A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘Yes? Oh, it is you Canon. What do you want please?’ His breath told of cigarettes, strong coffee and thirst.

  Creswell took a step back. ‘A word, if you would be so kind. It’s important.’

  ‘Very well. Come inside please.’

  Tokarev led the way into his small sitting room. It was extremely cold. Creswell took in a plain writing desk; three bookcases, volumes stacked any-which-way; a glass-fronted display cabinet; two high-backed armchairs draped with tapestry blankets; an empty grate. Fresh smoke curled lugubriously from an ash tray on the mantelpiece. Tokarev retrieved his cigarette and then waved Creswell towards the armchair nearest to the cabinet. He seated himself opposite, planting his Persian slippers squarely in front of him. ‘Sobraine?’ he said, offering a black and gold packet, ‘I buy from a dealer in London.’

  Creswell took one of the slim cigarettes and lit it with a taper from the oil lamp. It tasted unpleasantly spicy. He let it burn in his fingertips.

  ‘Liqueur?’ Tokarev reached towards a line of decanters on the table beside him. ‘I make them myself. I have elderberry, blackberry…’

  ‘No thank you. Rather too early in the day for me.’

  Tokarev shrugged and poured himself a glass of purple syrup. ‘So? You wish “a word.”’

  ‘Yes. You’ve no doubt heard about the body.’

  ‘The body?’

  ‘The body of a woman found by the Cathedral – you’ve not heard? You must be the only man in Winchester. The victim’s name was Grace Mundy. You would have known her I believe.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘She did secretarial work for the Dons, including you I’m told.’

  Tokarev tutted. ‘So that is why my papers are at six’s and seven’s. The Bursar is arranging for another woman?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’ Creswell struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘You knew her then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But as I said…’

  Tokarev frowned. ‘Canon, I do not – how do you say – fraternise with servants. And I am hardly ever here when they come…’

  ‘But you would have recognised her?’

  Tokarev shifted in his armchair. ‘It is possible.’

  ‘Is this her?’ Creswell held out a photograph that he had found in the Mundys’ bureau. It showed Grace Mundy standing at the end of the Cobb at Lyme Regis, a scattering of lobster pots in the foreground, a menacing sea behind.

  ‘It could be.’ Tokarev forced a smile. ‘Yes, I think this is her.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘I do not know. Last week maybe.’

  ‘Did she ever speak to you about Russia?’

  ‘Never. I can be certain of that.’ Tokarev paused and stared upwards. ‘Once I found her looking inside my cabinet.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, a month or so ago. She was returning some paperwork or so she said. You sit close to my precious possessions. My bible of course; a brooch that belonged to my mother – I sew inside my jacket to hide it. The knife was given to me by my sister.’

  Creswell peered into the cabinet. The top shelf held a small leather book, a ferociously-bladed silver knife and a brooch in the shape of a cross set with rubies and diamonds. Behind them lay a large tusk, tiny ships in full sail engraved onto its pale surface.

  ‘The tusk reminds me of my good fortune,’ Tokarev continued. ‘A sailor made it, on the ship that brought me from Sweden to England. He would take no money for it.’

  ‘Tell me, have you seen these before?’

  Creswell brought out the two postcards with the Russian script and handed them to Tokarev, who turned them over in his hands, an amused smile on his lips, and then flourished the postcard of the simpering girl. ‘A silly picture. Who would send such things?’

  ‘I wish I knew, my friend. Would you be so kind as to translate the text?’

  ‘If you wish. I have the thing you wish for. And then the word Friday. The other says Meet with me tomorrow, the time and place you know.’ Tokarev returned the cards. ‘Spies – Bolsheviks! Arranging their assignations. What else could it be?’

  Creswell smiled and said nothing. He could think of many other things.

  As Creswell opened his front door, Meg’s whining began again and a moist nose appeared in the gap. The door refused to open more than half way. He edged past the dog’s solid flank to find a heap of boots and shoes jammed in the corner behind the door. The hallway chair was overturned and his letters strewn across the tiles, one of them reduced to a soggy mess of chewed paper. The kitchen and parlour doors were scored with claw marks. He thought he could detect the smell of urine. He hoped it did not come from the pile of shoes.

  Meg jumped up and pawed at his waistcoat. He ruffled her ears.

  ‘Now then Meg, what’s happened here? Didn’t you listen to what Mrs Hibberd told you?’ He bent down and let the dog lick his face. ‘My fault for leaving you alone so soon. That’s enough now. I’ll get you some food and then we’ll explore the Water Meadows together.’

  6

  Monday 17th November

  Philippa touched the skin on Christopher’s leg; it was hardening nicely. As she rewound his bandage, he opened his eyes. There was never any in-between stage for Christopher, no sleepy drifting into wakefulness, no contented stirring with half-closed lids like the other boys. His waking was immediate, eyes flickering alertly from side to side and then relaxing upon her.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said in her best cheery voice. ‘A few more days and then I think we might try getting out of bed.’

  A smile flitted across Christopher’s face. ‘Will I be getting my new leg?’

  ‘All in good time. First…’ she had been going to say ‘step’ but stopped herself just in time, ‘of all, a few wheelchair rides around the grounds in the fresh air, and some exercises for your arms to build up your strength. After that, Dr Godwin will fit your new leg.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s…I don’t know him very well. He treats lots of soldiers like you.’

  ‘”Like me”?’ Christopher frowned. ‘I won’t have to go back to class before I’ve got my new leg will I miss?’

  ‘Well you could do, Christopher, if you’re strong enough. It would be nice for you to be with your friends.’

  ‘Not in the chair. I can’t have them feeling sorry for me.’

  ‘They’ll all want to help you, I’m sure.’

  ‘No.’ He set his lips into a childish pout. ‘I don’t want their help. Has Bella been?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I don’t want to see her.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Philippa sat down on the bed. Christopher refused to meet her eye. ‘Come on, tell me.’

  ‘Because,’ he whispered, ‘I’m getting better.’

  ‘But she’ll be so pleased about that and…’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  That was true enough and she was starting to worry about him. He was sweating and pulling at the bandages covering his stump. ‘Try to explain.’

  ‘It’s just that…Cyril will never get better.’

  ‘Cyril?’

  ‘Bella’s fiancé. He was killed almost as soon as we got out there.’

  ‘But that wasn’t your fault…’ Philippa began but Christopher’s face crumpled.

  ‘He only did it because of me.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Sign up.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘It is! He was with me when the lady gave me the white feather and he told her that we didn’t have to sign up because I was 15 and he worked at the munitions factory but she said that’s a likely story and we ought to be ashamed and she gave him a feather too.’ Christopher struggled onto his elbows. ‘So I said I was going to sign up and Cyril said that I shouldn’t and I said that I was going to anyway so he said he would go with me and when we got there he said he couldn’t let me go by myself so he sig
ned up too even though he didn’t have to and…’ He stopped and collapsed onto the sheet, panting.

  ‘Sshh now, it wasn’t your fault. If Cyril hadn’t gone then, they would have made him go soon enough. It wasn’t your fault; it wasn’t your fault…’ She stroked Christopher’s damp forehead and soon his eyelids began to droop. ‘I’ll fetch your breakfast.’

  She tiptoed out of the ward to find three Commoners loitering in the corridor.

  ‘Miss Lambert, can we see Steele?’

  ‘Not now, he’s asleep. Come back this afternoon.’

  ‘Will he ever play Winkies again?’

  ‘Not for a while.’

  ‘Shame, he was our best kicker.’

  She fetched her woollen cape and set off across Meads. Trees and buildings were enveloped in a dank grey fog, the boundary wall almost hidden. She could feel invisible moisture on her face and hands. As she neared the staircase to the dining hall - or Grubbing Hall as the boys called it - Creswell Strange emerged from Chamber Court. He cut an impressive figure in his thick full-length ecclesiastical cloak, fastened at the neck with a polished brass buckle. Her cape seemed a flimsy affair in comparison.

  ‘Ah Miss Lambert, I was hoping to see you. Do you have time for a word?’

  ‘Of course.’ She drew her cape around her, conscious of dampness already penetrating at the shoulders.

  ‘I came to tell you that I met with Mr Tokarev yesterday. He admitted – after some prevarication - that he knew Grace Mundy and that he caught her looking at the things in his cabinet one day. I can’t see that as a motive though, as he claims nothing was taken.’

  She stared at him, resentment building in her chest. He had not even mentioned the meeting, let alone invited her. ‘Did you show him the postcards?’

  ‘He just laughed and said he’d never seen them before.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have to admit that I don’t much like the man so my judgement may be a little impaired.’

  ‘Then you might invite me the next time you see him.’ He stared at her intently and she thought that she had gone too far. She attempted an explanation, ‘To give a second opinion…’

  ‘Yes, perhaps that would be best.’ There was a trace of amusement in Strange’s voice. ‘By the way, do you remember the letter you found in the victim’s dress. It’s dried out. I have it here.’

  He held out two sheets of paper, brittle as autumn leaves and marbled with ink stains. ‘It’s just possible to make out a few characters, but the ink is too smudged to decipher the words.’

  ‘Could this be a signature?’ She pointed to a single character at the bottom of the page.

  ‘That’s what I thought. We must find out who this “C” is.’

  7

  Tuesday 18th November

  The door to 55 Edgar Road was opened by a maid in cap and apron who eyed Creswell suspiciously. ‘Master ain’t receiving visitors,’ she snapped.

  ‘We have an appointment,’ Creswell replied, placing his left foot across the threshold.

  The maid stood firm and Creswell was forced into retreat. Behind her, a man stepped into the hallway from the kitchen. He had greying hair cropped close to his scalp and wore an immaculately pressed lounge suit.

  ‘Mr William Mundy?’ Creswell asked.

  The man nodded slowly.

  ‘My name is Canon Strange. This is Miss Lambert. Thank you for agreeing to talk to us in these sad circumstances.’

  William Mundy checked his pocket watch. ‘I said a quarter to six. I haven’t finished my tea.’ He had an unexpectedly deep voice for his slight frame and the hint of an east London accent.

  ‘Ah,’ Creswell glanced at Philippa who was suppressing a smile. ‘We can wait, of course.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Mundy retreated into the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind him.

  The maid flung open the door to the front room, a ‘told-you-so’ expression on her face. ‘Wait in ‘ere please. Don’t suppose you want tea?’

  ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you,’ Philippa said sweetly. The maid shot her a foul look and then stomped away.

  ‘You’ve made a friend there,’ Creswell laughed.

  ‘She’s like Mundy’s guard dog,’ Philippa whispered. ‘I didn’t think we were that early.’

  ‘We’re not: a few minutes at most. Mundy’s clearly a stickler for precision. Did you notice the tattoo on his right arm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There was just a trace emerging from his shirt cuff. Naval I suspect.’ Creswell glanced into the corridor. There was no sign of the over-protective maid. ‘Let’s take another look around while we have the chance.’

  He made a brief circuit of the room. The sofa cushions had been smoothed and the shelves cleared of ornaments. A photograph of Mr and Mrs Mundy - this time on the beach in Lyme Regis, the dark curve of the Cobb in the distance behind them – now stood in the centre of the mantelpiece. He tried the desk, finding it locked.

  ‘Mr Mundy seemed…how would I put it…cold unconcerned,’ Philippa was still whispering, ‘don’t you think that’s strange?’

  ‘Not necessarily. If Mundy has been a military man, he’d have been taught to keep his emotions in check.’

  Brisk footsteps sounded in the corridor and Mr Mundy appeared in the doorway. Creswell apologised again for their early arrival, and asked if he had enjoyed his meal.

  Mundy stared at Creswell as if the question was baffling.

  ‘I eat what is put in front of me Canon.’

  ‘I wish my boys would follow that example,’ Philippa remarked.

  ‘Your boys?’ Mundy frowned.

  ‘I mean the boys at College,’ Philippa explained, ‘I work there.’

  ‘Those College boys don’t know how lucky they are.’

  ‘That’s true of many. Do you have children, Mr Mundy?’

  ‘Never ‘bin blessed in that department. My nieces and nephews keep me busy enough. They’ve been brought up proper. The oldest looks a bit like you.’

  ‘They’re the children of your…?’

  ‘Younger sister. She lives in Alresford.’

  ‘It must be a comfort to you to have family close. Do your wife’s family live close by too?’

  Mundy’s face tightened. ‘She don’t…didn’t have much family left. Only a cousin, Mary, but they didn’t speak...’ He tailed off.

  ‘Why was that?’ Philippa’s expression was one of innocent, detached interest. Mundy seemed to be mesmerised by it. Creswell could understand why; he had to admit that he too was a little mesmerised. Maybe it was her restless blue-grey eyes, almost too large for her oval face. He caught himself wondering what her auburn hair would look like released from its neat bun. He straightened up, trying to dismiss such thoughts by focussing all his attention on Mundy.

  ‘Grace never shouted or anything like that,’ Mundy began, ‘but she liked things done her way. That’s why she did what she did in the War. Anyhow, Mary worked under Grace years ago and they fell out. Mary left in the end. She only had herself to blame.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Creswell said, glancing at Philippa who remained impassive. This was not how they had planned the interview although he had to admit that her technique had its advantages. Had Mundy just provided a description of a bully or a perfectionist? ‘We should of course have begun by expressing our condolences…’

  ‘I’ve had enough of those.’ Mundy’s expression had turned surly. He evidently preferred talking to Philippa. ‘You want to talk about Grace’s murder I suppose?’

  ‘I have a few questions for you, yes.’

  ‘Fire away, then.’

  ‘Do you know what your wife was doing the day before she was found?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know nothing at all?’

  ‘She might have mentioned an appointment to see an old patient. I can’t be certain.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Let’s start
with the morning her body was found.’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘And did you see her that morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you talk to her or hear her in the house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t that concern you?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t unusual.’

  Creswell’s left leg was beginning to ache and there was no sign that Mundy was going to ask them to sit down. He widened his eyes at Philippa who took the hint. ‘Was Grace often up early?’ she asked.

  Mundy’s face softened and he nodded. ‘She liked to start at the College at eight.’

  ‘Was she due at the College that day?’

  ‘Tuesday was one of her days so I suppose so.’ He smiled awkwardly. Creswell noticed an ugly gap in Mundy’s top teeth, a sign that the man had seen combat in his younger days. ‘I’d been on a job the night before. I didn’t get in till late – in fact it was early morning - so I slept in the spare room. I suppose Grace must have left before I got up.’

  ‘What job was that Mr Mundy?’

  ‘Oh I do some donkey work for a local community group. We raise funds for the school, needy families, that sort of thing. You can check if you want,’ Mundy added, glancing belligerently towards Creswell.

  ‘Thank you, we will,’ Creswell responded. ‘Write down the details please.’

  Mundy went to the desk and came back with a folded piece of paper. ‘There you are: the chairman of the group will vouch for me.’

  ‘So when did you last see your wife alive?’ Creswell asked.

  ‘Monday afternoon. I left the house at about half past four. Grace was still alive and kicking. She was planning to make herself some supper later and have a night in reading her latest novel.’

  Creswell held out the postcards with the Russian script.

  ‘Have you seen these before?’

  Mundy squinted at the pictures and then shook his head.