A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘Oh, why was that?’

  Dorothy smiled wryly. ‘Robert’s family was rich. I was just clever, and quite pretty in those days. I think his parents shipped him off to South Africa deliberately. He still doesn’t know…’ She stopped and glanced at the clock, then collected up the photographs and put them back in her handbag. ‘Doctor Godwin’s due any minute dear. I’ll leave you to get on.’

  Godwin arrived, carrying a long rectangular case stamped with the name Desoutter Bros which he placed at the end of Christopher’s bed. ‘This is it. Let’s hope Miss Lambert measured you correctly.’

  Christopher leaned forward eagerly as Godwin unfastened the case, releasing a pungent smell of oil and polish. Godwin carefully lifted out a gleaming metal leg, its foot covered with black leather. ‘This is the last word in artificial legs. It’s made of duralumin and weighs two pounds, half the weight of a wooden one.’

  As Philippa dragged the screens around the bed, Christopher manoeuvred himself so that his long-johned leg and stump dangled over the side. Godwin eased the leg’s bucket over the stump. Christopher winced. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘No need, young man,’ Godwin said. ‘Does that hurt?’

  ‘No,’ Christopher sounded uncertain, ‘it feels strange.’

  ‘Your skin will be a little sensitive. Miss Lambert, would you hold the leg for a moment. Please take note of how I attach it.’

  Godwin reached behind Christopher and fastened a belt tightly around his lower waist over the top of his long-johns. Then he attached a metal fork in the shape of a wishbone to the front and back of the leg bucket and clipped the fork’s hinge-pin to a strap hanging from the belt. ‘This is a recent improvement; it will allow you to move more freely. Now lower yourself to the floor. Slowly though.’

  Christopher kept tight hold of the side of the bed and dropped down gingerly. Godwin knelt at his feet. ‘Put some weight on it Christopher. I realise it might smart a bit. That’s it, good.’ He stretched out his tape measure. ‘A perfect length. Well done, Miss Lambert. Let go Christopher. I’ll take your hand.’

  Christopher unpeeled his hands from the bed. His left hand grasped Godwin’s, his body swaying in a figure of eight. Gradually the swaying stopped. Christopher drew breath and a wide-eyed grin spread across his face.

  ‘Excellent,’ Godwin continued, ‘you’ve grown much stronger in Miss Lambert’s care. Hold onto our shoulders and we’ll carry you over to the bars.’

  At Philippa’s request, Frank had erected a set of parallel bars by bolting together a spare stair bannister and a length of old scaffolding. It had already become a popular haunt for Christopher’s friends who invaded whenever she was away to turn somersaults over the bars. They set Christopher down at one end of the bars where he stood for a moment staring at his new foot, his knuckles white.

  ‘This leg has a friction knee joint,’ Godwin said, ‘you must maintain an extended position to prevent it from buckling, especially on a slope or uneven ground.’

  Christopher tensed his arms and thrust his right hip forward. His new leg swung out to the side, the foot landing heavily at an angle to his body. The knee bent and Christopher would have sunk to the floor had not Godwin caught him under the arms.

  ‘Whoa, not so fast! A little tricky isn’t it. Try to place the foot parallel with the other and in line with your hip.’

  Christopher swung his leg out again, his tongue stuck out in concentration. His leg flailed around like a polio victim’s but this time he managed to keep the leg straight and to land the foot in front of him. He paused to breathe deeply. His determination brought tears to Philippa’s eyes. She made to go to him. Godwin caught her arm.

  ‘Let him be. He’s getting the hang of it quickly - the confidence of youth.’

  ‘He mustn’t tire himself,’ she said. ‘He’ll push himself too hard if you let him.’

  Godwin nodded. ‘Twice there and back only,’ he called to Christopher.

  Christopher pressed on steadily, sometimes stumbling but never falling. He reached the end of the bars, swivelled around on his left leg and set off again. He moved with a bobbing motion that reminded Philippa of a mechanical duck that she had been fond of as a child. Its neck and body used to rise and fall as she pulled it along behind her.

  ‘How much did the leg cost?’ she asked Godwin.

  ‘One hundred pounds. Desoutter legs are the most expensive. We used the thirty pound government allowance and Christopher’s trustees paid the rest. Chaloner signed the cheque himself.’

  ‘Doctor Chaloner?’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of Christopher’s trustees?’

  ‘Not any more he isn’t.’

  ‘No of course not.’ They smiled at each other guiltily.

  ‘Doctor Godwin, could I see you for a moment?’ Christopher had finished the second circuit and was swinging his new leg backwards and forwards.

  ‘Of course.’

  Christopher whispered something into Godwin’s ear. Godwin smiled and nodded. ‘Yes you’ll be able to do that. Keep practising and I’ll take you next week. You could try out your sticks too. Time to rest now.’

  Godwin helped Christopher back to his bed and unfastened the leg. Philippa rubbed cream into Christopher’s stump, then eased his legs under the sheet and tucked him in. She left him cradling the metal leg in his lap and accompanied Godwin to the door.

  ‘It was a shame that your duties called you away on Friday evening,’ he said without meeting her eye, ‘I missed your company. I ended up landed with this buffoon of a man. He just wandered over and started talking, wouldn’t let me get away.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I met Mrs Wing-Smyth on the way in,’ Godwin continued rather awkwardly.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘She said that there was something more behind your departure and I…well, not to take it to heart. Not that I did…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong…’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Philippa had been close to cursing Dorothy out loud for speaking so freely about her. ‘Mrs Wing-Smyth has the wrong end of the stick. Everything is quite alright.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ Godwin had brightened up, ‘I can’t abide mysteries.’

  ‘So what did Christopher want of you?’

  ‘He wanted to know if he’d be able to use the water closet in the…er, normal way. I reassured him.’

  ‘Ah, I see. No mystery then.’

  ‘Not at all. One more thing Miss Lambert.’ Godwin coughed. ‘I forgot to tell you about the extra clinic for the servicemen. There are so many needing treatments and I thought I should…’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘This afternoon as it happens. I was wondering if you could spare…It would be most appreciated. Sorry for the short notice.’

  ‘I can spare a couple of hours before tea. I’ll be along as soon as I can. There’s a letter I must write first.’

  ***

  ‘I’m disappointed not to finally meet your young protégée,’ Harry Pipe said.

  ‘If you are referring to Miss Lambert, she’s otherwise engaged,’ Creswell replied, trying not to grin, ‘and I doubt she’d regard herself as a “protégée”.’

  ‘What is she then?’

  ‘She’s kindly assisting me…giving me the benefit of her…look shall we go in?’

  Creswell opened the door to 55 Egbert Road as Harry chuckled behind him. There was no sign of Grace’s expensive gloves or any of her possessions in the hallway; only William’s tan overcoat and black bowler, and three umbrellas and a walking stick in the wrought-iron stand.

  ‘Where’s the grieving widower this afternoon?’ Harry said.

  ‘Out eel fishing so I was told.’

  ‘Up at Alresford Eel House?’

  ‘No idea. Could be, he’s got a sister there.’

  ‘Not many eels this late in the season I’d have thought. So what are we looking for?

  ‘I don’t know. Something.’

>   ‘Thanks, that’s a great help.’ Harry chuckled again. ‘Want me to go through the papers?’

  Creswell nodded. ‘Put aside anything that strikes you as odd. We know that she bought herself expensive gifts. Where did she get the money from?’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘Could be.’ Creswell had not told Harry about Tokarev and the postcards. He wanted Harry to be a fresh pair of eyes and he had not forgotten the Dean’s warning. He could not risk the story of Mrs Brownrigg’s silver-lust ending up in the Chronicle. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’

  The smallest spare bedroom, at the back of the house, had become a dumping ground for Grace Mundy’s clothes, arranged in neat piles by type and laid out on a military camp bed, her shoes beneath the canvas. In the corner behind the door stood three tall poles, and wading boots, a hurricane lamp and a fishing rod were stacked in the opposite corner. The larger of the spare rooms smelt of unventilated wood and contained two unmade single beds, a huge mahogany wardrobe and a shoddy chest of drawers made of pine, both empty except for a sailor’s hat pushed to the back of the wardrobe’s top shelf.

  He went into the main bedroom. The pillows had been removed from Grace’s side of the bed, the bedside table cleared and the drawers emptied apart from a receipt from Sharpe’s the jeweller on Parchment Street: Received, one diamond and gold brooch, for sale on commission at 10%. William Mundy had wasted no time in selling his wife’s effects.

  Creswell returned to the sitting room where Harry was bending over the desk.

  ‘Hey, have you seen this?’ Harry beckoned to him and opened a notebook, the one that had been on Grace’s bedside table. ‘This is the only “odd” thing I could find. What do you think these tables mean? This could be a date.’ Harry flicked over a few pages. ‘If these are dates, then the latest are quite recent. I don’t know about the rest. Money in the last column maybe?’

  Creswell flicked through the notebook, reminding himself of the contents; ten or so pages divided into four columns and then filled out in neat, business-like handwriting.

  3-5-01

  LIH

  B/7/2

  10/0/-CS

  16-1-03

  Ref

  B/6/8

  15/5/-SK

  12-6-04

  CR

  G/8/1

  20/5/-PB

  ‘It does look like some form of code. I’ll take the book with me and give it some thought. Anything else?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Let’s get off then.’

  Creswell led the way into the hall. ‘Harry, what can you tell me about Jeremiah Hibberd?’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘Ah ha.’ Creswell could hear the smirk in Harry’s voice. ‘I suspected that your questions about the Hibberds were more than mere “pastoral care”. What do you want to know?’

  ‘I need to know where he was on the night of the 10th November.’

  ‘The night before Grace Mundy’s body was found?’

  ‘That’s right. He left the SCATS meeting early. He said he went home.’

  ‘You don’t believe him?’

  ‘No.’

  Harry opened the front door. ‘Damn, it’s tipping down. I might borrow an umbrella. I don’t suppose Mundy would miss that shabby beige one.’

  Creswell glanced back into the hallway. An unstamped letter propped up on the table caught his eye. The writing seemed familiar.

  ‘You know how Hibberd makes most of his money I suppose?’ Harry continued.

  ‘From the farm I would have thought.’

  ‘That place hardly breaks even,’ Harry said laughing, and then more sharply, ‘This is just between you and me, right?’ Creswell nodded and Harry continued. ‘Jeremiah’s a dealer in contraband. A smuggler if you like. During the War, if you needed an extra pound of sugar or a nice side of beef, he was the one you went to. He’s still at it, though now he’s expanded into booze and cigarettes, and stronger stuff if you want it. He could have been out meeting his suppliers that night but I doubt you’ll find out for certain.’

  ‘You could though.’

  Harry nodded, acknowledging the compliment. ‘Alright, I’ll ask around, as it’s you. I want first dibs on the story mind.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Harry slipped on his coat and gloves, grabbed the umbrella and headed out into the rain. It was a duck-headed umbrella.

  ***

  Philippa left her letter to Abraham & Dobell in the porters’ lodge for posting and set off for the surgery, making her way up Canon Street’s gentle slope and quickening her step when passing the disreputable houses. She nipped into the tiny grocer’s shop for a box of something that Doctor Godwin might like, eventually settling for Mackintosh’s Toffee de Luxe. She found the surgery’s door knocker almost hidden by an elaborate wreath of interwoven holly, ivy, mistletoe and pine cones onto which someone had painstakingly glued sparkling metal filings. As usual every seat in the hallway was taken. She manoeuvred around the men’s outstretched legs, pursued into the consulting room by a few half-hearted wolf-whistles.

  ‘My apologies for that,’ Godwin said, frowning, ‘No rest for the wicked eh?’

  She handed him the toffees. ‘I thought these might bring a bit of cheer.’

  ‘What an excellent thought. The men will appreciate them.’

  ‘Oh, I…yes of course.’ She felt rather shamed by his assumption of her intentions. ‘So who’s first?’

  ‘Your admirer.’ Godwin beckoned her over to his desk. ‘I have a surprise for him.’

  She moved closer and noticed that he was newly shaved and smelt faintly of citrus and cloves. He lifted the lid of a rectangular box and plunged his hands inside, removing an oval-shaped glinting object. He displayed it on his forearm like a waiter offering a bottle of best claret. It was a mask of half a face, silver metal on the inside, painted features to the front. A pair of spectacles had been fixed to the bridge of the nose.

  ‘It’s made of galvanised copper and painted in enamel,’ Godwin said. ‘I took great care with the specification. I measured Mr Palfrey’s right side and took a note of his eye colour and complexion, and I sent a photograph of course. Even so, we must ensure that it does not rub against any exposed flesh or scar tissue.’

  She wondered how this thing could be so obviously artificial and at the same time so disconcertingly real, especially the eye in which it was just possible to make out tiny black veins swimming in the grey-blue iris. It would hardly allow the wearer to blend into the crowd – quite the reverse in fact.

  ‘Well shall we get him in?’ Godwin continued.

  ‘Yes of course.’ She went out into the hallway and over to Eddie Palfrey who had his back to the consulting room door. ‘Good afternoon Mr Palfrey, you’re first today.’

  ‘Ah, I am favoured.’ Palfrey’s voice was still gruff and slurred. ‘Do I have you to thank for that?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Philippa said sternly, although she felt inclined to humour Eddie Palfrey’s bluster for now, ‘come along with me please.’

  ‘Cesspool,’ she heard one of the other men mutter. Palfrey snorted at him.

  Godwin examined Palfrey’s ears and right eye and declared all much improved. ‘I see you’ve been following our advice. Another month or so and your sight should almost be back to normal. The skin on your cheek is healing nicely too. And now -’ Godwin brought out the mask and held it close to Palfrey’s face. ‘You know what this is?’

  Palfrey’s mouth strained into a smile. ‘Good show doc. Now - Nurse - you’ll see what a handsome devil I am. Not that you haven’t already noticed!’

  Philippa helped Godwin undo Palfrey’s leather mask and bandages. This time the fleshy iodine smell did not make her flinch. The wound was a little less raw around the edges where the skin had tried to heal itself. Godwin instructed her to stand behind Palfrey.

  ‘Please take the ends of the spectacles – gently – over the ears – that’s right. How does that feel Mr Palfrey?’

  ‘..old,’ Pal
frey mumbled.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘I said “cold”.’

  ‘Any pain?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Any additional pain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, stand up please. Move your head to the left. To the right. That seems secure.’

  Palfrey sank back into the chair. ‘How does it look?’

  Godwin stepped back, bending his knees like an artist sizing up a canvas. ‘Why don’t you decide for yourself? Miss Lambert, could you hunt around on my desk for the hand-mirror.’

  Philippa began to search beneath the medical files, finding only a few unwritten Christmas cards – cottages in the snow, golden-haired angels wielding holly leaves. A pile of sealed envelopes, the top one addressed to her, had been placed neatly to one side. She spotted the mirror’s silver handle emerging from beneath a folded newspaper.

  ‘It was my mother’s,’ Godwin said. ‘I don’t have much use for it at home.’

  Philippa wondered where Godwin’s home was – she had never thought to ask. She put the mirror into Palfrey’s lap where it remained.

  ‘I won’t see anything,’ he groaned.

  ‘Not the detail maybe,’ Godwin said, ‘but you’ll get an impression. Unless you’d rather…’

  ‘No, no, I’ll have a gander.’ Palfrey raised the mirror, his shoulders hunched and neck thrust forward. ‘Hey look at that. I’ve got my skin back. What do you think miss?’