A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

Strange paused before answering, ‘the murder of Mrs Grace Mundy, a woman known to you both I understand.’

  ‘Not to me,’ Jeremiah said, rather too quickly Philippa thought.

  ‘To your wife, undeniably,’ Strange continued.

  Bella’s smile tautened. ‘I knew of her.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She had been pointed out to me.’

  ‘As…?’

  ‘As a member of the self-proclaimed,’ Bella pursed her lips, ‘Order of the White Feather.’

  ‘As its leader in fact.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that,’ Bella’s surprise seemed genuine. ‘Women like that are zealots; they never let the facts stand in their way.’

  ‘How did you feel about Mrs Mundy giving your brother and your then fiancé a white feather?’

  Bella shifted in her chair and clasped her hands beneath her belly. ‘I didn’t like it. No-one would.’

  ‘Mrs Hibberd, did you kill Grace Mundy?’

  The Canon’s question was so unexpected that Philippa nearly dropped her pen. Bella let out a low shriek and stared at Strange open-mouthed. ‘How could I?’ she spluttered. ‘Look at me.’

  ‘I’ve been informed that you expressed a wish to harm her.’

  ‘What? No, I didn’t…’

  ‘Did your husband carry out your wishes as a token of his affection?’

  ‘This is intolerable,’ Jeremiah began, but Strange pressed on.

  ‘Many “things” happen on Monday evenings: meetings of the Southern Counties Agricultural Trading Society in the Guildhall for instance, a short step from where Mrs Mundy’s body was found. I believe Mr Hibberd is a member.’ Philippa suppressed a smile; she could not help but admire the Canon’s ability to drop incriminating facts into an exchange, and could almost forgive him for not sharing them with her. ‘The date of the last meeting was Monday 10th November,’ he continued. ‘What shall I find if I check the record of those attending that evening?’

  Bella shrieked again. ‘Jeremiah, help me, the baby’s kicking. I don’t feel well.’

  Mr Hibberd rushed around the chair and Bella flung her arms about his neck. Philippa rose to help but Bella raised a palm.

  ‘No, only Jeremiah. I don’t need any help from you.’ She staggered from the room supported by her haggard-faced husband.

  ‘Well that was rather fortuitous,’ Strange said archly. ‘I presume we show ourselves out.’

  ‘They’re hiding something,’ Philippa said.

  ‘Unmistakeably,’ Strange replied, ‘and it’s our job to find out what.’

  20

  Thursday 4th December

  Grace Mundy's funeral cortège left the doors of St Bartholomew’s church in Hyde on the stroke of twelve. The bearers tensed their shoulders and bent top-hatted heads against the biting sleety wind. They staggered towards the gleaming hearse drawn by four black mares and slid the mahogany coffin inside the glass casement. Then the undertaker’s boy stepped forward with two huge wreathes of hot-house lilies which he rested on either side of the coffin. The door closed and fastened, the horses tossed their plumed harnesses and the hearse set off. The glass was soon coated with sticky slush, hiding the coffin from sight.

  Creswell and Philippa joined the tail end of the procession, attempting as they had done during the service to remain as inconspicuous as possible. They had seated themselves at the back of the nave in the shadow of a pillar, a position that gave them a clear view of the rest of the congregation. Creswell had noticed a coffin bearer whisper in William Mundy's ear. William had glanced back to where they sat, his only reaction a slight tightening of his eyes. After a couple of dreary hymns sung at fractionally too slow a speed, the Reverend Wynyard Kaye had clambered into the pulpit to deliver the eulogy, a series of platitudes and clichés from a man who evidently had no knowledge of the real woman.

  The funeral procession made its way laboriously along Jewry Street to join Southgate Street by the Black Swan. William Mundy walked upright and stoic a few steps behind the hearse, right hand gripping the brim of his top hat. The four coffin bearers formed a wedge shape around him. The rest of the mourners were mostly middle-aged, respectably middling sorts: shop-keepers, publicans, builders and their wives. There were a surprising number; Creswell counted sixty-two in all although none were in a talkative mood. Conversation was limited to, ' So sad isn't it. She was a wonderful woman, so caring and such a charitable husband. Now if you'll excuse us, we must keep up....'

  Creswell noticed Philippa smiling to herself. He suspected he could guess her thoughts. 'Yes I know,' he said. 'My powers are failing me. It must be the weather!'

  The hearse turned sharply right onto St James's Lane, releasing a long queue of delivery vans, cars and carts which had been held back at a respectful distance by two young police constables. Only one car followed the cortège, and Creswell spotted the pinched features of Reverend Kaye hunched over the wheel as he edged the vehicle through meandering pedestrians. The horses began to pant and foam at the mouth as the slope steepened dramatically. After a five minute ascent, the hearse pulled up beside the cemetery lodge. The undertaker released the reins, jumped down and muttered urgently to the team of gravediggers standing to attention by the wrought-iron gates. Then he signalled to Mundy's companions who slid the coffin through the hearse's snow-covered doors and onto their shoulders.

  The cemetery was built into an exposed hillside with views across the Water Meadows to St Catherine's Hill beyond. The bearers on the near side were forced to bend almost down to the ground in an effort to keep the coffin level. After fifty yards, they left the path, shuffling up the hillside and navigating around the glistening gravestones of the War dead. The mourners stumbled behind, lashed by an intensifying sleety rain. Creswell shielded his eyes and could just make out a granite gravestone beside an open grave on the cemetery’s upper tier.

  He turned to Philippa. Water was dripping from her nose and seeping from her saturated hood onto her forehead. 'Shall we retreat?' he whispered. 'I doubt we'll be missed.'

  Philippa nodded and led the way towards the shelter of a yew tree. The rain had hardly penetrated beneath the tree's dense branches, and the high-pitched tones of the Reverend Kaye were barely audible. Creswell shivered, a comforting feeling as dry air penetrated his sodden clothes.

  'I'm sorry to say that this little excursion has been a waste of time,' he said. 'I thought we might learn something - one often does at funerals - but no one’s got anything interesting to say.'

  'That's hardly surprising in this weather,' Philippa said. 'We'll catch our deaths.'

  'Well, I'm sure your friend Doctor Godwin will provide a...' Creswell stopped. A twig had snapped on the other side of the tree trunk. 'Hello, is someone there?'

  There was a rustling and then a woman's figure slunk from the shadows. She had a petite frame which was overwhelmed by a long black coat. A lace veil hid her face.

  'I'm sorry,' the woman murmured, her voice low and refined, 'I didn't mean to startle you.'

  'It is we who should apologise,' Creswell replied. 'We should not have disturbed your grief.'

  Was it his imagination or did he detect the trace of a sneer beneath the veil?

  'My grief? Yes by rights I should be standing up there, at the head of the grave.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘Yes, her closest.’

  'Apart from Mr Mundy,’ Philippa said, her cheeks immediately colouring as if realising her bluntness.

  The woman swivelled her veiled head slowly. 'Yes, apart from him,' she said.

  'Then you must be - forgive me for being so forward - Mary?' Creswell said.

  The head nodded. 'Grace was my cousin. My mother and her mother were sisters.'

  'Then perhaps we could accompany you to the graveside? My name is Canon Creswell Strange and this young lady is…'

  'No. Thank you. I do not care for the company.’

  ‘I apologise, I meant no offence.’

  �
��Oh,’ Mary clutched her gloved hands together, ‘I did not mean your company. I meant…’ She inclined her head towards the throng on the hillside.

  ‘Your cousin’s husband?'

  Mary shrugged. 'Grace could have done better.'

  Creswell lapsed into thought. This encounter was certainly a stroke of good luck and he needed a moment to consider how best to make the most of it. But he had reckoned without Philippa. He should have known that she would interpret his silence as an invitation to continue the questioning; she immediately intervened with, ‘Were you on good terms with your cousin?'

  ‘Of course,' the refined voice answered.

  'It’s just that…Mr Mundy mentioned that you and Grace fell out over something,' Philippa continued.

  'Oh that. I thought she shouldn't do something a certain someone asked her to do. She disagreed. I should never have said anything,' Mary added.

  'What was it about?'

  'Nothing...nothing of importance.' Mary’s voice sounded suspicious now. 'Why do you want to know?'

  'No particular reason...' Creswell began as Philippa blurted out, 'We're investigating her murder.'

  ‘Oh! But why..? Whom do you suspect?’

  ‘Enquiries are at an early stage,’ Creswell jumped in before Philippa could answer. ‘Needless-to-say, we’re interested in knowing whether Mrs Mundy had enemies; had she argued with anyone; was she hiding something? You knew her well. Is there anything you can tell us?’

  Mary stumbled backwards, her hands flying to her veil. ‘I hardly knew her, not really, not these last few years. Excuse me please, I must go.'

  As Mary stepped out from beneath the tree, a gust of wind caught her veil revealing a face of two halves - the left still delicate and beautiful, the right a reddened mass of scar tissue, the eye almost hidden by a swelling textured like a rotting cauliflower.

  Creswell heard Philippa draw breath. 'Acid burn,' she whispered. ‘Do you think Grace could have done that?'

  And if she had, Creswell thought, it would be understandable if Mary had wanted revenge.

  21

  Friday 5th December

  Mrs Daphne Honeybone led the way up the main staircase of a shabby Georgian townhouse on Eastgate Street which housed the Diocesan Refuge for Friendless Women and Girls. Her ample rear undulated beneath a calf length crepe skirt, her sensibly-shod feet treading noiselessly. In contrast, Creswell’s shoes - his best black oxfords recently re-heeled - resounded on the floorboards. He felt strangely self-conscious about it.

  Mrs Honeybone had hardly drawn breath since his arrival. Such an honour; So unexpected; Nothing prepared; My young ladies will be grateful; So they should be; Girls nowadays; Home full to bursting; Run ragged we are; Still, not complaining; Such an honour.

  They reached the first floor landing. Dark corridors stretched away in three directions. The air had a feeling of a hospital about it, still and almost humid. Mrs Honeybone took the corridor that ran parallel to the front of the house. Creswell noticed that her left shoulder was twisted backwards making her look as if she was walking sideways like a crab. They passed a succession of closed doors painted a rather sickly shade of baby pink. Each had a key hole and an observation grill protected by shutters on the corridor side.

  The wormy oak door at the end of the corridor opened onto a high-ceilinged room with its windows overlooking the street. It must once have been a pleasant drawing room; now fifteen or so school desks had been placed around the walls, the chairs behind them facing into the centre of the room. The only decoration was a faded portrait of the King in full dress uniform. All the desks were occupied by young women dressed in blouses, aprons and white head scarves. As Mrs Honeybone entered, the women stood up in unison and folded their arms behind their backs.

  ‘Very good,’ Mrs Honeybone said. ‘We have a visitor. This is Canon Creswell Strange, a Minor Canon of the Cathedral. He is to inspect your work. We shall come to each of you in turn.’ She addressed herself to Creswell. ‘My young ladies start work at eight o’clock after a good breakfast. Needlework and repairs in the morning, the laundry in the afternoon. Most of our ladies stay with us for a period of two years.’

  ‘And what of the ladies’ education? When do lessons take place?’

  Mrs Honeybone’s closed-lipped smile broadened, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. ‘The grant from the Diocese is pitifully low Canon, you must understand that. We have to subsidise ourselves somehow.’

  ‘So there are no lessons?’

  ‘Oh no, Canon, you mistake me. The ladies are taught reading and writing on Saturday mornings.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘A couple of hours…or so. Now shall we continue with the inspection?’ Mrs Honeybone bustled over to the nearest desk. ‘This is Mrs Barratt. She’s particularly skilled with gentlemen’s shirts. Show the Canon, my dear.’

  Mrs Barratt had the face of twenty-year old but the concave thinness of a woman much older. Her red-raw hands held out a half-finished shirt. Mrs Honeybone pointed to the stitching on the sleeve.

  ‘No finer seamstress in Winchester, wouldn’t you agree Canon?’

  Creswell thought he could detect genuine pride in Mrs Honeybone’s voice. ‘Yes this is very fine indeed,’ he agreed.

  Mrs Barrett smiled but kept her eyes lowered. Creswell followed Mrs Honeybone around the room as she pointed out something to admire in each of the girls’ work. What delicate buttonholes; A lovely straight hem; Such a clever repair. She paused for the longest time at the final desk. The girl behind it had been bobbing up and down as she waited like a child eager for its parent’s return.

  ‘And what is your name?’ Creswell asked.

  ‘Tabatha Nye.’

  ‘How old are you, Miss Nye?’

  ‘I’m 15.’

  ‘Miss Nye has such quick tiny fingers,’ Mrs Honeybone said, ‘and so she has charge of the vestments. Show the Canon, Tabatha.’

  The girl placed a cream silk stole into Creswell’s outstretched palms. A Greek cross had been embroidered at one end of the stole, a rose in its centre, and a design of dainty buttercups and cornflowers spread across its length.

  ‘This is very beautiful.’

  The girl beamed.

  ‘Miss Nye came to us just over a year ago in some…difficulty,’ Mrs Honeybone said. ‘Since then, she has made good progress. You’ve put all that behind you haven’t you dear.’

  The girl nodded, her smile a little dimmed.

  ‘Back to work now girls. Canon, would you follow me please.’

  Mrs Honeybone ushered Creswell to the head of the stairs. ‘I trust you were pleased with what you saw. Was there anything else you wished to see?’ There was a note of impatience in her voice.

  ‘No, no nothing else. Your young ladies are doing excellent work. A few questions if I may as I walk out.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Honeybone said.

  ‘How long have you been Superintendent here?’

  ‘Three years. I worked at the other home on Romsey Road under Mrs Smith before then. I’ve tried to make changes for the better in my short time here. I’d rather have the girls sewing than scrubbing floors all day.’

  ‘You are to be commended.’ Mrs Honeybone’s face relaxed a little and Creswell felt able to continue. ‘Tell me, which doctor do you use?’

  ‘Doctor Godwin from St Cross Road. He comes every month or whenever we need him. He’s rather young,’ she frowned, ‘I sometimes wonder if it’s seemly for him to be treating the girls, but his charges are reasonable.’

  ‘And before Doctor Godwin?’

  ‘The old doctor from the same practice, what was his name?’

  ‘Chaloner.’

  ‘That’s it. I only met him once or twice. A nice man. A much more suitable age.’

  Creswell lowered his voice. ‘So it would have been Doctor Godwin who treated Miss Nye for her “difficulty”?’

  Mrs Honeybone nodded. ‘The child did not survive. It was for the best. Can you believe
that the poor girl’s father refused consent for a caesarean section. The baby was breech and he said that she would have to endure the birth as punishment for her sins.’ She sighed. ‘It’s not out of choice that the girls spend such long hours in the laundry. I have to make ends meet. I’ve resorted to serving toke – you know, bread and dripping - with black treacle for breakfast. It may be filling but it’s miserable for the girls day after day. If the Diocese would only increase the grant, then maybe I could do something: provide more lessons, serve eggs on Sundays. As it is…’

  Creswell shook her hand. He felt shocked by Tabatha Nye’s story. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He meant it.

  22

  Monday 8th December

  Creswell knew immediately that Head Constable Sim was not in the best of moods.

  ‘Take a seat, old chap.’ Sim motioned with his hand and then carried on drumming his pen on the desk. ‘The Yard man’s late.’

  ‘It’s not yet four,’ Creswell pointed out.

  Sim grunted and began adjusting the angles of his notebook, pens and blotter. Three cigar butts were balanced on the ashtray’s edge and Creswell could smell alcohol on Sim’s breath.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Allaway,’ Sim muttered, ‘is that the best they could do?’

  This was not a question requiring a response. Creswell waited until Sim’s impatient fingers had come to rest and then asked if he could talk about the Mundy murder while they waited. Sim agreed without much enthusiasm.

  ‘I met Grace Mundy’s cousin at her funeral last week. She behaved rather strangely. Your men were going to find out more about her.’

  ‘And indeed they have. Something came in on Friday. I’ve not read it yet.’ Sim reached into a drawer and brought out a typed memo. ‘Let’s see. There’s not much. Her full name is Mary Joyce Clitheroe…Spinster…Aged 43. She runs a boarding house in Lyme Regis down in Dorset. Lives quietly by all accounts and hasn’t had a day off in months. That’s confirmed by her longstanding lodgers.’

  ‘So there’s no way she could have travelled to Winchester, killed Grace and still be back in time to cook the lodgers’ supper!’