by J. D. Oswald
Tokarev took a noisy breath through his nose. ‘I wrote the letter, yes. I did not kill the woman.’
Strange nodded slowly and an almost imperceptible triumphant smile flitted across his lips. He continued impassively, ‘You wrote the letter which is signed “C”?’
‘As I said,’ Tokarev said.
‘And the postcards?’
Tokarev nodded. ‘One of them.’
‘Who was the recipient? Or was there more than one? Who wrote the other card?...You refuse to say? I’ll put the question to one side for the time being. How did Mrs Mundy come to have the letter and cards?’
‘She stole them.’ Tokarev spat out the words.
‘Why?’
Tokarev folded his arms. ‘I do not know.’
‘Come now Alexander.’ Strange’s smile was humourless. ‘She must have told you that she had taken them. How else would you know? What were her reasons?’
‘The lives of such people are a mystery to me, Canon.’
‘I’m beginning to lose patience. Did she ask for money?’
Tokarev shrugged and shifted uncomfortably.
‘Then what?’ Strange raised his voice to a shout. Tokarev visibly recoiled.
‘She said…the police…’
‘You wish me to call in the police?’
‘No, no. She said she give the cards to the police.’
‘Why should that concern you?’
Tokarev swallowed hard. ‘She said I was a spy, that I was a spy for the Bolsheviks. Why would I…? Ridiculous. The woman reads too many cheap newspapers.’
‘No doubt the police would have come to the same conclusion. And so I ask again, why should that concern you?’
‘I say nothing more.’ Tokarev’s accent had become more pronounced and his voice was sulky.
‘Who wrote the other card?’
As Philippa looked at the men’s belligerent faces, the memory of her encounter with Teresa outside the porters’ lodge thrust itself into her mind. Teresa had been speaking Russian and Tokarev had been walking away. How could she have been so blind?
‘It was Mrs Urchfont,’ Philippa heard herself saying. Now she could not unsay it. Two heads swivelled in her direction. Canon Strange frowned with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. Alexander Tokarev stared at her with his mouth open and she knew that she was right. She felt chilled. She had revealed Teresa’s secret, one that she did not even realise she knew until now. What would Teresa do when she found out? Would she reveal Philippa’s secret in return?
Strange glanced from her face to Tokarev’s and back again, and then nodded to her appreciatively. ‘Miss Lambert has hit upon the truth I perceive.’
Tokarev spluttered an incomprehensible reply, breaking off mid-sentence, his shoulders slumped. ‘She has,’ he whispered.
‘I take it that you were not giving Mrs Urchfont private lessons in Russian?’ Strange said. He shot a look at Philippa. ‘My apologies, Miss Lambert, if you find this distasteful.’
‘Not at all.’ Philippa felt herself colouring just the same.
‘Now sir, what have you to say for yourself?’
Tokarev smiled weakly. ‘Mrs Urchfont’s Russian is perfect. She is…perfect.’
‘I see. Now tell me the truth this time.’
‘I told Teresa about Mrs Mundy. We could not allow that woman to go to the police. They would take the cards to the Bursar and he would see the writing.’
‘So you killed her?’
‘No,’ Tokarev yelled, beating his fists on the chair arms, ‘I paid her and she said that she would return the cards.’
‘I see,’ Strange repeated. ‘How much did you pay her?’
‘Not money. I gave her a box.’
‘A box?’
‘A silver box. Very precious. It has an enamelled lid and a blue topaz in the centre. She demanded it.’
‘Miss Lambert,’ Strange said, ‘did we find such a box in the victim’s possession?’
‘No, Canon, we did not,’ Philippa replied, attempting to mirror Strange’s officious tone.
‘Ask her,’ Tokarev said, addressing himself to Philippa. His voice trembled. ‘Ask Teresa. She will tell you.’
‘Tell me what sir?’ she asked.
‘That we were…that she and I…that I was with her…’
‘When?’
‘The night before that woman was found. All night. We use the Warden’s Lodgings. Teresa has a key. We arrange it by the cards. We leave them in St Swithun’s church.’
Strange cleared his throat. ‘We will certainly be speaking to Mrs Urchfont. I hope, for your sake, that she confirms your account.’ He stood up briskly and Philippa did the same. ‘This is not the end of this conversation Tokarev.’
They went out onto the street and Strange beamed at her. ‘Well done Philippa. I don’t know how you knew, but well done indeed.’
This was the first time he had used her Christian name. ‘Could you really have got Tokarev’s fingerprints from those postcards?’ she asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Strange chuckled, ‘but he wasn’t to know.’
‘You won’t really have to speak to Mrs Urchfont will you?’
‘Undoubtedly I will. She is Tokarev’s alibi after all, or so he says.’
‘Please don’t tell her that it was me who guessed.’
‘Of course not.’ Strange regarded her curiously. ‘But Tokarev is bound to tell her, isn’t he?’
13
25th November
My dear Philippa
Frank tells me that you’ve returned. Did your trip go well? You must tell me about it.
I’ve good news. Dr Godwin runs his clinic for servicemen every other Wednesday. The next clinic is tomorrow, from nine o’clock until midday, and the Doctor is expecting you. The Bursar has agreed to release you from your duties for three hours, although I believe Mrs Urchfont was behind his willingness to do so. You are a favourite of hers it seems.
It’s not much, but it’s a start. Make the most of it!
Yours
Dorothy Wing-Smyth
p.s. does Christopher need a wheelchair? I may be able to get hold of one that’s surplus to requirements – nothing but the best of course.
***
Wednesday 26th November
Philippa paused on the doorstep of Doctor Godwin’s surgery, her emotions wavering between reluctant excitement at what might be to come, and exasperation at being forced to abandon the Mundy investigation for a day. The brass door knocker in the shape of a sea-monster gleamed in the weak morning sun. She grasped its scaly tail and rapped three times. The knocker made a deep almost echoing thud. After a minute or so, the maid answered and eyed Philippa doubtfully.
‘You should go round the back,’ she said.
‘I will not,’ Philippa snapped. ‘I am here by special request of Councillor Wing-Smyth. Please inform Doctor Godwin of my arrival.’
She pushed past the maid, entered the hallway and commandeered the nearest chair. It was the only free seat. As she caught her breath, she realised that she was surrounded by half-men. She was almost afraid to look at them, for their sake, not her own. Two had no arms, one no legs below the thigh; a man dressed in tatty army uniform calmly allowed cigarette smoke to billow from his perforated ears. A gangly youth with frightened eyes dabbed at his mouth with a grubby handkerchief. His lips had turned in on themselves leaving a gap of no more than an inch from which saliva oozed and dribbled down his chin. Next to him sat an older man, the left side of his face and his whole nose concealed by a leather mask which was attached to his head by bridle-like straps. The skin on his right cheek had healed into a latticed crust and his hair reduced to a few singed tufts. His eye stared at her and she hurriedly shifted her gaze towards the wall above the fireplace. There, dusty lines formed a shadowy rectangle revealing where the mirror normally hung.
Doctor Godwin emerged from his consulting room and beckoned to her. She followed him inside and he pulled the door to. She started to th
ank him for the opportunity but he shushed her with a raise of his hand.
‘It’ll be a pleasure to have your company for a few hours, Miss Lambert,’ he said, running his palms across his hair. ‘These are my most challenging patients. I’ve learnt a lot from treating them.’
‘I hope to do so too.’ She became aware of his eyes, soft deep grey like sea-polished stone. ‘Which patient is first on your list?’
‘Mr Cox, the arm-less man. There’s little I can do for him, apart from making his wounds as comfortable as possible. He’s lucky that he comes from a well-to-do family as he’ll need care for the rest of his days.’
‘Then couldn’t we…you, see one of the other men first?’
‘The poor souls with their faces blown to bits? I could.’ Godwin regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Do you ask out of compassion for them or out of your own professional curiosity?’
Philippa felt her cheeks heating. ‘I did not…I did not mean…’
Godwin removed his spectacles and grinned, a kindly smile that crinkled his eyes. ‘Not to worry. Why shouldn’t we see the most interesting patients while you’re here? If I were you, I’d ask for the same thing. In fact, I did when I was in your position. Well, not exactly in your position…’ He grinned again and his veneer of age fell away. ‘So is it to be the man with no eardrums, the man with no mouth or the man with half a face?’
‘The man with half a face,’ she replied, finding herself returning his smile.
‘Mr Palfrey. Let me get his file.’
‘Is he a local man?’ Philippa asked.
Godwin consulted the papers. ‘I don’t know much about him. He just turned up at the clinic one day. He has lodgings on Upper Brook Street near the Queen’s Head. I seem to recall that he mentioned the colonies and leaving a wife behind there. Would you fetch him please?’
She went into the hallway and called the Palfrey’s name. No reaction. She called again, louder. The man next to Palfrey nudged his arm. Palfrey turned his eye towards her.
‘Sorry miss, my ears are knackered too. You’ll have to help me. I can see your shape, and it’s a very nice one, but that’s about all I can see.’ His mouth hardly moved and he slurred his words. The accent in his gruff voice seemed both familiar and foreign.
‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’ She went over and took the man’s arm, noticing a sticky film coating his eyeball and eyelashes. ‘Your eye? Was it mustard gas?’
‘That’s right, miss, though it smelt more like horseradish to me.’
‘There’s a chance it won’t last.’
‘“Chance”, “Last.”’ He repeated the words thoughtfully. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’
She ignored the question, silently rebuking herself for forgetting to lengthen her short vowels. ‘Step carefully. Here’s the chair.’
Palfrey lowered himself into the wing chair reserved for patients. ‘Finally found yourself a little helper, eh Doc?’
‘This lady is a member of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service no less.’ Godwin said sternly.
‘Sorry, I lost my manners during the war. I’m still trying to find them again.’ Palfrey’s half-mouth tried to smile.
‘Apology accepted,’ Godwin said. ‘Now, any change in your eye?’
‘Not much.’
‘Nurse, your recommendation?’
Philippa peered again at the man’s cloudy eyeball. ‘Washing with fresh water, every hour.’
Godwin nodded approvingly. ‘Exactly so, and exactly what I recommended. Have you been doing that?’
‘No,’ Palfrey said. ‘How do you expect me to do that every hour?’
‘Ask your landlady to help you,’ Godwin continued.
Palfrey shrugged. ‘I suppose I could.’
‘Good. Now, let’s have a look at that face.’
As Godwin unbuckled the straps, Palfrey seemed to fold himself into his great coat. ‘Hope you like what you see, eh miss. My face has always been my fortune…’ He tailed off. ‘Does she have to stay?’ he muttered.
‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it all before.’ She touched his arm but he shook off her hand.
‘Take the bottom of the mask, please Nurse, ‘Godwin said, ‘yes, like that – and lift slowly and away.’
She smelt sweaty leather, the smack of iodine.
‘Please remove the dressing Nurse.’
‘We should wash our hands first.’
‘Mmm? Yes of course. Over there.’
Godwin pointed to a delicate porcelain bowl and a new bar of soap on the sideboard behind his desk. She washed her hands and waited until he had done the same. Then she gently unwrapped the bandages. Palfrey winced and mumbled a complaint.
She peeled back the dressing, bit by bit: a black eyeless socket; nostril-less nose, nasal bone exposed; a wide gash from mouth to lower cheek framing tongue and flesh; the coppery smell of raw, damp meat. She experienced a moment of revulsion and forced her mind back to the diagrams in her books.
‘He’s lucky.’ Godwin had come to stand next to her. ‘The zygoma and maxilla are undamaged. There’s a slight fracture of the mandible. You’ll see that I’ve wired it into place.’ He pointed to a metal brace running behind the lower teeth and fixed by a wire attached to the upper molars. ‘We couldn’t save the eye.’
They stooped and peered into the cavity, heads almost touching. Godwin’s breath stroked her cheek. She felt her body petrify, as if the wind had changed. She racked her brain for any observation that would be worth making.
‘I can’t see any infection,’ she said eventually.
‘I agree,’ Godwin murmured.
But he was not examining the wound: she could tell that he was staring at her. Had she done something wrong? Then he let out a sigh. She had a sudden intense impression that he was about to kiss her. She dismissed the idea as quickly as it had sprung into her mind, crossing her arms across her chest.
‘What’s going on? What are you looking at?’ Palfrey swayed his head from side to side.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Godwin replied. ‘Everything is fine. Nurse, please reapply the dressing.’
She was grateful for the distraction, and busied herself finding clean dressings and bandages.
‘I’m expecting your mask to be delivered in the next few weeks,’ Godwin said.
‘Then I’ll look like Rupert Brooke.’ Palfrey chuckled drily to himself. ‘Heard anything from Sidcup?’
‘Not yet.’ Godwin addressed himself to Philippa. ‘Mr Palfrey is on the waiting list for surgery at Queen Mary’s Hospital. Are the dressings secure? Excellent. Let’s put your mask back on and then we can let you go.’
The mask in place, Philippa took Palfrey’s arm and led him to the front door.
‘Will you be here next time?’ he asked.
‘I hope to be, Mr Palfrey.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Call me Eddie.’
***
Creswell was in danger of being late for his appointment with Head Constable Sim. The Dean had kept him longer than expected after lunch, taking him aside to quiz him about the Mundy investigation. It had been a mistake to divulge that Tokarev was a suspect; that merely encouraged the Dean in his interrogation. Bound to be a ladies man, the Dean insisted, forcing Creswell to hint at some unsavoury aspect of Tokarev’s Russian past in order to distract the Dean’s attention from the possibility of a more recent affair. Maybe Grace was a blackmailer, he told the Dean, but Tokarev could not substantiate his claim that he had paid her off with a silver box. That piece of information finally satisfied the Dean’s curiosity.
Creswell took his favourite route to get from the Deanery to the Broadway - from the Inner Close, he followed the pathway known as Water Close alongside the Cathedral’s East End and past the mossy graves of ancient Deans. The walls bordering the path revealed bricked-in outlines of abandoned arches and doorways, the mill stream gurgling in its culvert beneath the pavement. As the path left the Cathedral grounds, it ra
n behind the back yards of terraced houses on Colebrook Street where laundry flapped, children squabbled and privies stank. Then the way was blocked by the locked door to the grounds of Wolvesey Castle, forcing the path to veer left under a low arch called Watergate, joining a muddy lane leading to Colebrook Street. He sprang from toe to toe across the filthy street and approached the Guildhall from the rear, the sound of his footsteps rebounding tinnily off the walls of Abbey Passage.
Winchester’s Guildhall was the previous generation’s idea of Gothic, all thin pointed windows and pavillioned roofs, delicate in contrast to the Cathedral’s hulk behind it. The building could have been transported from any Hanseatic League city square and it would not have seemed odd if a jangle of continental bells had suddenly rung out from its central tower. The headquarters of the Winchester City Police occupied the east end, marked by a gas lamp between two imposing arched doors.
The constable on duty nodded to Creswell. ‘He’s expecting you sir.’
Creswell made his way to the rear of the building, stepping around a collection of dented buckets, abandoned hoses and a tilting stack of soot-blackened helmets, reminding him of the segments on a woodlouse. All the cells were unoccupied. He found Sim behind his huge desk, head bent over four sheets of paper arranged in a rectangle in front of him. His fountain pen lay by his right hand exactly parallel to the papers, and his left hand rocked a blotter slowly forwards and back. Creswell had to cough to be noticed. When Sim looked up, he appeared not to recognise his visitor for a moment.
‘Canon, is it that time already? Help yourself to a seat. My apologies for all that fire brigade crap in the corridor. It’s the same palaver every time there’s a fire. It won’t do, you know.’
‘No, it’s...’
‘And now this.’ Sim waved one of the sheets of paper in the air. ‘The Home Office tells me that I must give “serious consideration” to taking on a female officer. I am “out of step” with current practice they say.’
‘I see. What will you do?’
‘I always do what I’m told.’
‘So you’ll engage someone?’
‘No, but I will give it serious consideration.’ Sim chuckled. ‘That’s what they want so that’s what they’ll get.’ His voice became sober. ‘Now, you’re here about the...’ He consulted his papers, ‘Mundy case. I have something for you here. The name William Mundy provided – Mr Steeple – an upstanding lawyer by all accounts, confirmed that Mundy was with him and others from five o’clock at a meeting of their charitable foundation. The meeting broke up at around two in the morning. That’s certainly a lot of charity. Now what have you to report?’
