Footsteps in the Blood

by Jennie Melville

  As she got dressed again, she decided that wearing the blue, crimson and purple outfit had been exactly right, a heart-lifter. She heard Dr Evans murmuring softly on the telephone.

  She emerged to receive the reassuring judgement that everything seemed as it should be, but perhaps an overnight stay to have a few more tests. Under a light anaesthetic.

  So that was what the telephoning was all about. St Luke’s Wing, the private side of a large London teaching hospital, one night, a week’s time?

  When Charmian went outside to claim her car, having paid a largish bill – it was pay-as you’re-cured where Dr Evans practised, no running up of accounts – she found she had a parking ticket.

  It looked like being an expensive business. She felt a flicker of envy for Winifred Eagle who was getting all this free.

  When she got back to Windsor that evening, having put in a busy afternoon of routine work, there was a telephone call from George Rewley before she had even hung up her coat and spoken to the cat.

  ‘Want to see something?’ He sounded amused and alert, ‘I think it might interest you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On a table in the mortuary.’

  No, thought Charmian, too much an echo of her day.

  Rewley, who seemed able to read a person’s thoughts even over the telephone and without seeing their face, spoke quickly, ‘Don’t worry. Nothing nasty, just bones.’

  ‘Those bones?’

  ‘Yes, those bones.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I come down now?’

  ‘Come and have a bite to eat with me and Kate and then I’ll drive you over.’

  Kate broke in: ‘ I second that. Bet you haven’t eaten all day.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Right. George will be over for you in ten minutes.’

  ‘Make it fifteen. I want to shower, change and feed the cat.’ Not in that order, though. Muff came first. She saw to that with a plaintive cry as of one long starved.

  ‘Oh, just one more thing before I go, Muff.’

  She dialled the number and waited for Birdie to answer. Birdie loved the telephone and never let it ring for long. Nor did she now. ‘Birdie? Charmian speaking. How is Winnie? Is she home yet? Tomorrow. Oh good, I’ll be round to see her.’

  One victim saved from the Grim Reaper, anyway. Not everyone had been so lucky. Might not even be saved herself. No, mustn’t have such a thought, Still, there it was …

  But the idea did not stop her enjoying her meal with Kate and George. She felt very hungry as if she must eat to live.

  Afterwards, she looked down at the mortuary tray on which the skeleton was laid out, all the bones neatly articulated.

  The skull with empty eyes and nose, the jaws displaying the teeth. A good set, she noticed. The arms were stretched out along the ribcage and the legs extended.

  She stared, then frowned.

  ‘Notice anything?’ asked Rewley.

  Charmian turned back to look at the bones again.

  ‘Small,’ she said reflectively, as if recognising something special.

  ‘You’ve hit it.’ Rewley gave a brisk nod. The constables who had dug up the bones had commented with rough humour: bloody funny legs, this chap had.

  Because she was still quiet, still thinking, he prodded a bit.

  ‘Notice the legs?’

  ‘They are very short. The trunk is normal size, the legs are not.’ They were massive in roundness but stumpy.

  ‘He was one of the Cheasey dwarfs,’ said Rewley in triumph. He moved forward to touch the bones of the neck with a delicate finger. ‘ Strangled.’ He touched the skull. ‘ Coshed on the head too. Probably unconscious when he was finished off.’

  ‘They were such a decent lot,’ said Charmian in a regretful voice. ‘Kept out of trouble as a rule’.

  ‘But by the very nature of the jobs they took, any one of them could come and go and not be missed. The circus, the racecourses, everyone would just assume they’d moved on. And they weren’t very communicative as I remember.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Once we start asking questions we will flush up an identity or two. Especially with the red wig and the short fingers as personal details. No, someone will give us a name. But isn’t it interesting that it’s Cheasey again?’

  ‘No connection with Nella Fisher’s murder, though.’

  ‘Not that we know. And almost certainly nothing to do with Margery Foggerty’s death either, but you never can tell for sure. Circles do touch.’

  Charmian turned away. ‘Poor little chap. Yes, he’s a Tipper. That was the family name, wasn’t it? Someone obviously hated him. Or feared him.’ She watched as the mortuary officer slid the bones away. ‘I suppose you’ve told Elman and Father about this?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re interested in this little chap.’ He turned to the mortuary assistant. ‘Thanks for showing us that, Pete. Who’s be working on the bones?’

  ‘Mr Ahab was. Not at the moment. He’s on another body now.’

  ‘Told you so. No interest,’ said Rewley.

  ‘But he’s coming back to this one,’ said Pete. ‘He’s got some problem with it.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘Some bone or the other, I think.’

  George thought about this small but interesting fact (because Ahab was a very good worker) as he walked Charmian to her car. ‘Elman and Father are grinding away at reading reports of interviews and checking contacts and background for Fisher and Foggerty. But their real interest is HRH’s emeralds. They’d die to find them and beat the London mob to it. They wouldn’t mind locating Jack Cooper, either. I think they’d settle for that at the moment. Kate pretends she doesn’t mind, but she does, of course. It’s making life a bit difficult for me and Kate at the moment.’

  Charmian gave a sympathetic nod, but frankly, she thought, she wouldn’t mind herself if Jack was safely tethered. He might not be a threat to her, but he might be. ‘I’ll look in on Annie,’ she said. ‘She may know more than’s she’s saying.’

  ‘Kate says not. So does Elman. Reluctantly, because he thinks wives ought to know where their husbands are. Oh, and he’s looking for a dead dog.’

  ‘One that’s lost a lot of blood?’

  ‘Exactly. That blood had to come from somewhere. The dog had worms apparently. Seems you can tell from the blood.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, he or she was badly anaemic anyway. Even more so now, of course, if still alive. The dog might have an owner and the owner might lead to something. They’re hoping. Frankly, they are waiting for something to turn up.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ said Charmian.

  They were waiting for something to turn up. It usually did in careful police detective work, and if it didn’t then the case died on you.

  You needed your bit of luck.

  But the team down in the Incident Room on River Walk wouldn’t be leaving it entirely to chance, as Charmian knew well enough; they would be using leg work.

  She felt a pang. She had enjoyed that side of detective work, which was boring and tiring but also fascinating, enlivening and, in the end, invaluable.

  She made a detour on her way home from the mortuary to drive past the Incident Room. A light still shone from one window, so someone was still at work.

  She sat in the car outside her house for a moment before getting out. Check what you could see. Maid of Honour Row seemed quiet. A white van was parked at the corner of the road. It started up as she sat there and drove slowly past. In a little while some other suitable vehicle would take its place. Or a watcher might station himself in the trees across the road. She recognised the presence of her surveillance team and was glad of it.

  When she got into the house, she telephoned Birdie again.

  ‘Birdie, I forgot to ask: how is Benjy?’

  ‘Oh very well. You can have him back for a few days if you like. Not for long because Winne will want to see him. Her little warrior, she calls him.’r />
  ‘No holes in Benjy then?’ She hardly knew why she asked. Of course there were no holes in Benjy. No one was after Benjy, it was another dog that had bled.

  ‘Holes? Gracious, no. What a question. He was in a very excited state after he came back from chasing Winnie’s attacker, but he was not hurt.’

  All the same, Charmian was irrationally relieved.

  ‘If I thought he had been hurt it would have been off to the vet with him,’ declared Birdie. She and Winnie might go in for homeopathy or even faith-healing for themselves but for their animals they believed in the best orthodox medical care that was available. In Windsor it was very available.

  ‘I suppose there are a lot of vets in Windsor?’ said Charmian. ‘Who do we go to?’

  ‘Mr George in Bassinet Street for dogs and Mrs Verney in Slough for cats. It’s quite a drive but worth it, she’s so good with the little creatures,’ said the knowledgeable Birdie.

  There were indeed many veterinary surgeons in Windsor and its neighbourhood and DC Thomas had visited half of them. DC Jimpson had been allotted the other half. The two young men had divided the task between them. One of them, Thomas, was a dog-lover; Jimpson was not and he was also allergic to fur and hair. He suffered. For two days they had been methodically calling at each surgery to see if a wounded, bloody animal had been brought in. They had got used to the smell of disinfectant and warm animals and learned to respect the vets.

  Sneezing his way around, Jimpson felt he had performed above and beyond the call of duty. He had certainly visited Mr George. Mr George had been the one man to take pity on him and had recommended some medication, obtainable over the counter without a prescription, which would ease his allergy. After a few doses he would feel better.

  Mr George had no other help to give: he had not attended a badly bleeding dog with worms nor had he any knowledge of one. He had sewn up one or two wounds – lacerations caused in fights – and set the leg of a dog hit by a car but that was about it. In any case, he knew all three animals well, had looked after them for years and none of his patients had worms. Wouldn’t dare have, Jimpson felt.

  By the end of the first day Jimpson had learned to appreciate one thing about the vets’ surgeries; they were all staffed by personable young women in white coats with agreeable manners. By teatime he had drunk three cups of tea with fresh shortcake on the side and fixed up a date.

  So he had a few good thoughts inside him when the two young men met in the evening to write reports and compare notes. DC Thomas was all but engaged to a WPC in Slough but he agreed, as a completely detached observer, of course, about the attractiveness of the young women who worked with animals. Animals definitely recruited a good-looking sort of girl.

  But what information for the Incident Room had he come back with? Thomas cast his mind back to his first visit of the day – to the morning surgery of Jock Macgregor in Binns Street. Mr Macgregor was a tall Aberdonian who feared no animal. DC Thomas liked him and believed him when he said in a forthright way that any animal with a severe blood loss who came into his surgery would receive a transfusion at once and be admitted to his hospital. ‘No, payment would not come into it. What was necessary would be done.’ But Mr Macgregor would always be paid, thought DC Thomas, seeing his strong frame and well-muscled arms.

  He added, equally forthrightly, that in his opinion DC Thomas should enquire of the District Cleansing and Street Cleaning Department because the dog was probably dead and cleared away by them.

  ‘A stray, in all likelihood, ye ken, hit by a car and left to die.’

  ‘We’ve checked there, sir,’ said DC Thomas. ‘And the police kennels where strays are sent.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  His second visit of the morning, this time to a very smart setup in the middle of a new block of flats where a sign directed him to the Animal Hospital, produced much the same results. Pretty girls in pale green overalls this time, and a bespectacled New Zealander in charge. The usual patient queue of owners was to be seen, plus pets on leads, in cages, or staring crossly out of padded wicker baskets.

  And the answer was the same as with Mr Macgregor: no such dog has been treated here. But yes, if they did have such a patient, they would certainly get the owner’s name and address.

  He was discovering that animal health records are as carefully charted and kept as with the human animal.

  So it went on throughout the day. A sense of monotony crept in and his feet ached. The more so as a lunch-time rendezvous with Jumbo revealed that both of them were getting the game result.

  ‘Null and void,’ Jimpson had said gloomily. ‘That’s what our work has been. We needn’t have bothered.’ The only good thing to come out of the morning was that he had a spray for his nose. At this point he had not yet met the young woman who was to catch his eye and provide another good point in the day.

  ‘I don’t know. Even a negative counts for something,’ said DC Thomas. They parted to continue their round of visits.

  Thomas plodded on, from address to address, making his careful enquiries and marvelling at the number of sick animals, but getting no leads in return.

  The only memorable event occurred when he walked into a small, edge-of-town surgery where a cat fight of massive proportions had just erupted. Cats were hurtling from floor to window, and from floor to curtain, and from curtain to ceiling. Screams, hisses and low moans of anger echoed round the room about which fragments of fur were also flying. At first he thought about six cats were involved, but after a bit he saw there were only two, and small ones at that, one coal-black and the other striped in grey and brown. Various owners and surgery assistants were rushing about too, making as much noise as the pets, as they tried to separate them while busily blaming each other.

  Thomas withdrew from the scene and decided to give that one a miss. No one had noticed him and he was grateful. That was a nasty scratch one of the owners had on her face, administered by her own cat too, judging by her reproachful wail. The cats, he suspected, were unhurt, all flying fur and shout and no real harm done. No one would ever blame the cats, he decided as he walked away, they were untrammelled, uncorrupted nature and no law could touch them.

  Writing up his report that evening across the desk from Jimpson, he thought about the case. Since he was one of the police officers who had found Margery Foggerty and had known her slightly, he felt more involved with her murder than that of Nella Fisher where it had all started.

  The bones he regarded as an odd freak, and one they could have done without.

  Jimpson raised his head from his typewriter. ‘Know what Elman and Father make of it? I heard Elman say that he fancies Jake Henley for both murders. Thinks it’s his style. He used to keep pit bull terriers and might have one now. It’s thought he does have. And with Henley you don’t have to worry about motive. There’ll be one somewhere. Doesn’t have to be much with him.’

  ‘What about the Coopers, father and daughter?’

  ‘No, he’s given up on them. But Cooper could have attacked the woman with the dog.’ He did not think it likely himself, having once met Jack Cooper in a bar and thought him a decent chap.

  ‘Those bloody dogs,’ muttered Thomas, half to himself. ‘Too many of them.’

  ‘But no connection with the murders. That’s how I see it. Just mistaken identity. Some personal feeling against Daniels.’ He almost crossed himself as he used her name, having a wholesome respect for her, mingled with the notion that women shouldn’t be in the Force and not so successful if they must be in it. ‘Anyway, I’m making a prediction.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Our next job will be in Cheasey, checking up to see if Jake Henley still keeps pit bull terriers and if one is injured.’ Jimpson tidied his papers and stood up. ‘I’m off, got a date.’

  ‘I hate Cheasey,’ said Thomas, as he went on working. He had finished the report due to go to Inspector Elman first thing the next day and was standing by the window when Charmian drove past. He saw the car
, saw it slow down, and recognised her. It was a small shock, seeing her, and he had an immediate reaction:

  Wonder what she’s thinking?

  An unknowable lady, he decided as he turned away. One who

  might well have enemies, inside and outside her working life.

  That same evening, while the two young men were putting together their reports for Inspector Elman, and while Charmian and George Rewley were looking at bones, a small van had trundled into the Market Square behind the town hall. It was a neat yellow van with the letters W&SD displayed on the side.

  This was the Windsor and Slough Dispensary for Sick Animals which arrived once a week. Set up by a daughter of Queen Victoria for the pets of poverty-stricken owners too poor to pay for treatment, it still survived, staffed by voluntary workers. There was no charge so you put what you could afford in the collecting box. Since it came into Windsor lateish in the evening it was convenient for those with a long working day, so a lot of people used it who could well have afforded an ordinary vet. Thus the collection box did well.

  The vet in charge tonight was a young woman who was anxious for experience. She was packing up to go when a last customer arrived.

  He was quite a sight. It was a wet night with a mist coming down, but he seemed overdressed even for a tropical downpour. A sort of uniform, she thought, possibly army uniform but with no insignia she recognised. Not that she would have recognised many, not being into the uniforms. A sort of greenish khaki. Over it the wearer had a thick overcoat, although it was a warmish night, and over the cap he had plastic protection. On a closer look she saw it was a shower cap.

  She took her eyes off him to focus her gaze on the patient who was presented with an infected wound in the side.

  ‘Nasty infection,’ she said as she inspected it. ‘Got a grip.’

  ‘Been treating it myself,’ muttered the man. He seemed peaceable enough behind his dark spectacles. Incognito, she decided.

  ‘Should have brought her in before.’ She was working on the wound. Her patient was a bitch.