A Death at Crystal Palace

by Caroline Dunford

  ‘Dr Cambridge,’ I said. ‘We are with the Crown and have been asked to investigate this matter.’

  He looked up from his kneeling position beside the corpse. ‘Not overcome with hysterics by being so close to a dead body, young lady? He is dead, you know. As dead as a body that has been in the ground a fortnight.’

  ‘But not yet consumed by maggots,’ I said tartly. ‘I presume you are not suggesting that the Baron was a wandering corpse. We believe his death occurred within the hour.’

  Dr Cambridge gave out a crack of laughter. ‘They are who they claim to be, George,’ he called over to a worried-looking police officer. ‘Only one of their females could be so callous.’ I heard Bertram move behind me as if to defend me. I stepped back casually onto this foot. Poor Bertram, I thought, I used this tactic so often I should consider buying him some reinforced shoes for a wedding present.

  ‘But, yes, that’s what the other fellows tell us,’ said Dr Cambridge to me. ‘There’s no better way I know of assessing time more accurately than rigor and I am one of the best cutters around.’

  ‘What caused his death?’ asked Bertram from behind me.

  ‘He’s dead because his heart is no longer working,’ said the doctor.

  ‘What caused it to stop beating?’ I asked.

  The doctor stood up. He towered over both Bertram and I, but being of slender frame he did not loom. He brushed his hands together as if ridding them of the stench of death. ‘Well, that’s the question, is it not, or you lot would not be here, hmm?’

  ‘Doctor, if you could answer the question to the best of your ability,’ I said coldly. I stepped back, so I could look him in the eye. Bertram dodged and came up on my right side.

  ‘I presume you do not require a theory on the metaphysical aspects of when a man’s time is nigh?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Bertram drily.

  ‘It appears to have been a heart attack,’ said the doctor. At this point, if he had been smaller I might well have seriously considered slapping his face.

  ‘We have already been told this,’ I said.

  ‘I expect you have also been told of Dr Gardener mentioning he smelled almonds, and what that might mean. Seems a good man, Gardener. I am confident if there was anything to be done, he did it. No, the old Hun here dropped like a stone.’

  ‘Speculate,’ I said. I had no idea why everyone was going on about almonds. They might have been referring to an allergy, but I did not wish to display my ignorance.

  ‘Oh no, you simply will not get me that way. His death certificate will say he died of heart failure. What caused that is beyond my ability to say. There may have been a slight foaming at the mouth. Yes, that could be a result of poisoning, but he could also be one of those types who have overactive saliva glands. You know, the ones that one generally finds oneself sitting next to in theatres. Gulpers.’

  ‘You do not appear to be taking this situation seriously,’ said Bertram.

  ‘I can assure you I am taking it very seriously,’ said Cambridge. ‘I am being very careful not to say or suggest anything that cannot be irrevocably proved in a court of law. When I get him up on the table it is possible I might find something else. Like a blood clot somewhere. But there is nothing more I can say just by viewing him from the outside. If you will let me get away, I shall get him up on the slab as a priority and have a good rummage.’

  ‘Let him go,’ said Bertram to me.

  I nodded and stepped away. The police officer who had responded to being called George, a youngish man with blond hair and a very pale complexion, came over to me. He wore a heavily trimmed cap and had epaulettes that suggested rank, but whose significance was unknown to me. ‘He is a fine doctor, Cambridge,’ he said. ‘We use him for all the difficult cases. He is very precise in his reports. What he says always holds up.’ He coloured very slightly. ‘We tend to overlook his - err - quirky mannerisms.’

  ‘We have a list of people we would like to interview,’ said Bertram.

  ‘I drew it up,’ said the officer. ‘I have people waiting for you in as separate an area of the exhibition as I could arrange.’

  ‘Have you taken statements from members of the public, any who were close enough to witness the group before, during and after the event?’ I asked.

  The officer nodded. ‘It is all waiting for you, but I have to say, at first sight, it does not look promising from the informative aspect of the situation. To all intents and purposes, it appears that the gentleman died an unfortunate, but natural death.’

  ‘So why are the public being kept here?’ I asked. ‘Surely it would be easier to let them go?’

  ‘I agree, ma’am,’ said the officer, ‘But the German members of the delegation believe this to be murder and are unwilling to let anyone leave until all the names and addresses have been collected. Even then I think it likely they will ask they remain until the investigation is resolved.’

  ‘If they are waiting on German officers to appear,’ said Bertram, ‘that could take days. How ridiculous!’

  ‘I believe they are hoping officials from their embassy will shortly arrive.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ I said. ‘They already have senior members of the diplomatic staff here. If they are waiting on more specialist staff I would imagine His Majesty would not be at all happy about them operating in what remains an area of the British Empire. No one has done something stupid and declared Crystal Palace neutral ground or German sovereign ground for the exhibition, have they?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said the officer. ‘Could it be done?’

  ‘Not, I believe, without making it an embassy,’ I said. ‘So, officer, if you believe you have gathered what you can from members of the public and no longer require their presence, I suggest they are no longer detained from going about their rightful business. They are citizens of the British Empire and not Germany,’ I said stoutly.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said the officer. ‘I only needed someone to say the word. We have a lot of unhappy people. They are hot, tired and some of the ladies have been threatening to faint.’

  ‘In that case you must certainly release them,’ I said.

  ‘And Dr Gardener?’

  ‘As soon as you can verify that he is Dr Gardener, and does reside at the address he has given, he may also depart. He has given us a written statement I take it? I do not think his attempt at helping the dying man should be rewarded with restraint.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ said the officer. ‘I will release him as soon as we can confirm his identity. I should have thought of that myself.’

  ‘This is hardly an everyday occurrence,’ I said kindly. ‘I think you and your men have done a remarkable job. If you could show my colleague and I to the interview room, we can move things along.’

  ‘The other members of the delegation?’

  ‘It goes without saying they cannot leave the country until this mystery is solved,’ said Bertram. ‘But from what you have said it does not sound like they want to go anyway. See if you can corral them back at their hotel, will you? Unless of course it is the Carlton. It is not, is it?’ said Bertram.

  ‘No,’ said the officer.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Bertram. ‘Then lead on. Perhaps there is somewhere we could confer before we see the first suspect?’

  Officer George led us away to a small office that the manager of the Palace used. As soon as we were alone Bertram said, ‘Gosh, Euphemia, you were rather magnificent. I do hope Fitzroy will not mind that we have been ordering the police about.’

  ‘If he minded about such things he should be here,’ I snapped. ‘Goodness, Bertram. I do not know if I did the right thing or not, but it seemed to me we had to assert our authority, not simply over the police but over the men we are to question. If a German national has been murdered on British soil it is no time for us to show weakness.’

  Bertram muttered something which sounded rather like a repeat of ‘magnificent’, but I chose not to hear. ‘Do we think he
was murdered?’ I said. ‘And why does everyone keep going on about almonds?’

  ‘I thought at first they meant Germans always smelled like that. They do like those marzipan cakes. But, on thinking it over, I think it must have some connection to a kind of quick-acting poison. Cambridge seemed to know what it meant, and I got the distinct impression from him he would not comment on it because he did not expect to find any medical evidence one way or another.’

  ‘That was my thought too.’

  ‘About the cakes?’

  ‘No, about Cambridge not being willing to provide any possibilities. I have also been thinking about the list “Michael” gave us. Other than Von Ritter’s aide, if it is murder, we are left with a fifty-fifty chance of it being a German or a British citizen. It is not a comfortable position to be in.’

  ‘What? No,’ said Bertram. ‘It is a stuffy little office.’

  I sighed inwardly and let him finish his thought. The vaguer Bertram becomes, the more useful the information he processes often is. Of course, there are also times when it merely means he is hungry.

  ‘Nasty little thought I am having,’ he said at last. ‘You do not think Fitzroy has gone missing because this murder is one of his operations? I mean, he says he is on the anti-war side, but is anything that man says ever to be taken as truth.’

  ‘That would mean he has put us in a dire position because either he expects us to cover for him,’ I said.

  ‘Or he thinks we are not bright enough to figure it out,’ said Bertram.

  ‘He’s a fool if he thinks that,’ I said.

  Bertram smiled at me. ‘Who shall we start with? And what shall we ask?’

  ‘We know so very little,’ I said, ‘I think we had better appear to know a lot.’

  Bertram blinked at me. ‘You mean if we keep schtum they might blurt out the truth?’

  ‘I do not expect a confession. We don’t even know if these men have families and have only the vaguest notion of their occupations. If we let them see how little we have, they will not take us seriously. So, yes, I think we ask them to relay what they saw and then ask if they wish to add anything further.’

  ‘Should we try and look menacing?’ said Bertram, looking anxious.

  Despite the dire circumstances this day had wrought upon us, I was of half a mind to ask Bertram to show me his menacing look, but I decided not to tease him. ‘I am not sure what manner we should adopt. We cannot seem suspicious, anxious, jovial, afraid or aggressive. What does that leave?’

  ‘Professional?’ suggested Bertram.

  ‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘It would make a change from the manner Fitzroy generally adopts.’

  Bertram raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I suppose you would call it casual callousness?’ I said. ‘With a touch of very dry humour.’

  ‘Hmm. I definitely cannot do that, and as a gentleman it goes against the grain to appear as if I am from a profession, but I will do my best.’

  I stilled the twitching of my lips. ‘It is the most anyone could ask,’ I said.

  Our first interviewee was Friedrich Gottlieb. We found him sitting slumped at a small table his head in his hands. We sat down quietly opposite him. He looked up and assumed an expression of loathing.

  ‘You!’ said Gottlieb. ‘I knew all that fainting was a pretence. Your appearance at the séance was no coincidence either. You were manipulating the Baron and when your obvious ploys did not change his mind, you killed him. You British are dogs.’

  ‘Always rather liked dogs,’ said Bertram. Gottlieb looked suitably surprised that Bertram did not rise to the bait. I was impressed.

  ‘Your opinion on our movements is irrelevant,’ I said. ‘Can you explain your position next to Von Ritter when he died and your subsequent actions.’

  ‘I am his aide. I translated the more awkward words and ensured he had all he needed. He had expressed a desire for a cup of tea. I fetched it for him from the tea shop. He took no more than two sips before he was taken ill. He collapsed. I called for a doctor and loosened his collar. I reassured him help was on its way. A British doctor came to our aid, but he appeared unable to help and the Baron died.’

  ‘I say, I do not like your tone.’ said Bertram. ‘I am certain the man did his best.’

  ‘It is possible that British doctors are not as good as German ones,’ sneered Gottlieb.

  ‘So, you were the last one to give Von Ritter anything he ate or drank?’ I said. ‘Will the others confirm that.’

  Gottlieb paled slightly at that. ‘There were witnesses, both German and English, who will tell you as much.’

  ‘Did anyone else handle the cup?’ said Bertram.

  ‘The woman who poured it,’ said Gottlieb with obvious sarcasm. ‘A grosse Frau.’ Bertram blushed.

  ‘The lady has already been identified,’ I said. ‘I believe you asked for tea and did not mention it was for the Baron?’

  Bertram glanced askance at me, but I ignored him. ‘That is true,’ said Gottlieb. ‘But it would be not unreasonable to assume that if I were to fetch a tea for myself then I would also do so for the Baron and I was known to be his aide.’

  ‘Did the Baron have a fondness for English tea?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Gottlieb. ‘He abhorred it, as he did your cuisine.’

  I waited and let that sink in.

  ‘You think someone was trying to kill me?’ said Gottlieb. ‘I am no one.’

  ‘Firstly, we have yet to establish that the Baron’s death was anything more than a natural, but tragic, act of nature, and secondly that if this was murder that it had anything to do with the tea. Did he also partake of any cake? Perhaps a marzipan one? I believe German people are fond of marzipan.’

  Gottlieb narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you telling me?’ he said.

  ‘I am the one asking questions.’

  ‘But you ask about a particular cake for a reason, I think?’ His accent became more German with this question. I knew I was missing something, but it also appeared I had him on the back foot. I decided to push a little harder.

  ‘I believe you were a last-minute replacement for the Baron’s aide and that you do not generally move in diplomatic circles.’

  Gottlieb‘s outline softened slightly. Damn! I had asked the wrong question. ‘It is no mystery. His diplomatic aide became unable to attend, at the last moment. The Baron did not wish someone he did not know to accompany him on this mission. I am a senior shipping clerk at his company and have frequently acted as his personal secretary. He felt he could trust me.’

  Fitzroy would think such a placement good cover for a spy. ‘How convenient you were free,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, was it not?’ said Gottlieb with a thin-lipped smile.

  ‘That will be all for now,’ I said. ‘The attendants will do their best to make you comfortable until you can be sent back to your hotel.’

  ‘Intolerable,’ said Gottlieb, but he rose quickly enough and exited the room. When the door closed behind him, Bertram spoke, the words bursting out of him.

  ‘The man is a spy!’ he said.

  ‘It would seem so,’ I said.

  ‘You do not seem very alarmed.’

  ‘Fitzroy is a spy. Michael is a spy. We might even be considered acting as spies.’

  ‘But he is one of theirs,’ said Bertram. ‘He’s a Hun! On British soil!’

  ‘He is a man doing his job,’ I said.

  ‘Euphemia!’

  ‘I am certain Fitzroy has more than once been on German soil and I would not be surprised if he had, as he might put it, “removed a person who had become a threat to the crown”.’ Bertram opened his mouth. I held up my hand to forestall him. ‘I do not say I approve of these actions. But I will not be a hypocrite either. Gottlieb is likely as loyal to his Kaiser as Fitzroy is to his King.’

  ‘You have spent altogether far too much time with Fitzroy,’ said Bertram. ‘His influence over you has become shockingly strong. When we are married…’

  I i
nterrupted with an icy, ‘Yes?’

  Bertram sighed. ‘When we are married you will carry on doing exactly as you please.’

  ‘But I will seek and consider your opinion,’ I said. Bertram gave me a doleful look.

  Our next interviewee was Rudolf Beiersdorf. It took only a few minutes to ascertain that he and the Baron had been good friends for a long time. The man was deeply affected and on the verge of tears. I estimated him to be around the same age as Klaus Von Ritter, but while Von Ritter had adopted the latest fashions and made an effort to look dashing, Beiersdorf was more like a Germanic Santa Claus. I felt more inclined to fetch him a whisky and a comfy cushion than I did to question him. Bertram did most of the enquiry. I determined to study if his emotions were true, and they did appear to me so; unless he was the most consummate actor. I tuned in to hear him saying, ‘Of course, Klaus was no angel. His wife, Marie - has she been wired? The poor soul. She doted on him. Two sons and four daughters they have. She had a lot of trouble with him at the beginning, but in the end, she accepted him for the way he was. Klaus gave her affection, children, a grand home and all the trinkets she could wish for. Her life was better than many women of her station. So what if he had the occasional fancy. He was her husband. The poor, poor, woman. I do not know how she will cope.’

  Bertram let him go shortly after that. After he left he took out his handkerchief and patted at the sweat on his forehead. ‘Is this getting too much?’ I asked. ‘Are you in pain? We can take a respite.’ Bertram’s ‘dicky heart’, as he terms it, is the bane of our lives. I live in fear that one argument too many, one escapade too many, will tear him from my side for ever. But for all that I know he does not want a submissive wife or a quiet life. Perhaps it is because of his poor health that it is important to him to feel alive, to throw himself into one daft adventure after another – even to fall in love with me. A woman who, as far as he knows, is no more than a maid risen above her station in the world.