A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  He angled the mirror but it was too close to his face. All she could see was his chin and nose.

  ‘I’ll come round,’ she said, walking over to join Godwin.

  ‘Well?’ Palfrey said.

  She stepped back as Godwin had done. Palfrey’s face had an odd immobility about it, both the masked left side and the right side too where the scarring had left his skin taught and fixed. His painted eye and his real one stared in different directions like a profane two-faced Janus. The artist had matched Palfrey’s skin colour well and had even tinged the mask’s cheek with a hint of grey stubble, yet the join between the artificial and the real was hard to ignore. She had been right in thinking that Palfrey would stand out in a crowd.

  ‘What’s the verdict?’ Palfrey said.

  ‘A new Rupert Brooke,’ she replied brightly.

  ‘I told you so,’ Palfrey said. ‘Anything else you can see Miss Lambert? That’s your name isn’t it?’

  She hesitated, wondering what he wanted her to say. ‘The mask fits you well Mr Palfrey.’

  ‘Very good,’ he said. It was strange, Philippa thought, that he sounded a little disappointed.

  Under Godwin’s instruction, Palfrey practised taking the mask off and putting it back on again until the doctor was satisfied that he could do so unaided.

  ‘Do you want to wear the mask when you leave?’ Philippa asked.

  ‘I’ll say. I wouldn’t be seen dead in that old leather thing now.’

  Philippa packed Palfrey’s leather mask inside the box and handed it to him.

  ‘Something to remember you by,’ Palfrey chuckled.

  ‘Come again after Christmas Mr Palfrey,’ Godwin said in an exasperated tone. ‘I want to check that your skin is adapting to the new mask.’

  ‘I might do that, doc. Complements of the season to you.’

  ‘And to you. I won’t offer you a toffee. It wouldn’t agree with your jaw. Show Mr Palfrey out please Miss Lambert.’

  Palfrey took Philippa’s arm, holding her a little too close for comfort.

  ‘Look at me boys,’ he called to the waiting men. There was a sullen response.

  The maid opened the front door and Palfrey strode onto the top step, his arms outstretched as if to a cheering crowd. He turned his flesh-jigsaw face towards Philippa.

  ‘Thanks for the Christmas present Nurse. It’s been a pleasure...’ He began to descend the steps, his feet feeling their way to compensate for his defective eye.

  Philippa noticed that a man was coming up at the same time. He pushed past Palfrey who gave him an unfocussed glare. It was only then that she saw the man’s face.

  George. Instinct took over. She tried to slam the door but he was too quick, jamming the toe of his boot into the gap. She pushed desperately against the door. She could smell his sour breath and hear his heavy panting. Then the door was flung open and she was propelled backwards onto the floor, colliding with a side table. She cried out in pain. She touched her forehead. Her hand came back bloodied. Then she was yanked to her feet. George had grabbed her by the wrist and was pulling her towards the door.

  ‘Found you at last missie,’ he hissed, ‘you’re coming with me. Time to go home.’

  ‘No,’ she gasped. Through the open door, she caught a glimpse of Mr Palfrey standing on the opposite side of the street, just watching. Then he walked away. ‘No,’ she repeated. She planted her legs and leaned backwards but it was no good. Her feet had reached the doormat. Her wrist burned where George had tightened his grip. Suddenly she became aware of movement behind her. George had seen it too; he was frowning. He stopped dragging her behind him and instead spun her round, his arm across her throat.

  The servicemen had lined up facing them; those who could stand had done so, the two in wheelchairs positioning themselves at either end. Colonel Reeves, the man with perforated eardrums, stepped forward. ‘Release Sister Lambert, there’s a good chap,’ he said mildly.

  ‘This doesn’t concern you,’ George muttered. Philippa could feel the heat of his body on her back.

  ‘We beg to differ don’t we chaps?’ All the men nodded.

  George snorted. ‘A bunch of cripples. Don’t make me laugh.’ His arm tightened on Philippa’s neck.

  ‘I don’t see anyone laughing,’ Reeves said. While he was talking, the wheelchair-bound soldiers had pushed themselves round to block the doorway.

  George glanced over his shoulder. ‘Get out my way. Mrs Elkins and I are leaving.’

  ‘We can’t let you do that,’ the leg-less soldier said.

  ‘Then I’ll push you out of the way myself,’ George sneered. Philippa could hear unease in his voice for the first time.

  The rest of the servicemen began to encircle them, one creating a barrier across the doorway with his crutch.

  ‘You’re outnumbered sir,’ Reeves said. ‘Let the lady go. That’s an order.’

  ‘I don’t take orders from anyone, least of all you.’

  Philippa felt George’s body tauten. He swung round, taking her with him. She knew that he was about to bolt using her as a shield. And despite their bravado, these half-men were no match for George’s bulk. She could not breathe. She felt as if she was drifting into unconsciousness. She clawed at George’s arm and tried to call out but nothing came.

  ‘We’ll be going now,’ George said. He shoved her towards the door. Her knees scraped against the nearest wheelchair. George gave the chair a hefty kick. It toppled sideways and the leg-less man was tipped onto the floor, but like a snake, he rose up and flung his arms around Philippa’s waist.

  ‘Get off her, you freak,’ George shouted, kicking at the man’s torso.

  ‘Stop that at once.’ It was Godwin’s voice.

  George froze and his grip on Philippa’s neck loosened. Air flooded her lungs. She gasped and forced her head beneath George’s arm, his woollen coat scratching her skin. She backed away and saw that Godwin was pressing a revolver against the back of George’s head.

  Godwin cocked the revolver’s hammer. ‘Do exactly as I say. Both arms up, link your fingers together and place your hands on your head. That’s it. Walk to the door. Now turn around.’

  George’s face was flushed and mottled. He lowered his shoulders like a bull ready to charge.

  ‘One more false move and I fire,’ Godwin said. He had taken off his spectacles and drawn himself up to his full height, both hands on the revolver’s grip.

  George straightened up. He glowered at Philippa with such a look of maliciousness in his eyes that a wave of nausea came over her and she had to grip one of the wheelchairs to stop herself from falling.

  ‘What is your name sir?’ Godwin demanded.

  ‘None of your business,’ George hissed.

  Godwin shot an enquiring glance at Philippa, his gun remaining trained on George’s head.

  ‘His name is Sir George Elkins,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘I see,’ Godwin said. ‘Well, Sir George, your behaviour would shame a common criminal. Explain yourself.’

  ‘None of your business,’ George repeated but the bravado had faded from his voice. His eyes searched the faces of the encircling men. ‘A family matter,’ he added.

  ‘He’s my brother-in-law,’ Philippa whispered. ‘He’s afraid that I know something about him and that I’ll tell…’ Her words sounded absurd, as if she was talking of nothing more than a schoolyard squabble.

  ‘She’ll do what she’s told. I haven’t come all this way…’ George began.

  Godwin held up a hand. ‘I propose a truce. You will accept, I’m sure, that the testimony of those in this room will be more than sufficient to secure you a considerable jail term. However,’ he paused and glared hard at George, ‘it is my impression that Miss Lambert would prefer to have no more to do with you. That being so, it may be possible for us to forget what we have seen, provided - provided - that you never disturb Miss Lambert again. Never. Is that agreed?’

  George opened his mouth as if to protest but the
n gave a curt nod.

  Reeves stepped forward. ‘I’ll accompany Sir George to his lodgings and assist him to catch his train. If I could avail myself of your weapon…’ Reeves took the revolver from Godwin, waved it at George who turned tail and descended the steps, mumbling expletives under his breath. He did not look at Philippa.

  ‘We all know your face sir,’ Godwin shouted after him, his voice trembling for the first time, ‘and if you ever try to touch Miss Lambert again, you will have me – us – to answer to.’ He strode over to where Philippa was still clutching the wheelchair. ‘That’s a nasty cut,’ he gently touched her forehead. ‘Best get it seen to.’

  Godwin led her back to the consulting room as the men clapped the doctor on the back and wished her well. She tried to thank them but her words sounded garbled and she could taste blood in her mouth. She collapsed into the chair by Godwin’s desk. He gathered together gauze and carbolic lotion and began to clean the wound. She winced as the lotion penetrated broken skin. Then he dampened a cloth with water and sponged the blood from her face and neck.

  ‘That man,’ he said quietly, ‘was the one who spoke to me at Illumina. I now understand why he was so interested in me. I fear that I may have inadvertently led him here.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘He called you “Mrs Elkins”.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it appears that I was right. There’s more to you than meets the eye. Care to tell me your story?’

  It all came out in a disjointed rush, her parents, her marriage, George and his crimes. Philippa had no idea if she was making any sense. Godwin listened silently, the only evidence of emotion the occasional angry flush in his cheeks.

  ‘You should have told someone,’ he said when she had come to a faltering halt. ‘Someone could have helped you. I could have helped you.’

  ‘I know. But I...’ She got to her feet. She wanted to be away from all of them, from all men. ‘I have to go now. I have to get back to the boys.’

  At eight o’clock, Philippa made one final check on her dozing patients, gently removing Christopher’s leg from beneath his limp hands. She extinguished the lamps and the ward was plunged into semi-darkness. Suddenly Canon Strange’s face appeared at the door’s viewing window. He jabbed with an index finger towards the corridor and then disappeared from view. She threw a couple of logs onto the dying fire and then joined him.

  ‘You did give me a start,’ she complained.

  ‘Did I? I do apologise. But you’re otherwise well I hope…good, good.’ Strange shuffled from one foot to another and rubbed his arms. ‘College feels rather desolate without the Scholars. Although you’re still busy I see. Are these boys too sick to return home? How sad for them. I trust you enjoyed Illumina. Always an impressive spectacle. I didn’t see you later on.’

  ‘I had to check on Christopher.’

  ‘No rest for the wicked eh.’

  Philippa did not reply. Her head ached. She felt saddened and a little resentful that Canon Strange seemed not to have noticed her injury. Strange broke the silence.

  ‘Shall we sit?’ He indicated a discarded Schoolroom bench covered with carved initials, tiny pictures of ships and stickmen Dons. ‘You told me that I had been neglecting the Mundy case…’

  ‘I don’t believe I did,’ Philippa interrupted.

  ‘Those were not your exact words I admit,’ Strange said, ‘but I understood your meaning. You were right and I’ve done something about it. I went back to the Mundy’s house this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh?’ He had left her out once again - the sullen feeling in her chest intensified.

  ‘I knew you’d be busy with Christopher and didn’t want to inconvenience you. We…I noticed something – a duck-headed umbrella – in the hallway.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it.’

  ‘Mrs Wing-Smyth has lost such an umbrella.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I do not believe in coincidences.’

  Strange’s tone had turned cold. Philippa made an effort to temper her rudeness. ‘Yet it could be one. It could be Grace’s umbrella.’

  ‘It’s possible, although I don’t think it is hers. There were two others in the stand, a gent’s and a lady’s, both black. Very conventional. The duck-headed one looked out of place. The handle had a set of unknown fingerprints…’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I still have my kit from my South African days. I managed to find four or five partial whorls, enough to say that they didn’t belong to Grace but not good enough for confident comparison. And you remember the strange numbers and figures in Grace’s notebook?’

  ‘Yes, they made no sense to me.’

  ‘I believe it’s some sort of code. This one for instance.’

  3-5-01

  LIH

  B/7/2

  10/0/-CS

  ‘This could be a date – 1901 - and this could be money, ten pounds. What about these initials? Mean anything to you?’

  Philippa shook her head, frustrated at her own lack of inspiration.

  ‘Well tell me if anything occurs to you,’ Strange continued. ‘Now back to Mrs Wing-Smyth. Assuming that was her umbrella, what was she doing there and why hasn’t she mentioned it?’

  ‘Maybe because she wasn’t there.’ Philippa could hear the derision in her voice.

  ‘Philippa, if you wish to remain involved, you must stay detached.’ Strange stared at her like an exasperated schoolmaster. She nodded reluctantly. ‘You and Dorothy seem close. What do you know of Dorothy that might help us?’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’ She felt unnerved under Strange’s stern gaze. ‘She wants to be an MP. She’s married to a rich man.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. What of her earlier life?’

  ‘I…I think she lived in Southampton.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  Strange rubbed his chin and regarded her searchingly. ‘Alright, now here’s another thing. There could be a connection between Grace and Chaloner. I found some files in Chaloner’s possession belonging to the Diocesan Refuge. He treated many of the young ladies there. Last night, I noticed something else. On every occasion when a girl was pregnant, another name was listed: Clay.’

  It took Philippa a few seconds to realise the significance. ‘That was Grace’s maiden name. So she was working with Chaloner.’

  ‘Which isn’t surprising in itself considering her job. As for Chaloner, one of the residents all but accused him of murdering the babies.’

  ‘And Grace could have been involved…No, I can’t believe that. Why would she do such things?’

  ‘It could merely be the fantasies of a grieving mother.’ Strange shook his head despairingly. ‘I don’t know. Anyway, if that is Dorothy’s umbrella in Grace’s house, we must find out how it got there. I’d rather not interview Dorothy formally at this stage. When will she next visit Christopher?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. She’s arranged for a Christmas tree to be delivered to the ward, and she’s bringing some decorations for the boys to put up. I imagine the press will be there too.’ Philippa regretted those last words immediately they were out of her mouth. She sounded unkind.

  ‘Until tomorrow then.’

  I have a new face and it looks as well as can be expected, as the medics say. It seems rather appropriate that I’ve ended up with a mask. Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt as if I was in disguise, hiding my true self, my real inclinations. I thought the colonies would be different but the city people are just the same, narrow-minded and censorious. I want to stamp on the lot of them. But now I have a new face as well as a new name, and an ‘estate’ of my own, well a farm anyway. It might not compare to the grandeurs of Westwell Park, but it sounds as if it will be suitably remote, a place where I won’t be judged, where I can indulge.

  I saw George today, by the way. Of course he didn’t know me. He was after her, God knows why. He just can’t live and let live. He was trying to drag her out
of the surgery and she was putting up quite a fight! I thought about intervening, but then I thought, the boat’s leaving for Canada in a few days. Why complicate things. Whatever happens, I won’t see her again.

  29

  Tuesday 16th December

  Creswell came downstairs at dawn and found a folded note lying on the doormat. He chuckled to himself as he read it.

  16th December, One o’clock (in the morning!)

  Dear Creswell

  Well I asked around as you wanted. It cost me a few pints (you can repay me in kind) and a few hours of my life listening to the local reprobates boasting about their exploits. The Winchester underbelly is a fat one - I don’t need to tell you that.

  To cut a long story short, Jeremiah Hibberd did not go straight home that evening but he’s not your killer. It wasn’t drugs as I thought it might be. It seems that he’s moved on from dealing in little morphine pick-me-ups for the grand ladies of Winchester and into something a lot more profitable - gambling. Horses, dogs, fights. He runs a network of bookmakers from the public bar in the Eagle Hotel, sitting there like a spider in the centre of his web, one bloke said. They’re all scared of him you know Creswell and that was news to me, I must confess. His dull silent farmer disguise is a perfect one. I wonder if the beautiful Bella knows what she’s married into.’

  Yours, Harry

  p.s. remember our deal!

  How typical of Harry. Creswell could see him in that smoky bar, buying a few rounds for Winchester lowlifes and fixing them with his innocent, rather overawed gaze. The revelation about Jeremiah Hibberd’s gambling activities did not come as much of a surprise. But the fact that Jeremiah was feared – that was unexpected. If that sullen, grizzled man had been a city dweller, he could not have kept his real character so well hidden. Secrets were much better preserved behind a farmhouse’s benignly rustic walls.

  Creswell sat down on the hallway chair to take stock: Jeremiah Hibberd was in the clear, Tokarev had an alibi (of sorts) and the only significant evidence was a notebook filled with incomprehensible scribbles and a duck-headed umbrella. It was not much. As for Chaloner’s murder, the situation was no better. His own theories consisted of an assortment of rumours and speculations based on links that might turn out to be coincidental. In South Africa, his investigative record was unblemished; he had always made an arrest. Now he had to contemplate the possibility of failure. It was a new experience.