“He was well the last time he wrote. What about your George?” George was Frank’s eldest son.
“He was also well the last time I heard from him. But you hear dreadful things, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes you do.” Peg felt as if a cloud had gone over the sun. “We just have to hope it’s not as bad as they say.”
“Yep, we do that, Miss.”
Peg made her way to Spinsters Row. Several of the spinsters living in the row were out in their gardens. All had gardeners to do the heavy stuff, but when it came to the care of roses, each considered herself an expert. There was one man living on Spinsters Row. He was called Colonel Archibald Trent and according to his own estimation had been something big during the Crimean War. A grateful nation had given him a paltry pension that barely allowed him to keep up his subs to his club in London, let alone live the life he had known as a young man.
“Good morning, Miss Bradbourne,” said Miss Cartwright. Miss Cartwright would never admit to being over sixty, but when asked what year she was born, would quite happily tell everyone it was the year Queen Victoria came to the throne, making her almost eighty.
“Good morning, Miss Cartwright.”
“I hear you’re thinking of moving here to be alongside us.” The other spinsters had stopped mid-prune to listen to the exchange.
Peg shuddered. Bad news travelled fast. “Really? From whom?”
“Your sister. She’s such a pretty girl. She’ll make a fine wife for young Norman Simpson.”
“Yes she will. I had thought of renting the Old Constable’s cottage. We have to sell the house to pay death duties.”
“Oh yes,” Miss Cartwright twittered. “Yes indeed, they’re awful. Why I remember when my brother, Terence died…” Peg was treated to the terrible fate of Terence’s widowed wife and children in the months following his death. Miss Cartwright seemed to delight in the gory details. “Of course it is terrible when annuities die with you, instead of being given to another member of the family in need, but I don’t think that quite excused my sister-in-law up and marrying some other man only six months after poor Terrance’s death, did it?”
Remembering what her stepmother had said that morning, Peg said charitably, ‘Perhaps she did it so that she and the children could eat.”
“Well, yes, I suppose that might be the case, but one must observe the niceties even if it does mean hardship. I’m sure I could have married many times, but I chose virtue over reward. There was that nice young doctor who was here a few years before your dear mother and father returned from India. I was a little older than he, but such things shouldn’t matter when one is in love.” Miss Cartwright let out a huge sigh. “He married a younger woman. They all do in the end. Of course, she had money, which was something I could not offer.” Miss Cartwright sighed at the injustice of it all. “Still, she was a sweet young thing and devoted to that young daughter of theirs. You know it’s an odd thing but…”
Not sure that she wanted to listen to one of Miss Cartwright’s tales of failed romance, Peg made a quick getaway.
As she neared the old constable’s cottage, Peg comforted herself that it was not quite on Spinsters Row. It was a little way beyond them, past the station exit and over the railway crossing. There were few homes on that side of the village, and the only one Peg could see from her vantage point was the derelict old house that belonged to Veronica’s sister. It was in even worse condition than the cottage Peg had come to see.
She had reached the gate when she saw Tom Yeardley running hell for leather from that direction. “Thomas Yeardley, slow down,” she said, holding out her hand and catching his sleeve as he tried to rush past her. He was a well-built boy of seventeen, and showed all the signs of turning into a handsome young man when he was older. “Your father is looking for you.”
Tom spluttered out the words, pointing in the direction of the other house. “Miss Bradbourne – a man – dead – up there.”
Chapter Two
Peg sent Tom back to the village to fetch the new constable, and made her way to the old doctor’s house.
“Aren’t you afraid, Miss Bradbourne?” Tom had asked her.
“I’m a doctor’s daughter, Tom. Death holds no fear for me. Now go on, fetch Constable Archer quickly. You’d better get Doctor Pearson too.”
Peg approached the house, far more nervous than she had let on to Tom. The door, its paint peeling to reveal grey wood beneath, was hanging off the hinges. The aroma of cigarette smoke suggested to Peg what Tom had been doing up there. It was known that many of the young men in the village went there to smoke or drink. Questions had been asked of the local parish council, but as Doctor and Mrs Harrington refused to do anything about the house and ignored all letters asking them for help, there was nothing much the councillors could do.
She pushed open the front door. Held on only by one hinge, it started to fall inwards, rather than open. She quickly put it right, and went in. She had not thought to ask Tom where the body was, so she had to search every room. Luckily there were only two reception rooms and a kitchen downstairs. There was another door, just behind the drawing room door, but that had been nailed shut. Peg guessed, because the layout in their house was much the same, that the room behind the dining room was where the doctor would see his patients.
She went into what used to be the dining room but it was empty, apart from some old newspapers lying on the floor. Peg guessed that most of those were from tramps that used the house to shelter from the bad weather. She could also see some old cigarette butts and several beer bottles. They might have belonged to the vagrants, but she suspected they were left there by Tom and his friends. Tom would be particularly popular because his father owned a pub. When she stepped into the room, it was not just the smell of cigarettes that assaulted her. The stench of stale urine filled the air. The place had been used as a toilet. She quickly left the room, trying not to gag.
There was another door in the drawing room, which she supposed also led into the surgery area. That too was jammed shut. She noticed that some nails had been put around the outer rim of the door, and knocked into the frame, much like the door in the hallway.
There was nothing else in the drawing room, apart from some old broken furniture, some of which had been smashed up and burned on the fire. The kitchen was also empty, apart from a few broken plates. If there had been any food in the cupboards, it had long since gone.
The staircase was falling apart, with some of the steps missing, and Peg climbed it carefully so as not to fall through. The higher she climbed, the more nervous she became. She told herself it was ridiculous. She had helped her father deal with his patients and had seen enough death. Yet there was something about coming into this old abandoned house that unnerved her.
She found the body in the smaller front bedroom, lying up against a corner with blood splattering the wall behind him. In the man’s mouth, or what was left of it, was a rifle. He had shot himself. Peg turned her face away for a while, until she felt more able to look at him closely.
Instead she took in more of her surroundings. The bedroom was not as badly used by the vagrants as the rest of the house, either because of the rickety stairs or because they preferred to be somewhere they could make a quick getaway if the constable came to move them on.
Some of the wallpaper was still visible. It was pink, with blue forget-me-nots and similar to wallpaper her sister Mary had in her room. It had been a child’s room then. Why kill himself here, she wondered. Why not downstairs?
She checked behind the door and noticed that there were pencilled lines on the wall. The lower line had writing next to it. The text had faded, but she could just make out the words. They said: ‘Cassie, aged 1’. Someone had charted a child’s growth.
There was a pile of fresh vomit near to the window. Tom had looked a bit peaky when she saw him. She wondered how he came to be upstairs. She did not know but she imagined that the boys stayed downstairs, like the tramps. What had brought T
om to this room?
Finally, with her nerves under control, she was able to look at the man more closely. He was definitely not dressed like a tramp. His clothes, a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and dark trousers, were of good quality. His shoes and socks were missing and she could see scuff marks on the dusty floor where they had been pulled off his feet.
“Someone has been here before,” she murmured. Tom perhaps? He had not been carrying any shoes and socks, but he might have hidden them. That did not square with his behaviour. The boy really had been horrified, and unsurprisingly given the scene he had come upon.
Peg was just about to search the man’s pocket for proof of identification when Tom returns with the constable. She heard Constable Archer order Tom to wait downstairs.
“He shot himself,” she told him when he made his way up to her.
“Yes, thank you, Miss Bradbourne,” said Constable Archer. “I can see that. I hope you haven’t touched anything.”
“No, I was just about to search him for signs of identification, but I heard you coming.”
“It’s a good job I arrived just in time then. You can’t mess with evidence, Miss.”
“But it’s a suicide, not a murder. You can tell the way his hand is clasped around the gun. Father used to do post mortems for the police. He told me all about it.”
“Good for him. Now if you don’t mind, Miss Bradbourne, leave this to me and Doctor Pearson. Take young Tom with you. I’ll want to speak to him later. Tell him to wait at the pub for me.”
Reluctantly, Peg left the constable to it. As she was leaving she heard him mutter, ‘Every spinster around here thinks she’s a detective.’
“Come on, Tom,” she said when she had navigated the dangerous staircase. “We’re not wanted.”
“I don’t want to be here anyway,” said Tom as they left the house together. “It’s awful, Miss Bradbourne.” They walked towards the town together.
“What were you doing upstairs, Tom?”
“Nothing, Miss Bradbourne. I mean just looking around. You know.” Peg suspected that was not the whole story, but she did not want to press him too hard. She doubted very much that Tom Yeardley had shot the man in the bedroom and made it look like suicide. But there was definitely something he was not telling her.
“This old house is dangerous, Tom. You shouldn’t have been there at all. Were there any friends with you?”
“No. I haven’t got any friends around here.”
“Nonsense. I’ve seen you with other boys of your age. What about young Percy Fletcher.”
“I hate him,” said Tom. He was close to tears. “Don’t you see? I hate him!” Tom started to run towards town. Peg wanted to catch up with him and ask him why, but she thought better of it. Then she saw Doctor Pearson coming from that direction. She was more interested in talking to him.
Doctor Pearson had to dodge out of the way to avoid Tom crashing into him. “Morning Miss Bradbourne. What’s got his goat?” he asked, in his gentle Scottish brogue. Andrew Pearson had taken over her father’s practice about six months earlier. He was an attractive young man in his late twenties, and had caused quite a flutter amongst the maidens of Midchester, particularly when they found out that there was not yet a Mrs Pearson.
“Percy Fletcher by all accounts. He hates him.”
“Really? I thought they were best friends.”
“You know what boys are. They have a different best friend every week. It’ll be over some girl they both like.” Peg had more important things to consider. “He shot himself.”
“Who? Tom?” Pearson frowned and looked in the direction Tom had taken.
“No, stupid. The man in the old doctor’s house. He put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
“Well, I hardly need go and look now, do I?” said Pearson.
“Oh, I suppose you’ll have to go and do your stuff. Time of death and all that.”
“You mean you haven’t worked all that out?”
“I would have done if Constable Archer hadn’t stuck his nose in. But it’s an open and shut case.”
“Who is he?”
“The man? No idea. He didn’t look like anyone from around here. He’s well dressed. Apart from the fact his boots and socks are missing. I think some tramp must have taken them.”
“Sounds like it. Well, I’ll go and finish off the bits you couldn’t manage, shall I?”
“Are you going to say what the constable said about spinsters? Because if you do I might just have to slap you. I couldn’t slap him, what with him being a policeman and all that. But you’re alright. You’re only a doctor.”
“Oh dear. What did the constable say about spinsters?”
“That we all think we’re detectives.”
Pearson grinned. “In a small village like this, the unmarried ladies don’t have much else to do.”
“Really?” Peg bristled. “Of course, because we don’t have a husband to dote on, our lives can’t possibly have any other meaning, so we’re reduced to sticking our noses into other peoples’ business. Is that it?”
“I’m going before I say anything else to upset you.” He tipped his hat. “Morning, Miss Bradbourne.”
“Damn!” Peg muttered, when he was gone. She stomped one foot on the floor, kicking up the dust on the dirt road. “Damn, damn, damn.”
When she reached the edge of the village, she could see all the spinsters standing at their gates talking. They looked to her with eyes hungry for information, but she refused to join them. Regardless of what Constable Archer and Doctor Pearson thought, she was not quite ready to join Spinsters’ Row yet. The old constable’s house could fall down for all she cared. She would find somewhere else to live, with or without a husband.
“Miss Bradbourne,” said Miss Cartwright. “I really must speak to you. It’s about that doctor I mentioned earlier. You see I wondered…”
“Must hurry,” Peg said, abruptly. “My step-mama is waiting for me.”
She bustled home, furious with herself for caring what Doctor Andrew Pearson thought. Constable Archer’s dismissal of her as a spinster detective, though it irked, did not hurt as much. But Constable Archer was a middle aged man with a chubby round face. Andrew Pearson was young and handsome.
As she neared home, she saw her stepmother getting into an open topped motor car. There were so few in Midchester that it was always a talking point when anyone acquired one. Therefore, Peg immediately knew it did not belong to anyone local. A man Peg had never seen before was holding the door open. She could not see his face clearly as he was dressed in the usual driving attire of a flat cap and a scarf wrapped around his face to keep off the flies. Veronica wore a wide brimmed hat which was held on with a gossamer scarf. Wearing a mauve dress, and her favourite lapis lazuli brooch, she looked utterly lovely.
They hardly noticed when they drove past Peg. The man had his eyes on the road, and Veronica was too busy gazing up at him, her eyes full of excitement.
Chapter Three
“Now, lad, you’re not in any trouble,” said Constable Archer. “Just tell us how you came to find the dead man.”
He was sitting at a table in the dim light of The Quiet Woman pub. In front of him on the table was half a pint of bitter. Tom sat on the bench against the wall, flanked by his father.
“He’s already in trouble, Bert,” said Frank. “He’s been warned about going into that house.”
“Boys will be boys,” said Archer, sagely. “I remember the scrapes we used to get into when we were young, Frank. And if he hadn’t gone, we wouldn’t have known about the man, would we? Then it might have been a little girl or a lady who found him. Ladies are much more sensitive about such things.”
“Miss Bradbourne wasn’t from what I hear,” said Frank.
“Miss Bradbourne is a bit different to most ladies. She’s a character and that’s no mistake. Pity she’ll end up an old maid. Men don’t much like clever women. Now if you don’t mind, Frank, I�
�d like to talk to Tom alone.” Archer realised it was the only way he would be able to get anything out of the boy, who was clearly inhibited by his father being there. “I’m sure you’ve a lot you could be doing.”
“I’ve a lot he could be helping me with,” said Frank.
“And he will, Frank. Just as soon as me and Tom have had a man to man chat.”
Frank muttered something unintelligible and went off to the cellar.
Constable Archer took his hat off. “Don’t think of me as the local bobby, Tom. Think of me as your Uncle Bert. We’re family so you can be honest with me.” Bert was married to Frank’s sister, Adeline. “What were you doing up at the house? Was there anyone else with you?”
“No,” said Tom, a bit too quickly. “I was on my own.”
The Doctor's Daughter (The Peg Bradbourne Mysteries Book One) Page 2
