by J. D. Oswald
She awoke in the early hours to a room monochrome with dawn light. She had a painful crick in her neck. Meg was stretched out on the floor next to her feet snoring loudly. She rebuked herself for falling asleep. Strange’s eyes were open and he was whispering something. She bent over him.
‘Mrs Barratt. She needs to know. Mrs Barratt. Not dead. Must tell her.’ Strange looked straight at her, grasping her arm with surprisingly strength. ‘Get Mrs Barratt. I want to tell her.’
‘There, there, try to rest.’
‘No, no rest. Get Mrs Barratt.’
‘Who’s Mrs Barratt?’
‘At the Refuge. Send someone. Tell her to come. Please Philippa. I want to tell her.’
‘Tell her what?’ But he had drifted back into fitful sleep.
A few minutes later, she heard the front door open and then clattering coming from the kitchen. She went downstairs, Meg trotting at her heels, to find a dishevelled charwoman waving a feather duster perfunctorily around the front room. An attempt had been made to decorate the room by weaving holly leaves along the mantelpiece and around the African mask. The berries had started to shrivel. Philippa explained who she was and that Canon Strange was lying, stabbed, upstairs. The charwoman’s mouth dropped open.
‘I knew he’d get ‘imself into trouble one of these days,’ the woman remarked haughtily, ‘all that running about, pretending to be a detective. I told him only the other week. I’m Mrs Stevens by the way.’
‘A pleasure to meet you. He’s been calling out for someone. A “Mrs Barratt” from the “Refuge”?’
‘That’ll be the women’s refuge on Eastgate Street most like. I can’t imagine why he’d want to see someone from there.’
‘Yes it is odd but he seems quite desperate. I’d go up there myself but I can’t leave him.’
As Philippa had hoped, Mrs Stevens needed no further encouragement to take on the task herself, only seeking reassurance that she would not be held responsible for the lack of breakfast or lit fires. Philippa went back upstairs to wait. Strange was still asleep. She took his exposed hand and held it. ‘What were you thinking, you silly man,’ she whispered. ‘I could have lost you.’
***
Creswell woke up. He was surrounded. Philippa was seated at his side, Head Constable Sim and Harry Pipe stood at the bottom of the bed. He felt Meg’s rough tongue licking his fingers. He tried to scratch the dog’s nose.
‘What time is it?’ he whispered, wincing as his dry lips cracked.
‘Just after eleven,’ Sim said. ‘On Thursday morning,’ he added.
It all came rushing back to him: the walk to the Eel House, Mundy’s careless confession, the flash of the spear. Creswell hitched himself up on his elbows. ‘Did you catch him?’ A searing pain in his side made him collapse, panting, onto the mattress. Philippa leaned across him and slipped her hands inside his nightshirt. He realised that someone had changed his clothes. He looked down at his chest. It was bandaged like an Egyptian mummy, a hint of clotted blood visible beneath the layers on his left side. ‘How bad is it?’ he said.
‘It’s a deep wound but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage,’ Philippa said, ‘though you must lie back and avoid sharp movements.’ She regarded him accusingly. ‘Didn’t you know how badly injured you were?’
‘I thought Mundy had only nicked me with the spear. In my defence, it hardly hurt at the time.’ An image came to him of an infantryman in the Transvaal who had wandered for hours with a gaping hole in his head, resisting all attempts to lead him to the hospital tent. There had been such an expression of surprise on the soldier’s face when his body had finally expired. It chilled him to think that the same could have happened to him. ‘I apologise,’ he murmured.
‘No need,’ Philippa said.
Sim went to stand behind Philippa. ‘I gather Miss Lambert has been your right hand man in this investigation.’
‘She has. If ever you change your mind about a female officer…’
‘I will bear it in mind,’ Sim said curtly. ‘Now tell me, why didn’t you come to me before tracking down William Mundy?’
Creswell’s wound had started to sting and he shifted uncomfortably. ‘I thought we could deal with it.’
‘I see. You thought a priest, a woman and a journalist could deal with a hardened, and as it turned out, armed, criminal.’
There was nothing Creswell could say in his defence. ‘So have you arrested him?’
Sim shook his head. ‘No sign of him in Alresford or at his home.’
‘Have you spoken to Hibberd?’
‘Of course. He denies all knowledge. Says the idea that he’s some sort of crime boss is preposterous.’
‘It might be preposterous but it’s true,’ Harry remarked.
‘We only have your word for that,’ Sim said.
Harry shrugged and then clumsily patted Creswell’s blanketed feet. ‘I’m glad you’re alright Canon. The bar at the Plume wouldn’t be the same without you.’
There was a knock on the half open door and Mrs Stevens peered around it.
‘What is it?’ Sim barked.
‘Sorry to disturb sir.’ Mrs Stevens edged into the bedroom. ‘A message came for you sir. A body’s bin found near Alresford, in the river sir. A man, his face and hands ever so badly injured, so the constable said, but a local man recognised ‘is clothes. His name’s – ’ she consulted a piece of paper, ‘William Mundy.’
‘William Mundy,’ Sim repeated slowly. ‘Thank you. You may go.’
Mrs Stevens stood her ground. ‘How ‘re you Canon? I was sorry to hear of your troubles.’
‘That’s very kind Mrs Stevens,’ Creswell said. ‘I feel rather thirsty. Any chance you could rustle up a cup of tea? If that’s alright with Miss Lambert?’
Philippa nodded and Mrs Stevens bustled away officiously.
‘Do you think it’s really him?’ Philippa said.
‘There’s no way to tell for sure if the face and fingers are gone,’ Sim replied. ‘Assuming it is him, that’s case closed as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I don’t agree.’ Creswell gingerly eased himself into a sitting position. ‘We have the notebook. Can you get it Philippa? It’s a record of all the transactions – dates, gender, place, weight, money received and here, we think these letters must be the initials of the receiving parents.’
‘I’m aware of all this,’ Sim said. ‘Miss Lambert showed me the book. All rather distasteful I admit, but those babies would have been adopted in any event or ended up in the workhouse.’
‘You can’t know that. Some of the women were married and down on their luck. Would they have given up their child willingly? Mundy’s scheme meant that they weren’t given the choice.’
‘Fair point but without Mundy, I cannot see how it helps us.’
‘But there must have been others involved,’ Creswell insisted, ‘the Registrar of Births & Deaths for one.’
Sim took the book and examined the pages. Then he walked over to the window and stood tugging at his moustache. Eventually he whirled around and marched back to the bed. ‘At that time, the Registrar would have been a solicitor called Arthur Steeple.’
‘Why do I know that name?’ Creswell said.
‘He gave an alibi to Mundy. Rest assured, I’ll get the truth out of him.’ Sim’s voice had taken on an edge of steely resolve.
‘And that’s a story for another day,’ Harry said cheerfully. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get down to the office. My editor will expect Mundy’s death to be in the late edition.’ Harry put on his cap and hobbled out of the room. His uneven step sounded on the stairs as Mrs Steven’s heavy tread approached across the landing.
‘She’s still downstairs,’ Mrs Stevens said to Philippa as she placed a teacup on the bedside table.
‘Who’s downstairs?’ Creswell asked.
‘A Mrs Barratt?’ Philippa said. ‘You were asking for her last night.’
‘Yes, yes!’ How could he have forgotten? ‘Sen
d her up. Quick, Mrs Stevens.’
‘Alright, alright!’
Mrs Stevens shuffled away waving her arms over her head, returning a minute later shepherding a pale and nervous Mrs Barratt into Philippa’s vacated seat by the bed. Mrs Barratt kept her gaze lowered and began to scratch at her enflamed knuckles with long delicate fingers.
‘You’re no doubt wondering why I’ve asked you here,’ Creswell said gently.
‘I am rather sir,’ Mrs Barratt whispered. ‘It sounded urgent,’ she added.
‘I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting. I’m not well you see, and I forgot…Anyway, I have some news. When we last met, you told me about your suspicions.’
‘Yes sir. About Doctor Chaloner.’
‘Well it turns out you were right to be suspicious.’
Mrs Barratt looked up. ‘I knew he’d killed those babies,’ she exclaimed, a mixture of vindication and fear in her voice.
‘No, no he didn’t kill them but he did take them, him and the midwife. They took away the babies and gave them to other families.’
In the silence that followed, Creswell saw Mrs Barratt’s expression morph from incomprehension to realisation to tearful joy. ‘She’s…she’s not dead?’ she said.
‘No. Well, at least there’s every chance your child is still alive.’
‘Where is she?’
‘We have a notebook that may help us to find out. Head Constable Sim and his men will be doing their very best to track down each child, isn’t that right?’
Sim frowned and Creswell wondered if he was going to protest. The Head Constable did not. He assured Mrs Barratt that he would give the matter every possible attention, patting her arm as she clung to him, sobbing her thanks. But as Philippa showed the woman to the door, Creswell heard Sim mutter under his breath, ‘At what cost to the child I wonder?
***
Philippa was left alone with Canon Strange. She returned to the bed and with Strange’s grunted permission, lifted the bandage and gauze.
‘How is it?’ he asked.
‘The bleeding’s stopped,’ she said, ‘which is good news. No sign of infection. I would expect the wound to start to close itself soon.’ She felt self-conscious about touching his skin, knowing that his eyes were upon her.
‘So,’ Strange cleared his throat, ‘it appears that our little investigation is at an end.’
‘Yes.’ His words numbed her like news of a death. That short sentence meant that she was no longer a detective’s assistant; she had reverted to being Sister Lambert from College Sick House and no more.
‘It’s been an honour to work with you,’ Strange continued quietly. ‘Without you, the case would have remained unsolved. You heard that I said as much to Sim.’
She dared to glance at him and saw – what? Kindness, awkwardness, compassion, affection?
‘I don’t think I want to be a policewoman though,’ she mumbled.
‘Well that’s probably for the best.’
Silence followed. Philippa got up and headed for the door. ‘I should go. The day nurse from the hospital will be along in a minute.’
‘We’ll meet at the Cathedral over Christmas no doubt?’ Strange called after her.
She nodded.
‘Good.’ A smile flitted across the Canon’s face. Then he leaned back on his pillows and closed his eyes. She left.
The Dorothy Wing-Smyth who breezed into the ward fifteen minutes later was almost unrecognisable from the woman who had sat in Philippa’s dispensary a couple of days before. She looked striking in a red long-line coat with fur collar and a black velvet turban hat. She kissed Philippa lightly on the cheek. ‘Now, you didn’t say when we last met - have you heard from those solicitors?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You did write as I suggested?’
‘Yes, on the same day.’
‘Excellent, let’s hope they bestir themselves and finalise everything before Christmas. That would be a nice present for you. By the way, I met a reporter, of all people, on the way in. He told me that Grace Mundy’s husband has been found dead. I gave him a suitable comment of course. What do you make of it Philippa?’
‘I…’ Strange had not given her permission to relate the story but neither had he forbidden it. Dorothy was owed the truth. As Philippa told of their adventure at the Eel House and the Canon’s injury, Dorothy’s Councillor persona diminished before her eyes until it was only her friend who stood before her.
‘That poor man. I must go and see him. He’ll be alright you say?’
‘If he rests, and you know how difficult it is for him to do that.’
They smiled understandingly at each other.
‘Canon Strange says that others must have been involved,’ Philippa continued.
‘Who?’ Dorothy said sharply.
‘Someone who…he didn’t give a name.’
Dorothy narrowed her eyes. ‘You started to say “someone who”?’
‘Someone who registered births and deaths,’ Philippa admitted.
‘I see.’
Philippa could detect menace in those two small words and wondered what was in store for the retired Registrar. Dorothy glanced over to where Christopher was practising his walking. He no longer needed the bars, although he stayed close to them. He used a gnarly stick that Bella had brought in for him, and strode confidently if rather lopsidedly.
Dorothy’s face softened. ‘Perhaps I’ll just have a quick word.’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, this and that.’
Philippa had to ask. ‘Are you going to tell him?’
Dorothy’s face clouded for a moment and then her body slumped. ‘I don’t know. I can’t sleep for thinking about it. I want to, desperately, but I’m being selfish. What would it do to him? I couldn’t bear it if he came to hate his parents,’ she paused, ‘or me.’
‘But you’re his mother.’
‘A mother must make sacrifices.’
‘Haven’t you made enough? Have you told Robert?’
‘No. He doesn’t return from India until after Christmas. He’ll be angry that I never told him.’ Dorothy smiled sadly to herself. ‘He always wanted a son. I can only hope that, once he calms down, he’ll be pleased.’
‘I’m sure he will be,’ Philippa said encouragingly. ‘As for Christopher’s adoptive parents, maybe the Steeles didn’t know? Maybe they were told that Christopher was an orphan?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Dorothy’s voice seemed to grasp at Philippa’s words, ‘that must have been it. By all accounts, they were good people. I could tell him that was it.’
‘I think that would be…kinder.’
‘Yes,’ Dorothy murmured. She pulled her shoulders back and launched towards Christopher, calling out cheerfully in her best politician’s voice, ‘Christopher, you’re doing so well.’
The young man smiled and waved with his free hand. ‘Hello Mrs W-S. My new leg is top drawer. Let me show you.’ Christopher launched himself across the room, his sticks hardly touching the floor, even stopping to balance on his artificial leg while Dorothy applauded.
Philippa hesitated; she felt uncomfortable about standing in such plain sight but reluctant to leave her patient. She was also curious. She withdrew behind a concertinaed screen, positioning herself so she could see through the gap and hear snatches of conversation. Her chest was tight with anxiety for both of them. She took a quick look and saw that Dorothy and Christopher had returned to Christopher’s bed and were perched on it side by side, shoulders just touching.
…you’ll be out of here in no time…
I hope so. The Bursar’s promised me a new room…
…seen your new nephew?
He cries a lot… They laughed.
…have you any plans for Christmas?
I’ll go to Bella’s I suppose…
Philippa could hear footsteps again. She risked another look. Dorothy was pacing in front of the bed, hands clasped tightly at her waist.
…would you like
to join me on Boxing Day?
But wouldn’t your family be there?
Well my husband’s still away. My sister might… Dorothy paused and turned to face Christopher. I’ve something to tell you.
Oh yes? Christopher was smiling politely, his tone the distant one that pupils often used with the adults in their midst.
...no, yes, no it doesn’t matter…Dorothy sat down again and began to twist her hands in her lap. Yes I should…
What is it then?
Dorothy took a deep breath and set her shoulders. You have a right to know. When you were a baby…taken…adopted…
What are you talking about? Christopher frowned and shifted a little.
…I’m your real mother…
what? you? no…Christopher stumbled to his feet.
…thought you’d died…your father is my husband...
no, I don’t believe…mother wouldn’t have…Christopher was pacing now, rather unsteadily and leaning on his sticks.
they didn’t know…orphan…
how can you be sure?
…birth mark…thought you should know…not trying to replace…
Christopher stood uncertainly by the bed, eventually mumbling…you couldn’t…
…like to get to know…
not sure, maybe…
sorry, told myself I wouldn’t cry…
Dorothy wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. Christopher looked frightened. Then he placed a hand tentatively on Dorothy’s arm.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll be alright,’ he said.
Philippa knew then that they would be.
Hampshire Chronicle, page 5
Second family tragedy
According to Winchester City Police, the body of a man discovered in the River Arle on Thursday is believed to be that of a Mr William Mundy, aged 53, of Hyde Winchester, the husband of Mrs Grace Mundy who was herself discovered dead in November.
Mr Mundy’s body was uncovered by a gun dog belonging to Colonel Morrison of New Farm, Alresford. The reports say that the dog had begun sniffing around a pile of branches wedged against the river bank. When the Colonel went to look, he discovered a man’s body, which had suffered numerous injuries, cuts and lacerations, in particular around the face and hands. The investigating officers confirmed that they are treating the death as murder.
