After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery)

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ agreed Bill.

  The Commander’s brow furrowed into a series of straight lines. ‘And it was Miss Wingate who reported the supposed murder of Signora Bianchi, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That incident is still under investigation.’

  The Commander’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Considering Signora Bianchi is alive and kicking, I wouldn’t have thought there was much to investigate.’ He stroked his moustache into place. ‘Still, no doubt you know your own business best.’ He paused with his hand on the chantry door. ‘It’s interesting how that young woman, Miss Wingate, seems to crop up, isn’t it?’

  His meaning was unmistakable, but Jack, with great restraint, refrained from saying anything.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ asked the Commander, and opened the chantry door. ‘It all looks pretty normal at first, if you can call this place normal. I’ve passed it by hundreds of times, but I’ve never been inside before. Quite extraordinary place. Lythewell and Askern have always been a most well-respected firm, as indeed are the two senior partners themselves. Mr Askern will be a sad loss as he was a very well-thought-of man, but I really do think that old Mr Lythewell must’ve been a little eccentric, to say the least. I never knew him, of course, as he was long before my time.’

  He led the way into the main body of the chantry where, sprawled across the empty tomb, lay the body of Henry Cadwallader. His arms were flung wide and the back of his head was matted and dark with blood.

  Bill turned to the photographer. ‘I’ll tell you what I need photos of later, Mr Clough. Just keep clear until I say otherwise, yes?’

  The photographer, who’d taken one look at Cadwallader’s body, gulped ominously and retreated hastily to a pew at the back.

  The doctor drew his breath in sharply and, clearly nerving himself, took his thermometer out and feeling under Cadwallader’s jacket slipped it under his arm. ‘The body’s completely rigid,’ he remarked. ‘That ties in with the idea he was killed after six o’clock last night.’

  Jack knelt down beside Cadwallader. By his outstretched hand was a pencil, where it had evidently dropped when he was struck down. A sketch book, open at a half-finished drawing of the tomb, lay beside it. Half hidden by Cadwallader’s body was the old sketch book containing his original drawings of Josiah Lythewell.

  ‘I don’t think he anticipated the attack, Bill,’ he said quietly. ‘It looks as if he was working on his sketch when the blow was struck.’

  ‘Could the murderer have crept up unnoticed, d’you think?’ asked Bill.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jack. ‘Cadwallader was a bit deaf, but he was used to having this place to himself. I think he’d have noticed someone come in, if he didn’t notice anything else. I think it’s more probable that he knew the person who attacked him and was taken completely off his guard.’

  Dr Oxenhall shuddered. ‘Dreadful, quite dreadful,’ he muttered. He removed the thermometer and held it up to the light, his lips moving as he calculated the times. ‘I’d say he’s been dead for ten to twelve hours at least.’ He stood back from the body and shook his head. ‘I had taken it for granted that this must be a random attack, perhaps by a passing tramp or vagrant, but that doesn’t seem to be possible, does it?’

  Bill shook his head. ‘The fact that Mrs Askern had to unlock the door to get in this morning rules that out, sir. A tramp wouldn’t lock up after himself.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Jack. ‘Besides that, poor old Cadwallader would hardly continue placidly drawing while a tramp came poking round the building.’ He rummaged in Cadwallader’s satchel and drew out a large key. ‘That’s Cadwallader’s key to the chantry, so the murderer must’ve used their own key to lock up behind them.’

  ‘That should narrow things down,’ said Bill in satisfaction.

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Jack. ‘However, Cadwallader told me that not only did the Lythewells and the Askerns have keys, there was another openly on display in the offices. Hello,’ he added suddenly. ‘What’s this? There’s something gleaming under here.’

  Wrapping his handkerchief round his hand he reached under the plinth of the tomb and, holding it delicately by the edge, brought out a heavy brass vase.

  The vase was roughly cylindrical with a bulbous bottom and waisted to form the shape of an elongated tulip. It was about eight inches high with a wide, round, heavy base. The base was matted with blood and white hair. Its weight and shape made it an excellent weapon.

  The doctor drew his breath in. ‘That’s the murder weapon,’ he asserted confidently.

  ‘Look at the hair caught up on the base. Besides that …’ He gingerly lifted the matted hair round the wound on Cadwallader’s head and nodded. ‘If I had a magnifying glass you could see this more clearly.’

  Bill opened his briefcase, took out a magnifying glass and handed it to the doctor.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. Look at the shape of the wound. Yes, I’d say there’s no doubt about that whatsoever.’

  He handed the glass back to Bill. ‘Look at this, Jack,’ said Bill, glancing from the wound to the base of the brass vase and back again. ‘You can see for yourself how the edge of the wound corresponds with the base of the vase.’

  Jack took the glass. ‘That’s very clear, isn’t it? The wound’s deeper in the middle but the edges are shallow, just as you’d expect if poor old Cadwallader was sloshed with a circular object.’ He measured the wound between his thumb and index finger, then measured the base of the vase. ‘Yep, that certainly ties up.’

  ‘You’ll take the precise measurements in the post-mortem, won’t you, Doctor?’ said Bill, returning the magnifying glass to his bag. ‘I don’t want there to be any doubt about it in court.’

  He took out his insufflator and mercury powder and, carefully placing the vase on a pew, puffed the powder over the vase. An array of fingerprints sprang into view. ‘Excellent,’ he breathed, then raised his voice. ‘Mr Clough! Come and photograph this, will you?’

  Mr Clough reluctantly came forward and, under Bill’s direction, set to work photographing the vase and the body.

  After Clough had finished with the vase, Bill went to pack it carefully away in his bag, but Jack stopped him.

  ‘Wait a mo, Bill.’ He felt inside the vase. ‘It’s still a bit damp inside. I think it’s recently held water and flowers.’ He glanced round the chantry. ‘I don’t think the vase belongs in here. The shape’s very modern in comparison with the rest of the ornaments. It’s certainly not a Victorian vase, but it could have been brought here at a later date, I suppose. Vases like this usually come in pairs. Can you see the other one, Bill? I’d expect to find some discarded flowers, too.’

  They stood up and, with the help of the doctor and Commander Pattishall, started to look for the other vase.

  ‘There aren’t any cut flowers in the chantry at all,’ said Bill after a search. ‘I can’t see any vase that looks like the one you found. I think you’re right, Jack. I think it’s been brought in from elsewhere.’

  ‘Which makes me think this was a premeditated crime, Bill,’ Jack said quietly. ‘No one carries one brass vase round with them just for the fun of the thing. By the way, it seems like old news now, but I had a dekko at the chantry picture while we were looking for the flowers. If that flagstone or inlay can be moved, I’m a Dutchman.’

  ‘So no hiding place for hidden treasure?’

  ‘Not there, at any rate.’

  He turned as a top-hatted, frock-coated man, who was, judging from his clothes, the local undertaker, creaked open the chantry door and came in, reverently doffing his hat. ‘Can we remove the remains now, sir?’ he asked Commander Pattishall.

  The Commander looked to Bill, who nodded. ‘I don’t see why not. I think we’ve got everything we need from here.’

  The undertaker called his men in, who produced a stretcher and with difficulty started to man-handle the rigid body away from the tomb and on to the canvas. This, thought Jack, was not
nice to watch. There was a grimly comic element to the way even Cadwallader’s corpse, rigid in death, resisted being taken from his beloved chantry, he supposed, but Jack didn’t feel remotely amused. He looked away, oddly moved that this gifted – for he had been very gifted – fussy, infuriating but rather pathetic personality of Henry Cadwallader should end with so little dignity.

  ‘By George, look at this!’ called Commander Pattishall sharply.

  He stooped down and picked up a gleaming blue and green little square case from the floor, where it had been hidden by Cadwallader’s body.

  They all crowded round. It was an enamelled cigarette case with a sunburst design on it. ‘It’s a dainty thing, isn’t it?’ said the Commander, evidently very pleased with himself. ‘I can’t see Cadwallader owning a case like that.’

  Bill reached out and carefully took the cigarette case, holding it by the edges. ‘This is a woman’s cigarette case.’ His eyes were bright. ‘It was under the body, Jack. It could be the murderer’s. It’s very distinctive.’ He snapped his fingers together. ‘I’ve seen it before! I wonder if there’s a name engraved in it?’

  ‘There is,’ said Jack, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘It’s engraved inside the lid. I’ve seen that case before as well. It belongs to Miss Wingate.’

  Commander Pattishall’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Does it, by Jove!’ He stroked his moustache vigorously into place. ‘I told you that young woman’s name kept cropping up. I think we’d better have a word with Miss Wingate.’

  Jack was unusually quiet as they walked to Whimbrell House. Dr Oxenhall had accompanied the undertaker’s men to his surgery, where he was going to perform the post-mortem, and Mr Clough departed to his studio to develop the photographs.

  Bill allowed Commander Pattishall to get ahead of them. ‘Jack,’ he said quietly, ‘you must see I’ve got no choice but to question Miss Wingate. She has to account for the fact her cigarette case was found under Cadwallader’s body. What’s more, coming on top of the fact she was the one who discovered John Askern, I have to say it’s not looking good.’

  ‘It’s looking,’ said Jack, picking his words with care, ‘bloody awful. I know you know that Betty Wingate’s cigarette case isn’t proof positive that Miss Wingate was there, but I can see how it looks, all right. What’s more, that brass vase was certainly the murder weapon. If the fingerprints on the vase match Betty Wingate’s, what then?’

  ‘Then I haven’t got any choice, Jack. I’ll have to take her into custody.’

  ‘But why, Bill? Why should she bump off old Cadwallader? Come to that, why should anybody bump him off?’

  ‘Why should anyone have killed anyone in this case?’ replied Bill with some asperity. ‘From our first mysteriously vanishing body in Signora Bianchi’s cottage to John Askern in Mrs McAllister’s flat to that poor beggar Cadwallader, I can’t see the reason for any of it. I’ll grant you Miss Wingate doesn’t seem to benefit, but no one seems to benefit.’

  ‘Mrs Askern certainly had a motive to kill her husband.’

  ‘Yes, she did,’ said Bill fairly. ‘And if it turns out that John Askern, in addition to his other failings, was running that flat as a love-nest where he’d installed Mrs McAllister, a very compelling motive. The trouble is, we both saw Mrs McAllister and spoke to her. She’s hardly anyone’s idea of a siren, is she?’

  ‘No, I have to say that’s true.’ Jack shook his head unhappily. ‘There has to be a reason for the murders, though.’

  ‘I can’t say I like it much more than you, but the trouble is, the reason may be something we wouldn’t recognise as a real reason at all. For all I know, Colin Askern might have put his finger on it right at the start, when he talked about Miss Wingate wanting attention.’

  ‘Psychology?’ asked Jack, raising his eyebrows with the faint ghost of a smile.

  ‘Yes, psychology, damn you. Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but she could easily be suffering from wounded pride. She’s a poor relation, Jack. She could feel constantly overlooked, with no future to look forward to and a festering sense of inadequacy.’

  ‘Good grief, Bill, this is positively creepy.’

  ‘I know. And it doesn’t make sense to you or to me or to anyone else that’s normal and well-balanced. But if all murderers were normal and well-balanced, my job would be a great deal easier. Lots of murders have been committed for reasons that are utterly trivial.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack unhappily. ‘I know.’

  A maid showed them into the drawing-room of Whimbrell House and informed them that Mrs Lythewell would be down shortly.

  The drawing-room clearly showed the hand of Mrs Lythewell, being fashionably decorated in brilliant lemon, green and black. Stylised yellow and green tulips embroidered the cushions on the angular black sofa and chairs and entwined themselves across the rug in front of the gleaming chromium fireplace.

  ‘It’s not exactly to my taste,’ said Commander Pattishall, looking round the room disparagingly, ‘but it’s bright enough. Ladies have to have their fancies, eh?’

  Jack pointed to the brass vase full of fresh freesias in the middle of the mantelpiece. ‘Does that look familiar?’

  ‘Great heavens!’ exclaimed the Commander, reaching out to pick it up. ‘Why, it’s the same as the other vase we found!’

  Jack caught hold of his hand. ‘Excuse me, Commander, but it would be as well if no one touched it. Bill, can you test it for prints?’

  The Commander snorted, causing the ends of his moustache to lift. ‘But dash it, man, whatever for?’

  ‘Just for the sake of completeness, Commander,’ said Bill.

  Mrs Lythewell entered the room to find her three guests grouped round the mantelpiece, gazing intently at her vase. ‘Good morning, gentlemen …’ She stood back in surprise. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘We’d like to see if there’re any fingerprints on this vase,’ explained Jack cheerfully. ‘Is there a newspaper or something we can use to stand it on?’

  Mrs Lythewell’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That seems rather peculiar.’ She shrugged. ‘Just as you like.’

  She produced a newspaper from the rack by the fireplace and Jack spread it on the table near the window. Then, holding the vase by the lip, Bill carried it over to the table.

  ‘Freesias have such a beautiful smell, don’t they,’ remarked Jack conversationally, ‘and these are really lovely.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I love fresh flowers – so sweetly pretty – but the gardeners are always so tiresome about letting you cut them when they’re at their best. They want them to make a show in the garden but Betty brought the freesias in yesterday. She can always get her own way with the men.’

  Taking out his insufflator and mercury powder, Bill puffed it over the highly polished brass surface of the vase.

  ‘This is very dramatic,’ drawled Maud Lythewell, stepping forward and running her long pearl necklace between her fingers. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ snapped Commander Pattishall in disapproval, peering at the vase. ‘You can see for yourselves there’s nothing there.’

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ agreed Jack, an odd note of repressed excitement in his voice. Bill glanced at him in surprise. ‘There isn’t a single fingerprint on that vase. Mrs Lythewell, can we take this vase, please? Inspector Rackham will give you a receipt for it.’

  Maud Lythewell shrugged. ‘I suppose, if you really feel you must. You can put the freesias in the other vase.’ She looked at the mantelpiece and her brow furrowed. ‘Where’s the other vase? There were two here yesterday.’

  ‘Are you sure, Mrs Lythewell?’ asked Bill.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she snapped. ‘I bought those vases as a pair from Heals when I had the room redecorated last year. They act as a motif for the whole room.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jack, again with that note of suppressed excitement. ‘There were two of them.’

  ‘If you really are going to take my vase, I’ll have to get another
one for the flowers. I wonder what Betty’s done with the other one? She must’ve moved it.’ Maud Lythewell frowned. ‘How very tiresome.’

  She went to the mantelpiece and rang the bell. ‘Mabel,’ she said to the maid when she appeared, ‘ask Miss Betty to join us, will you? And can you,’ she added, waving a languid hand at the brass vase, ‘find a suitable vase for these freesias?’

  ‘Major Haldean,’ said Commander Pattishall, with some irritation, ‘can you explain why you want to deprive this good lady of her property?’

  With a glance at Maud Lythewell, Jack hesitated. ‘Do you ever read Sherlock Holmes, Commander?’

  ‘Eh? What the dickens has Sherlock Holmes got to do with it, man?’

  ‘The famous incident of the dog in the night time,’ said Jack.

  Commander Pattishall reached the limits of his patience. ‘Would you mind explaining yourself, sir?’

  Bill, who’d looked equally puzzled, smiled slowly. ‘Got it,’ he said quietly. ‘Never mind the reasons just at the moment, sir,’ he said, with a significant glance at Maud Lythewell. ‘Suffice it to say that we’ll take good care of this vase and it may be very valuable evidence.’

  The Commander snorted in disapproval and was clearly about to demand a fuller explanation, when the door opened and Betty Wingate came in. She looked drawn and anxious.

  ‘You want to see me, Aunt Maud?’ she began, and stopped as she saw the men in the room. ‘Jack! Inspector Rackham! I didn’t know you were here.’

  She looked at them with worried anxiety. ‘I suppose you’ve come about poor Mr Cadwallader. Mrs Askern’s asleep upstairs. She was dreadfully upset.’ She stopped and looked quizzically at the brass vase on the sheet of newspaper. ‘Whatever are you doing with that vase? And why’s it got grey powder all over it?’

  ‘We’ve been testing it for fingerprints,’ explained Jack. ‘We didn’t find any.’

  ‘Oh! I see – or I don’t really, but I suppose you know what you’re doing.’