Death Waits for No Lady

by James Andrew

  ‘Is that likely if they haven’t passed the stage of courting, or got to it properly yet?’

  Blades nodded. ‘If we knew how well that had developed, it would help. Or might there have been something valuable in the desk?’ Blades continued to give that thought. ‘If it was something in particular the killer wanted, he must have known it was likely to be there, so it was someone who knew her.’

  ‘Or just a quarrel?’

  ‘About what?’ Blades paused as he thought about this. ‘Though I don’t suppose that would matter with someone volatile if something arose. How volatile is Russell? A minister? You wouldn’t think he’d fit the bill. Still, as he was there, he’s the first suspect.’

  Blades liked working with Peacock. He was a good person to bounce ideas off. Battle-hard and battle-bright were the phrases that came to mind when Blades thought of his sergeant. Peacock had also been a sergeant in the army during the war. A self-contained man, he never spoke of it, but Blades knew well enough from others the horrors he must have seen.

  Police officers were not conscripted, though they were encouraged to volunteer. Blades had felt he ought to do his bit, but Jean insisted he stay at home. She had lost her brother Tom at the Battle of the Somme and she did not want to lose her husband, so he had continued with his police work. Jean praised him to the skies for it, told him he was being equally useful as a policeman, as someone had to make sure people left at home were safe, but it rubbed at his conscience. While men like Peacock were at war, men like Blades, with less competition to face, gained promotion at home. Perhaps it was the guilt he felt, but, when he looked at Peacock, he had a sneaking suspicion Peacock might be more able than he was, and Blades often felt the need to prove something to him. He could not help remembering the man had won the Military Medal.

  Blades sometimes wondered if Peacock resented him, though he did not appear to. Perhaps Blades just thought Peacock ought to. His sergeant was a resilient, spry sort of fellow who got on with his job with apparent stoicism and admirable competence. Blades watched Peacock as he busied himself with the camera. Peacock was a lean man with an unimposing manner, but he was not someone to be underestimated. Those photographs would be clear and comprehensive. The fingerprints would give all the information possible.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Janet opened the door and ushered in Dr Parker, a thin man in his early thirties who looked out of breath and inconvenienced, then horrified when he saw the body.

  ‘Miss Wright,’ he said. ‘Oh no.’ His eyes seemed to goggle as he studied her.

  Blades looked at him with interest.

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘No. And yes. I met her on social occasions around Birtleby, charity dinners and the like. I wouldn’t say I knew her personally, but it’s dreadful to see her like this.’

  He put his bag down beside her. ‘Have all the photographs been taken? I can move her to examine her?’

  ‘Yes,’ Blades replied.

  Parker knelt down, put his hand out to push some hair back from the forehead, and took out a glass to examine her with. He muttered as he wrote down notes in his black notebook. ‘How did it come to this?’

  Blades found this unusual. When he had worked with Parker before, he had made a display of his objectivity.

  After spending time studying the body, Parker said, ‘The cause of death seems clear. Killed instantaneously by a blow to the head followed by another one to make sure. It was unnecessary, but the killer wasn’t to know that. The skull is fractured in two places by some blunt instrument. The signs are it was the same one used to make each blow. Death by blunt-force trauma will be the phrase in the report, though we’ll check to see if there are indications of anything else in the post-mortem. The first blow probably killed her – by something heavy and presumably handy.’ His eyes swept round. ‘That poker would have done it, or anything of the same size or weight.’ He looked again at the poker. ‘There is blood on it. It can be checked to see if it’s mammalian.’

  ‘Perpetrated by a man or a woman?’ Blades asked.

  ‘A man easily – or a strong woman. The clothing hasn’t been disturbed so outrage is unlikely, but we’ll cover that in the post-mortem too. I suppose you want an estimate of the time of death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Parker manipulated Miss Wright’s hand and arm.

  ‘Stiff. Rigor mortis has set in.’ He touched the skin again and considered. ‘Absolutely cold. Dead over twelve hours. No more than thirty-six. And it’ll probably be impossible to be more accurate than that.’

  ‘Sometime yesterday evening?’

  ‘It would be possible. And I’d better take the internal temperature to check.’

  After he had done that, he turned to Blades and said, ‘Everybody was hoping she’d get some life to herself after her father died. He was bed-bound for so long, she can’t have had much of a time of it. This is tragic.’

  ‘Did you treat him?’

  ‘No, but all this was common knowledge around here. Then she became a bit of a recluse, though she was into séances.’ He sighed, tutted, glanced down at her again, then put his instruments into the bag and closed it. He turned, ready to go. ‘I’ll arrange for an ambulance to take her to the morgue.’

  But Blades was still interested in what Parker could tell him. ‘Did you hear anything else about her?’

  ‘A sheltered woman, a bit too sheltered. Mid-forties. Past her prime. A shame to get your freedom at last at that stage. Too late for children and a more normal life. The gossip was her father clung onto her and didn’t allow her any life.’

  ‘She was a recluse?’ Blades asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That could cut down the suspects,’ Peacock said.

  ‘Do you know anything about her friends?’ Blades asked Parker.

  ‘The Spiritualist church had its claws into her.’

  ‘Its claws?’

  ‘She was left a wealthy woman by her father, by all accounts. And she was hit by grief, and basically alone. Though there was a brother, I don’t think they got on.’

  ‘Digby Russell was her minister. Have you heard anything about him?’

  ‘Sorry. The Spiritualist church isn’t my scene. It’s not scientific.’

  Blades wasn’t sure if he was pleased to be reaching early conclusions or not, but Digby was such an obvious suspect: the last known person to have seen Miss Wright alive –a lonely, vulnerable, grieving but wealthy spinster – and him a man fifteen years younger than her who was spending more time with her than people expected of a minister.

  ‘Completely different from our last murder case at least,’ Parker said.

  ‘Is it?’ Blades replied.

  ‘Those bodies on the shore. He hasn’t come back.’

  ‘There are similarities. Death by a blow or blows.’

  ‘But definitely not the same instrument or instruments.’

  ‘No. Were there just different things to hand?’

  ‘Possibly. But I’m only trained to provide medical evidence. You’re the detective.’

  ‘Nowhere near a beach at least,’ Blades said.

  ‘And a completely different type of victim,’ Peacock added. ‘It’s alright, sir. It’s not him. He’s not returned.’

  ‘It’s my belief he left some time ago, or died,’ Dr Parker said. ‘Dead probably. We’ve been discussing that, we doctors. It’s a pity no one had the chance to study him, but from the pathology we did see, we don’t see why else he would have stopped.’

  Blades was embarrassed at his colleagues being so aware of his vulnerability over that case and did his best to keep a placid expression on his face. Three young women found dead on Birtleby beach on his watch, and they still did not know who it was. That left difficult scars. ‘There’s been nothing in the Police Gazette about similar murders elsewhere,’ he said.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Peacock said.

  ‘Maybe somebody got him,’ Blades said, ‘none of which helps us with this victim
.’

  Yet he did need to catch this murderer to help ease the continuing pain from those crimes, although Blades would not put this into words.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The centre garden at Elmwood Hall was laid out in a geometric pattern of box hedges round flower beds with, further off, a pond with clear, still water and lily pads, and a summer house overlooking a lawn. It was all neatly kept. The figure of a broad-boned man of middle age was stooped over in a bed of lupins. Trowel in hand, he was pulling at weeds and transferring them to a basket. His skin looked weathered, his expression disgruntled, but his concentration fierce, and he did not look to Blades like someone he would have chosen to disturb. When he and Peacock stood beside him, the figure looked up, glared, looked as if he were about to let loose invective, then paused for thought as he started to take them in, when his expression became questioning instead.

  ‘Mr Falconer? Charlie Falconer?’ Blades asked.

  ‘Dead to rights,’ Charlie replied as he set down his trowel and stood up. He was not as tall as either Blades or Peacock, but he was strongly built and there was something intimidating in his look. ‘You’ll be the police inspector?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Inspector Blades, and this is Sergeant Peacock. We’d like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘About Miss Wright? It was a dreadful thing that. You wonder what kind of person would do it. I hope you find him quickly.’ The tone was a contrast to Blades’ first impression of him.

  ‘We try to progress. I don’t suppose you saw or heard anything last night?

  ‘Last night? I was at home in my cottage. My wife Margaret can vouch for that. So I can’t tell you what was happening at the house, but if I’d heard anything, I’d have gone out to see what was going on. Miss Wright was a fine lady.’

  ‘About what time did you finish work?’

  ‘About half five and went straight home.’

  ‘And you spent all evening in your cottage after that, just the two of you?’

  ‘I’ve told you that. Yes.’

  ‘And you weren’t aware of anyone visiting the house?’

  ‘I didn’t see or hear anything.’

  Blades had been studying Falconer as he spoke. Was there something hidden in that now controlled expression? Blades swept his eyes round the garden.

  ‘You’re conscientious about your work,’ he said.

  ‘I did wonder whether to do my gardening today or not. Miss Wright won’t be paying me, but I expect her brother’ll see me right.’

  ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘About a year. The last man was finding it too much for him as he was starting to get on a bit.’

  ‘Has it been a good place to work?’

  ‘I manage the garden fine. Her ladyship was pernickety about her grounds, and she and Janet always wanted more out of that kitchen garden than you could get. But the pay’s been regular, and the cottage is fine.’

  ‘So you’ve mixed feelings about Miss Wright’s death?’

  Charlie thought for a moment, then flashed a glare at Blades. ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he said. ‘Miss Wright was a fine woman, formal like the rest of her class with servants, but she had a gracious enough manner to her. She just expected you to do your work well and know your place. She treated you with respect, so you always did your best by her. In any case, she made allowances. Margaret suffers dreadfully from arthritis – she’s my wife – and Miss Wright realised I needed to spend time with her. She knew that before I came but was happy with it. She was doing a good deed by employing someone in my situation and it was something she liked to do. She was a good woman. But she was demanding about the work. I wondered how I was supposed to manage it sometimes.’

  ‘Was your wife in the big house at all?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t go out of the cottage much. She seats herself in the garden now and again, but that’s about it.’

  ‘How did the other staff get on with Miss Wright?’

  ‘They just got on with their jobs. I don’t know of any ill feeling about anything.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her visitors?’

  ‘I never met them. I work in the garden.’

  ‘Still, it’s surprising what servants hear.’

  ‘Her brother visited sometimes. Apart from that, she didn’t have much in the way of visitors. I don’t think you’re supposed to feel sorry for employers – they’re your betters, aren’t they? – but she was a bit too much on her own after her father died, so you had to. That Digby Russell came around. I didn’t think much of that. A young man that age fussing over a woman like Miss Wright. It was plain as the nose on your face what he was after, but Miss Wright seemed to think the sun shone out of him. She thought he put her in touch with her father – so I heard. A load of baloney to get money, if he managed to get any – and I hope not.’

  ‘He was round last night, wasn’t he?’

  ‘So Janet said.’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t catch any sight of him arriving or leaving?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her relations with her brother?’

  ‘They weren’t close, but as everything I know came from Janet and Mary, you’d be better getting it from them. I hope you catch the man who did this, but I doubt there’s anything I know that can help.’

  There was a finality in the way he said this, and Blades thought it might be true, but he did wonder if Charlie Falconer had been as open as he had pretended. Blades supposed that his initial impression of the man lingered.

  ‘I’ll need to take your fingerprints,’ he said.

  The fierce look returned to Charlie’s face. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just for elimination.’

  ‘I’ve never been in the house. I’ve had to take up vegetables and flowers, but they won’t let the gardener past the kitchen.’

  ‘Still, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Then he paused. ‘Look, I hope you don’t suspect me. I liked Miss Wright. Who wouldn’t? She was a kindly soul. It was good of her to give me the opportunity of this job here. Lots wouldn’t.’

  ‘I see.’ And Blades did see. His understanding of Miss Evelyn Wright was growing. She could be seen as someone to take advantage of.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was a solid, stone-built Victorian terraced townhouse, one which did not immediately suggest a penniless adventurer to Blades, and Blades wondered where the money for it came from. The Spiritualist church was not a rich one, to his knowledge. The black, painted door under the glass window with the number 42 in gilt was opened by a sturdy, middle-aged man with a bald pate that shimmered under the light from the street lamp. Blades noticed his fit appearance, and the suggestion of the formidable in the questioning look he gave them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  Although the man lacked the traditional air of subservience, Blades assumed someone answering the door to a household of this type was a manservant. Blades held out his card and asked to see Mr Russell.

  The man took the card and studied it. ‘If you’ll come this way,’ he said.

  Blades and Peacock followed him. Blades was about to interview his main suspect and noticed the tension in himself. Blades knew he had to be at his most alert to make certain he missed nothing.

  He found himself in a sitting room with gilt-framed pictures and a large, brass gasolier below an ornate plaster centre-piece in the ceiling. The furniture was dark with some handsome, carved pieces. Blades and Peacock found themselves seated in high-backed chairs designed for elegance, not comfort, while the manservant disappeared into the passage.

  A tall, thin young man with black, neatly combed hair, and what looked a very deliberate smile, appeared. He offered his hand to each in turn and introduced himself as Digby Russell before seating himself facing them.

  ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’

  Blades allowed a pause as he studied Russell, before replying. Despite the practised smoothness in Digb
y’s manner, there had been a momentary nervous tic under his left eye.

  ‘Have you heard about the death of Miss Evelyn Wright? She came to your church, didn’t she?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. It’s tragic.’

  ‘Did you know her well, sir?’

  ‘I assisted her through her grief. I thought she was managing to reconcile herself, and I admired her courage. But it must have been hard. Her father suffered a long illness with difficult times.’

  Such a formal description of the relationship, Blades thought, and wondered at it.

  ‘Do you know if she had other visitors?’

  ‘To my knowledge, her brother. Do you suspect murder?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re a police inspector investigating a death. It sounds possible.’

  ‘As you say, it could be.’

  It definitely was, and Digby could know that as well as Blades did, but there was no point in spelling things out. Then there was a pause as Digby seemed to digest this.

  ‘She was on various charitable committees, I understand,’ Blades continued. ‘Was there no acquaintance from them who might be in the habit of visiting?’

  ‘I suppose there might have been, though I don’t know of anyone who did. It was some time since she’d been anywhere near any of her charities. As I said, her father had to endure a long illness.’

  ‘When did you last visit Miss Wright?’

  While Digby paused before his reply, Blades studied him with care, as, he noticed, did Peacock.

  ‘As you’ll know from Janet, I visited last night but didn’t stay long. There was something bothering her, and she didn’t seem in the mood for conversation with me, so I left.’

  ‘You don’t know what might have been upsetting her?’

  ‘Something to do with her brother, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘She said he had been telling her she ought to sell the house and get somewhere smaller, more suitable for a spinster, and she wondered how he could know if she intended to be a spinster or not.’