Death Waits for No Lady

by James Andrew

  DEATH WAITS FOR NO LADY

  A historical murder mystery set in Yorkshire

  JAMES ANDREW

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2018

  © James Andrew

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

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  CHAPTER ONE

  A scratching somewhere woke him, and he tried to place the noise, then realised it must be a branch against the bedroom window. He blinked as his eyes took in the grey of dawn before he glanced at the dark, curly head beside him. He was pleased to see that Jean still slept. He tried to suppress a groan as he turned onto his other side to avoid the creep of light. He thought perhaps this would help his sleep return, but the branch still knocked, and his mind returned to that blood-sodden place it often was at this time of day. He possessed a high-sounding title, Inspector Stephen Blades of Yorkshire Constabulary, but, when waking, he was often a quaking wreck as he thought again of that blood-soaked sand, and that rock.

  His eyes began to concentrate on his surroundings. This bedroom reflected Jean, with that framed picture of a sunny meadow and those rose-patterned curtains, and he thought of the neatness with which clothes were arranged in drawers and hung in wardrobes. He was sure that if she did not have him so calmly organized, he would never get through anything; he was glad to be reassured by the steady sound of her breathing as she slept.

  His mind filled again with the rush of waves on the shore and he could still feel the coolness of the breeze on his skin as he had stood on the sand gazing at the body on the blood-drenched sand, its auburn-locked head gashed by a rock. This had been the third corpse on that beach in a few months and, as one of the investigating officers, he still felt responsible. They should have caught the murderer before then.

  Blades turned to his other side, then back again, realised sleep was not returning, and rose, pulled on his dressing gown, then staggered to the bathroom where he relieved himself. As he started on his morning wash, he reflected that the grey, anxiety-ridden face in the mirror was almost unrecognizable as his own.

  The murders had stopped. They never knew why, just as they had never found out who had committed them, and Blades still wondered whether he deserved to continue in his job. It was Chief Inspector Walker of Scotland Yard who had been in charge, with Blades seconded onto the investigating team for his local knowledge. After the investigation, Walker had been moved from the Yard to one of the local forces. Blades had felt the disgrace as well, but they had praised his conscientiousness. Blades supposed that one scapegoat was considered enough, he had continued with normal duties and hoped no major crimes would come along. He attempted to look sure of what he was doing although he no longer was.

  Blades was tall and wide-framed, with a strong jaw and, normally, a naturally firm look in his eyes; he had a reasonably quick brain, and possessed a bluffness in his manner which helped inspire confidence in others, so that, by putting one foot in front of another with contrived boldness, he got from the beginning of one day’s work to the end with surprising lack of incident and sometimes success. But he never forgot he had helped hang an innocent man.

  After finishing his toiletries, he gave the mirror a grimace which he corrected into the confident smile it was supposed to be, then walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. He discovered Jean there ahead of him, yawning and filling it with water ready to be heated.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mary was fourteen and had been in her job as parlour-maid for only a few months. As she had been brought up in a smoke-blackened tenement, she was in awe of the house she found herself working in. Elmwood Hall was one of the best houses in Birtleby, with a seemingly endless number of rooms, and imposing bay windows that looked out over sweeping grounds which, as might be expected, were leafy with elm. The house required an endless amount of work from servants: Mary’s day lasted fifteen hours. She thought of herself as less of a parlour-maid and more of a skivvy. Janet had told Mary that fifteen hours had always been normal for a parlour-maid in that house, though what did make things more difficult was that there were fewer servants than there used to be. And even though the staff had been reduced after Miss Wright’s father died, Miss Wright expected the house to be kept to the same standard.

  It was one of Mary’s duties to polish furniture, which included the mahogany wardrobes, the four-poster bed in her lady’s room, the escritoire, and the bookcases, among many other pieces. Then there was the silver to be looked after, the cutlery service, the dinner service, the trays, and the silver-framed mirrors and candlesticks. This was on top of the normal housework she had anticipated, the scrubbing of floors and the beating of carpets. Mary had to learn the names of a lot of the furniture she looked after, and she still had no idea what some of the cutlery could be for. There was so much to learn for a girl who had been brought up in two rooms with only a kitchen table and some chairs in one room and, in the other, a ‘set-in’ bed, a couple more chairs, and a blanket box. Entering service had been walking into a different world, and she had met different types of people there. Her mistress’s vowels had been as polished as she expected the silver to be. This was a world of backs held straight, and restricted displays of emotion. Miss Evelyn Wright was the first lady Mary had met and she still had not adjusted to her.

  That morning, Mary had started at six, cleaning and blackening the kitchen range and lighting it, then whitening the front steps, and now she was clearing out and making fires in the rest of the house. Because she was doing the dirtier tasks, she was wearing one of her print dresses with a ‘morning apron’ of rough hessian, though she wore the usual goffer cap. Mary�
�s mother had scrimped and saved for Mary’s uniforms. The house was dark, and Mary drew back curtains and lit gas mantles as she went along. When she opened the drawing-room door, light filled it from the hallway so that when she entered that room she could see clearly, too clearly. She shrieked. She dropped the bucket she was carrying. Though this spilled ash over the floor, that did not merit a glance from her. She stood stock still, unable to move.

  Stretched out on the Turkish rug in front of the black marble fireplace lay Mary Cunningham’s employer, Miss Evelyn Wright, or what had been her. The head was thrown back, bruised and bloody, with the still eyes protruding. There was a wound on her forehead and her nose was at an odd angle. The dark-green georgette dress was bloodied too. Mary stared at Miss Wright’s emerald brooch which still sparkled – it seemed incongruous now. Mary gawped at her employer for a further long moment, before she forced herself into the only action she could think of and scurried off to fetch the housekeeper.

  Mary had met death before. She had lost a brother in infancy, and a sister had died of TB, but this was her first acquaintance with murder. She was moving in different circles now.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Inspector Blades stepped out of his car outside Elmwood Hall, he noted the elms, the yew hedge, and the ornate iron gates.

  ‘Bit of a change from the type of places we’re usually called out to,’ his sergeant, Aloysius Peacock, said.

  ‘Sometimes you state the obvious,’ Blades replied. ‘It’s one of the most desirable areas in Birtleby.’ And definitely a better class of murder than the last one, he thought, as his mind returned to it. ‘I don’t suppose it makes any difference to the victim,’ he said.

  As Blades and his sergeant strode up the drive to the door of the three-storied mansion, Blades glanced at the man beside him. Peacock belied his name with his flat grey cap and grey suit made of a material of questionable quality, and Blades was aware of his own rumpled suit and well-worn bowler. If he had known, he could have put on a dinner jacket.

  The door was opened for them by a maid in her teens, who they were to learn was called Mary Cunningham. Her face seemed to be competing with the whiteness of her cap, and the deep-brown eyes gazed at them with anxiety. Blades showed his card as he introduced himself.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, then paused. ‘Thank you so much. Please come in.’

  They were ushered into the hallway, the servant disappeared, and a buxom, middle-aged lady appeared and introduced herself as Janet Farrell, the housekeeper.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘We’ve been beside ourselves. That such a thing should happen, and to such a person. Miss Wright was quality. And I’ve known her most of her life, girl and woman. I remember her sitting dressing her dolls. I never expected her to meet her end like this.’ Then the words seemed to stop by themselves as she stood wringing her hands. ‘It’s a tragedy.’ She stood for another moment, then more words rushed out. ‘You’ll want to see where she died? Not that I can bear going there again, but we’d better get on with it.’

  ‘If you could show us there, we’d be grateful,’ Blades replied.

  Janet unlocked the dining room door.

  ‘We haven’t disturbed anything,’ she said. ‘Who would want to, and who would dare? Poor Miss Wright.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Blades said as they entered. Both Blades and Peacock peered round.

  ‘And no one’s been in at all since the body was discovered?’

  ‘No.’

  Blades looked at the corpse prostate on the rug, which suggested Evelyn had been standing in front of the fire when she was killed. He took in the angle of the head, arms and legs, and the position of the blows to the head. It was convenient to see what he took to be the murder weapon –a long-handled, brass, blood-spattered poker –on the rug beside her. Blades’ eyes continued round the scene. There was a book on the side-table by the settee and he supposed Evelyn had spent part of the evening reading it. Blades glanced across at Peacock as he saw him nod towards a glass on the mantlepiece, and Blades took in the one on the side-table as well. The glass on the side-table still held some port, though what had been in the one on the mantlepiece had been finished. Plates with sandwiches lay on a large table. All of this suggested someone known and welcomed into the home, and Blades wondered who it could have been. Signs of a struggle were obvious: a lamp and chair had been overturned. There was no indication of the theft of valuables, with items such as Miss Wright’s jewellery untouched. Blades supposed there had been an argument, and he wondered at the cause of it. He noticed the lid of the desk was open and wondered if it had revolved around papers. He began by asking Janet his standard questions.

  ‘Do you see anything missing from the room?’

  Janet’s eyes flicked about the drawing room. ‘No.’

  ‘Is there anything you wouldn’t expect to see?’

  Janet’s eyes scanned the room again. ‘No.’

  That did not mean the visitor had left nothing of himself behind and Blades would make sure he found anything there was, fingerprints at least.

  ‘I take it Miss Wright didn’t smoke cigars?’ Peacock said. He looked in the direction of an ashtray.

  Blades smiled to himself. No. Peacock wouldn’t miss that.

  ‘Oh, no, sir.’

  ‘Who was her visitor?’ Blades asked.

  ‘Mr Russell, the minister.’

  ‘And there was no one else?’

  ‘No.’ Blades noticed the effect the implications of that had on Janet.

  ‘Did you see him when he arrived?’

  ‘I opened the door to him, and I wish I hadn’t now,’ she said, gazing at the body. Her thoughts seemed to wander, then her face crumpled, and Blades waited for her to recover composure. ‘It would have been about eight,’ she said at last. ‘Miss Wright was expecting him and had me make cucumber sandwiches especially for him.’ She gestured to the table with its plates of food and decanter of port. ‘Mr Russell did visit sometimes; she said he was a comfort to her after the death of her father, and she didn’t like to be disturbed once I’d shown him up. But surely it wouldn’t be the minister?’

  ‘We consider anyone and everyone.’

  Janet wrung her hands again. ‘It does look bad. Digby comes to visit and when someone next enters this room, Miss Wright’s lying there dead. Who else could it have been?’

  ‘If the evidence points to him, then it does look bad,’ Blades said, ‘though it might not continue to. We’ll see. About what time did Digby arrive?’

  ‘Let’s see. About seven.’

  ‘And could you say what time he left?’

  ‘No, sir. I couldn’t.’

  Blades turned to Peacock. ‘You’d better get the camera out and take the necessary photographs of the crime scene, the body, of course, the glasses, the table with sandwiches, and the open escritoire to start with.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Peacock set down his black leather bag, took out his bulky camera with its conspicuous flash bulb, and began.

  ‘He was often round,’ Janet said. ‘She was in a right state after her father died. I didn’t think much of him myself. It would have been better if it had been the Methodist minister they always had to do with before, but she’d taken up with the Spiritualist church. I don’t believe in all those séances they go in for, but Miss Wright was convinced. And it seemed to help.’

  As Blades considered this, he noticed Janet’s eyes hardly left the body, and it occurred to him she might be able to think more clearly if she was elsewhere. ‘We need to leave Sergeant Peacock to the crime scene,’ he said. ‘Is there somewhere we can discuss this?’

  Janet took him into the dining room. The room was dominated by the well-polished mahogany dining table, its high-backed chairs with their velvet seats, and by a resplendent chandelier. Blades pulled out seats for himself and Janet. Seating himself opposite her, he smiled in as reassuring a manner as he could. She looked taken aback at his self-confidence in Miss Wright’s d
ining room as she seated herself opposite him.

  ‘A dreadful shock for you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’ll do our best to find your mistress’s killer.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You heard nothing untoward, no loud voices, or the sound of a struggle?’

  ‘No. Come to think of it, I didn’t even show him up.’ Another anxious look came over her face as if she thought she had been derelict in her duties. Then she continued, ‘He’s been here so often before.’

  ‘Quite,’ Blades said.

  ‘I opened the door to him and he went straight upstairs, and he was just normal. Relaxed and smiling, his smarmy self.’ She gave an apologetic-looking smile as if embarrassed by the comment.

  ‘He was?’

  ‘Oh, he’s charming. Too much so in my book, but I wouldn’t have said so to Miss Evelyn.’

  ‘And where were you during his visit?’

  ‘I was doing accounts in the housekeeper’s office.’

  ‘Which is situated where?’

  ‘In the basement.’

  ‘Well away from here. What time did Mr Russell leave?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t listening for him. He always showed himself out.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘Mary.’

  ‘Could I speak with her?’

  Janet walked over to a bell pull beside the fireplace and rang for the maid. When Mary reappeared, Blades studied her. Mary was thin and underdeveloped, and he supposed her background had been impoverished. He hoped life in service would fatten her up a bit. She still looked as anxious as when he had first seen her, with a remarkable number of lines on her forehead for such a young face.

  ‘You found the body?’ Blades asked, and Mary nodded.

  ‘It was a shock, sir. I was just coming into the drawing room to do the fire, and there she was. Miss Wright was a proper lady. Who’d have thought anyone would do her in? I can’t credit it. I saw her just the day before and she was so full of life.’