After a few moments, the grille opened again and the voice said, “Reverend Mother will receive you. I will open the door and you may enter.”
“Thank you,” she replied and gave Arthur a “thumbs-up” as various bolts were slid to one side on the heavy door. She stepped inside to the cool and dark interior. The receiving nun inclined her head, bolted the door firmly shut, and motioned Victoria to follow her. Not a word was spoken by either of them until the nun opened the door to an office and announced, “Reverend Mother, this is The Honorable Victoria Ellingham.”
“Thank you, Sister Agnes,” said the Reverend Mother softly as the nun inclined her head and left. “Miss—Mrs? Ellingham, please take a seat,” and she indicated the guest chair by the desk.
“It’s Mrs Ellingham, Reverend Mother. And thank you for seeing me,” Victoria said as she sat and removed her gloves.
“May I offer you some tea?”
“Most kind, but no thank you.”
“Now, Mrs Ellingham, I believe you have been sent by Lady Harriet Murcheson? How is Lady Harriet? We understand she is ill?”
The revelation that the Reverend Mother knew about Lady Harriet’s illness was startling to Victoria but she was careful not to give any indication of surprise.
“She is gravely ill, Reverend Mother, and, at present, is fighting for her life in the Women’s Hospital.”
“Oh!” Tears sprang to the elderly nun’s eyes. “I had no idea! I was told merely that she was ill, there were no details given. We shall pray for her, of course. What has caused her illness?”
Victoria was perplexed by the fact that, if Polly was within the convent and she had told the Reverend Mother that Lady Harriet was ill, why had she not told them about the murder?
“Reverend Mother, this will come as a shock to you, but Lady Harriet’s husband has been murdered …”
The Reverend Mother gasped in horror and made the sign of the cross.
“Before he was murdered,” Victoria continued, “he brutally attacked Lady Harriet. He injured her so badly that she had to be operated upon and she now hovers between life and death in the hospital.”
By now, the tears were freely trickling down the Reverend Mother’s face and she murmured “My poor Harriet …” as though she were her mother. It was obvious that she cared deeply about the woman who had once been in her charge.
“Before she lapsed into unconsciousness, Lady Harriet asked if I could fetch the young girl, Polly, to her bedside,” Victoria lied.
“But Polly has gone!” said the Reverend Mother in surprise. “Her uncle came for her yesterday afternoon!”
“Her uncle?” Victoria was alarmed.
“Yes. Mr Dodds. He brought her here—let me see—three nights ago—in the early hours of the morning. It was about an hour before Lauds—our three a.m. observation of prayer. It was most disconcerting! He rang the bell at the back of the convent, the tradesman’s entrance, and Sister Augusta, who was in the kitchen at the time, answered. She thought it might have been an early milk delivery, which we have sometimes received at that hour. Mr Dodds was standing there with the poor little girl, who was, Sister Augusta said, shivering and in some distress. He said that Lady Harriet had sent the girl to us for safekeeping as there was an emergency at home and she was ill.”
“What an odd thing to do!” Victoria interrupted.
“Well, yes,” Reverend Mother continued. “But Sister Augusta was also one of those sisters who took a great part in the raising of Lady Harriet and she immediately took the girl in and her uncle left.”
“What did the girl, Polly, say during her time here, Reverend Mother?”
“Absolutely nothing, apart from ‘thank you’ every time she was given food, a bed or clothing. She was totally mute and obviously in some distress. I myself tried to talk to her—to ascertain what exactly had happened in Lady Harriet’s house—but she just looked miserable and shook her head. But she never once cried. None of us ever saw her cry. And when her uncle came to take her away yesterday …”
“Sorry to interrupt, Reverend Mother, but when was this?”
“Between None and Vespers—I would say about five o’clock in the afternoon. This time, I was summoned and I spoke to the man at the rear entrance while Sister Martha went to fetch Polly. He seemed quite calm and said that the emergency was over and Lady Harriet was better. He would not be drawn on the exact nature of the ‘emergency’ and when Polly saw him and he repeated what he had said to me, it was the first time I saw the girl smile and she seemed to go with him willingly. He said, before leaving, that Lady Harriet would visit us to explain everything, so I was surprised when you arrived instead.”
Victoria stood and said with some urgency, “Reverend Mother, I thank you for all your help today but I must leave now, as the girl Polly may be in great danger. The man who brought her here and retrieved her is not her uncle and, as I have told you, Lady Harriet lies gravely ill in the hospital. I must seek the help of the police immediately.”
“Of course, of course!” Reverend Mother was agitated. “I do hope that we have not contributed to this dreadful situation … if we had known … we never would have let the girl leave. We are too trusting, I suppose …” her voice trailed off in despair.
“You were not to know,” said Victoria, by way of reassurance. “Rest assured the police will find Polly and let us hope that Lady Harriet will recover and come to see you in due course.”
“We shall pray for you, Mrs Ellingham, Pray for your success.”
Victoria was shown out into the street and she grabbed the patiently waiting Arthur.
“Polly has been taken somewhere by the butler, Dodds. He brought her here in the early hours after the murder and he collected her yesterday evening. Said he was her uncle.”
Arthur looked grim-faced. “We need to telephone the Chief Inspector,” he said. “Follow me. We’ll go up Petticoat Lane to get to Bishopsgate Police Station. It’s the City Police mob and they don’t like the Met poaching on their territory but I’ll think of something.”
Victoria nodded and followed Arthur at breakneck speed through the street-market maze known as Petticoat Lane. There were indeed a large number of petticoats hanging up on the market stalls. The market traders, mostly Jewish, judging by their clothing and hairstyles, were shouting out their wares. Rack after rack of women’s clothing was on view. Adjacent streets were selling fruit and vegetables and the main thoroughfare was teeming with the working classes of the East End, browsing and shopping. Arthur grabbed her hand and began ducking and diving in and out of the crowd, pulling her after him. Victoria found it fascinating and vowed to return with Caroline but, for now, all she could do was concentrate on keeping her footing and keeping up with Arthur.
Eventually, they reached the main street of Bishopsgate and Arthur stopped. “There’s the station,” he said, pointing across the road, “Now I’m going to go over there and flash my warrant card and ask to use the telephone. I think you’d better wait outside, Mrs Ellingham, if you wouldn’t mind. I may be some time. I need to telephone the Murcheson house because that’s where Mr Beech said he was going today, and then, if he’s not there I need to telephone your home and, finally, Scotland Yard. Let’s hope I can track him down.”
Victoria nodded and decided to pretend to look in the nearest shop, which turned out to be a tobacconist’s with a rather interesting display of pipes and other smoking paraphernalia.
Surprisingly, Arthur appeared rather sooner than she thought he would.
“No luck?” she asked.
“On the contrary, I got Mr Beech first time. He’s still at the Murcheson house. The butler hasn’t been seen since yesterday and the cook discovered two bloodstained items of clothing in the dustbins. He says he’ll meet us back in Mayfair.”
CHAPTER 9
Billy placed the pot of tea in front of the distressed women and reassured them that everything would be fine. Cook was not convinced.
“I shan’t be able
to sleep a wink tonight, knowing that Mr Dodds was probably the one who murdered His Lordship and he could come back at any time …” she stifled a sob.
“We don’t know that, as yet,” said Beech firmly, entering from the butler’s quarters after taking Arthur’s phone call. “What we do know is this …” and he sat down and helped himself to a cup of tea “… our colleague has just informed us that Mr Dodds took the girl Polly to the Community of St Martha—an Anglican convent in the City of London—in the early hours of the morning of Lord Murcheson’s murder. He left her there, she spoke very little to the nuns, giving no indication whatsoever of what had taken place in this house, and Mr Dodds collected her from the convent yesterday in the late afternoon, early evening.”
“That was the last time we saw him,” said Esme, “he went out while I was talking to that nice lady who came from visiting Lady Harriet in hospital.”
“And he hasn’t been back since, nor has his bed been slept in,” contributed the parlormaid, Anne, her eyes wide with fear.
“It sounds to me like he did the evil deed,” said Cook, refusing to be swayed from her opinion, “and he’s taken poor Polly captive because she saw him do it!”
All three of the women began to sob quietly and Beech looked at Billy in exasperation.
Billy patted the Cook’s hand. “Don’t take on so, missus,” he said. “Let me have a quiet word with the Chief Inspector and see what we can do.”
Beech and Billy went to Dodds’ room for a talk.
“I could stay here for a few nights, sir,” he offered. “Give the women some peace of mind.”
Beech shook his head. “I appreciate the gesture, Rigsby, but you are too valuable to the team to act as a protector for these women. We need to find another constable to do this job. Any suggestions?”
Billy thought for a moment. “Well, there are blokes I know through the Sports Association, sir. Hopkins—he’s handy with his fists if there’s a problem. Or there’s Eastman—he’s a tall bloke, like me, and he’s a fast runner.”
“I think we’ll go for the fast runner. If Dodds turns up in the middle of the night, it’s likely he would run from a policeman rather than fight him. I’ll call the Yard. Eastman, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Harold Eastman. Usually works a beat on St James Division, sir. Around Piccadilly.”
“Right. I’ll telephone the division and get him seconded to this job. He need know nothing more than he is here to protect the females and apprehend a fugitive, should Dodds come back. You go back and tell the staff in the kitchen.”
Billy went back to the fearful women and told them the good news, for which he was rewarded with kisses and hugs from all concerned. Cook decided to fetch some cake and they were all seated around the table when Betsy, the laundry woman, arrived. Beech took her into the butler’s quarters to show her the bloodstained clothing that the cook had found in the dustbin. Betsy examined them carefully.
“Well, that’s definitely Lady Harriet’s nightdress. I wash that every week. But the apron—well, I’m not sure. It could be Polly’s—but it looks a bit on the large side to me. It’s possible that she might have been wearing the only clean and ironed apron available. Perhaps she dirtied her own and came down here and got a replacement.” Betsy pointed to the shelves in a room opposite, where white linen was folded on shelves. “I can soon tell you,” she said, marching across the corridor. She rummaged in the dirty linen bin, casting aprons aside on to the floor, as she spoke. “All the staff have four aprons, except Polly. She rarely gets asked to serve upstairs, so she only has one white serving apron. Well, those two are Esme’s—see the face powder on the skirts? She wears it, although she shouldn’t, and she sits down on her bed to put the powder on her face and there’s always some on the apron skirts after a couple of days. She’s wearing a clean one and there’s one on the shelf. These two gray aprons here are Anne’s. She wears them when she lays the fires and she always ends up getting black leading off the grate and soot from the chimney on her aprons. Of course, she’s wearing her serving apron at the moment and—” she looked on the shelves “—there’s her spare one. Anne is much bigger than Polly around the bust, sir. I know her aprons. And here—” she lifted two blue cotton aprons off the shelf “—are Polly’s kitchen aprons and her one, white serving apron. Cook’s aprons are in her room. So, all the aprons are accounted for, sir, and I don’t know where that bloodstained apron has come from.”
* * *
Caroline checked in on Lady Harriet. Matron had reported no change. Temperature still high, abdomen swollen and painful, patient sleeping most of the time, except when the nurses woke her to feed her soup and deal with necessities. One of the nurses was applying a cold compress to the forehead, in an attempt to bring down the fever, when Caroline came into the room. She motioned her to continue while she checked Lady Harriet’s heart and examined her abdomen. Matron was right. There was no change.
Frustrated by her day so far, she made a detour to the hospital pharmacy. She wanted to ask Mabel Summersby, the pharmacist, about the packet of suspected heroin she had in her pocket.
Mabel was avidly reading a scientific journal when Caroline entered and was utterly oblivious to anyone else being in the room. Caroline smiled.
Mabel really is the most terrible swot, she thought in amusement.
Every time she saw the middle-aged pharmacist, she had her nose in some book or journal—eager to learn more.
“Trying to get ahead of the men, eh?” observed Caroline wryly, and Mabel looked up, vaguely, and then smiled.
“Ah, Caroline … I’m actually reading the Journal of the British Roentgen Society. The Society has finally produced a set of safety guidelines for dealing with X-rays—and not before time, I might add. Animal studies proved ten years ago that overexposure to X-rays causes cancer and degrades many of the internal organs.”
Caroline raised her eyebrows at this particular piece of knowledge and resolved to consult Mabel before pressing for the hospital to acquire a mobile Roentgen machine after the war. She produced the neatly folded packet from her pocket and put it in front of Mabel.
“I suspect that this is heroin but I can’t be sure and, also, I don’t know where it has come from, since it is not labeled as coming from a pharmacy.”
“Why do you suspect it is heroin?” asked Mabel, curiously.
“Because it came from the possessions of a patient’s husband, who took a great many drugs. I’ve identified all the rest—they were patented drugs and clearly identified as so—oh, apart from some hand-rolled pills, which I suspect are opium. But this powder eludes me. It could be cocaine, I suppose. I wondered if you could test it for me?”
“Of course, but there are a couple of tests we can do here and now.” Mabel switched an electric lamp on, opened the packet of powder, and held it under the lamp. “It’s not cocaine,” she said firmly. “Cocaine is more crystalline and it sort of sparkles under harsh light, no matter how finely it is ground.” Next, she licked her finger and dabbed it into the powder and tasted it. She pulled a face. “Ugh, that’s bitter! Exceptionally so! It is probably heroin but mixed with quinine, which makes it extra bitter but gives an extra excitement to the brain.” She took a tiny spoon and added some of the powder to a test tube of water. The water turned slightly cloudy but most of the powder remained on top. Mabel took down from the shelves a large brown bottle labeled “Citric Acid” and added a small amount to the test tube. Immediately the water began to produce small bubbles and the powder began to sink from the top and dissolve. “My feeling is that this is heroin, which will only dissolve in water in the presence of some acid. It has quinine added but—” she peered at the test tube “—I suspect something else as well. There is a powdery residue there which could be anything—chalk, sodium bicarbonate—I won’t know until I do further tests. I’ll tell you one thing though,” she added, “this is not pharmaceutical-grade heroin. This is the sort of stuff sold by criminal gangs.”
�
��How do you know that, Mabel?” asked Caroline, in admiration of Mabel’s encyclopedic knowledge.
“Because when I worked at the London Hospital, it’s the sort of stuff we would confiscate from the gang members when they came into the hospital with knife wounds. They sell it and by mixing the pure heroin with other substances, they could make a little go a long way, and make more money, I suppose.”
“Thank you, that’s most helpful. There is something else you might be able to help me with.”
Mabel perked up in interest.
“I have a patient with severe abdominal injuries,” Caroline continued, “and, despite all my precautions during surgery, she has developed an infection, and I fear she is not strong enough for me to open her up again to irrigate the wound. Is there anything I could apply externally that might help? We have applied topical antiseptics as per standard procedure, but time is running out and I’m wondering if there is anything else I may have not thought of. Anything is worth a shot at this point as it’s looking terribly serious.”
Mabel’s eyes lit up. “Wintergreen,” she said emphatically. “Try a wintergreen poultice. It contains methyl salicylate, which metabolizes into salicylic acid, the stuff in Aspirin tablets. Aspirin is proving to be a good anti-inflammatory and it also thins the blood, so it may filter through the wound and cut down inflammation and also, hopefully, stop her getting any blood clots. Give it a try.”
Caroline smiled. “Mabel, you’re a genius! Let me know if you find out any more about the heroin powder. Here’s my telephone number if I’m off duty.” She wrote “Mayfair 100” on a piece of paper. “Out of curiosity, why did you leave the London?”
Mabel snorted derisively. “They had five pharmacists and I was the only woman. The only thing they would let me do was hand-roll pills and suppositories. At least here I’m my own boss and I can do experiments.”
“Of course, silly of me to ask.” Caroline flashed her a grateful smile and set off to find Matron and order a wintergreen poultice for Lady Harriet.
Murder in Belgravia Page 8
