The Good Wife

by Jane A. Adams

  He let himself out through the kitchen door. The kitchen jutted from the rear of the premises, making an L shape with the wall of what would have been the dining room, had it not been used as Dr Mason’s study and dispensary. There were indeed footprints in the flower bed beside the French windows and the catch, even from the outside, looked flimsy. Henry guessed that rather than force the latch the would-be intruder would simply have broken one of the small panes of glass and reached in to open it. The breaking glass might have made a little noise but as Henry looked more closely, he decided that even that would be unnecessary. The windows in the door were small panes fastened into rather delicate-looking transoms. The putty that held them in place was old and brittle, and it would have been merely the work of a few minutes only for a single pane to have been silently extracted and a hand slipped through to raise the catch on the inside. The neighbours, Henry thought, must either have been very light sleepers or must have been anxious enough about events to have been listening out for something untoward. Perhaps, he thought, as he heard barking from across the wall, the dogs had heard something and raised the alarm. If so then he was grateful to the mutts. He heard Mickey’s voice and that of a woman, no doubt Mrs Morris telling Mickey all about the night’s events.

  Henry retreated to the kitchen door, noting that beyond the kitchen the house extended into a single storey that encompassed outside lavatory and coal shed and small lock-up used for tools. He inspected these briefly. Beyond this the garden was very long though quite narrow. He glimpsed fruit trees and what looked like another shed at the bottom. Henry wandered down the garden and discovered that this was in fact a summerhouse. It was painted a dark blue and like the rest of the garden was well tended. He opened the door and revealed a very pleasant space inside with two old armchairs, a small table and a bright red rug on the floor. A low oak bookshelf was set against one wall and glancing at the titles Henry decided that these were books that belonged to Mrs Mason and not the doctor. There were a few cheap romances, some books of fairy tales and history and also bundles of dress patterns. When he had opened the door he had not noticed the treadle sewing machine, which the door obscured as he stepped into the summerhouse. This was very evidently Martha Mason’s spot. She might have purposefully occupied a part of the bedroom, her desk and her wardrobe, her drawers in the chest of drawers, but this spoke of a place where a woman might be peaceful and calm and quiet and away from everything and in which there were no compromises, there was no accommodation of a husband and his sense of what was required.

  Henry sat down in one of the chairs, noting the little paraffin stove in the corner and that there were curtains at the windows, heavier and thicker than you’d normally expect to find in a summerhouse. She must, he thought, have spent a good deal of time here.

  Having decided that was the case, Henry began his search in the summerhouse instead of the residence she had shared with her husband. He went through the books from the bookcase, opened the dress patterns and unfolded them enough to satisfy himself that nothing was hidden inside. He inspected the sewing machine, and even the stove. He checked for loose floorboards and ran a hand down the backs of the cushions on the chairs, upended them and studied the upholstery beneath. He stood precariously on the bentwood chair that she used when seated at the treadle and inspected the roof joists and then went outside and continued his perusal.

  By the time Mickey joined him about an hour later Henry had collected a number of small items and laid them out on the round occasional table that had been set between the armchairs.

  ‘Nice dogs,’ Mickey commented. ‘One is the size of a wolf and the other is some kind of terrier and I’ll tell you which makes the most noise.’

  ‘I expect it’s the terrier,’ Henry told him. ‘In my experience they usually have ideas far above their size and station.’

  ‘Find anything interesting?’

  Henry gestured towards the table. ‘I’m not certain,’ he said. ‘This is evidently a space where she felt comfortable, but interestingly she didn’t deem it safe enough to keep the gun hidden here and besides she probably wanted that to be in the house. There are enough small items that puzzle me, though, and make me think she has not left her old life behind entirely.’

  Mickey looked interested. He plonked himself down in one of the easy chairs and pulled the table closer. Henry sat on the other chair and watched as Mickey inspected the little collection.

  ‘Postcard from Brighton, signed Felicity. A business card, for a solicitor. And another, now that is interesting, for a private detective agency. What’s this, a little bunch of pressed violets? The sort of thing a lover might give to a woman and she might keep but not necessarily want her husband to know about. Where did you find it?’

  Henry reached into the bookcase and withdrew a book that had seemed out of place. ‘It is a history of the French Revolution,’ he said, handing it to Mickey. ‘And it has a dedication on the flyleaf, though I’d not really thought it might be important as it seems to be much older.’

  Mickey flicked open the book. ‘“To my dearest George, Christmas 1892”. Martha Mason would not even have been born in Christmas 1892. But there could be a family connection perhaps. It’s a pity there is no last name and no address and no bookplate. Nothing that may guide us, in fact.’

  ‘And apart from your liking for their dogs, did you gain anything from the neighbours?’

  ‘Nothing that the constable hadn’t already told us. No description to speak of, they thought it was a man of about average height, and on hearing the dogs he ran down the garden and leapt over the wall at the bottom. It’s high but not impossible and there are trees and a bench which make it easier to climb.’

  Henry nodded. Very easy, he thought. He took a manila envelope from his pocket, unfolded it and slipped the objects he had found inside. And then they walked back together to the house. Henry wished he had more bodies to help with the search but knew also that there were few he would trust to do it properly, especially here where he did not know the local constabulary. But Sergeant Emory would be helpful, he thought. And there was a telephone in the house, from which he could call the station and summon Emory and anyone else that he thought appropriate. He suggested this to Mickey who agreed.

  ‘Emory strikes me as a solid man,’ he agreed. ‘And it is a big house for two people to go through.’

  Mr Otis Freeland had observed the comings and goings of the murder detectives with great interest. His colleagues in the press were unknown to him – mostly they were local or from major Midland publications and he was as yet the only novelty, come up from London.

  That novelty had brought him a number of questions the previous evening, lubricated by offers of liquid refreshment that he had happily taken up.

  Yes, he had been able to tell the curious, he knew the identities of the two murder detectives and yes, he had observed their work at close quarters. Both had enviable reputations, Otis revealed, and he had spent a companionable evening recounting to various members of the Fourth Estate tales of previous Henry Johnstone exploits. He had observed the frantic, scribbled notetaking of some and wondered how his tales would pan out once they made it into print. He was only too aware that he may be providing copy for more than one of the local dailies, there being little to report about this current crime.

  He in turn had asked about the Masons and the Phillipses and about the history of the little market town in which they all found themselves billeted.

  And, of course, everyone and his dog had a pet theory.

  ‘Mark my works it’ll be one of them gyppos.’

  ‘Reece and his folk are showmen, not gyppos. And he keeps a tight rein on his people. He makes too much good money here to risk it on trouble.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be a local. When was the last time we had a murder round here?’

  ‘Ay, but like as not it’s someone come up by train.’

  ‘Robbery gone wrong …’

  ‘But what was the woman
doing up in the paddock? Up to no good, if you ask me.’

  ‘Well, no one did! Mrs Mason was a good soul. A respectable sort—’

  Otis listened to it all. He knew about Reece, had in fact met the man on occasion and travelled for a short while with cousins of his, and occasionally used these contacts to carry messages, but he didn’t mention that here. Among this company, Otis was just another hack trying to scrape a living. Eyebrows, both sympathetic and derisory, had been raised when he announced himself to be a free agent, selling his stories where he liked or where he could.

  This morning he had been up early, walking and watching as the small town awakened. He had seen Henry and Mickey collected in the police car and taken to the infirmary. Had seen the more bleary-eyed of his colleagues assembling after breakfast and then, guessing at the inspector’s next destination, had found himself a nice spot from which to observe the Mason house and by purest chance overheard a conversation between neighbours about the attempted breaking and entering of the night before.

  Interesting, Otis thought. And now at least he was aware that there were dogs. Aware too that there was a faulty lock on one of the rear windows.

  Seeing the detectives arrive and ensconce themselves for the duration, Otis took himself for a walk. Earlier he had wandered around the workhouse grounds, taking in the layout and the exit points and deciding on his best play. He had slipped inside the infirmary building, assessed the easiest route to the mortuary and left with a green canvas jacket that he had noted was used by the few orderlies already working.

  The jacket was concealed beneath a hedge at the perimeter of the site. He headed back there now, strolling contentedly in the early summer sunshine with his camera stowed in a larger bag and nothing to suggest that he was not a local man of the middling sort on perfectly legitimate business.

  Sergeant Emory arrived about half an hour after Mickey had summoned him, bringing with him a young constable who looked very daunted to be in the presence of superior officers. Emory introduced him as Constable Potter and suggested that while Henry and Mickey make up one team, he and Potter should make up a secondary one and he could teach the young man the ropes while they were about it. Mickey agreed in principle but suggested that Potter accompany him while he photographed and also dusted for fingerprints where the intruder had tried to gain access the night before.

  Emory also had news. The surgeon had called the police station just before he had left with a message for Chief Inspector Johnstone and his sergeant. There had been no surprises in stomach contents, rate of digestions and so on and Mrs Mason was in good health but there was one thing that deepened the sadness of the situation. Martha had been pregnant, perhaps no more than ten weeks’ duration and it was even possible that she was not yet aware of this. Certainly no one had mentioned it, and Henry thought it would have been a very natural thing for somebody to mention. He doubted very much that the woman had been unaware; in his, admittedly, very limited experience, women knew there was something not right very much sooner, and most suspected pregnancy much more quickly than the doctors could confirm.

  So why wait? Was she concerned that her husband might disapprove? He had heard of a friend of his sisters who, after three miscarriages, had told no one about the subsequent pregnancy until it was halfway through – though many had presumably guessed by then. She didn’t want to jinx it, Cynthia had told him. Thankfully this one was delivered safe.

  He remembered what Nora had said about Martha being good with children, and his sense then that this had been a delicate subject and one which she regretted having raised.

  He put the puzzle aside and told Emory that he wished for another look at the master bedroom before moving on elsewhere. Emory obediently followed him up the stairs.

  ‘It’s a nice place this. I remember it was just tenanted before, and quite rundown it was getting. I think we were all glad when someone decent moved into the place and more pleased still when we found out that it was a doctor and his wife. Someone respectable. It doesn’t take much for an area to go downhill, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.’

  Henry nodded but didn’t trouble to reply, and noted that Emory seemed unfazed by his lack of response. ‘I wish to go through the contents of the desk again,’ he told Emory. ‘I would like you to inspect the husband’s wardrobe. Our examination was somewhat cursory the first time, though I doubt we’ll need to spend long on this room.’

  ‘Anything particular you’d like to keep an eye open for?’

  ‘Letters, bills, business cards – anything of that sort. Just lay them out on the bed and anything not relevant we can put back.’

  They worked in silence for a time, or at least almost silence. Emory hummed contentedly to himself, which amused Henry, but he noted that the man was doing a very thorough job, turning out pockets, looking beneath drawers and beneath the newspapers that had been used to line the base of the wardrobe. Henry turned more careful attention to the woman’s desk, laying out separate piles from each drawer and cubbyhole on the bed and then checking for secret compartments. Satisfied that the desk was thoroughly solid and had no secrets in and of itself, he pulled up a chair at the side of the bed and used it like a table to lay out what he’d found so far. After a time, Emory joined him, though his haul was not so great. A few receipts, a piece of paper torn from an envelope with an address scribbled on it, a cinema ticket for a film, Piccadilly, that Emory remembered being on in Newark a few weeks before. ‘About a dancing couple, if I recall correctly.’

  Henry discovered that Martha Mason had liked fancy stationery – nothing expensive but pretty notecards. There was a household account book in which everything was itemised and Henry put that aside. He was surprised to find that the bank statements were also on her desk rather than in her husband’s keeping, as was the cheque book for her husband’s account. But there seemed to be nothing else that was unexpected that would give Henry any further clues.

  He replaced the items from the desk and told Emory to do the same, retaining only from this stash the envelope with the address scribbled on it. He assigned Emory to look through Martha’s wardrobe while he inspected the chest of drawers.

  ‘Pay particular attention to the pockets of coats and dresses,’ he said remembering that his own investigation had pretty much come to a stop when Mickey had discovered the contents of the shoeboxes. Once again, anything that might be of interest was placed upon the bed.

  The chest of drawers seemed to contain only clothes, but Henry was interested to find that the newspapers lining these were not local. He removed the pages, interested to know that they too came from a Brighton newspaper, so that south coast connection seemed to be maintained. The newspaper in question was only six months old.

  ‘Nothing much to report,’ Emory said, ‘but I did find this.’ He held a slip of paper. ‘And it’s not a local telephone number. It was pushed into the corner of this evening bag.’ He paused and held the bag up for Henry’s inspection. It was white metal mesh, with a small chain. Looking closely at it Henry doubted it was silver though it was lined with a nice purple silk. Examining it closer, Henry came to the conclusion that Martha had probably lined the bag herself. The stitches were neat but he thought it unlikely that they had been professionally done and besides, these chainmail bags were usually unlined.

  He looked at the telephone number. ‘Definitely not a local number?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like the local exchange. No, my guess is it would be a trunk call to make this.’

  ‘Have it checked,’ he instructed.

  Carefully Henry ran his fingers along the lining of the little bag and he frowned. He found his pocketknife and used it to cut through the stitching where the lining was attached to the mesh. Emory watched with interest. The lining turned out to be doubled and created room for a pocket in which, laid out flat, were a quantity of notes. Emory laid out eight, large, white, five-pound notes, at Henry’s instruction being careful to handle the money by the corners
just in case prints could be found.

  Interesting, Henry thought.

  ‘It’s almost as though she wanted to be ready in case she had to run away, if that’s not being too fanciful,’ Emory proffered.

  ‘I do not think you are being fanciful at all,’ Henry told him. ‘I suspect that is exactly why she hid this money. We know that she had charge over the household accounts, but five pounds is a quantity that would be noticed, and she would have had to repeat the embezzlement on several occasions to have accumulated this much in cash. A few shillings here and there, a few pounds over a period of time, but—’

  ‘So if it did not come from her husband, where did she get it? Do you think she had it before she married him?’

  ‘It is possible. Yet another mystery to solve. Sergeant Emory, I think it is time for me to go and pay a visit to Dr Mason.’

  Otis had walked straight into the infirmary and turned towards the mortuary. He wore the green canvas jacket over his own clothes and felt somewhat hot and restricted by the tightly woven and heavy cloth. One glance at his trousers and shoes would reveal he was not an orderly but Otis knew from experience that people take little notice of individuals who seem to be about legitimate business and so he was not gravely concerned by this.

  The mortuary was down in the basement and the white-tiled rooms were quiet and empty. He had little trouble in finding the body of Martha Mason.

  He turned on the lights, hoping not to need to use the camera flash bulbs, but in the end, after taking several pictures without, he risked the flash for one final shot, focusing on the wound that had killed her so efficiently. The searing brightness worried him. He hurried away before anyone could investigate the sudden brilliant light showing through the basement windows, high up in the white-tiled walls.