A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  The deceased was known to have been a keen fisherman and had been seen alive the previous morning, having travelled to Alresford in order to engage in his hobby. His body was discovered just over a month after his wife was found dead in suspicious circumstances near the Cathedral.

  Mr Mundy had served in the Royal Navy on HMS Albion before retirement due to injury. Councillor Wing-Smyth, who represents St Bartholomew Ward, commented that his death, so soon after that of his wife, would certainly affect the local community, where he was an influential figure.

  Mr Mundy is survived by a sister, two nephews and two nieces.

  32

  Friday 19th December

  18th December

  Philippa, complements of the season. I hope the enclosed brings good news. Your affectionate Uncle Bertram.

  ***

  Abraham & Dobell, Solicitors & Commissioners for Oaths

  Prebend House, 2 Westgate, Southwell,

  Wednesday 17th December, 1919

  Mrs E.C. Elkins

  c/o Prof. B. Cunningham

  Adams Road

  Cambridge

  Dear Mrs Elkins

  Re: Mr Edward Charles Elkins, deceased

  I acknowledge receipt of your letter addressed to my partner Mr Abraham who is regretfully on an extended leave of absence due to ill health. I must confess to being rather astonished at the contents of your communication, hence my response by return of post. I can assure you that the firm of Abraham & Dobell has never in its long history disclosed confidential information in an improper manner and I have no reason to believe that anything of the kind has occurred in relation to yourself.

  In any event, on perusing the file (although there are a number of papers which appear to have been misplaced temporarily and which Mr Abraham no doubt has in his possession) I can find no record of your address, other than that of your relation in Cambridge. Rest assured however that the distribution of your late husband’s estate will not be delayed. We have been fortunate to find a willing purchaser for both the real estate and shares. The required formalities have been completed expeditiously and we are in the process of drawing a cheque for an amount that I anticipate, after deduction of necessary costs and expenses, will be in region of £892, 10s. The aforementioned cheque will be dispatched to you with all due speed, and you may also expect to receive contemporaneously further particulars regarding your beneficial interest in the estate trust.

  Yours sincerely

  Mr M. M. Dobell

  33

  Sunday 21st December

  Bishop Fox’s Chantry Chapel was sited in the Cathedral’s south presbytery aisle, his stone cadaver lying in a recess in the outer wall, bars to the front, blue painted panels to the back as if he was enclosed in a man-made rib cage. The cadaver had been carved in early stages of decay: skin shrunken over bony contours; toes and fingers taloned; pointed nose and chin rubbed pumice-grey by centuries of prurient hands. Delicate tracery, like a medieval crown, rose above the stone body: empty plinths upon empty plinths where statues of saints would once have stood, topped with breast-pecking pelicans. To the left of the cadaver, a narrow wooden door was set into the stone, leading through the Chantry to the clergy’s robing room behind the High Altar.

  The story had it that Bishop Fox went blind in old age, and so was forced to feel the sculptor’s portrayal of his own imminent corruption to check that it was satisfactory. Creswell found the cadaver’s head the most disturbing. It was thrown back, slack jawed, its gaping mouth the sure sign that death had come. Creswell leaned heavily on his walking stick, the still-raw wound in his side throbbing dully. The tomb was certainly having its desired effect. He felt old and vulnerable and fearful of his own mortality. It had been a mistake to get out of bed today, let alone to walk the short distances between his house and the College and then on to the Cathedral. On the other hand, he could not have stayed cooped up at home for another day while Mrs Stevens fussed over the business of tablets and tea. He needed companionship and familiar liturgy. Even his beloved Holmes had brought little comfort. Yesterday he picked up the Adventure of the Abbey Grange, the tale of the heroic Captain Croker, slayer of his sweetheart’s abusive husband. Conan Doyle’s story had seemed trite and theatrical. For the first time in his life, he had put the volume aside unfinished.

  He recognised this restless, dissatisfied feeling. During his time as a military police officer, it had come over him at the end of every case. But this seemed different. He felt bereft, both of a puzzle to occupy his mind and of his companion. From time to time, his role as College chaplain might mean that he could call into Sick House under the pretext of visiting a sick pupil or exchange a few words with Philippa after Sunday service. But it would not be the same. The College Gate had become a barrier between them. When they next met, would it be as strangers?

  That morning he had called in at the porters’ lodge in the vain hope of meeting her. Keeping herself to herself, Frank informed him, adding in a knowing undertone that Tokarev had gone. The Bursar had suggested that it would be better if the Russian Master did not return after Christmas, no reasons given, and so he was to be bundled off to a minor public school in Nottinghamshire. Teresa Urchfont’s doing no doubt, Creswell thought to himself; she must have decided that the risk was too great. He felt sorry for Tokarev – to have escaped persecution in Russia only to find it again in the refined confines of Winchester College was unfortunate. But he could not feel guilty about his own involvement in uncovering Tokarev’s affair. The man had committed adultery and must accept the consequences.

  Dean Brownrigg appeared at the top of the aisle steps, flanked by two unknown clergymen. The South Africans. Damn, he had forgotten all about his visitor. The bald stout clergymen must be De Villiers; the younger man, Reverend Boskoop, who shot a sideways glance at Creswell as he was herded inside the Chantry. In their absence, Creswell took the opportunity to task one of the virgirs with a message for Mrs Stevens to make up the bed and light the fire in the spare room. She would not be pleased.

  The Dean was the first to emerge, taking Creswell aside. ‘Their train was delayed,’ he grumbled, ‘otherwise the Reverend would have been delivered to you earlier.’ He glanced at Creswell’s stick. ‘I heard you were indisposed. We can make other arrangements if you’re not up to visitors.’

  ‘Not at all. I’d welcome the company.’

  ‘Good show. I’ve been meaning to have a word,’ the Dean’s tone softened, ‘I appreciate your discretion with regard to Mrs Brownrigg’s - how shall we put it - hobby.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Creswell hoped that he sounded both conciliatory and apologetic. He had come to accept that his stance towards the Dean had been unjust. Brownrigg had been protecting his wife, a woman whose reputation would be destroyed if her vice became known. He would have done the same for Mamie if he had needed to. ‘The matter has resolved itself,’ he added.

  ‘Oh yes – how so?’

  ‘The culprit has lost his life. So we believe at least.’

  ‘No doubt for the best – I shall pray for the restitution of his soul. If there’s anything I can do for you...’

  ‘There is one thing. I promised that I would raise it. The Diocesan Refuge appears to be in dire need of additional funding for the women’s education. Could I rely on your support to increase the grant?’

  ‘Indeed, a worthy cause.’ Brownrigg seemed anxious to agree. ‘Propose it at the next Chapter and I will support it. Ah, I see our visitors are ready.’

  Creswell extended his hand to Boskoop. ‘You’re lodging with me I believe.’

  Boskoop grasped Creswell’s hand firmly. He was a handsome young man, dark-haired and blue-eyed with a tanned complexion. He smelt of cinders and steam.

  Creswell studied Boskoop’s face more closely; something about it disturbed him in a vague sort of way. The virgir and the Crucifer moved off towards the crossing and Creswell followed at a well-practised slow march with Boskoop at his side, De Villiers and the Dea
n bringing up the rear. Their metal heeled shoes clicked on the stone like the chirruping of startled birds. Then it came to him. Boskoop’s bright blue eyes reminded him of the boy in the Standerton concentration camp eighteen years ago, the one who had stared so fixedly at him during the poor girl’s burial. The memory made him stagger and Boskoop caught him under one arm.

  ‘Everything is alright Canon?’ Boskoop pronounced his ‘e’s like ‘i’s.

  ‘A recent wound,’ Creswell extricated himself. ‘I can manage now, thank you.’

  The choirboys were hastily forming a line, the tardy or dishevelled ones earning themselves a slap around the back of the head from a lay clerk. The Dean stepped forward to address them. Creswell took the opportunity to rest surreptitiously against Bishop Wilberforce’s monument, one hand on the marble head of a kneeling angel. He focussed his eyes on the brass chandelier; the Crucifer had nudged it with the cross and it was now circling gently.

  ‘I won’t be joining the procession,’ he told Boskoop. ‘The service is in the Nave and the walk would be a little too much for me I think.’

  ‘Then I will accompany you directly to the Sanctuary,’ Boskoop replied, his stare intense. ‘Is something else disturbing you Canon?’

  ‘No...Yes. This may sound a little odd. You remind me of someone, and of something that I ought to have done many years ago.’

  ‘We have left undone those things that we ought to have done,’ Boskoop said. ‘Those wise words from the Confession apply to us all Canon.’

  The organ sounded for the first hymn. The choirboys shuffled off behind the Crucifer.

  O come, O come, Emmanuel

  And ransom captive Israel

  That mourns in lonely exile here…

  Creswell opened his mouth to sing – no notes came. He forced himself to look at Boskoop again. ‘My omission relates to your countrymen. I was a military police officer during the South African war. You must have been just a boy during that time?’

  ‘I was nine when the fighting began,’ Boskoop said. ‘Mercifully my family were able to escape abroad.’

  ‘So you didn’t experience the camps?’

  ‘I did not. And you?’

  ‘I saw the horror of those places and I...I did nothing.’

  ‘What could you have done?’

  ‘I could have written to my superiors. I could have protested. I did neither. I told myself that someone else would act.’

  Permain approached, bowed to the Dean and turned, his silver verge outstretched mace-like to forge a way for the clergy to follow.

  …Disperse the gloomy clouds of night

  And death's dark shadows put to flight…

  Creswell felt Boskoop’s hand supporting his elbow and together they set off. Creswell’s legs felt so heavy that they seemed to be dragging behind him like a train.

  ‘I’ve never found myself in such a situation,’ Boskoop said. ‘I hope I never will.’

  ‘But I suspect you cannot help but condemn me,’ Creswell answered.

  Boskoop shook his head. ‘For certain, I feel anger when I hear about what happened during those times. But if my family had been threatened, God knows what I would have done. Locked up the English in one of their own camps? Who can say?’ Boskoop’s light voice held a hint of menace. ‘And so, I have no right to condemn. You have already done that to yourself it seems.’ He helped Creswell lower himself into one of the wide high-backed chairs surrounding the Nave altar. ‘Listen to the absolution Canon,’ he whispered. ‘It’s yours too. It’s for all of us.’

  Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

  Shall come to thee,…

  Creswell breathed deeply as the throbbing in his wound gradually subsided. In Boskoop’s words, had there been a small glimpse of God? The deep organ notes reverberated through the Cathedral’s bones. Creswell opened his mouth and bellowed the final words, ‘O Israel.’ He felt released.

  34

  Mrs D. Beard

  Queen Street

  Southwell

  23rd December

  Porters’ Lodge

  Winchester College

  College Street, Winchester

  Dear Lizzie

  It’s strange yet delightful writing to you under your new married name, although of course it’s not new to you, sadly only to me. It was lovely to see you again last month. I cannot say how sorry I am to have been a source of anxiety to you, but hope you now understand why I had to leave so furtively.

  But those days of hiding myself away may be over I believe. Yesterday, a cheque arrived, for more money than I’ve ever had in my life before. There are many temptations in the shops at present but I must be good! First thing in the morning, I will deposit the money in the bank. This could mean a new life for me Lizzie, although I wonder where it will be? I hope I can make it a life that would have made father proud.

  You and Daniel must come and visit me in Winchester after Christmas. It’s a beautiful city in some ways, full of secret nooks and crannies. You’ll be able to compare the hulk of a Cathedral with our beloved Minster. If the idea doesn’t appeal, please don’t hesitate to say. It’s a day’s journey and you may not be able to get away. I realise that I hardly asked about you when we met – I have become so terribly self-absorbed and selfish. It comes of living alone I suppose. What are your interests nowadays? Please write and tell me your news.

  In the meantime, may I wish you a very merry Christmas and hope that you will accept this small gift.

  With much love and affection,

  Philippa

  35

  Wednesday 24th December

  Philippa deposited the cheque that morning, choosing Westminster Bank on the High Street so that she could open an account in her married name. On sight of the amount, the woman behind the counter scampered off to find the manager. Mr Wilkes, a short man with a waxed moustache, led Philippa to a chair and effusively assured her, at rather too close a proximity, of the wisdom of her decision to invest with his establishment. When at last the handshakes were over and she escaped onto the pavement, she felt giddy and tempted to break into a run. Eight hundred and ninety five pounds. She could renew her efforts to find a medical school to take her, or more to the point, her money. The thought made her stomach turn. Her fantasy was close to becoming a reality and it scared her. How would she cope in one of those highbrow institutions, alone and no doubt the only woman? Was she clever enough? Did she really want to leave this place which had given her a home, of sorts? She shook herself physically in an effort to rid herself of worrisome thoughts. For now, she would settle for the black leghorn in the milliner’s window.

  There was a feverish good humour on the street, families calling to each other across the roaring cars and lumbering loaded carts. The butchers’ shops had opened their doors wide, displaying suckling pigs with sleeping smiles next to hunks of beef, bones and sinews on show like veins on a moth’s wing; ox tongues and geese drooped on shelves, garlands of rabbits and pheasants dangled overhead. ‘Best steak 6d a pound.’ Elkington’s even had a shaggy-haired ox head in pride of place.

  A clockwork train hurtled through a cotton-wool landscape in the window of Prouten & Dugan. Gawking children bickered: ‘the bicycle is better’; ‘no it isn’t, I like the train’; ‘Look, there’s a station and a signal too’; ‘I’d still have the bicycle’; ‘Let’s get some gob-stoppers.’ Smells of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and milled coffee surrounded Lipton’s. Its windows were piled high with boxes of dates, figs, crystallised fruits and Christmas crackers. Harried assistants spanked pats of butter into greaseproof paper and shovelled out currants, raisins, orange peel and sugar.

  Philippa paused beside the fishmongers, feigning interest in an enormous whole salmon submerged in a sea of whitebait. She surreptitiously examined her reflection in the mirrored tiles that lined the display. She had dared to have her hair cut into a bob and was rather proud of the result. The sleek line, brushing her chin and rising to the nape of her neck, made her face seem softer
, less austere, freer maybe. She shuddered as the memory of George Elkins’s reflection in the milliner’s shop mirror came back to her. But there had been no sign of him since he had been seen off by Godwin and her fear of him had subsided just a little. With the cheque safely banked, she allowed herself to hope that he might be prepared to let her be.

  She went through the passageway by the Butter Cross. Miss Brown’s tea rooms were doing a roaring trade: tea and a mince pie, 2d. The Cathedral stood grey and stern against the chill blue sky, a disapproving presence in the midst of pagan jollity. She hurried across the Green and into the Inner Close. The trench by the south transept wall had been filled with rubble, the only signs of the Diver’s Gang a scattering of concrete dust and muddy drag marks on the ground. She heard a piano playing and as she approached Prior’s Gate, a boy’s voice sounded through an open window in the half-timbered Pilgrims’ Hall: Once in Royal David’s City… A strong, bold voice close to breaking. A second boy tried, timid and pure, perfectly in tune. She wondered who would be chosen for Midnight Mass.

  She buried her hands deeper into her coat pockets feeling the sharp edges of Canon Strange’s invitation dig into her palm. She could recall its remote formality off-by-heart:

  Canon Creswell Strange requests the pleasure of the company of Miss Philippa Lambert for light refreshments in celebration of the festive season.

  Christmas Eve, 4 o’clock, 61B Kingsgate Street

  R.S.V.P.

  Her reply had been just as formal. She had pushed it through the Canon’s letterbox at a time when she knew he would be out. She had no wish to encounter him unprepared. She knew that such a meeting would be awkward and she would find it hard to disguise the gnawing feeling of envy that had dogged her ever since the end of the investigation into Grace Mundy’s death. For him, another such adventure might fall into his lap any day. But why should that matter? She had money now; she could do what she wanted.