by Graham Ison
‘Not for me, thank you, Lord Slade. I have work to do.’ Hardcastle was not against drinking, even Irish whiskey, but he always refused to take a drink from someone who might turn out to be culpable in the crime he was investigating. And he had no reason, at the moment, to rule Lord Slade out of what was fast becoming an extremely complex enquiry.
Once Sidebottom had managed to find a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, and Lord Slade had a substantial measure in his own glass, he appeared calmer.
‘Get rid of Sidebottom, boy,’ Slade said to his son. ‘The man’s a bloody liability.’ That domestic problem resolved, he turned to Hardcastle. ‘When I was down at the stables, Inspector, I heard one of your men asking O’Reilly if he knew of any part of the stable or grounds that had been disturbed. What was that about, eh?’
‘If ground has been disturbed recently, it’s possible that we might find Lily Musgrave’s body there,’ said Hardcastle bluntly.
Oscar Lucas paled at this prospect, despite having been through the war and doubtless witnessed violent death many times. But when the victim was someone with whom he had admitted having sexual intercourse, it presumably made a difference. On the other hand, Hardcastle, who had not missed Lucas’s reaction, thought it might betray guilty knowledge.
Lord Slade, however, was unaffected by the statement and appeared to take a more technical view of the problem facing Hardcastle.
‘I was born here, Inspector, and I know every square inch of this estate. Supposing you and I take a stroll around the grounds and I’ll tell you if anyone’s been messing about with the earth. How would that suit you?’
‘That would save me a lot of time, and if we’re lucky, it would prevent any further disruption to you and your family by a search of the house.’
‘Bugger the family,’ said Slade. ‘It’s time it was disrupted. Anyway, they’re all in Ireland apart from the boy here. Her Ladyship won’t come near this place, nor will my two girls. Probably just as well if people go about murdering people, eh?’
‘We don’t know that for sure, Lord Slade, but a search might resolve the question one way or another.’
‘Or it might not resolve it at all, eh?’ said Slade, demonstrating that he had a keen brain, despite all the bluster and the exaggerated gesticulating. Once the peer had finished his whiskey, he struggled out of his settee with much squeaking of the leather.
‘Let’s see if we can find you a dead body, Inspector.’
‘You come with me, Marriott,’ ordered Hardcastle. ‘Catto and Lipton, you stay here and keep an eye on Captain Lucas.’
‘Am I under arrest, then?’ asked Lucas, plaintively.
‘Not yet, boy,’ muttered Slade and, turning to Hardcastle, said, ‘Quickest way to get to where we’re going, Inspector, is out of the back door.’ He strode through to the hall and, pausing only to select a walking stick from the six or seven in the stand, led the way to the rear of the building.
It soon became apparent that Lord Slade knew his own land intimately. He also knew the less open areas and started there, seemingly enjoying himself in seeking the whereabouts of a dead body.
‘If anyone’s looking for somewhere to bury something, Inspector, this is the sort of place I’d choose.’ He led the way between a group of oak trees to an enclosed area surrounded by dense gorse. ‘I thought this might be a good place,’ he said, ‘but it’s obvious nothing’s been disturbed. Never mind. Follow me.’
And so the quest continued. Moving from one sheltered part of the extensive estate to another, Slade spent most of his time staring at the ground. But it was all in vain until he decided to return to the house by way of a slightly different route that took them through the kitchen garden.
Slade stopped, quite suddenly, and pointed with his walking stick. ‘If that ain’t disturbed earth,’ he said, indicating an area in the centre of the garden close to a row of young runner bean plants on cane poles, ‘then I’m the Flying Dutchman. Just look at that, Inspector. You can see someone’s been at it.’
‘It certainly looks fresh, Lord Slade,’ agreed Hardcastle, but wondered why a disturbed patch in the middle of a kitchen garden should have particularly attracted the peer’s interest. It seemed a fairly logical place for anyone to dig. But perhaps that would make it less suspicious.
Slade turned and shouted for someone called Winters.
Moments later, a man of about sixty emerged from the door to the kitchen. Attired in an old smock and corduroy trousers with straps around the knees, he was wearing what appeared to be army-issue boots.
‘You wanted me?’ asked the man, casually touching his shapeless felt hat with the forefinger of his right hand.
‘Of course I wanted you,’ said Slade. ‘That’s why I called your name. This is Winters, my head gardener, Inspector. He’s a surly bugger but what he doesn’t know about the grounds isn’t worth knowing and he could teach Capability Brown a thing or two about gardens.’ He turned back to his gardener. ‘Winters, this is Inspector Hardcastle.’
‘Oh, ah!’ Winters took an old clay pipe out of his pocket and started to fill it.
‘Have a look at that patch of earth, Winters,’ Slade said, pointing with his walking stick, ‘and tell me about it.’
‘Someone’s been at it,’ said Winters without moving an inch. ‘And afore you say owt else, it weren’t me.’
‘But you’re the only one who has anything to do with the kitchen garden, Winters.’ Slade was beginning to sound a little frustrated but his obvious tetchiness had no effect on the head gardener.
‘That’s right. And as it weren’t me, it must’ve been someone else. Is that all, then?’
‘Get a shovel and dig it up. The inspector here wants to know what’s down there.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Lord Slade,’ said Hardcastle. ‘If what I think is down there, it needs to be a police officer who uncovers it. It’s essential for continuity of evidence. All I need from Winters is a couple of shovels. And if he’s got a riddle, that might be useful. Oh, and a trowel.’
‘Well, you heard the inspector, Winters. Get to it.’
Muttering inaudibly, Winters ambled towards a shed in the corner of the kitchen garden and took out the items that Hardcastle had requested.
‘Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘fetch Wood and Bodkin up here from the stables. They can start turning this soil over.’
It took about half an hour of careful digging, the two officers taking it in turns while Hardcastle and Marriott stood watching.
‘I think we’ve found it, sir,’ said Wood, standing up and taking the opportunity of a brief respite to ease his aching back by leaning on his shovel.
Hardcastle stepped closer to the excavation and leaned down so that he could see more closely. Wood had uncovered a hand.
The DDI stood up again. ‘Use the trowel from now on, Wood, so’s you don’t cause any post-mortem injuries that might confuse the pathologist.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Wood, like Marriott, was an experienced detective with many years’ service and always tried to hide his resentment at being told how to do his job. But occasionally it did boil over.
‘Marriott, get hold of Doctor Spilsbury and ask him if he can spare the time to come down here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marriott turned to Slade. ‘Are you connected to the telephone, Lord Slade?’
‘Well, of course I am,’ said Slade. ‘Isn’t everyone? It’s up at the house. Be quicker if you went through the kitchen, Sergeant Marriott. Cook will show you the way.’
It took a further twenty-five minutes of painstaking removal of the soil before the entire body of a woman was revealed.
‘That’s Lily Musgrave, without a doubt,’ said Hardcastle, staring down at the girl’s face. He stepped back and put his hands in his pockets. ‘All I’ve got to do now is find out which of the young gentlemen who was here the weekend before last was responsible for her death.’
‘Or which of the young women, sir,’ said Wood.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh, so you think it’s a woman who was responsible, do you, Wood?’ Hardcastle abhorred a junior rank offering an opinion and he did not bother to hide the tinge of sarcasm in his voice.
‘I don’t know that it’s not, sir. Yet. Any more than I know it’s murder. Yet.’
Hardcastle glowered at Wood, but Wood was retiring from the Force in six months’ time and what Hardcastle thought of him was of no consequence.
‘D’you want the body removed, sir?’ asked Wood.
‘No, I think we’ll wait for Doctor Spilsbury to arrive. I once dealt with a case of arsenic poisoning where there wasn’t enough left in the body for conclusive proof of murder but there was in the ground surrounding it. That’s why we’ll leave it where it is and the good doctor can decide what he wants done next.’ Hardcastle glanced at Slade. ‘I really need something to cover the body with, Lord Slade, just in case it rains before the pathologist gets here.’
‘Winters!’ roared Slade.
Once again, Winters emerged from the kitchen door. ‘What now?’
‘Find a clean tarpaulin for the inspector, large enough to cover the diggings.’
‘I might get my tea in peace in a minute,’ muttered Winters.
‘I swear to God, I’ll sack that man for his impertinence one day,’ said Slade.
It was close to seven o’clock by the time that Dr Bernard Spilsbury arrived at Slade House and it was already dark. Winters was despatched to obtain a lantern.
Spilsbury spent some time on his hands and knees examining the body as closely as was possible in the light of a hurricane lamp.
‘There’s nothing further I can do here, Hardcastle. You can safely remove the cadaver.’
‘Where would you like it put, sir? I daresay Lord Slade has somewhere convenient.’
‘Not at all satisfactory. I couldn’t conduct a post-mortem examination in a greenhouse,’ said Spilsbury jocularly. ‘How far is the nearest hospital, Lord Slade?’
‘About two miles, Doctor. It’s in the Dorking Road.’
‘Excellent. All we need now is a means of transport to get it there.’
The grumbling Winters was summoned once more and told to find someone called Scudder.
‘And tell him to bring the brake as near as he can to the kitchen garden,’ said Slade.
Five minutes later, a light brown Rolls-Royce shooting brake drew to a halt at the entrance to the kitchen garden. There was a look of envy on Marriott’s face as he studied the classical lines of the vehicle, its gleaming acetylene lamps and its beautifully crafted wooden bodywork.
‘You wanted the brake, milord?’ The chauffeur, attired in a grey livery consisting of a tunic, breeches, leather gaiters and a peaked cap with a cockade, strode up to Slade and saluted.
‘Will this do, Doctor?’ asked Slade, indicating the shooting brake.
‘Handsomely, Lord Slade. A fine motor car, if I may say so.’
‘Had it from new since 1910. It was 1910, wasn’t it, Scudder?’
‘Yes, milord.’
‘Good. This is Doctor Spilsbury. He has a body for you to take to Epsom hospital in the Dorking Road.’
‘Very good, milord.’ Scudder replied without emotion or question, as though transporting dead bodies at nigh-on eight o’clock at night on Good Friday was an everyday occurrence.
‘I take it you’ll want to go with the body, Doctor?’ asked Slade.
‘Yes, and so will Mr Hardcastle and his sergeant.’
‘Marriott,’ said Hardcastle, ‘get hold of Gandy and tell him to telephone Epsom hospital and advise them that Doctor Spilsbury will be arriving shortly with a body and will need facilities for conducting a post-mortem.’
To Hardcastle’s astonishment, Scudder went to the back of the shooting brake and withdrew a stretcher. ‘D’you always carry a stretcher in your shooting brake, Lord Slade?’ he asked.
‘Only since last year, Inspector,’ said Slade. ‘One of me guests managed to shoot a beater up the arse with both barrels. Damned careless, but he was never a very good shot. I put the word around and I doubt he’ll be asked to any more shoots. I mean to say, it’s all right to shoot a fellow guest up the arse, but it’s not the done thing to go about shooting your beaters. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. Damned bad form.’
SEVENTEEN
It had taken some time for Detective Sergeant Gandy to convince the staff at Epsom hospital that the famous Dr Spilsbury was actually on his way with a body. Especially as it was eight o’clock on a Good Friday evening.
Bernard Spilsbury had first come to the notice of the general public four years previously when his evidence in what became known as the Brides-in-the-Bath case resulted in the conviction for murder of George Joseph Smith. Smith’s counsel, the equally famous Sir Edward Marshall Hall, had argued eloquently that the deaths were accidental drownings, but Spilsbury proved conclusively that they were not. Since then, every case in which he had been involved attracted the attention of the newspapers and the public, many of whom thronged the public gallery of any court in which he was to give evidence.
Lord Slade’s Rolls-Royce shooting brake stopped at the main entrance to the hospital. Spilsbury alighted first, followed by Hardcastle and Marriott.
The man standing on the steps was of medium height and perhaps a little overweight. He had not taken a great deal of trouble with his appearance, apart from his carefully arranged ‘fold-over’ hair. The crumpled suit he was wearing had seen better days, and a watch chain drooped between the lower pockets of his waistcoat. His shoes had not been polished for some time, and although his bow tie was of a sober pattern, the soft collar of his scrupulously clean white shirt was showing signs of fraying. Part of a stethoscope hung untidily from one of the side pockets of his jacket.
He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Arnold Hughes, Doctor Spilsbury, chief of medicine. Welcome to my hospital. Although we’re a charitable foundation, I’m pleased to say that we boast many facilities that are the envy of other similar establishments.’ Using both hands, he tightened his bow tie, a habit that he was to repeat from time to time. ‘Just tell me what you require and I’ll do my best to provide it.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to impose on you at this late hour, but in criminal cases there is always some urgency, as I’m sure you understand, which is why Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle and Detective Sergeant Marriott of the Metropolitan Police are with me. Incidentally, the Home Office will pay for any of the facilities I make use of, and as you’re a charity, I daresay I can persuade them to make a donation in addition. Although,’ Spilsbury added with a smile, ‘getting money out of the Home Office is like getting blood out of a stone.’
‘That’s extremely kind of you, Doctor Spilsbury.’
‘Now then, what arrangements do you have for conducting an autopsy, Doctor?’ Spilsbury rubbed his hands together.
‘There is an examination room adjacent to the mortuary,’ said Hughes. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
‘Thank you. And do you have a couple of porters available who can bring my cadaver into the examination room?’
‘Of course.’ Hughes issued instructions to a uniformed attendant standing nearby. ‘I wonder if I might ask a great favour of you, Doctor Spilsbury?’
‘By all means.’
‘Would you allow me to observe your post-mortem examination?’
‘Most certainly, Doctor. In fact, I always welcome a second pair of eyes. They sometimes see something I’ve missed.’
‘Thank you.’ Hughes doubted that Spilsbury ever missed anything during the course of an autopsy.
The facilities were quite adequate for Spilsbury’s purpose. The mortuary attendant was ready with a rubber apron and rubber gloves, and said that if there was anything else Dr Spilsbury needed, he should just ask.
After forty minutes, during which time Hardcastle was obliged to abstain from smoking his pipe, there was a grunt of triumph from Spilsbury.
‘This looks like
the little devil, Hardcastle.’ Using a pair of forceps, Spilsbury carefully removed a round of ammunition from the girl’s cadaver and placed it in a kidney-shaped enamel bowl. ‘I’m as certain as can be that the round penetrated the aorta. Death would have been instantaneous, and from the angle of penetration, it is possible that the assailant was slightly taller than his victim, assuming that both were standing and facing each other. To go further would be unwarranted conjecture.’
‘And the time of death, Doctor?’ Hardcastle asked, not that there was much doubt in his mind.
‘Judging by what you’ve told me so far,’ continued Spilsbury, ‘it is compatible with the condition of the cadaver, and the circumstances under which it was secreted, that death could have occurred during the weekend of the fifth to sixth of April. I hope that helps, my dear Hardcastle.’
‘Indeed it does, sir.’ Although, in Hardcastle’s view, it did not help a great deal, but he forbore from saying so. All the men he had interviewed so far were taller than Lily Musgrave. He peered closely at the bullet. ‘I’d say that was a four-point-five, Doctor.’
‘I agree, Hardcastle. No doubt about it in my book, but I suppose your ballistics fellow might disagree; it’s in their nature to disagree, you know. Still, that’s not my job. However, I’ll make sure that there are no more of those things in the poor young lass’s body. And then I’ll see if there’s anything else that may assist you. Why are you looking so gloomy?’
‘Most of my suspects are former officers in the army or the navy, Doctor, and the Webley forty-five was a standard issue weapon, certainly for army officers. I’m not sure about the navy.’
‘The Royal Navy issues them, too, sir,’ said Marriott helpfully. ‘It’s going to make it difficult to trace.’
‘Means you’re going to be busy, then, Marriott,’ snapped Hardcastle, irritated at being corrected by his sergeant, especially in the presence of so distinguished a pathologist as Spilsbury.
