A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  17

  Monday 1st December

  The shop girl shuffled impatiently. ‘Have you decided miss? Other customers are waiting.’

  Philippa fingered a pair of gloves laid out on the counter: unlined brown leather with roughly stitched seams – gloves for a working woman.

  ‘Those ones are ever so good value,’ the girl continued in an encouraging tone.

  ‘I’ve made up my mind.’ Philippa dropped the brown gloves and pointed to the black kid gloves lined with silk that the girl had been most reluctant to even remove from their box. ‘I’ll take those.’

  ‘Very well miss.’ The girl glanced nervously at Mr Edmonds, the shop’s proprietor, who was busy with another customer. ‘That will be nine shillings and elevenpunce.’

  ‘So you said. Don’t worry, I have the money with me. There’s no need to wrap them; I’ll wear them now.’

  The girl ventured a smile. ‘You will look smart miss. I’ll write your receipt as quick as I can.’

  It was Mr Edmonds himself who held the door open as she left. She nodded to him and tried to keep her feelings of guilty excitement from showing on her face. With the cheque from Abraham & Dobell safely cashed – £20 on account of your legacy pending completion of the formalities –it was tempting to veer immediately into the adjoining milliners. She allowed herself to inspect the window display. If money had been no object, she would have bought the grey opera hat, the evening headband woven with gold lace, the fur muff, and the black wide-brimmed leghorn to match her new gloves.

  The air chilled suddenly, forewarning of rain. She glanced up at the darkening sky and then returned her attention to the black hat, standing on tiptoe to see if she could make out the price on the label. A man’s step sounded on the pavement behind her, his reflection visible for an instant in a full-length mirror inside the shop. She took in a broken nose, double-chin, protruding belly, riding crop. Her body went rigid. Then he was gone. She remained at the window, head bowed, not daring to move in case the man had stopped or turned back. A shop assistant bent into the window display and carried away the muff. She looked at Philippa with pitying contempt. Philippa risked a glance down the High Street. The man was a brisk walker; he had already reached the Butter Cross and a few seconds later, his figure was lost in the crowds. Could it have been George Elkins? Her body had told her that it was. But Winchester was full of rotund country squires, men from the same stock as George and, she tried to tell herself, easily mistaken for him.

  She made her way cautiously down the High Street, scrutinising the approaching faces and keeping to the pavement closest to the shops. She was due to meet with Canon Strange in a few minutes. They had settled on Dumper’s near Market Street for what he had described as a ‘regroup’. He had first suggested his house on Kingsgate Street but maybe her face had revealed her misgivings because he immediately changed his mind, commenting that a café would serve better cake. Now just the thought of cake made her feel nauseous. She spotted the Canon’s tall figure ahead and quickened her step. She caught up with him at the door to the café.

  ‘Ah Miss Lambert, excellent timing. A table by the window perhaps?’

  She nodded, still out of breath. They sat down and she removed her gloves, not wanting to run the risk of staining them. Strange pondered the menu as the waitress lingered at a respectable distance. He closed the menu decisively.

  ‘A pot of Assam and one of those delicious-looking Bakewell tarts that I spied on the way in.’

  Philippa ordered tea and at Strange’s urging, a slice of fruit cake. The order was delivered almost immediately, served on Dumper’s best Indian Tree crockery. Strange devoured two forkfuls of tart before speaking again.

  ‘Now shall we go over what we know? A secretary has been murdered, a woman who appears to have been liked by her neighbours and respected by her husband, wouldn’t you say?’

  Philippa agreed, taking the opportunity to push the unappetising hunk of fruit cake to one side.

  ‘She had a strong sense of right and wrong,’ Strange continued, ‘hence her membership of the Order of the White Feather.’

  ‘She was the founder,’ Philippa reminded him.

  ‘Of course, I’d forgotten that. She gave a white feather to young Christopher, and his sister’s fiancé, who both signed up because of it. And Grace Mundy also had a darker side, as a blackmailer, although I’m sure she wouldn’t have seen it that way. Tokarev claims he paid her off with the silver box. He says he was with Teresa Urchfont for the entire night before the body was found. Did you manage to speak to Frank about that?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Ah ha. What tack did you use?’

  ‘I started by telling him how tired and overworked I was.’

  ‘Clever,’ Strange mumbled, his mouth full of pastry, ‘most people can’t resist a tale of woe; it gives them an opportunity to tell their own!’

  ‘Yes, it wasn’t long before he was telling me that the porters were practically dead on their feet most of the time. Couldn’t the Bursar hire more men, I asked. That was the red rag I hoped it might be. Frank ranted about having to deal with all of the Bursar’s correspondence “with him being away so much.” I encouraged him to talk some more; it seems that Mr Urchfont goes to London almost every month – for a week at a time.’

  Strange put down his fork. ‘And the last time he was away?’

  ‘The week of the Silence,’ Philippa said triumphantly.

  ‘Leaving Mrs Urchfont all alone!’

  ‘That’s right. So do you think Tokarev was telling the truth?’

  ‘I do, and…’ Strange paused, ‘I’ve discovered that Grace Mundy did have the silver box. She sold it to someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No, I mean I cannot tell you.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I gave my word.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘It’s rather a delicate matter,’ Strange continued, rather coolly, ‘but the identity of the recipient makes no difference, I can assure you.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Philippa responded, purposely looking out of the window.

  She saw a man peering at the menu next to the door. Fear coursed through her body as if she had been plunged into an icy stream, driving away any irritation with Canon Strange. This time there was no mistaking the face of George Elkins. He turned his back on the café and glanced up and down the High Street indecisively.

  ‘Miss Lambert, Miss Lambert…Philippa.’ Strange was frowning at her. ‘Are you quite alright? Your teacup?’

  Philippa realised that she was holding her teacup half way to her lips. Her right hand was shaking so much that tea had splashed over the rim onto her hand. It was scalding hot.

  ‘Oh!’ She dabbed her reddened skin with her napkin and then attempted to wipe the drips from the white table cloth.

  Strange was looking over his shoulder. ‘Do you know that man?’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘Stout fellow, with the tan boots, walking away from us.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shall we return to the case then?’

  Philippa nodded and tried to smile.

  ‘I have to admit to being at somewhat of a loss,’ Strange stared hard at her. ‘I’ll not see an innocent man convicted. I can’t help thinking that we must look beyond the obvious. So what next? Were we too eager to dismiss Bella Hibberd as a suspect I wonder? Further probing might be in order. We should interview both Mr and Mrs Hibberd in a more formal setting. I wonder where he was on the evening of the 10th. I’ll do some digging around. I trust you’ll join me for the interview?’

  She nodded, calmed by his matter-of-fact words.

  'And Grace's funeral is to be held on Thursday. I suggest we attend. 11 o'clock.'

  'Alright.' She paused, remembering her promise to Christopher. ‘Can you do something for me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Strange leaned forward and sm
iled. He smiled so rarely that it rather took her aback. She hesitated; should she tell him about George? Perhaps he could help her. No, there was nothing he could do, and she could not bear to be a source of disappointment to him.

  ‘It’s Christopher Steele,’ she said. ‘I was wondering whether you could visit him.’

  ‘Ah,’ Strange sat back in his chair.

  ‘Christopher’s recovering well, physically, but he’s troubled in his mind. It would do him good to talk to someone who has been a soldier.’

  ‘Of course,’ Strange murmured and then repeated more decisively, ‘of course. I’ll come by tomorrow. After breakfast, is that convenient?’

  Philippa nodded and could think of nothing more to say. They finished their tea in silence.

  18

  Tuesday 2nd December

  Creswell opened his eyes. A brutal pain dug into his right eyeball as if a creature was squirming behind it. He massaged the socket with his knuckles and curled up on his side with his head away from the window. His migraines were always unpredictable. Sometimes they were preceded by an immense weariness such as he had felt last night in front of the fire. On other occasions, they came on without any warning at all. There was no cure: his doctor prescribed regular exercise and a supper of calf’s liver every week, no use when the pain had already set in; Mrs Brownrigg recommended an infusion of fever-few and white willow bark - the smell of it merely served to increase his nausea. The only reliable relief had been Mamie’s fingers massaging his temples.

  Moaning as pain gripped his skull, he rolled out of bed and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. The grey dawn light pierced his eyes. He lowered the laundry rail that hung over the stove, removed one of the towels and doused it in cold water. He returned to bed, placing the icy material over his forehead. A cool brain and a couple more hours sleep might do the trick. When he woke again, the pain had transferred to his left eye socket and subsided to a fluid ache. The creature was slumbering, for now. He dressed, taking care not to make sudden movements with his head. Mrs Stevens had been and gone, leaving behind a pan of porridge, crusty and congealed around the edges, and a simmering pot of coffee. He risked a mouthful of the glutinous liquid; perhaps it would provide enough temporary stimulation to allow him to keep his appointment with Christopher.

  When he arrived at Sick House, he saw Philippa and Dorothy Wing-Smyth talking together at the door to the ward. Drawing nearer, he caught snatches of their conversation: …you’re sure?...it was him…coincidence….the livestock market…I suppose he could have been… They stopped abruptly and both turned towards him. He tried to smile and meet Dorothy’s eye. He had not seen her for some time and would have liked to talk. He missed her visits, not just as Mamie’s friend, but in her own right. But the pain behind his eyeball made it difficult to focus on her face. He hoped that she would not take it as a snub. Philippa explained to him that she would return in half an hour and then she and Dorothy scurried away, resuming their mumbling as they went.

  He exchanged a few words with the boys in the beds nearest the door, and was persuaded to add his signature to Prentis’s cast. The ward smelt of last night’s cauliflower and under-washed children; his body shuddered as he tasted sickness in the back of his throat. He pulled up a chair next to Christopher’s bed.

  ‘Good morning Canon,’ Christopher said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ The young man’s forehead shone with perspiration.

  ‘Thank you,’ Creswell said, deliberately moving the chair so that he had his back to the other boys. ‘So, how are you feeling this morning?’ A trite question that he immediately regretted. Christopher did not seem to notice.

  ‘Nurse says there has been much improvement.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. How are you finding the wheelchair?’

  ‘Nurse says it’s beneficial for building up my arms.’

  ‘Do you go out in it every day?’

  ‘Yes. After dark. It was snowing the first time I went out.’

  ‘I’m surprised Nurse allowed it.’

  ‘I insisted. She’s alright.’

  ‘Yes she is,’ Creswell replied. ‘Now tell me, why do you always go out after dark?’

  ‘I…’ Christopher hesitated, licking his lips, ‘don’t like to meet the other boys.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I suspect that you do. Are you trying to hide your injury?’

  ‘No,’ Christopher answered defensively, ‘everyone knows about it.’

  Creswell waited for the young man to continue. He felt the creature beginning to stir behind his eyeballs and shifted his chair out of the path of the sunlight. At last Christopher said, ‘They might ask me more questions.’ He paused again. ‘Do you want to see some pictures?’

  Creswell nodded and Christopher reached under his pillow for a biscuit tin, a picture of a thatched cottage still visible beneath the rust. He opened it and took out a fork and spoon with misshapen handles, a blunt cut-throat razer, a desiccated bar of soap, a dog tag and a dented bottle of foot powder. ‘I don’t know why I keep these things,’ he said, piling them on the blanket beside him. ‘These are what I wanted to show you.’ He lifted out a handful of tatty photographs. ‘Cameras were banned but my mate Al hid his at the bottom of his pack. This is us on the ship out.’ Three smiling young men, smoking and leaning on the railings. They could have been on a pleasure cruise. ‘And this is my gang – 3rd battalion, The Rifle Brigade.’ Twenty men in a woodland clearing, arms looped over each other’s shoulders, grinning inanely. ‘The trees didn’t stay that like for long. Al was always taking shots of the trees. Look at this one.’ The next photograph showed a leafless tree leaning at a forty-five degree angle, its trunk shredded into shards from the inside out.

  ‘What happened to Al?’ Creswell asked.

  ‘Oh he copped it in the end. I buried him.’ Christopher handed over the final photograph, a cross made of shell cases laid out on muddy ground. ‘I took this one. I didn’t use the camera much after that.’ He began to twist his bedsheet between his fingers. ‘Nurse says that you were a soldier?’

  ‘I served as a military police officer in South Africa, in my younger days.’

  ‘Oh.’ Christopher sounded disappointed. ‘Did you do any real fighting? None of our bloody M.P.s did. Happy to help us do our duty though,’ he added resentfully.

  ‘Nothing so clear cut in the Transvaal,’ Creswell said. ‘When your company is surrounded on all sides by the Boers, every man had to be prepared to stand on the front line.’

  ‘So you’ve killed a man?’

  ‘Men,’ Creswell corrected him.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shot too many to count. Bayonetted a few. And you?’

  Christopher stared up at the ceiling. His hands twitched. ‘I must have shot loads of the buggers. I know I did. I’ve always been a good shot. Father used to take me on the pheasant shoots. I had my own gun, three-quarter size. I didn’t mind the shooting so much – except when they got one of ours and we couldn’t do anything, just had to leave him lying there for the rats – it was when the damn Jerry got into our trench…’ He petered out.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘East of Wipers.’

  ‘Ypres? 1917 then?’

  Christopher nodded. ‘It’d been raining for weeks. When the alarm sounded, I came out of the dug-out and nearly ran into one of them. He was much bigger than me but not much older, and he was covered in mud - like me. He looked so scared, I could see it in his eyes, and I thought, that’s what I must look like to him, and he started to raise his rifle and so I charged at him and stabbed him in the guts. My corporal finished him off.’

  ‘There was nothing else you could have done. It was him or you.’

  ‘I know that,’ Christopher said tetchily.

  ‘Do you remember his face?’

  The bedsheet twisting began again. ‘I see it every time I try to go to sleep.’

  Creswell placed his hands over the y
oung man’s fingers until they stopped moving. Eventually, Christopher met his eye. ‘There’s a boy I remember,’ Creswell said, ‘he was in one of the camps for the Boers. I don’t know whether he lived or died. His face reminds me of something I didn’t do but should have done. I had a choice Christopher, you had none. You’ll never forget, but one day, the memories might come to seem like another life.’

  Christopher nodded slowly and touched his stump. ‘The bugger got his own back in the end though.’

  ‘So how did that happen?’

  ‘We were on night patrol. They always chose me because I was good at crawling. We’d gone over the parapet at sunset and wriggled through the long grass until we were near the German listening post. It was too quiet - I could hear a rat nibbling at something - so we knew there must be a German patrol out too. Then we heard them rustling right next to us. They headed in the other direction so we thought we were safe. That’s when the whizz-bang hit.’ Christopher swallowed hard. ‘One of the boys managed to drag me back to the trench. I think I was screaming…’

  ‘Have you told anyone else this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘I feel like a coward. I hated night patrols.’

  ‘In my experience, it would only be the bravest men chosen for that work, the ones who could face their fear. A piece of advice Christopher, if I may – do not hide away from your friends and family.’

  ‘But everyone acts so strangely – some of them won’t even look me in the eye or they talk as if they’re at church. I wish they’d talk to me like they did before.’

  ‘It’ll be up to you to encourage them. Otherwise, they’ll keep on pulling faces like this.’ Creswell adopted his best mournful funereal face.

  Christopher sniggered. ‘That’s exactly how they look. Even my sister sometimes.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘Well, she’s…er…older than me.’

  ‘She looks after you then?’

  Christopher shrugged. ‘I suppose so. She’s had to. Our parents died.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. How did they die?’