden by the forest of ferns.

  ‘And so, dear boy,’ she was saying, ‘the great enterprise will have to be abandoned. It would have been a most desirable consummation, but there: it cannot be. So, it will have to be the other way.’

  Their voices suddenly dropped, and there was something so easy and intimate about their manner that I felt myself blush with vexation. I didn’t like that ‘My dear boy’. Must Michael concern himself so deeply in his hostess’s family history?