“So it looks more and more as though the vanished Polly may have been the one who stabbed His Lordship, to protect her mistress,” said Beech.
“It would seem so, Peter,” Victoria agreed, “but there is one more thing. While I was dealing with Esme, the butler put on his overcoat and rushed off down the street. I don’t know if that is relevant.”
“I think that butler’s a wrong ‘un,” chimed in Billy with a look of disgust on his face. “Man like that. He was probably pandering to his master. Maybe he was the one who got him the drugs and fixed him up with prossies.”
“Hold on, son, hold on,” counseled the wise Arthur. “Let’s let the evidence speak for us. Let’s not jump to conclusions just because we don’t like someone.”
“Right. Sorry. Got carried away,” Billy nodded apologetically.
“However,” said Beech, giving Billy a reassuring pat on the back, “it’s a theory worth bearing in mind when we question this Mr Dodds further.”
Arthur took a deep breath and said thoughtfully, “Here’s another theory we might contemplate, sir: whether this Polly did do the deed, to help her mistress, which seems to make sense. After all, Mrs E here told me that Doctor Allardyce is convinced that someone must have helped Her Ladyship dress and get down the stairs because she was so injured she would not have been able to do it herself …”
“That’s right,” said Caroline, “I remain convinced of that.”
“So,” continued Arthur, “what with these two, Polly and Her Ladyship being so close, might Her Ladyship not have sent Polly to her old convent—a place where she knew she would be safe?”
“I think you have something there, Tollman,” agreed Beech. He turned to Victoria. “Did she mention the name of the convent?”
Victoria shook her head. “And it wasn’t written in her bible, either. All I know is that it is an Anglican convent in London and a Sister Mary Francis lives there—or did, when Lady Harriet was there.”
“Tollman?” Beech looked hopefully at the Detective Sergeant.
“Yes, sir. First thing in the morning I shall take myself off to Lambeth Palace to review the records of the Anglican convents in London and their inhabitants. If a Sister Mary Francis is, or ever was, on the registers, I will find her.”
“Good man!” Beech then put the leather hatbox on the table and opened it up. “Now, Caroline, if you would like to cast your eye over this lot and tell me what they are, please.” He revealed at least twenty bottles, packets, and small boxes of various sizes and shapes.
“Good God!” Caroline came over to the table and began rifling through them and opening the various packets and boxes. “Well, these two are Forced March tablets, issued by the British Army and they contain a drug called cocaine …”
“Oh, I remember those!” exclaimed Billy. “They used to issue them before a battle and they’d fire you up so much you couldn’t go to sleep!”
“Exactly,” said Caroline firmly, “they suppress any hunger and give a man greater endurance—or so the manufacturers would have you believe. They are a mixture of stimulant with some pain relief but, ultimately they addle the brain and make reflexes slow, and I do wonder how many men have been killed or injured in battle due to these pills.”
She caught the look that passed between Beech and Billy and inwardly cursed herself for being so tactless, but the damage was done and she decided to press on. “These two brown bottles here, the ones issued by a doctor, are for Luminal, which is a sedative and hypnotic made from a relatively new drug called phenobarbitone. It has been used in my hospital to successfully control seizures in epileptics, and I’m not sure why our victim would have been prescribed this, unless the doctor mistook the muscle spasms caused by withdrawal from other drugs, as being some form of epilepsy. In which case he must be a very bad doctor and should be struck off!”
She looked at some of the other bottles and sighed. “These three here, as you can see, are clearly labeled ‘Heroin’ and are a German patent medicine for coughs, which was freely available, in this form, over the counter. I thought it had gone out of circulation in 1910, after the German company stopped making it, but, obviously, some pharmacist had some old supplies or knew a way to obtain it from somewhere. That other bottle, over there, is an opium-based patent medicine, usually given to infants with colic, and very often kills them, but you can buy it over any chemist’s counter.”
She opened a few of the packets, which contained powders. “These powders could be either heroin or cocaine but, given the personality traits of the husband, described by several of the household staff and by Lady Harriet, I suspect it’s probably heroin. That, I think you can buy from any chemist, again for coughs or blocked sinuses, and I think they recommend that you sniff it off the back of the hand like snuff.”
She opened the last two boxes. “These, I think, are opium pellets. Mr Tollman, what do you think?”
Arthur looked at them, picked one up in his hand, and rolled it between his fingers. “Yes, miss, I think you’re right. They’re waxy, like the sort of pellets pharmacists make by hand. ‘Mother’s Little Helpers,’ we used to call these back in the days when I was a beat bobby. Half the women in the East End were taking them just to get a decent night’s sleep.”
“So,” concluded Caroline, “we have a veritable chemist’s shop here of dangerous drugs that our victim was probably taking in great quantities, and I’m not surprised that he continually attacked his wife and then could remember nothing about it afterward. The Government really should do something about this uncontrolled trade. I have one wealthy woman in my hospital who was severely addicted to Vin Mariani—a red Bordeaux wine which included cocaine and was endorsed by many famous people, including the Pope, as a tonic which overcame fatigue. She stockpiled it in her wine cellar, then the Mariani company ceased to exist last year, and her stockpile ran out. Since January of this year she has been hospitalized with agonizing body pains, sweats, chills, and periodic vomiting. We don’t know how long it will take her to recover from the effects of this drug. She drank three glasses a day for five years.” Caroline threw the packet of opium pellets down on the table in disgust.
There was a momentary silence when no one could think of anything to say; then Beech spoke.
“Right. Well. Plan of action for tomorrow. Tollman, you will research the convent. Victoria, you will wait here for Mr Tollman to return with the necessary information and he will then accompany you to the convent, where you will ascertain if Polly the scullery maid is present and, if so, you will summon Mr Tollman to bring her in for questioning. Caroline, since you feel so strongly about the matter, you may, in any spare time you have tomorrow, scout around the pharmacies in Belgravia to see whether any of them sold these products and, if so, to whom. Was it Lord Murcheson who purchased them, which I doubt, or was it the butler? And, Caroline,” he warned, “I know you feel passionately about this but please, on this occasion employ some tact.”
“Yes of course,” she replied, suitably chastened.
“And while you are all employed with those tasks,” he said by way of conclusion, “Rigsby and I will interview the butler, formally. Perhaps with a little menace, eh, Rigsby? But nothing too drastic.”
Billy smiled. “Trust me, sir. I can put the frighteners on, without laying a finger on him.”
“Quite. Now Tollman, you and I must get off to our homes and the rest of the team must go to bed.”
* * *
As Billy lay in his makeshift bed at last, he congratulated himself on getting probably the best job he’d ever had in his life.
Good grub, he thought, nice surroundings, interesting work and, if the butler should happen to try and make a run for it tomorrow, I can give him a good thumping as well. Champion.
CHAPTER 8
Caroline made an early start of her round of the chemist shops as she was not due to start her shift at the hospital until two in the afternoon. She decided to simply be a customer with an “anxious mother” who h
ad difficulty sleeping, and see what products the various chemist’s offered by way of medication.
There were five shops within walking distance of the Murcheson house, according to Arthur Tollman, fount of all knowledge, who had imparted the information before he left the previous night.
As she stepped into the first chemist’s, she was relieved to see that both of the assistants were engaged with customers, which gave her the opportunity to browse the displays and see what was being offered. There were various “nerve tonics,” all containing high levels of alcohol and either laudanum, cocaine or heroin; there were three types of “infant colic” remedies, Street’s Infants’ Quietness, Atkinson’s Infants’ Preservative, and Mrs Winslow’s Soothing Syrup—all containing opium. There were various diarrhea remedies containing laudanum or opium/belladonna tinctures or morphine. There were bottles of “vapor oil” for inhaling to clear the chest, which contained alcohol and opium. There were Cocaine Toothache Drops and cocaine and quinine throat lozenges. She then spotted some bottles of Glyco Heroin, a pneumonia remedy. The array of products was bewildering and Caroline began to feel increasingly frustrated.
An assistant appeared at her elbow.
“May I help you, madam?” he enquired.
Caroline took a deep breath and adopted a confidential air. “My mother is suffering from acute anxiety—my brother is away in France, you understand—and she worries so for his safety. She is quite unable to sleep at night and my uncle recommended heroin powders as an effective remedy for the problem—but I don’t see them here on the shelves.”
“Oh yes, madam,” the young man said affably, “we sell them all the time. They usually go there.” He pointed to an empty spot on the shelves.
“Oh dear!” Caroline exclaimed. “Have you run out?”
“No, no, madam,” the young man assured her hastily. “We have simply been too busy this morning to restock the shelves. If you would like to take a seat, I will fetch some from the stock room.”
He indicated a row of wooden chairs in the corner of the shop, and Caroline took a seat. After a few moments he returned with a cardboard box, labeled “Heroin Powders” in blue writing, with the shop name and address below. Caroline took the box and opened it, all the folded paper sachets containing the powders were similarly printed with the name and address of the chemist’s shop. This was not what she was looking for—Lord Murcheson’s packets of powders were in her handbag and she knew that they were all plain, devoid of any printing whatsoever, with a particular type of envelope fold that did not match the chemist’s packets. Nevertheless, she felt an obligation to buy the product and left the shop dissatisfied.
The story was the same in every shop she entered. Heroin powders would be produced and each shop had prepared its own product and labeled each packet clearly with its own trademark and dosage details. There was nothing for it. She would have to go into the Women’s Hospital and speak to the pharmacist on duty. Perhaps she had been mistaken in thinking that the murder victim’s powders were heroin. Caroline waited for the next omnibus and considered her options.
* * *
Arthur Tollman had returned from Lambeth Palace armed with the knowledge that Sister Mary Francis was still very much alive and was now the Reverend Mother of an enclosed order of Anglican nuns near Newgate, in the City of London.
“Enclosed is not good, Mrs E,” he explained to Victoria. “They may refuse to see you. Enclosed orders don’t like to speak to anyone from the outside world.”
“Ye Gods! And this is where Lady Harriet was brought up! What an environment for a child!” Victoria was disgusted. “Well, enclosed or not, we must give it a try. Perhaps the mention of Lady Harriet’s name might open the door. We’ll try that tactic.”
“Well, you will, Mrs E,” counseled Arthur. “I doubt if they’ll allow me within the walls—let alone speak to me—even if I tell them I’m from the police force.”
“Alright, Mr Tollman,” Victoria said, putting on her coat. “Let’s give it our best shot.”
Victoria insisted they take a taxi cab as to take an omnibus would require two changes. Inside the taxi, Arthur advised her on how she should proceed, if she were able to get inside the convent.
“I suggest, Mrs E, that you adopt the ‘Lady Harriet is gravely ill and she wanted the Reverend Mother to know’ ploy, in order to get an interview. Then, after discussing Lady Harriet’s situation just say that milady wanted Polly to be at her bedside and see what reaction you get.”
“Righto,” said Victoria breezily, “I appreciate the advice, Mr Tollman. But what do I do if they produce Polly and then either they or she refuses to come with me?”
“Then you must call me to come in and arrest the girl on suspicion of murder,” he said firmly. “There can be no beating about the bush. The convent can protest all it wants but a policeman has the right of entry to arrest a suspect.”
“Can’t she claim sanctuary or something—it being a holy place?” Victoria asked naïvely.
Arthur chuckled. “No, Mrs E. They abolished that privilege in the seventeenth century. I thought you studied law?” he chided her gently.
“So I did, Mr Tollman, but there wasn’t any reference whatsoever in my studies about the rights of religious organizations. I must plug that gap in my knowledge, at once!”
Arthur liked Victoria tremendously. He recognized in her the same thirst for knowledge that he possessed. He reflected that perhaps women like Victoria would be an asset to the police force, once the prejudice of the male officers toward women had all blown over.
In fact, he thought, I shouldn’t be surprised if this war turns everything on its head. Who knows? Women might get the vote after all.
He shook his head in amused disbelief.
Victoria noticed his amusement and said, “Sorry, Mr Tollman, I must seem such a novice to you. No pun intended.”
It took him a moment to understand the nun analogy and he smiled broadly.
“Far from it, Mrs E. I was just thinking to myself how much the police force might actually appreciate a lively brain like yours, if only they could take the blinkers off and bring themselves to employ women. Believe me, you would run rings around some of the young men recruits I’ve had to take in hand! Take our young Billy, for example. Good lad—very good lad—but he doesn’t have a deductive bone in his body.”
“Ah—” Victoria smiled “—but I’m sure he has other talents!”
Arthur nodded. “He does, he does. He’s honest, which is sometimes hard to find in the London police force where the temptation to be corrupt often overwhelms common sense; he’s willing, which is a pleasure when I can honestly say I’ve had my fill of young coppers who don’t want to get their hands dirty or do the boring clerical work; and he’s disciplined because of his Guards training. Billy Rigsby will always follow orders to the letter. He’ll be a bloody good policeman one day but probably not a detective … oops, pardon my French, Madam.” Arthur realized he’d got a bit carried away.
Victoria laughed. “Mr Tollman, please don’t ever apologize for swearing in my presence. I come from a long line of army wives and daughters. I’ve heard far worse, I can assure you.”
“Daughter of the Regiment, eh?” Arthur was impressed. “What regiment, may I ask?”
“My father was a Colonel in the Royal Fusiliers, as was my grandfather and my great grandfather. My father died in the Boer War and my grandfather died in the Crimean War. I don’t remember where my great grandfather died—somewhere in India, I think. We’re a family of very self-sufficient widows,” she added briskly, then she smiled, “Well, you’ve met my mother, so you know that.”
Arthur returned her smile. “I am a fervent admirer of your mother. A clever and resourceful woman.”
Victoria laughed. “Ha! You wait until she thrashes you at cribbage! You may not admire her quite so much then! Oh, look! We’re here.”
They bundled out of the taxi and Victoria insisted on paying, much to Arthur’s embarr
assment. The taxi driver gave him a sardonic look, which prompted Arthur to assert his masculinity, produce his warrant card, and demand a receipt. The taxi driver wiped the smile off his face and wrote out a note.
As he drove off, Arthur said to Victoria, “Always get a receipt, Mrs E. We give them to the Chief Inspector and he reimburses us. It comes out of the budget.” He added, by way of a lecture, “We can’t have wealthy young ladies subsidizing the London police force, you know.”
Suitably chastened, Victoria agreed that she would remember the instruction and they approached the convent building. It was indistinguishable from the commercial buildings around it save for its lack of any kind of nameplate. All the other buildings had big shiny brass plates beside their doors pronouncing them to be banks or investment houses. The convent had a small plaque on its black door, beneath a large, closed grille and barely noticeable to the casual passer-by. It read “The Community of St Martha—please ring the bell.”
They looked to the side of the door and there was a large brass button bell. Victoria pressed it and Arthur deliberately stood to one side of the door so that he could not be seen by whoever might open the grille.
“Introduce yourself as ‘The Honorable,’ ” he hissed, and when a questioning look crossed Victoria’s face he said, “Trust me!,” with a sense of urgency.
The grille slid to one side. Victoria could see nothing through the thin slats of metal.
“This is an enclosed religious order. We do not receive visitors,” said a woman’s voice from the blackness.
“Forgive me,” Victoria said loudly, “this is a matter of some urgency. My name is The Honorable Victoria Ellingham and I have been sent by Lady Harriet Murcheson to speak with the Reverend Mother.”
“One moment, please.” The grille slid shut and Victoria raised her eyebrows and shrugged at Arthur. He motioned to her to stay there and wait.
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