by James Andrew
‘My mum’ll want me home when she finds out,’ Mary said.
‘You don’t want to let her turn you into a scaredy-cat,’ Katy said with a scowl. ‘Mine wouldn’t try to persuade me to chuck in a good job because of this.’ Katy, who was an orphan, had never admitted this to Mary and was making this up. One reason she was not leaving at a hundred miles an hour was that she had nowhere else to go.
‘I don’t understand you,’ Mary said.
To which Katy affected a devil-may-care attitude. ‘Weren’t you glad to get away from home?’
‘Yes. But anybody would be scared out of their wits by murder.’
‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from here.’
‘The job’s not that great,’ Mary replied. ‘Do you not hate Janet?’
‘Why?’
‘She’s so strict. She had me dust a room three times in a row yesterday because she wasn’t satisfied.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘She picks on me.’
‘It’s good for you. Don’t you know that?’
‘I cry myself to sleep some nights.’
‘Don’t be soft. It’s how they go on in the best houses. It gets you up to scratch. You’ll see. When you leave here and work somewhere else, you’ll find it’s a doddle. There’s no way I would leave this place. Now I’m in the kitchen, I’m learning to be a cook. Janet’s teaching me and she’s an expert at it. And I get to watch her all the time. She even lets me do sauces. She says I've got a talent. Once I’ve been with her a couple of years she’s going to see if she can get me a place with a chef. She knows one. Then I’ll really get somewhere in service.’
‘So she says.’
‘Yes. She does.’
‘It’s not just a way to get you to work like mad, is it?’
‘She means it. There’s no way I would want to annoy Janet because I know she can do that for me.’
‘I never see it coming when she lays into me. She terrifies me.’
With that, Mary rose from her seat to return to work and, after a moment, Katy did the same.
Katy often felt much the same about Janet but didn’t admit it even to herself. This was her life. She came from an orphanage, and this was what it had prepared her for. She felt she suited it exactly, not that she’d swallowed everything they told her. They had said this was the station in life that God had called her to, and that she should pray to God for the strength to carry out her duties and give thanks for the privilege of the opportunity.
As far as Katy was concerned, she had never met God, did not expect to, and did not know why someone she had never met should have any interest in her. She considered it bunkum that she was carrying out God’s duties, but she was carrying out her own, and she loved working in a kitchen. She liked the discipline of it, took pride in the cleanliness of the kitchen table, scrubbed by her so regularly and so carefully, the shine of the copper pans, scoured with such purpose by her after every use. She loved the litany of menus. They had a cadence of their own and, in worshipping the exactness of the phrase in the instruction, the weight of the ingredient and the timing of the cooking, Katy did find something that carried to her a notion of God.
She could see a blessing in the lightness of a soufflé and the delicacy in a flavour. She had hated the spitefulness of the other girls in the orphanage, and the uncertainty of the patronage or ill-favour of the matrons who ran it. She was under someone’s thumb here, but she could see a way to get to a position where she had charge over something, and she worried about losing this. She was young and could get work elsewhere but would she have the opportunities to learn to run a kitchen like the one here? Then a thought came into her head, and she became aware of the glower there must be on her face. She did her best to dismiss it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘She was bright, Evelyn, always brighter than me. She could have led a mission or a conservatory or something like that because there was so much talent in her, and she did have ambition, but father would never have approved. He didn’t think that sort of thing suitable for a young lady of her class.’
The man who was speaking lounged on a chaise longue in front of sweeping, brown, velvet curtains in a large sitting room resplendent with well-polished furniture, deep-piled rugs, and large oil paintings on the walls, one in the style of – was that Whistler? Blades wondered if it was an original. From his knowledge of Andrew Wright’s wealthy background, it could be. The man himself was of medium height, thickset, with a prominent belly, and balding. His skin was the paleness of someone whose outdoor interests were limited, and his eyes blinked behind gilt-framed thick lenses.
‘I’m very sorry to break such bad news,’ Blades had told him earlier on when he thought Andrew might be taking the death of his sister a bit too well, though the excuse could be made that things had not finished sinking in with him yet. Blades had his eyes totally focussed on Andrew Wright as he listened to him.
‘The sad thing is Father didn’t even let her get married. He was all right with me because I was the son, sent away to school, on to university and, of course, once I reached my majority, he settled money on me and I led my independent life. He was disappointed I wasn’t interested in business but made himself tolerate my passion for the arts. I write. I do get novels published, which he said he was proud of, though I suspect the opposite. It might have been different if I’d been a major writer but unfortunately, most people have never heard of me.’
‘Fathers expect too much,’ Blades said.
‘But he was over-protective with Evelyn. She was educated by a governess and, when she came out into society, he saw off any young man who showed interest. After mother’s death, he leaned on her. I could see why. He’d depended a lot on mother and he used Evelyn to replace her in so many ways. Then he became an invalid. So Evelyn missed out on things.’
‘What did your father die of?’
‘Cancer.’
‘A painful way to go.’
‘And slow. Anyone close suffered from watching him. And now, only one year later, this. Poor Evelyn. She didn’t deserve this. You don’t know, I suppose, when we can hold the funeral?’
‘There’ll be a post-mortem, but the body can be released after that.’
Andrew’s anxiety over this looked genuine. ‘Which will be how long?’
‘That’s not up to me but I doubt it will be long.’
‘So we can arrange the funeral after that?’
‘Yes.’
A wistful expression came onto Andrew’s face as he considered this. ‘Music. We’ll make the funeral music wonderful. She loved it. Father did at least arrange piano lessons for her with a renowned pianist. She could have performed in concert halls, but father would have considered it vulgar and there was no need for her to earn money, but perhaps she should have done public performances.’ Then a thought seemed to strike him. ‘I suppose – whoever killed her didn’t interfere with her in any way? She wouldn’t have liked that.’ There was horror on Andrew’s face now, at the thought of this, and Blades replied quickly.
‘There was no indication of that.’
‘And just the one blow did it?’ There was urgency in Andrew’s questioning.
‘There were two, but the first would have killed her immediately.’
Now Andrew said nothing, just stared back. Then relief expressed itself on his face. ‘That’s something to be thankful for.’ Then the realisation of her death seemed to hit him properly, and he looked away from Blades in a struggle to regain control.
‘Did you see much of your sister after your father died?’
Andrew forced himself to look back at Blades. He spoke slowly when he replied. ‘I think I expected to see more of her. I checked up on her at first, but she settled down and we got on with our separate lives.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
Andrew’s regret soured his mouth and his voice became halting. ‘About a month ago. It was her birthday and I took her out t
o lunch.’
‘How was she?’
‘Cheerful. Chatting about that Spiritualist church which I told her to give up on, even if she did maintain that it helped.’ Andrew’s tone was becoming more even now.
‘What did you think of this Mr Digby Russell?’ Blades asked him.
‘The minister? Never met him but he sounded suspicious to me. I thought the Reverend Watt from the Methodist Church was sound enough.’
‘In what way was Digby Russell suspicious?’
Andrew looked thoughtful. He sighed. ‘I thought she was too taken with him. I warned her about the type of man who might hang around a single woman with the money she had. She was sheltered.’
‘Why might Digby Russell have been a bad idea for her?’
‘A few reasons I can think of. He was shell-shocked in the war for one thing, and I’ve met a few of those. They can be downright creepy. And unpredictable. She felt so sorry for him and he was always round there. He’s just helping, she’d say. No minister would be round that much. He was after something. And I would be surprised if he had much money.’
‘You say he was shell-shocked?’
‘I heard it straight from Evelyn.’
‘You didn’t try to meet him?’
‘My sister was an adult. Our father did too much interfering. I thought it was time she was allowed to lead her own life. But I did ask her about Digby when we met.’
‘Did she ever complain about him, talk about arguments or threats? Was there any sign she might have been afraid of him?’
‘No. She thought too much of him. That was all.’
‘Do you know the terms of your sister’s will?’
‘I know what she told me. She said she was leaving me the house and all her money.’
‘No doubt the solicitor will be in touch.’
‘Yes.’ Andrew grimaced as if the thought of this was distasteful.
‘I’m sorry we have to ask but this is a routine question for all those concerned or related. Would you tell me your movements on the evening of July the 26th?’
Andrew Wright stared back at him. ‘Mine? You don’t have me down as a suspect, do you?’
‘It’s a routine question.’
‘You don’t think I could have done that to Evelyn?’
‘I don’t, sir, but I have to ask everyone.’
‘I suppose.’ He glared at Blades as he replied, ‘I was at the opera in Harrogate with a lady friend.’
‘What time did the performance begin and end?’
‘It began at seven-thirty and ended at eleven.’
‘Thank you, sir. And the name of the friend?’
Andrew told him and gave Blades her address.
‘One more thing, sir. Could I take your fingerprints?’
Andrew looked livid at the suggestion. ‘Now that is impertinence.’
‘We’ve taken fingerprints at the scene and if we can eliminate the fingerprints of the innocent then we can isolate the prints of the guilty, which would be useful.’
This did not sound convincing even to Blades. From what he assumed of housekeeping habits at Elmwood Hall, Andrew Wright’s prints should not be anywhere near that sitting room, unless he had been there on the night of the murder. Fortunately, Andrew agreed to co-operate.
Blades did spend a moment pondering how long it would take to travel to Harrogate from Birtleby and return, in the motor car parked in Andrew Wright’s drive, but thought it would not matter if it was established that he was at the opera at seven-thirty as he had said. Digby had said in his statement that he did not leave Miss Wright till about seven-thirty.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blades stood in the conference room at Birtleby Station and looked at the sergeants and constables seated in front of him with their notebooks and pencils poised. It was a pleasant morning and sunshine from the window illuminated the left side of his audience, which made one or two uncomfortable in the glare. Blades asked himself if he was summarising progress for himself or his force. Had he made any? He struggled with self-doubt for an awkward moment then, forcing a confident expression onto his face, proceeded to hold forth in his clearest, most authoritative voice.
‘First, the murder scene.’ He pointed to a photograph of Evelyn Wright’s body that was pinned to the board behind him. ‘Found dead at eight o’clock in the morning by the parlour-maid, Mary Cunningham. As you can see, Evelyn Wright was struck with two blows, the first of which would have been enough by itself to kill her, which means he must have wanted to make sure, and both probably came from the poker lying beside her. Fingerprints were taken at the site. A bottle of port lay on one side-table with Miss Wright’s fingerprints on it. There were two glasses on the scene, one of which still contained port. This also held Miss Wright’s fingerprints. One glass was on the mantlepiece. This one was empty and held the fingerprints of Digby Russell, a Spiritualist minister. Janet the housekeeper has given a statement saying that he visited her that evening. He let himself out and Janet didn’t see her mistress again that evening. The next time she was seen was when her body was found the next morning by Mary Cunningham. The police surgeon said she would have been killed sometime that evening, which has been confirmed by the post-mortem, and that was when Digby Russell was there. On the face of it, the minister did it.
‘We’ve interviewed him, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, which never means anything. The fact he suffered from shell-shock might be significant. He speaks to the dead, or leads séances anyway.’
One or two of the men sniggered.
‘And people believe him. He helps them.’
The sniggers stopped.
‘Whether he has a propensity for violence in his background we don’t know. He has no police record, but we’ll be interviewing his doctor. He ought to know something about Digby’s general mental state.’
‘If we’ve got our man, what are we looking for now, sir?’ someone asked.
‘Yes. Have we got our man?’ Blades turned and looked at the photograph of Evelyn, then down at papers on his desk. ‘We have the fingerprints of the servants and the family. We’re not aware of anyone else who was likely to visit. There are fingerprints in the room of Miss Wright, Digby Russell, Janet the housekeeper, and Mary the parlour-maid. There are no fingerprints belonging to Andrew Wright, the brother. On the desk are the fingerprints of Miss Wright, Mary Cunningham, and some unknown person who wore gloves.’
He paused to allow his men to consider the information they had been given, then continued, ‘The desk was opened. Only Miss Evelyn Wright could tell us whether anything is missing. The will was opened and read, probably after Miss Wright’s death.’
‘Who benefitted?’ A different voice, this time from the back of the room. It was Constable Flockhart, always one to ask questions, which Blades liked.
‘The brother, Andrew Wright, Janet the housekeeper, and Mr Digby Russell’s church.’
‘Which could still suggest Digby Russell?’ Flockhart continued.
‘Apparently.’
‘And the motive would be money?’
‘The post-mortem shows no indications of sexual assault. Money is a possible motive and Digby Wright might have had reason to think he would benefit financially, he was the last person known to have seen her alive, and he has the strength to inflict those wounds. And the simplest solution is usually the correct one. But…’
‘But what?’ This was Sergeant Milne, moustachioed and severe.
‘There was blood on the poker and it was mammalian. There was also a hair which has been confirmed did belong to Evelyn Wright but…’ Blades paused again. ‘The fingerprints on the poker were not the fingerprints of Digby Russell, not that they match the fingerprints taken from any other possible suspect but, if we arrest Digby Russell for this, we have to explain that to a jury. Which would be difficult.’
And Blades would have to find a way to explain it to himself. There had been enough trouble in the last case with arresting innocent men and he did
not want anything else on his conscience. He was relying on any evidence they had.
‘So we dismiss Digby Russell?’ This was a voice that came from Blades’ right, from a fresh-faced constable whom Blades did not know.
‘We’ll continue to investigate him and, if we come up with convincing evidence and an explanation of that poker, we can proceed against him. But we can’t stop looking elsewhere. The brother is a possibility, if unlikely. There is an alibi which we have to verify. He benefits the most from his sister’s will but he is apparently wealthy in his own right, though we will check with his bank to verify his current financial standing. He’s a bit of an odd bod. Fifty. Never married. A confirmed bachelor. Why? When he’s obviously eligible? This may have nothing to do with anything. In any case, we can only consider him if we can show he could have been at the scene.’
Blades looked down at his desk again. ‘I have reports from constables, and I will need more of those. As we haven’t placed anyone else in that drawing room, we need to continue questioning neighbours and ask the grocer’s delivery men, the postman, bus conductors, anyone who might conceivably have information, to see what strangers have been around. Can we place anyone else anywhere with Evelyn Wright? She’d become a bit of a recluse which should narrow people down, but if it’s not Digby we do have to place someone at the scene. We haven’t even found anyone else in the locality she’d been mixing with recently. As you carry out your duties in the neighbourhood, ask about. And there might be another witness somewhere. Usually, you do find someone who saw something, and that leads you to something or someone else, and so on. It’s a pity no one’s seen anything helpful so far in this case. There has been a report in the Birtleby Times so someone may come forward with useful information. Meanwhile, those of you on normal duties now know what we’re looking for, and the sergeants have organized rotas and areas for others, and they’ll communicate those to you.’
