A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘It would appear not. Ah, here’s the man of the moment.’

  Detective Sergeant Allaway marched into the office and gave Sim a curt nod. He was barely 5ft 5ins in height, and lean and compactly powerful like a boxer. His head seemed too small for his muscly neck and his facial features were compressed together over a pointed chin. His tweed suit hung rather comically from his wide shoulders. Sim did not invite Allaway to sit down but the Sergeant did so anyway. He gave Creswell an appraising glance and then addressed himself to the Head Constable.

  ‘Well, sir, to be frank, it was hardly worth calling us in. A pretty open and shut case I’d say.’

  ‘You would, would you?’ Sim said, ‘Do enlighten us.’

  ‘Course sir.’ Allaway’s estuary twang made his words sound over-familiar and Creswell could tell from Sim’s fixed smile that his irritation was increasing.

  ‘The body was found outside a brothel,’ Allaway continued with a slight smirk. ‘The victim died from head injuries of the sort that could have been inflicted by either a male or a female.’ Allaway consulted his notebook. ‘Fractures of the skull, partial severing of the right ear, lacerations to the brain, a hole punched out of the bone with fragments of hair driven into it. Most of the blows would have come from a curved instrument such as a hammer; a few could have been caused by a human fist.’

  ‘Unlikely to have been a woman, then,’ Sim observed impassively.

  Allaway looked put out for a moment.

  ‘There could have been more than one perpetrator,’ he spluttered. ‘Chaloner’s wallet is missing. According to his wife it contained a considerable sum in notes. The money was withdrawn that morning from the bank.’

  Creswell observed Sim pick up his pen and slowly make a note of this fact. It was significant, certainly. Could it have been a simple case of robbery after all?

  ‘My advice to you, Head Constable, if I may be so bold,’ Allaway said as Sim’s eyebrows rose, ‘would be to search said brothel where I have no doubt the wallet will be found.’ Allaway thought for a moment, ‘Or at the very least evidence of the acquisition of an unusually large sum of money.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sim said, ‘and what of the word carved into the victim’s forehead?’

  ‘Oh that,’ Allaway chuckled, ‘it can be explained away easily. No doubt the victim had failed to pay for services rendered or there had been some dispute over the fee.’

  ‘You’ve evidence of this?’

  ‘It’s a matter of common sense – half the brawls in London come down to disputes over money.’

  ‘What’s your opinion of the files found in Chaloner’s holdall?’ Creswell asked.

  ‘And you are, sir?’ Allaway said.

  ‘Canon Strange is seconded to the force in relation to another matter,’ Sim answered. ‘You can speak frankly with him.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Allaway said. ‘Files you say?’ He skimmed through his notebook again. ‘Ah yes, from a certain Refuge. Rather old. No relevance to the murder.’

  ‘You’re very certain of that,’ Creswell said.

  ‘I’ve no reason not to be.’

  Sim sniffed and tossed his pen onto the desk. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes sir. As I said, pretty open and shut.’

  ‘I see. So no reason to detain you further. I wish you a pleasant trip back to London.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to travel back until tomorrow.’ Allaway sounded surprised.

  ‘Then you’ll have time to enjoy our marvellous city. You’re dismissed, Detective Sergeant.’

  Allaway clambered to his feet, began to stretch out his hand, thought better of it, and gave an awkward bow instead.

  Sim glowered at the Detective’s retreating figure. ‘What did you think of that?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘To think he assumed we wouldn’t have searched Trinnette’s establishment already.’ Sim tutted and shook his head. ‘He might be right though, about it being robbery and nothing more.’

  ‘But what of the word “THIEF” on Chaloner’s forehead?’

  ‘That is the question, my friend. That is the question.’

  Creswell headed home in the falling dusk. The clouds were tinged with orange as if someone had lit a touch-paper beneath them. He stopped at the Cathedral’s east end to watch a bat flying between the trees. It moved in a jerky figure of eight, occasionally diving dangerously out of sight only to emerge moments later to start the pattern again. He thought back to Sim’s words. The Head Constable was a curmudgeonly so-and-so but his instincts were invariably correct. If Sim thought that a question was a valid one, then Creswell would do his damndest to answer it.

  23

  Tuesday 9th December

  Philippa had seen little of Canon Creswell Strange since Grace Mundy’s funeral. Strange had been lost in thought on the walk home, and made no mention of meeting again. Since then, she had only caught glimpses of him in the distance hurrying through the Cathedral grounds or along Kingsgate Street - until this morning, when she nearly collided with him outside Chapel. He had greeted her warmly as usual although Philippa had thought she detected a certain restlessness in his eyes. When she suggested that they search the Mundy’s house again, he merely responded with one of his noncommittal nods and then talked only of Dr Chaloner’s murder and how he was sure there was more to it than a random act of thuggery.

  Later, her chores completed, she wrote up an account of the interview with Jeremiah and Bella Hibberd at Badger Farm. She felt irritated that the murder of a doctor – a man – was now commandeering the Canon’s attention. They had got nowhere with the Mundy investigation as far as she could see. She re-read her notes. What would she do if she was a real detective? She would check whether Jeremiah Hibberd had in fact attended the Agricultural Trading Society on the night of the 10th November, and crucially what time he left. And why wait for Canon Strange to act? She knew that a girl sat behind a desk in the entrance to the Guildhall, collecting coats and umbrellas for storage in the cloakroom; the girl would give the customer a numbered tag and then write the number and the customer’s name in a register. She must think of a way to get a look at that register.

  Her Military Nursing Service uniform was one of the few pieces of clothing that she had managed to bring with her from Southwell. It hung, neglected, in her wardrobe, the novice-like white headdress folded inside tissue paper on the top shelf. She retrieved the uniform and changed. The cloth had taken on the smell of musty pine. The aproned skirt was impracticably long; the starched collar dug into her chin and the headdress transformed her face into an anonymous oval. Yet she knew from experience that the uniform made her a completely trustworthy figure in others’ eyes. This impression could have its uses.

  She threw on her heavy woollen cape and set off towards the Guildhall. The quickest route would have been to take the path across the Inner Close and around the Cathedral’s east end but this route was the most frequented. Ever since seeing George Elkins outside Dumper’s café, she ventured outside College only at dusk, remaining uneasy until she could return behind the walls. Despite the risk of muddying her skirts, she decided to walk along the Weirs by the river. It was a pleasant walk against a reddening sky with the swollen river rushing past. When she reached Bridge Street, she paused by the old mill to watch a pair of otters tumbling in the turbulent mill race and then continued the short distance to the steps of the Guildhall.

  The cloakroom attendant was at her post. The woman could not have been more than twenty and had a plump over-whitened face. She sat upright on a high stool, outwardly attentive but with eyes cast downwards to something hidden beneath her desk: a novel or magazine no doubt.

  Philippa released her cape to reveal her uniform and approached the desk. The young woman glanced at her doubtfully.

  ‘Can I help you Nurse?’

  Philippa returned the attendant’s bright mirthless smile with a diffident one of her own.

  ‘Oh, I hope you can. I’ve been looking everywher
e. It’s such a shame. I hope it’s here.’

  ‘Have you lost something?’ The young woman spoke as if Philippa was a small child.

  ‘Didn’t I say? I am in a flap today. I would like to see your register for the evening of 10th November, if you’d be so kind. Miss?’

  It was the young woman’s turn to look flustered. ‘My name’s Miss Pillow. I don’t know…we don’t normally…I wasn’t on duty that evening…’

  ‘My dear, I should have explained. It’s nothing sinister. A patient of mine – her baby’s due any day – has lost something. Or rather her husband has. He thought he left a package here that night – a precious Christening gown. He’s quite distraught about it, poor man. He can’t remember whether he was here or not.’

  Miss Pillow’s face relaxed. ‘What was the name?’

  ‘Hibberd.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Miss Pillow ducked out of view and then her hand re-emerged slamming down a hard-backed journal onto the desk. ‘The trouble is that we’ve changed the book since then. Not in this one…I don’t know whether we’d have kept it.’ Another journal appeared. ‘Not in this one either. No…’

  A book appeared on the pile: A short history of English law from the earliest times to the end of the year 1918. Then a sheaf of papers, followed by a water-marked register, ‘No.’

  Philippa felt her confidence ebbing away. ‘Well never mind, it was worth a try.’ She refastened her cape and turned to leave. As she reached the main door, Miss Pillow’s voice called her back.

  ‘Did you say Hibberd, with an ‘e’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s no package listed, only a coat, hat and stick and those were collected at – let me see – half past seven.’

  Philippa returned to the desk, feigning disappointment. Miss Pillow pointed out the entry in the register for the 10th November: columns headed number, name, item(s), time in, time out completed in school girlish handwriting. There it was: Mr J. Hibberd, number 17, 1 black coat, 1 cane, 1 bowler hat, time in: 6.15pm, time out: 7.25pm. The surrounding names had all retrieved their belongings between half past eight and nine o’clock.

  So Jeremiah had left early, Philippa noted to herself. He would have had just enough time to meet with Grace Mundy, kill her and dump her body in the trench before the gates to the Inner Close were locked at quarter past eight. She bent over the register, hoping that further inspiration would strike.

  ‘If there’s nothing else,’ Miss Pillow closed the register below Philippa’s nose, her voice mistrustful, ‘I must get on.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Philippa pointed to the law book. ‘Are you enjoying that?’

  Miss Pillow’s cheeks flushed beneath her thick make-up. ‘It passes the time. I borrowed it from my brother. He’s going to Oxford to study the law.’

  ‘What about you? Are you going to follow in his footsteps?’

  Miss Pillow frowned. ‘Hardly. My young man wouldn’t like it. He’d say it was un-Christian.’ She paused and then added defiantly. ‘I’m happy working here ‘till we’re married.’

  Philippa could see a lot of herself in this young woman. It would be futile to tell her not to stake her happiness on her “young man” but instead follow her brother into the unknown; the message would have been incomprehensible to her. She thanked Miss Pillow and started to retrace her route back to College. Jeremiah had left early. He could be the murderer. But there was no proof, only a suggestive fact, and Philippa had no idea how to find out more.

  Philippa went directly to number 61B Kingsgate Street and knocked on the door, half-hoping that Creswell Strange would not be in. He was. After a moment’s hesitation, he showed her into the rather stale smelling sitting room, shutting out Meg who immediately started to whine and scratch at the door.

  The room was simply furnished with three high-backed armchairs positioned around the blackened grate, two heavy wood bookcases and a writing desk scattered with papers next to the window. A couple of gloomy landscapes hung on the walls and above the mantelpiece, a rather striking seascape – an eighteenth century schooner foundering on high seas, glowered upon by a huge iridescent moon. An African tribal mask perched on the left corner of the mantelpiece, a crudely carved elongated skull with hollow eyes, beak-shaped nose and gaping mouth. On the right, a plain wooden box sat next to a silver framed photograph of a young Creswell Strange in military dress, holding the arm of a petite heart-faced woman in a full-skirted wedding dress. A fragment of excited conversation abruptly invaded the room as two College boys strode past on the pavement. Philippa instinctively glanced toward the window and when she turned back, she saw that Strange had moved so that he blocked Philippa’s view of the wedding photograph.

  ‘I see you’ve spotted my mask,’ he said. ‘It’s a death mask, a spirit of a dead ancestor. He’s a strangely comforting presence aren’t you old thing?’

  Philippa looked away from the unnerving darkness inside the mask’s eye sockets. ‘I came to tell you that Jeremiah Hibberd was at the Guildhall on the night of the 10th.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ Strange seemed rather taken aback. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I checked the cloak girl’s register.’

  ‘Ah, excellent. Well done,’ and then he mumbled, ‘Shame on me for not doing so myself.’

  ‘Mr Hibberd left just before half past seven, before everyone else. Do you think he would have had enough time to kill Grace and put her in the trench before the gates were shut?’

  ‘Quite possibly although I still cannot see how he could have got a body into the trench unnoticed…in any event, Bella Hibberd has realised the danger.’ Strange handed Philippa a letter.

  In it Bella expressed her regret over the previous encounter at Badger Farm, adding that she hoped Miss Lambert would forgive her sharpness. After further consideration, she had recalled that her husband had attended a meeting of SCATS that evening but had returned home at eight o’clock on account of his being anxious over her health. She specifically recalled the time as a few minutes later, a rainstorm began and she remembered remarking to Jeremiah how lucky he was to have missed it, as he had walked back from the Guildhall. At the end of the letter, Bella reverted to her familiar confrontational tone: it was the maid’s night off and so you’ll have to take my word for it.

  ‘I don’t believe her,’ Philippa said, handing back the letter.

  ‘That’s as may be but unless we can find out where Jeremiah really was, what we believe is neither here nor there.’

  24

  Wednesday 10th December

  Philippa set off for her second visit to Doctor Godwin’s military clinic, this time with no mixed feelings. But she could not go straight there. A diversion to Madame Inez’s on The Square was required to place an order for silk stockings on the Bursar’s account, just one of the many daily ‘little errands’ that Mrs Urchfont now insisted that ‘dear Philippa’ perform for her. Philippa could sense the vindictiveness beneath the sweetly expressed demands and thought it wisest just to grin and bear it.

  Task completed, Philippa took St Thomas Street which ran parallel to Southgate Street thus avoiding the traffic that clogged the main road. She always enjoyed this street of angles, alleyways and asymmetries, every house haphazardly unique. Georgian mansions dominated, painted windows dissembling among the real. Cottages and stable blocks concealed themselves to the rear of the larger houses, fleetingly visible through gaps, around corners or under archways. In bad weather, Philippa often stopped beside the site of the long-demolished St Thomas’s church to shelter beneath the blackened yew that overhung the pavement. Two houses were set back from the road at that point, their arched and mullioned windows looking down upon stone grave mounds half buried in the flower beds: the dead as the property of the living.

  Philippa did not stop that morning. As she edged around two handsome couples exchanging pleasantries beneath the yew, a little girl squirmed free of her father’s hand and then with surprising speed, tottered over the edge of the pave
ment into the gutter. Her mother flung herself into the road to snatch the girl from the path of an oncoming car. The woman’s jaw dropped at the horror of what might have been, her gaze aimed accusingly at her husband. Philippa knew that look; it turned her cold.

  She had not seen the car hit her parents. Her governess had been holding up two printed linens at the time and Philippa had been attempting an interest in the choice between blue forget-me-nots and yellow daisies. She remembered a movement that was all, something falling like a skittle. Peering out of the draper’s window, she saw a heap of skirts and legs amassed at the side of the road, a red Mercedes touring car stopped just beyond, its engine growling like a threatened dog. A ragged strip of material fluttered in a broken headlight. The open-mouthed chauffeur and the young male passenger were both standing on the road beside the car’s open doors.

  ‘Why were they in the road?’ the passenger was saying, scratching his head, a caricature of a chump from a motion picture.

  Philippa had turned to her governess, ‘What’s happened? Where’s father?’

  The horror on her governess’s face made words unnecessary. It had been all that her governess had been able to do to hold Philippa back from running into the road to kick and scratch at the murderous machine. She saw a small face appear above the passenger seat and look back with wide frightened eyes. There was a child in the car. As onlookers gathered around her parents’ bodies, the Mercedes drove away.

  Cars still gave her the creeps. In her dreams, driverless cars pursued her along empty tree-lined roads, shedding rust as rotten gums shed teeth. She dreaded crossing the road whenever a car was in sight, preferring to wait for minutes on end until all she could see were rear mud-guards retreating into the distance. It struck her as strange that once inside a car with the doors closed, her fear subsided - except when she happened to catch the eye of a passing driver. Then the horror would catch her again. Once she had seen her own reflection in the car window; she had looked like the woman with the little girl.