Death at the Jesus Hospital

by David Dickinson

  William Lewis looked out of the window. A barge was making slow passage towards the long tunnel at the top end of Noel Road. ‘You may find this hard to believe, Inspector, but I don’t know. Truly I don’t. I could never keep up with the numbers at school. My brother Montague looks after all that. I know I have enough to live comfortably off the shares.’

  ‘Could I ask you to tell me how you felt about Mr Gill, sir? Did you dislike him? Did you hate him?’

  William Lewis wasn’t going to own up to hatred. ‘Dislike would do it, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Extreme dislike, maybe.’

  ‘Did you kill Roderick Gill, Mr Lewis?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Could you tell me where you were on the afternoon and evening of January twenty-second?’

  ‘Of course. In the afternoon I went for a walk, as I usually do, Inspector. I spent the evening with my brother. We played chess.’

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘I did, Inspector. It was quite a long game. In the end I captured his queen with a fork and that was the end of my brother. On the chessboard, I mean.’

  Forty minutes later Inspector Grime was in the small library at 14 North Road, Highgate, home of the mathematically minded Montague Lewis, elder son of Mrs Maud Lewis of Fakenham. The conversation followed remarkably similar lines to the earlier interview in Noel Road. Montague Lewis, like his brother, thought his mother had gone slightly mad. He could see no reason why she wanted to marry this wretched bounty hunter. The Inspector noted that they used exactly the same word to describe Roderick Gill. It could have been collusion before he arrived, or it could have been the way they had talked about him for months.

  ‘How would you describe your feelings towards Roderick Gill, sir? Dislike? Loathing? Hatred?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d go as far as that, Inspector,’ said Montague Lewis. ‘I despised him, that’s the best way to put it, I think. I despised him for creeping round my mother the way he did, I despised him for insisting they get married as soon as possible.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Could you tell me your whereabouts on the afternoon and evening of January the twenty-second?’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. I spent the afternoon at the London Library. The staff there will confirm that. I spent the evening at my brother’s house.’

  ‘And what were you doing at your brother’s house, sir?’

  ‘Sorry, we were playing chess, Inspector.’

  ‘Who won?’

  Montague Lewis looked cross all of a sudden.

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘I usually beat William at chess.’

  Inspector Grime didn’t know what to make of it. For now he said his farewells. He wondered how much collusion there had been between the brothers, all wasted by a silly mistake, not agreeing a common line on the chess match. Both of them must have been lying, he thought. Heaven knew what they had been doing that evening but one lie was not enough to convict anybody of murder.

  As he made his way towards his train, Inspector Grime cursed London with greater fury than ever. Somewhere on his travels around the capital, probably in this very station where he now stood, swearing loudly, his pocket had been picked. The Artful Dodger had his wallet and the train ticket to take him home to Fakenham.

  The old men of the Jesus Hospital were in rebellious mood in the days after they talked about their lives and their jobs to Inspector Fletcher and his sergeant. Even a new dress for the barmaid in the Rose and Crown had been unable to staunch their anger. The fit among them agreed to hold a meeting in the pub at seven o’clock in the evening. Three of their number were confined to bed on doctor’s orders. Two could see little point in wasting their money in the pub. Another two were teetotal and had never tasted a drop of alcohol in their lives. Their companions never tired of pointing out that this appeared to have done little to improve their health. On the contrary, these two were considered by the experts as the most likely to join the late Abel Meredith in the Jesus Hospital section of the graveyard. The rest made their way at varying speeds to the Rose and Crown where they were welcomed by the barmaid, pulling pints as fast as she could go.

  They discussed various means of registering their protest. Hunger strikes were considered until those still in possession of normal appetites realized they might be having pap forced down their throats for days, if not weeks. Eventually they decided on a march, in their best coats and hats, to the Maidenhead police station to hand in a letter of protest about their treatment. Even then, taking note of the frail condition of many of the silkmen, they resolved to travel most of the way by bus.

  Lord Francis Powerscourt was staring moodily at the fire in his drawing room on a Sunday afternoon in Markham Square.

  ‘I wish I’d never taken on this case, Lucy. I’ve never had one that spanned three different locations before. I can’t seem to get a grip on it.’

  ‘Do you still think they’re all the work of one man? And that the mysterious mark on the dead men’s chests is the key to the whole thing?’

  ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘I do think that, Lucy, yes I do. I doubt if any of the three Inspectors believe me any more on that point, mind you. Inspector Grime is very excited about the sons of that Mrs Lewis who Roderick Gill was going to marry. It seems they both lied to him about where they were on the evening before the murder. He’s writing to all the theatrical costumiers he can find to see if any of them hired a big black beard at that time.’

  ‘Are you going to come to Fakenham with me tonight? I’ve got to be teaching again in the morning. This is my last week.’

  ‘I shall come up with you this evening, Lucy, and return the next day or so. Your work up there in the school has been invaluable, my love. Who knows, maybe you’ll turn up even more information. I’m going to have a meeting with all three of those policemen here early next week. The Three Inspectors, it could be a pub, Lucy, coppers lurking everywhere to make sure there’s no drunk and disorderly behaviour.’

  ‘You’re not going to forget next weekend, are you, Francis?’

  ‘What’s happening next weekend?’

  Lady Lucy pointed at an embossed card on the mantelpiece above the fire. ‘Why, it’s Queen Charlotte’s Ball, Francis. I’m so looking forward to it.’

  Powerscourt made a face.

  ‘Now, now, Francis, you always complain about these things but you enjoy them once you’re actually there. I remember distinctly you saying in the taxi home the last time we went to a ball, years ago now it must have been, how much you enjoyed the dancing.’

  Inspector Miles Devereux thought there was only about a week to go before the results of the Silkworkers’ vote were declared. The only thread he could see between all three murders was this strange election in the Silkworkers Company. As he made his way towards the Secretary’s quarters on the first floor, he wondered if he would find a lawyer there, as he had on his previous visit.

  Anthony Buckeridge of Buckeridge, Johnston and Forsyte was indeed in attendance. He managed what might have been a smile at the policeman as he walked in.

  ‘Good morning, Colonel, Mr Buckeridge,’ said Devereux. ‘I was wondering if the votes were all in, if the result is known now, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Things are proceeding according to plan,’ said Colonel Horrocks, the Secretary to the Silkworkers. ‘There are still six working days to go before the ballot is closed.’

  ‘But do you know how many votes have been cast and in which direction?’ Devereux persisted.

  ‘We do,’ the colonel replied. Devereux thought the men were much more relaxed than they had been on the previous occasion.

  ‘I think you’ll find that your interest in this matter will close very soon,’ said Buckeridge.

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said the Inspector. ‘You sound to me as if you know who has won already.’

  The two men looked at each other. ‘It would be
premature to declare that we already know the result,’ said Horrocks. ‘However, we would be failing in our duty to act as responsible citizens and give all the assistance we ought to the officers of the law if we did not say that it is virtually certain that Sir Peregrine’s proposals, for which he has campaigned so hard and so long, are likely to prevail.’

  Damn it, Devereux said to himself, the old bastard has won. The only question is, did he commit murder to get his way? ‘You’re sure of that, Colonel? Sir Peregrine is going to get the eighty per cent he needs?’

  Horrocks placed a set of papers in front of him. ‘There is still a possibility that the no campaigners could triumph. But the voting patterns that we have seen from everywhere else would have to go into reverse on the final votes. It looks most improbable.’

  Inspector Devereux was thinking of the bribes offered to the old men of the Jesus Hospital. ‘Have the old men of Marlow voted yet? Have their papers come in?’

  ‘I’m afraid that the details of individual votes are not available to the public, even to the police,’ said Buckeridge, reverting to pompous mode. ‘Nobody asks you, Inspector, how you voted in the last general election and I hope that in this country they never will.’

  ‘I see,’ said Devereux. ‘It’s just that it would save a certain amount of police work and public expense if we knew if the almshouse had voted or not. You would be doing us a favour.’

  Once more the two men exchanged glances. ‘Oh, very well, I don’t think it can do any harm. The silkmen of the Jesus Hospital have cast their votes. It may interest you to know that they voted in favour of Sir Peregrine’s proposals. Every single one of them. As yet we have no figures from Allison’s School.’

  Bribery, Inspector Devereux said to himself, bribery could get you everywhere. He realized suddenly that it was too soon to ask the other important question. If the votes of Allison’s School were also in favour, had those two institutions pushed Sir Peregrine’s proposals over the eighty per cent threshold? In other words, if they had voted the other way, would the plans have been defeated?

  Powerscourt found Inspector Grime active on many fronts. He was still pursuing Blackbeard round the railway stations of northern Norfolk. He had launched additional inquiries, asking if either of the two Lewis brothers, age, height, general characteristics, had been seen in the Fakenham area at the time of the murder. He was awaiting replies from theatrical costumiers in Norwich, Cambridge and London as to whether they, or anybody else they knew, had hired out a black beard at any time in the last six weeks, and if they had a name and address for the customer. He had been in touch with the high commissioners and senior representatives of Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa, asking them to send him a man of their country who could speak with a pronounced accent. The man would need to be in his thirties. Inspector Grime explained that they would be assisting in a murder inquiry at a leading public school in Norfolk. Two of their number, the New Zealander and the Canadian, had already reported for duty. Grime arranged for them to be wearing postal uniform and to walk up the same corridor as the murderer on the day of Roderick Gill’s death. They were to bump into David Lewis and apologize as their predecessor had done before, using exactly the same words. After that they were to bump into other boys and apologize in case that brought forgotten memories to the surface. Neither of the two colonials on duty so far had brought any response from the pupils. The Inspector had taken the New Zealander and the Canadian into his OTC office afterwards to talk to David Lewis but the boy had been definite that theirs was not the accent he had heard on the fateful day.

  An elderly sergeant came into the Inspector’s office. ‘Forgive the interruption, Lord Powerscourt, Inspector, this has just come back from Melton Constable. A local man who has been away for a fortnight visiting his sick mother says he saw Sir Peregrine’s car, or one very like it, in Melton Constable outside Sir Peregrine’s house on the day of the murder, sir. He says he’s seen the car before with Sir Peregrine in it, so he’s fairly sure he’s right.’

  ‘God in heaven, Sergeant, this is dramatic news.’ Inspector Grime was pounding his fist into his other hand as he strode up and down his office. ‘This could change everything. Tell them over in Melton Constable to bring the man in and hold him till I get over there. Do you want to come with me, Powerscourt?’

  ‘Thank you for the invitation, Inspector. I think I am going to call on somebody else. If you think about Sir Peregrine’s activities, a lot of them have been concerned with the votes in this affair of the Silkworkers. I wonder if he popped up here to have a word with the bursar. And I doubt very much if he would have seen the bursar on his own. I’m going to call on the headmaster, Inspector, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Inspector Grime replied. ‘I say, Powerscourt, do you think Sir Peregrine brought that girl with him, Francesca, wasn’t that her name? I’ve never met a masseuse before.’

  The headmaster was in a meeting about the cost of repairing the cricket pavilion when Powerscourt arrived.

  ‘My dear Lord Powerscourt,’ he said, ushering him to a chair, ‘how good to see you again. And let me say how valuable the work your wife is doing for us is. The boys are progressing in leaps and bounds. We shall be devastated when she has to leave on Friday. Now then, does your presence among us signal that the crime has been solved, that we can offer our congratulations?’

  ‘Would that it did,’ said Powerscourt ruefully. ‘Believe me, Headmaster, I wish we could have found the answer by now. Life must have been very difficult for you all up here with this hanging over the school.’

  ‘I rather think we have got used to it, though getting used to murder can’t be good for any of us. Is there anything particular you wish to speak to me about today?’

  ‘There is, Headmaster. It is rather a delicate matter, I fear. One of the important players throughout this inquiry, in all three locations, is Sir Peregrine Fishborne, Prime Warden of the Silkworkers Company.’

  ‘We know Sir Peregrine here. He is on the board of governors. I think we could say we know him quite well.’

  ‘Indeed so,’ said Powerscourt. ‘It has just been reported that Sir Peregrine’s car, with, presumably, Sir Peregrine himself inside it, was seen at Melton Constable on the day of the murder.’

  ‘What of it? The man has a house there, for God’s sake.’

  Powerscourt thought that the headmaster’s usual urbanity might be giving way to tetchiness.

  ‘A great deal of Sir Peregrine’s time in those days was spent in canvassing for votes for his reorganization of the Silkworkers.’

  ‘So?’ said the headmaster.

  ‘I just wondered if he came here to talk to you and your bursar about how you were going to cast your votes, that’s all.’

  There was a pause. The headmaster fiddled with his gold pen. Powerscourt looked out of the window, the playing fields stretching far into the distance, a phalanx of tennis courts closer to home. A buzzard was hovering over the playing fields, searching for prey.

  ‘I can’t lie to you, Lord Powerscourt. Yes, he did come here. Yes, we met with the bursar. I would have told you before but he asked us to keep it a secret, Sir Peregrine, I mean. I don’t think it has anything to do with the murder, I’m absolutely sure of it. Let me tell you what the meeting was about.’ The headmaster put down his pen. He brushed his hair back over his forehead.

  ‘What you have to understand, Lord Powerscourt, is how much these schools cost to run. There are the staff to pay. The fabric of the buildings is in almost permanent need of repair. The grounds are another drain on resources. Just before you came in I was given an estimate for repairing the cricket pavilion that, at present, we cannot afford. There was a suggestion that the Silkworkers Company might like to re-endow the school to enable us to carry out repairs and to embark on a new building programme which would open a new chapter in the long history of Allison’s.’

  ‘Might I ask who made this suggestion, Headmaster?
’

  ‘You may. It was my suggestion.’

  ‘And was the quid pro quo that the votes of the school would go Sir Peregrine’s way?’ Don’t mention blackmail, Powerscourt said to himself, don’t even think about it.

  ‘It was,’ said the headmaster.

  ‘Sir Peregrine must have been pretty desperate for votes if he was prepared to spend all that money on rebuilding and so on. I suppose it wasn’t his money, mind you, not his personal fortune. And what did your bursar think of all this?’

  ‘That was part of the problem, Lord Powerscourt. That was why Sir Peregrine came all this way to see us. Roderick was opposed to the scheme, to all of it. He said that if the Silkworkers Company effectively dissolved itself, there would be no guarantees of any Silkworker money coming to the school ever again. He was unmoved by all the talk of new buildings. He used to describe them as being promises made with fool’s gold. We should stay the way we are, he would say. It’s much safer. Sir Peregrine tried his hardest but Roderick wouldn’t budge. Sir Peregrine got rather cross, actually.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you this, Headmaster. Which way did you and your colleagues vote in the end?’

  ‘We voted for Sir Peregrine, all of us, all of our votes. I sent the paperwork off this morning. We voted for change, a change that will do much to restore the fortunes of the school.’

  ‘So you voted against the advice of your bursar, Headmaster?’

  ‘It was the first time I had ever disagreed with Roderick on a question of finance, Lord Powerscourt.’

  ‘But Mr Gill, the bursar, was actually dead by the time the rest of you cast your votes, was he not? He couldn’t have a vote where he’d gone, could he?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me all of this,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Is there anything you would wish to add?’