A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  It was unnecessary to say more. Godwin glanced towards Canon Strange who had picked up the urn and was examining the inscription.

  ‘My terrier. I’ve still not found the right time or place to…but you’re evidently not here to talk about that.’

  ‘I’m thinking about getting a new dog myself,’ Strange murmured, ‘no, we’re here about Mrs Grace Mundy.’

  ‘Mundy – one of mine?’

  ‘Was one of yours, Doctor. She was found dead yesterday – stabbed several times.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Godwin’s face showed only mild surprise. ‘Then I must tell you everything I can. The dead have no secrets in my opinion.’ He reached down behind his desk and moments later, emerged with a bundle of papers tied up with white ribbon. ‘Here we are, Mundy, G. I. Mrs. She was originally a patient of Doctor Chaloner before I took over the practice. Born 1875, married in 1903 to William Mundy. I believe she worked as a nurse or midwife or somesuch in the past, like you Miss Lambert. No children…’

  ‘”Somesuch”?’ Philippa blurted out.

  ‘Just a turn of phrase, I’m sure,’ Strange intervened, smiling at her. ‘As I know from my time in South Africa, ’tis the lot of nurses always to be overworked and underappreciated. Now what else?’

  Godwin smoothed down his jacket arms and then continued to leaf through the papers in the file, his cheeks reddening slightly. Philippa felt vindicated by his discomfort.

  ‘Ah yes, an infrequent visitor to my humble surgery. Never much wrong with her. A few aches and pains from time to time, ingrown toenail that sort of thing…She was one of those patients who got their three shilling’s worth. I remember that she always stayed for the full half an hour, asking inane questions: could she treat a mouth ulcer by rubbing it with baking powder – actually that’s not such a daft idea – or insisting that I check her for signs of Spanish flu.’

  ‘If she could get to the surgery, then she didn’t have it,’ Strange said.

  ‘Indeed. That’s probably about all. You should speak to Doctor Chaloner. He would have known her better.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll do that,’ Strange said, pushing his chair back.

  ‘Hold on,’ Godwin continued, ‘I’ve made a note of something here. Yes, it was rather odd. On her last visit about a month ago, she asked me if I could translate a couple of sentences from Russian. She’d brought them with her on a scrap of paper.’

  ‘Russian?’ Philippa said.

  ‘I know.’ Godwin refused to meet her eye, continuing to stare at his notes. ‘I was surprised at that one. I could do it of course; I studied Russian at school. I even wrote down the translation for her.’

  ‘Can you remember the sentences,’ Strange asked, his voice tense.

  Godwin rested his chin on his hands. ‘Yes I believe so. Very innocuous. One was something like Meet me tomorrow, you know when and where, the other was I have what you want. Friday.

  4

  Thursday 13th November

  Philippa had never walked this far south of the city centre before. This neighbourhood was known as a place for farmers, high-class spinsters and the rural rich, and she knew no-one like that. She and Canon Strange had met behind the barracks at the corner of Christchurch Road and St James Lane and then followed Christchurch Road steadily downwards towards the boundaries of St Cross village. Houses for the wealthy were built along the road at polite intervals, a few fields clinging to the gaps, populated by scraggy sheep and ramshackle barns. Sparkling frost lingered on the muddy ground, a layer of white mist hovering above it as if the crystals had drifted upwards in an effort to join the clouds.

  Doctor Chaloner’s house occupied a substantial plot just before the road swerved sharply to the left and the hard surface petered out, reverting to a grassy lane. It stood out from its rather more austere brick and stone neighbours. It had gleaming whitewashed walls, boxy bay windows on three sides covered by pagoda shaped lead roofs, and elaborately-latticed wooden columns supporting the porch. The cast-iron hopper heads were decorated with carvings of a square and compass. In some ways, it was a strange choice for the house of a rich man. The London and South Western Railway ran on an embankment at the bottom of the garden, and as they stood at the gate, a locomotive steamed laboriously past. Blurry faces peered down at them from the carriage windows.

  ‘This is a rather impressive pile,’ Strange said, waving his arms at the mansion before them, ‘despite the rather noisy neighbours. The good doctor must have done well from the sale of his practice. A house for a city dweller who likes to pretend he’s in the country I’d say.’

  ‘Do you know the Doctor?’ Philippa asked.

  ‘He’s an acquaintance,’ Strange replied. ‘Careful now, the steps are icy,’

  Philippa’s feet began to slip and she felt a steading hand against her spine. ‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

  ‘You must make up your own mind.’

  Her dissatisfaction with the answer must have shown on her face.

  ‘Very well.’ Strange smiled down at her. ‘Chaloner is the sort of man who has to answer the service responses a fraction before the rest of the congregation. He’s a staunch member of the Guild of St Alphage, the sidesmen who stalk the aisles imposing military discipline during Cathedral services. Make of that what you will.’

  Strange pulled on the bell chain. A furious barking started up from inside.

  ‘I’d like a new dog,’ Strange said.

  ‘What about a puppy?’

  ‘Possibly. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I know of some.’

  ‘Oh yes, what breed?’

  ‘I don’t know. A working breed I think. Bella Hibberd owns them.’

  ‘Hibberd?’

  ‘The sister of my boy soldier.’

  ‘Ah I see. That might do; I might well take a look at them. Now why are still waiting out here in the cold?’

  Strange pulled at the bell again. A moment later, the door was opened by a harassed-looking maid gripping an Irish wolf hound by its collar. She took their names and told them to show themselves inside. The dog dragged the girl away, depositing iron grey hair and huge muddy footprints on the marble floor. The barking started up again, followed by a voice, high and petulant. ‘For God’s sake, just put it out in the garden Susan.’

  A portly balding man appeared and hurried over. ‘Creswell, how delightful to see you on this fine morning! I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your company since I moved into my new pied-a-terre. What do you think?’ Chaloner stretched out both arms as if to embrace the gilded hallway furniture, sweeping staircase and nineteenth century portraits lining the walls. ‘They’ve done rather a fine job don’t you think?’

  Canon Strange muttered something unintelligible and then pointed to the nearest portrait, a young man with dark hair swept forward, high collared jacket and black bowed cravat. ‘A relative of yours?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Chaloner shrugged. ‘I bought a job lot off a dealer in Austria. Makes the place look a bit more Continental. And talking of the exotic, who do we have here?’ Chaloner raised his eyebrows at Strange.

  ‘Roger, may I introduce Miss Philippa Lambert, head nurse at the College. Miss Lambert has kindly agreed to assist me with a few enquiries.’

  Chaloner took Philippa’s right hand and bowed over it with mock chivalry. ‘Has she indeed? How charming.’

  Chaloner showed no sign of releasing his grip, forcing Philippa to twist her hand free. She felt tempted to wipe it on her skirt.

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us about a former patient of yours,’ Strange continued.

  ‘Ah ha, Grace Mundy I suppose. I’ve been expecting a visit from the police but the pair of you are much more welcome.’ Chaloner’s smile became a leer. ‘Come this way.’

  They followed Chaloner into his study, a large square room at the front of the house. It could not have been a bigger contrast to Doctor Godwin’s pristine consulting room. Newspapers and broken-spined books were strewn across the car
pet. An ashtray overflowed onto the desk; sedimented port glasses encircled a teetering pile of unopened post. The air smelt of stale cigar smoke. Chaloner pulled up two battered wooden chairs, scattering dusty papers onto the floor. He squeezed himself into his leather desk chair and began to search for something amongst the debris. As Philippa and Strange sat down, the wooden chairs squeaked and bowed beneath their weight.

  ‘Grace Mundy was a long-term patient of yours, we understand,’ Strange said. ‘Doctor Godwin recalls Mrs Mundy being somewhat of a hypochondriac. What was your opinion?’

  ‘The whippersnapper’s right,’ Chaloner chuckled. ‘But where would we doctors be without such people.’ He patted his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘What else can you tell us about her?’ Philippa said.

  ‘Ah she speaks, and with what dulcet tones!’ Chaloner clutched at his heart and raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Could you answer my question please sir.’ Philippa felt sure that her voice must be giving away her simmering anger.

  ‘You’ve a feisty one here Creswell,’ Chaloner laughed.

  ‘Roger,’ Strange said coldly, ‘please oblige us with an answer.’

  Chaloner raised his hands. ‘Alright, alright, although there’s not much to tell. I treated her for the usual aches and pains. That’s all.’

  ‘She had no concerns of a more intimate nature?’ Strange continued matter-of-factly. ‘Infections? Pregnancy?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. I suspect that her husband may have been rather inadequate in that department.’

  Chaloner shot a glance at Philippa and she felt herself blushing.

  ‘So you treated Mr Mundy too?’ Strange asked.

  ‘Never met him. A typical man from that perspective.’

  ‘Grace Mundy strikes me as rather outside your usual class of patient,’ Strange continued.

  ‘I suppose she was,’ Chaloner nodded thoughtfully, ‘but then her money was as good as anyone’s. She was the type that liked to talk and I seem to recall that there was a certain affinity in our political and social views. I’ve always had more in common with the opinions of the working man – or woman,’ he bowed again towards Philippa, ‘than with the lily-livered liberals that frequent diocesan gatherings. I mean no offence Canon.’

  ‘Of course not. You liked Mrs Mundy then?’

  ‘Liked?’ Chaloner spat the word. ‘I had no liking for any of my patients. They were my business, nothing else.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘I have no idea Creswell. She was not that memorable.’ Chaloner cast another look in Philippa’s direction. ‘Unlike your companion here.’

  As if sensing her discomfort, Strange brought the conversation to a hasty close and ushered her to the door, firmly resisting Chaloner’s insistence that he show them out.

  ‘Do come again,’ Chaloner called after them. Philippa thought she could hear mockery in his voice.

  Back on the street, Strange apologised for the doctor’s behaviour. ‘The man’s a buffoon,’ he said, rolling his eyes, ‘but harmless enough I think.’

  Philippa agreed – she had known worse.

  5

  Saturday 15th November

  The bus stopped next to a narrow track. The sign on the gate read Badger Farm. This was Creswell’s stop. He retrieved his wicker basket from beneath his feet and climbed down. He had found the basket at the back of a kitchen cupboard that morning and tipped out the stale bread crumbs lingering in the cotton lining. An old scarf made a cosy nest inside.

  ‘I’ll be coming back in an hour,’ the driver called after him.

  ‘Right-o.’

  Creswell set off along the track. It ran between hunchbacked hawthorn hedges, their black twisted branches obscuring the muddy fields beyond. A biplane passed overhead on its way to the aerodrome at Worthy Down, its whine hardly audible above the buffeting wind. The track began to slope downwards and his feet slipped on the stony ground. The basket knocked uncomfortably against his scar. He had been injured nearly eighteen years ago, the surgeons assuring him at the time that the wound had fully healed. Even so, the scar always felt sensitive to the touch. A bullet from a Mauser rifle fired by a Boer sniper had penetrated his left thigh, burning through flesh and chipping the bone. If it had not been for two nurses dragging him away from the front line, he would have bled to death. The women dug out the bullet with a heated knife before smearing the exposed tissue with paraffin paste to prevent infection. He had never known physical pain like it, before or since.

  A line of elm trees came into sight, derelict rooks’ nests blemishing the highest branches. Behind the trees, a boxy eighteenth century farmhouse emerged. It had a neat walled garden at the front, five sash windows set uniformly around the stone doorway and leafless vines stretching to the eaves. The front door stood open. Two pairs of boots were lined up on the steps. He knocked: no answer. Then a dog started to bark and he followed the sound to the rear of the house.

  A blonde-haired young woman was unpegging sheets from a washing line. She stood awkwardly, leaning backwards to balance her pregnant belly. The barking got louder and the woman glanced over her shoulder. Her long face, determined jaw and well-defined eyes made her striking rather than beautiful.

  ‘Be with you in a jiffy,’ she said, her cheeks colouring. ‘It’s the maid’s day off and there’s rain in the air. Can you feel it? I have to get these sheets in.’

  He noticed a donkey-grey cloud on the southern horizon. Not an encouraging prospect for his walk back to the road. The wind snatched a sheet from the woman’s grip and he caught hold of the loose corners.

  ‘Thank you. Just a couple of folds will do.’

  She was elegantly dressed for a farmer’s wife, her high-necked white blouse more suited to the city than the farmyard. She placed the sheet in a heaped basket, attempted to smooth her unruly hair and then held out her hand.

  ‘Have you come about the puppies?’

  ‘I have. My name is Canon Creswell Strange.’

  ‘Philippa mentioned you. Do you want to see them now?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble, Mrs…’

  ‘Sorry,’ the woman smiled ruefully, ‘living on this farm’s playing havoc with my manners. I’m Bella Hibberd. This way please.’

  She led him to the far bank of a reedy pond where a partly-roofed run stood beneath a willow tree. A mottled Collie lounged inside. Her five puppies reared up against the wire and yapped appealingly.

  ‘Take as many as you want,’ Mrs Hibberd said.

  ‘I can only take one I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see. Yes, a puppy can be a bit of a handful.’ She paused and then set her head to one side quizzically. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer an older dog? Let me show you.’ She shouted towards the house, ‘Meg, Meg.’ A shaggy chestnut head appeared in a ground floor window. ‘She hogs that window seat, lazy thing. If it was up to me…but Jeremiah’s a sap for a pretty face.’ The dog emerged, a young springer spaniel with ears like a schoolgirl’s bunches and a white stripe on its snout. ‘She wandered in one day and adopted us.’ Mrs Hibberd aimed a gentle kick at the dog’s hind legs. ‘Go on, say hello to the Canon. She can’t be more than a year old. You can tell she’s pure bred but she doesn’t have the hunting instinct like the others. She’ll be no trouble.’

  The dog slunk closer until its nose was nearly touching Creswell’s boots. Take the liveliest, his father had always said, the one that looks you in the eye.

  ‘I’ll take Meg,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent. Come into the house. She has this old toy…won’t go to sleep without it. She’ll have left it in the parlour.’

  The dog trotted ahead, looking back from time to time to check they were following, and then disappeared through the back door. They found her waiting by the parlour window, a raggedy doll dangling from her jaws.

  ‘You may as well take her blanket too.’ Mrs Hibberd removed a hairy cloth from the window seat, holding it by her fingertips and screwi
ng up her mouth. ‘I’ll put it in your basket, shall I? I confess I won’t be sorry to see this go.’

  Creswell could understand why. The parlour was clearly a source of pride for Mrs Hibberd. China ornaments, silver trinkets and stem vases were arranged tastefully on every surface. The flower arrangement on an occasional table was so symmetrical, he wondered if it was real. It would have been a sacrilege to sit on the plumped sofa cushions. A line of photographs stood in a semi-circle on a leather-topped desk. He peered at a silver frame containing a photograph of two soldiers in ill-fitting uniforms. The shorter of the two was a round-faced young man with prominent ears and his cap pushed back on his head. The other was older; he had a long nose and a small mouth above a pointed chin, a face that would have been called beautiful had it been a woman’s.

  ‘Is one of these gentlemen your husband?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Mrs Hibberd pointed to the shorter man. ‘This is my brother, Christopher. He made it back safely…if you could call it that. You probably know of him from the newspapers: the famous College war hero?’

  ‘Ah yes. I should have recognised him.’

  ‘The other man…’ she touched the glass gently, ‘was Cyril Hawes. We were engaged to be married. But he wasn’t so lucky.’

  ‘My condolences.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She sighed and then shook herself, like a dog shaking off raindrops. ‘There were so many of us in the same boat. I’m lucky that Jeremiah was waiting in the wings. He’s an old family friend.’ She picked up a photograph of a man about fifteen years her senior. He had a weather-beaten face and chin-length hair scraped back beneath a tweed cap. His eyes were in shade.

  She looked down at her belly. ‘There’s the little one to think of now.’ She paused and then continued briskly, ‘You’ll want to get back, Canon, before the rain starts.’ She gave Meg’s head a brief rub. ‘Behave yourself, you hear.’

  Creswell knocked on the door of Alexander Tokarev’s lodgings. As he waited, he began to regret his decision not to bring the dog and tie her up outside. She had started up such a pitiful whining when he left; it had been audible half way along Kingsgate Street. Then the door was thrown open and Tokarev appeared in the doorway. He was wrapped in a red velvet dressing gown, the sleeves pulled down over his hands. He tilted his body over the threshold and squinted into Creswell’s face.