by J. D. Oswald
‘Ever been to Russia?’
Mundy paused. ‘I was moored off Murmansk once. We didn’t go ashore.’
‘Can you speak Russian?’
‘No,’ Mundy regarded Creswell as he would an imbecile. ‘English is good enough for me.’
‘Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm your wife?’
‘Of course not.’ Mundy raised his voice for the first time. ‘Grace never did anyone any harm.’
That was a phrase that always made Creswell’s blood boil; who in the world could truly say that they had done no harm. ‘If only it were that simple.’ He had not meant to say it aloud.
‘What’s your point?’ Mundy said.
‘It’s no matter. That’s all for now Mr Mundy.’ Creswell held out his hand and Mundy shook it brusquely. ‘We may have to speak to you again.’
‘If you must. I’d rather you just found who did it.’
At the front door, Philippa turned back.
‘Did your wife give out white feathers during the war?’ she said.
‘That’s right Miss, and she did all sort of other things: collected mittens for the troops, sold Red Cross flags,’ Mundy began to pull the door to, ‘she ran the Order of the White Feather you know. She was very proud of that, as was I,’ he added as the door closed.
They walked to the gate. ‘Why did you ask about the white feathers?’ Creswell asked.
‘I remembered that I found a tiny feather in the desk,’ Philippa said, ‘and Mr Mundy mentioned that his wife had done something during the War. She sounds as if she had strong opinions so I wondered if the two were connected.’
‘Well, many women gave out white feathers to men they thought were cowards.’ As soon as he had spoken, Creswell realised that he must sound rather snippy.
‘I know but,’ Philippa paused and looked up at him, ‘imagine how a man might feel if he’d been given one, especially a man discharged for injury, home on leave or even a cripple who was not allowed to fight. How might his family feel?’
‘Insulted and shamed for sure,’ Creswell said, ‘but angry enough to kill? I think it unlikely myself.’
Philippa opened her mouth to speak again and then seemed to change her mind. She shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she murmured.
Her disappointment was palpable. It struck Creswell that he could have been too hasty. At least Philippa had a theory. He had none. ‘We should certainly consider all possibilities,’ he continued, aiming at a conciliatory tone, ‘but to trace every man who received a feather would, I fear, be impossible.’
‘I appreciate that,’ she said, ‘but I know of a woman whose fiancé and underage brother were both given feathers – the fiancé died, the boy lost a leg. Motive enough for murder?’
‘Interesting.’ Creswell remained unconvinced but tried not to show it. ‘Who is this woman?’
‘Bella Hibberd, Christopher Steele’s sister.’
‘Ah yes, the puppy lady. Well, this is your idea. You should investigate it.’
Philippa looked taken aback. Then she nodded. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can do. What does Mr Mundy’s note say?’
‘Let’s see.’ Creswell unfolded the paper. ‘Mr A. Steeple, The Square, Winchester. I don’t know the man. I’ll pass this onto Sim when I collect the autopsy report later today. Let’s meet again tomorrow and review it together.’
8
Wednesday 19th November
Philippa slid onto the bench, her knees bumping against the underside of the dining hall table. She felt her skirt snag on a splinter. The table had been cleaned in a perfunctory way after the boys’ lunch and occasionally her hand encountered an unpleasant sticky patch on the wormy, pitted wood. Canon Strange tossed a cardboard folder over to her.
‘You’ll have to explain some of these terms to me Philippa. Doctors are worse than lawyers when it comes to impenetrable sentences, and the handwriting is dreadful. I never had much need for these things in South Africa. The cause of death tended to be pretty obvious.’
Philippa opened the autopsy report, secretly rather pleased that she had the upper hand. ‘Well, her full name was Grace Isabel, maiden name Clay.’
Strange laughed. ‘Yes, I got that far.’
‘She died from a puncture to the myocardium. That’s a stab wound to the heart. There was hardly any water in her lungs.’
‘So she was dead when she went into the trench?’
‘It seems so.’ She read on. ‘There were nine wounds, all close together. Only one pierced the heart. The flesh was extremely torn.’
Strange grimaced. ‘Some sort of serrated blade then, like a hunting knife. Go on.’
‘Some notes about the state of putrefaction; the cold water might have delayed it, but not to any significant extent. The pathologist complains that the body should have been transferred to him sooner.’
Strange shifted in his seat. ‘These benches are damned uncomfortable.’
‘I know. The scholars are always complaining, although nothing will put them off their food for long. Talking of food, Grace’s stomach was fairly empty. Maybe she was killed before she’d had her supper?’
‘Yes, good…that would make sense. Anything else?’
She flicked through the remaining pages. ‘He’s unable to come to any definite conclusion as to whether ecchymosis occurred before or after death. He thinks after death is more likely due to…let’s see…the limited microscopic signs of extravasation at tissue level.’
‘I’m baffled once again.’
‘Sorry. Ecchymosis means bruising.’ She raised her voice to be heard over the clattering of pans and crockery coming from the kitchen. One of the kitchen hands had started to slam down jugs of water and crockery mugs onto the tables; another followed with a rattling tray of cutlery. ‘If you hit someone when they’re alive,’ Philippa continued, ‘there’s more likely to be swelling and significant escape of blood – extravasation – into the surrounding tissue.’
‘The bruising could have happened when she was weighed down in the water,’ Strange murmured thoughtfully.
‘Possibly. There’s bruising in some odd places though: the back of her skull, elbows, knees. And, err…no sign of recent sexual intercourse.’ She bent her head over the paper, feeling her cheeks heating. ‘That’s all I think.’
‘Thank you, most helpful. What did you think of the grieving widower yesterday?’
‘Disciplined; tetchy; reserved; loyal to his wife. Trying to hide his emotions. I rather liked him.’
‘Mmm, and the story about the cousin, Mary?’
‘It sounded like a commonplace family quarrel.’
‘Perhaps. I’ll ask the police to find out about her.’
The creaking of the wooden staircase leading up to the hall heralded the boys’ approach. The room was now filled with the smell of stewing vegetables and overdone meat. She rose to leave, expecting Strange to follow her. Instead, he turned towards the top table.
‘I’m dining with the Dons this evening.’ He waved a hand vaguely towards the portrait of the College’s medieval founder, William of Wykeham, who gazed down with stern benevolence from the far wall. Beneath the portrait, silver cutlery glinted, starched napkins like bishop’s mitres. ‘So, as we agreed, I leave the questioning of Bella Hibberd in your capable hands. It’ll be much better coming from you. We’ll meet again after that.’
‘Of course, Canon.’ She felt as if she had been dismissed, as a master might an apprentice.
The menu was pinned up in the corridor as usual. Chicken soup, Boiled beef, potatoes and tinned peas, tinned peaches and custard. Tea or water.
Alongside it was another notice.
Top Table Menu. Seafood bisque. Roast game, roast potatoes and broad beans, caramel custard. Chocolates and liqueurs. House claret as required.
She went behind the counter.
‘Your tray’s ready miss,’ one of the cooks said without looking up from her chopping board.
It was chicken
soup, two thin slices of pheasant breast, three boiled potatoes and a handful of beans, tinned peaches and custard, one chocolate – the marzipan one from the looks of it, and a mug of milky tea. They never gave her any wine.
She carried the tray gingerly down the stairs, across Meads to Sick House and up to her room. The char had been: the fire was lit and the surfaces had been given a perfunctory dust, the photograph of her parents knocked over in the process. She sat down in a chair by the window, the tray on her knees, and shovelled the lukewarm food into her mouth as quickly as she could. Outside in the fading light, starlings swarmed like bees, before settling in the trees bordering the cricket pitch. Had Bella known about Grace and the white feathers, she wondered? If so, could she really have been so bitter about a dead fiancé and a crippled brother to have committed murder? And surely Bella could not have carried the body to the trench, not without help?
The peaches had a nauseating metallic tang and she set them aside. She bit into the marzipan and let the dry paste dissolve on her tongue. She had no idea how she was supposed to question Bella; she could hardly come straight out with ‘did you stab Grace Mundy to death?’
Steps sounded in the corridor. ‘Evening post miss,’ a porter called out, pushing a letter under her door.
Westwell Hall
Westwell Park, Southwell
November 7th, 1919
Dear Philippa
I am obliged to inform you of the death of my much-loved brother - your estranged husband. He died a hero, killed by wounds received whilst doing his duty for King and Empire. As his next of kin, I made the arrangements to return his remains to Southwell. His funeral was held in the Nave of the Minster, the Archdeacon of Nottingham insisting on conducting the service himself as was only fitting. You have no need to know where he is interred.
That should have been the end of the matter. The administrators of my late brother’s estate are obliged to correspond with you however - the technicalities of the law demand it, I am told, before anything can be done - and so I have undertaken to send their letter to your uncle in Cambridge and presume that he will forward it to wherever you may be hiding yourself. I have therefore discharged my duty and must insist that you do the same. I trust that you have not forgotten our conversation the last time we met.
Sir George Elkins J.P.
***
Abraham & Dobell, Solicitors & Commissioners for Oaths
Prebend House, 2 Westgate, Southwell, Nottinghamshire
October 31st, 1919
Dear Madam
Re: Mr Edward Charles Elkins, deceased
We are led to understand that you are the wife of Mr E.C. Elkins of Rose Cottage, Cooks Lane, nr Southwell, now deceased.
Despite extensive searches by, and on behalf of, Mr Elkins’ family of his properties in Southwell and Vancouver, Canada, no will has been located. Therefore we are of the opinion that Mr Elkins died intestate.
As Mr Elkins’ wife in law, you therefore inherit a substantial proportion of his assets, comprising in the main a residential property in Southwell, sundry investments in shares and bonds of indeterminate value. You also continue a beneficiary for life of a trust, the assets of which encompass approximately one half of the Westwell Park estate. (The aforementioned are subject of course to the legal formalities and unless there is any impediment to the distribution or you wish to refuse the same).
In order to deal expeditiously with the necessary papers, we would be most obliged if you would make an appointment to attend our offices as soon as is convenient. Please be sure to bring your birth certificate or similar record by which we may establish your identity.
Yours faithfully
Abraham & Dobell
9
Thursday 20th November
‘Nurse? Nurse?’
Philippa looked down at Prentis.
‘Are you alright Miss Lambert?’ the boy said cautiously.
‘Yes, perfectly.’
‘Can I have my drink now?’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
She handed over the now lukewarm cup of milk. A few drops had spilt onto Prentis’ cast and she wiped them away with her apron. She could not stop thinking about the legacy. The house was hers, the investments too. Those were valuable enough. Their sale might even pay for a medical degree. And a life interest in half the estate – the solicitors had implied that she was already a beneficiary but she knew nothing of it. She had never thought to question the modest cash allowance that Edward had paid to her even though it was hardly sufficient to pay for her essentials. If the life interest was true, she could live comfortably and never have to sweep a floor or change a dressing again. It was so overwhelming, she could not decide whether to be pleased or scared.
‘Nurse, nurse!’
‘Yes, what is it now Prentis?’
‘Christopher’s sister is here.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
Bella Hibberd was walking towards the fireplace, a black and white puppy, the runt of the litter it looked like, tucked into the crook of her left arm. Philippa had been forced to admit defeat when it came to the puppies, instead resigning herself to sweeping and disinfecting the ward after each visit. Bella glanced at her sleeping brother and then flopped into the nearest chair. She lowered the puppy onto the floor. It began to gamble around the iron bedsteads as the boys giggled and hung over the sides to watch.
‘Nobody wants this one,’ Bella said, shrugging off her calf-length coat and folding her hands under her belly. ‘I might keep him. He’s rather a sweetie. He’ll be company for the little one when he – or she – arrives.’
Philippa perched herself carefully on the foot of Christopher’s bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad, considering the size of me. The nights are the worst. I wake up almost every hour to…you know. Jeremiah’s given up competing with all the pillows and cushions and moved into a camp bed next to me.’
‘Very considerate.’
‘Yes, isn’t he, and he’s hired another new maid and you know how hard they are to come by.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Philippa decided to take her chance. ‘Though you must miss… Cyril wasn’t it?’
Bella frowned as if deciding whether or not to be offended.
‘Christopher told me,’ Philippa added.
Bella’s face relaxed. ‘Christopher doted on Cyril. You’re right, I do miss him. I think I always will. Jeremiah understands.’
‘You’re lucky.’
‘So everyone tells me.’
‘Christopher also mentioned the white feathers.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know, how he signed up because a woman gave him a feather, and then Cyril did too. I mean he signed up, even though he didn’t have to.’ She realised that she was gabbling, disconcerted by Bella’s steady gaze.
‘Yes.’
‘That must have been…’ She struggled for the right word.
‘Upsetting? It was rather.’ Bella’s voice had turned cold.
Philippa pressed on. ‘Do you know who gave them the feathers?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact,’ Bella said without hesitation. ‘Christopher pointed her out before he left for the front: one of those awful self-righteous working-class types from the look of her. I’ve seen her on College Street once or twice since then.’ Bella’s voice started to rise. ‘Do you know, she gave Cyril a feather from a chicken’s arse. I had a mind to go and stuff it down her throat.’
‘Ever spoken to her?’
‘No, I managed to restrain myself.’ Bella’s frown returned. ‘Look, why the sudden interest?’
Christopher moaned softly and Philippa seized the excuse to look away.
‘It helps to know my patients’ histories. Christopher seems rather guilty about Cyril.’
‘Nonsense, he’ll get over it soon enough. Maybe he already has.’ Bella pointed to the empty plate and bowl on the breakfast tray. ‘If he’s not going to wake up, I’ll go over to Wells. There’s a book I
want. Alright if I leave the puppy here?’
‘Yes, but please don’t be long.’
‘I can hardly hurry in my condition. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Bella made a show of struggling into her coat. As she waddled away, Philippa noticed that the puppy had somehow been transported onto Prentis’s bed and was balancing precariously on the boy’s leg cast. She retrieved the puppy, to groans of protest, and made a nest for him in the middle of a bundle of used towels. She poured the dregs of Christopher’s breakfast milk into the saucer and placed it next to the dog. It lapped enthusiastically, eyes closed.
‘What’s this? A new patient?’ It was Dorothy Wing-Smyth’s voice.
Philippa straightened up. She noticed that Dorothy’s hair had been cut into a bob; despite the grey streaks, it made her look younger.
‘It’s just another of Bella’s puppies. Your hair looks nice.’
‘Thank you. I fancied a change. I wonder if Robert will recognise me when he returns from India. So where is Bella?’
‘Gone to the bookshop.’
‘I see, leaving you to cope with her brother and her dog.’
‘I don’t mind. Did you notice, Christopher has eaten all his breakfast this morning – porridge and two muffins. A good sign I think.’
The distraction worked. ‘I do hope so,’ Dorothy replied, her voice softer. ‘It will be nice to see him up and about. I’ll wait for a few minutes in case he wakes up. May I sit down?’
‘Please do.’ Philippa touched her apron pocket where she had hidden the letters. She had to tell someone and Dorothy was the only person she could trust. Or at least she hoped she could. She pulled up a stool next to Dorothy’s chair. ‘May I ask your advice?’
‘Of course my dear.’
‘I’ve received a letter.’ She stopped; how would Dorothy react? Despite the woman’s apparent friendliness, she knew almost nothing about her.
‘Go on.’
‘There’s something I have to tell you first.’ She lowered her voice and turned her head away from her patients’ nonchalantly curious stares. ‘My name isn’t Lambert. Well, it was – Lambert’s my maiden name.’
