Death of an Unsung Hero

by Tessa Arlen

“Major Andrews. When Captain Bray’s body was found by Lieutenant Phipps, Lady Montfort was in the kitchen-garden courtyard with the cider detachment. Lieutenant Fielding was told to run back to the hospital to fetch our chief medical officer, Major Andrews. Lord Montfort was in the stables at the time, which are right next…”

  “I know where the stables are.” He had finished slapping and patting his pockets.

  “… Next to the kitchen-garden courtyard.” She fixed him with her eye and continued. “His lordship had specifically asked that Major Andrews bring me with him as he was sure her ladyship would need me.”

  “And why would she need you?” He found and shook his box of matches, but when he opened it there were only three dead ones inside. Mrs. Jackson’s eyes strayed to the chimneypiece. There were two unused boxes of matches sitting there begging to be used. “I have worked for the Talbot family for many years; I was her ladyship’s housekeeper at Iyntwood before the war. It was natural that I go to her, she was suffering from shock.” She tried not to bristle.

  “Did you at any time between the hours of eleven and half past two leave this house for any reason whatsoever?”

  “No.”

  “But you were alone in your office—do you have an alibi for that time?” Now he was looking at her, in fact he was staring at her: his brows down, his chin thrust forward. She noticed that he had missed a bit on his chin when he had shaved that morning. He’s a drinker, she thought, those bloodshot eyes, the lack of concentration, and his desperate need for tobacco. He has the same bleary-eyed pugnacious look that the Dodd Farm pigman has when he has had a few too many at the Goat and Fiddle. It also occurred to her that he should be in uniform, and by uniform she meant as part of the British Expeditionary Force and not the South Bucks police, who had an easy time of it chasing around the countryside bullying villagers in their quest for stolen petrol.

  She found his boorish questions provoking and wished she could have replied, Did I say that I left the house when I accounted for all my movements for the time asked? But she knew better than to antagonize, so she politely affirmed that she had been inside all day except for when she left with Major Andrews at getting on for three o’clock to go to the kitchen garden. “I can’t be sure what time it was when Major Andrews told me I was needed in the kitchen garden.” Let him work out how long it would take her to walk there, murder a man, and then walk back when she had been sitting in her office with her accounts.

  “I hope you have been accurate with your information, Miss Jackson.” She started to say she always strove to be accurate but he threw up his hand toward her, palm outward, as if she were a wandering pedestrian about to blunder into the traffic in Piccadilly Circus. “If something has slipped your mind, or you wish to revise what you have told me, just make sure you come to me or the sergeant. Now I want to see Lieutenant Carmichael next, and have Lieutenant Fielding in waiting. I have far more important things to do with my time than find out why someone in this so-called hospital did away with a fellow lunatic.” He had given up his search and now stood with his back to her, his hands in his pockets, glaring out the window at an abundant display of creamy-yellow dahlias, rich gold Rudbeckia, and the pale lavender of Michaelmas daisies, as if their rich colors displeased him in some way.

  She felt the heat rise to her cheeks and, to her horror, for she was the most prudent of women, almost found herself asking when missing petrol was more important than the death of a twice-decorated officer whose service to his country had been so selfless that he had ended up in Craiglockhart with absolutely no idea of who he was. And at the same time her heart sank. Why on earth is this talentless imbecile investigating a murder that if not solved quickly with the arrest of the right man, might result in our hospital being closed down by the War Office? But all she said was, “There are matches on the chimneypiece behind you, Inspector.” He spun around and seized them with such eager desperation that she thought she would take her time finding Lieutenant Carmichael. Better give him a moment to enjoy his cigarette before he launches into his interrogation of a man who served his country in the war, instead of hiding out in Market Wingley harassing the local farmers. And while you are alienating everyone with your unintelligent questions and you’re fumbling for matches, Lady Montfort and I will have this investigation wrapped up so fast it will make your eyes spin.

  She was still fuming as she came level with the kitchen garden and was even more irritated when she heard a telltale bumpity-bump as her bicycle slid to the right. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said aloud in her frustration. “Didn’t I pump both tires the day before yesterday?”

  She bent down and examined the rear wheel. Yes, it was a puncture. She spun the wheel searching for the cause, a nail perhaps? She could find nothing that might have made it deflate. Well, she didn’t have far to walk, but the lack of a bicycle would make her late for the rest of the morning. She propped the bike up against an apple tree on the edge of the orchard and crossed the drive toward the north gate of the kitchen garden. If she was going to be late for everything she had to do today, she might as well have a good look around.

  The kitchen garden was empty. She saw the disturbed earth where the body had lain and the thoroughly trampled area around it. But an investigation of the potato rows was not why she was here. Eyes down, she walked over to the bench under the walnut tree. The luncheon basket brought to Captain Bray by Ellis yesterday at eleven o’clock was nowhere to be seen. Someone else might have taken it back to the house, but in all the fuss of finding the body, who would have thought to do that? Perhaps Colonel Valentine and his retinue of coppers had noticed it and had decided that its being there held some significance, but she doubted it. She stood in the garden and considered the implication of the missing basket and then took from her pocket the list she had made that morning. She sat down on the bench and read it through before she walked on down the drive to Iyntwood.

  Chapter Eight

  Clementine’s favorite place to spend the early part of her morning was in her sitting room, which adjoined her bedroom and had a southeastern prospect. This morning the sun poured in through the windows, lighting up the silver-gray damask walls and the deep china-blue chairs. A shaft of sunlight fell on her writing bureau and cast its warmth on her industriously bent shoulders. She lifted her head from the menus she was writing to gaze out across the smooth expanse of the lawn and considered whether or not Mr. Bray would wish to join them for luncheon.

  Perhaps he would prefer the privacy of the Blue Salon, she thought as she wrote “veal cutlets with cream sauce” for today’s luncheon. What is the best thing to do in these sorts of situations? After some consideration she decided it best to assume that he would join them if he felt up to it and that at the same time she would ask Hollyoak to inquire as to their guest’s wishes for luncheon and dinner. We don’t want to intrude, but at the same time it is important to show that we are pleased to have him here as a guest no matter how tragic the circumstances are. She was still fretting if this was the best approach to take when Mrs. Jackson knocked on her door.

  “I was wondering if I was going to see you today, Jackson.” She hadn’t wondered at all. She had openly and honestly prayed that her old housekeeper would put in an appearance. They met regularly throughout the week on hospital business, so that Clementine might volunteer some activity or event to spur their patients on to returning to life as it might be lived. All summer, croquet had been played with an almost aggressive air of competition on the south lawn by officers who rarely displayed much zest for anything, while the more withdrawn of them had spent contemplative hours reading or, if they were moved to do so, weeding the rose garden, which at the height of its glory had offered an exquisite haven of scent and color. But on this glorious September morning it somehow felt like old times again. Good old times, she thought, and then a little ashamed at her enthusiasm at the prospect of another inquiry she corrected herself: Good old times, under most unfortunate circumstances.

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p; “Do come in, Jackson.” She waved to a chair by the window. “Now, first of all, how are our officers faring? Was it an awful night?”

  Mrs. Jackson obediently perched on the utmost edge of the chair indicated. “Sister Carter said it wasn’t too bad, m’lady. They were restless, partly because Lieutenant Phipps had a terrible time of it with nightmares. I expect Captain Bray’s brother had a bad night too.”

  “It was a most distressing evening and such a dreadful shock for Mr. Bray. I have not seen him yet this morning…” She related the events of Mr. Bray’s arrival after a long journey, the breakdown of his motorcar, Lady Althea’s rescue, and the unhappy end to his day. “Lord Montfort told me Mr. Bray is now the only member of his close family left. Tragically, Captain and Mr. Bray’s parents were killed many years before the war, leaving their two young sons in the care of an elderly bachelor uncle who had very little time for them. Apparently the brothers were deeply attached as only two young boys can be when they are orphans—the poor man is devastated.”

  She set her menus for the day aside and reached for her leather notebook. “I do hope that this most unfortunate occurrence in the kitchen garden will be resolved quickly, with the War Office and the Medical Board descending on us at the end of the week.” She picked up and put on her new half-moon spectacles, glancing, with some trepidation, over the top of them to see how her fears for the hospital had been received. “If only for the sake of our hospital.”

  There were two faint vertical lines between her former housekeeper’s brows. To Clementine’s observant gaze they were the result of years of responsibility, but in the past few moments they had, she observed, deepened. She hesitated before she picked up her pencil. I hope I am not being presumptuous in assuming that she is here to discuss Captain Bray’s murder. Clementine had learned in the past that it was not a good idea to assume Mrs. Jackson’s willingness to be part of one of her inquiries.

  But her housekeeper was simply searching in the pocket of her uniform, difficult to do when one is sitting down, so she stood up and tugged her notebook free of her dress pocket. Clementine was so pleased to see the familiar battered book in her hand, so rapturous that it no doubt contained notes of interest on the unfortunate occurrence, that she had difficulty in containing her enthusiasm when she said, “What are your thoughts, Jackson?”

  The frown had gone completely now that Mrs. Jackson had her notes in hand, in fact she looked positively vital, and Clementine leaned forward feeling both excitement for the days ahead and great affection for this capable and most considering woman.

  “I have consulted the hospital schedule, m’lady, and followed up where I could, and I do have some ideas.”

  Hooray, she has been thinking! And Clementine felt a giddy little thrill of delight.

  “I wouldn’t ordinarily make too much of this, m’lady, young girls being what they are and particularly with the hospital on a sort of standby with so few patients and staff this week. But I have a feeling something might be going on with a couple of our VAD girls. Do you by any chance remember Ellis and Fuller?”

  “Yes, Jackson, I think I do. Ellis has very pretty hair, and Fuller is not quite so arresting but she has a particularly sweet expression—nice girls, I thought, both of them. But I can’t believe that they are mixed up in this ugly business. Good heavens, Jackson, I have just remembered Lord Haversham told me that before the war Captain Bray had a terrible reputation where women were concerned. Please tell me that we are not talking about a crime of passion.”

  “Passion?” Mrs. Jackson sounded almost offended. “I am quite sure we are not, m’lady.” Her frown had reappeared at the thought of such unattractive emotions where innocent young girls were concerned. “Both Sister Carter and I are very aware of the responsibilities we have to our VADs; most of them come from very good families and they are entrusted to our care. I don’t for one moment suppose that either of the two girls are suspects, but something is not sitting quite right about their account of where they were yesterday just before luncheon.” Mrs. Jackson paused—Clementine was used to these pauses. Mrs. Jackson was a scrupulous woman, always careful about how she ordered her thoughts and as a consequence how she uttered them.

  “Sometimes it is just better to say a thing, Jackson.”

  “Very well then, m’lady. I’ll just tell you what these young women told me, and you can decide if I am getting ahead of myself.

  “At eleven o’clock yesterday morning the cook told Ellis, the one with the pretty hair, to take Captain Bray his luncheon—this was quite usual when the captain was working in the kitchen garden all day. Ordinarily it would take Ellis only about half an hour at the very most to walk there and back, especially since, as she told me, she did not stop to talk to the captain; he was digging with his back toward her apparently and did not turn around when she arrived. But when I checked with Cook she said that the girl had come back just after the midday hour and had been very defiant with her when she told her off about being late.”

  “So, she was gone for over an hour then. Perhaps she was just dawdling—you know how dreamy girls can be. It was a lovely morning, it wouldn’t be surprising if she took her time.” Clearly, Mrs. Jackson did not think so; there was no change in the expression on her face but her silence was heavy with meaning. Clementine was quick to ask, “What do you make of her story, Jackson?”

  “Sunny weather and all of that aside, m’lady, I think Ellis was not being straightforward. At the very least it might be something quite innocent such as frittering her time away, as you say. But it is the luncheon basket I am thinking about, m’lady. The one she was supposed to have delivered to Captain Bray. Yesterday afternoon when we were all in the kitchen garden, did you happen to notice it when you were sitting on the garden bench? Ellis said she left it in the shade of the walnut tree. I checked this morning and it is not there now.”

  Clementine cast her mind back; it was hard to recall mundane details like picnic baskets when there was a dead man lying not twenty feet distant from where she was sitting. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the scene before her as she had sat on the bench.

  She opened her eyes and looked at her housekeeper. “I’m afraid I was rather preoccupied with the garden’s doors at the time. You see, Jackson, I was wondering why Lieutenant Phipps had come from the orchard with his barrow of apples into the kitchen garden to get to the courtyard. It would have been much easier for him to have wheeled his cumbersome barrow from the orchard up the smooth surface of the drive than to negotiate all those turns in the gravel garden paths, unless he had a particular reason for doing so.”

  Mrs. Jackson said nothing, so Clementine obediently closed her eyes again, the better to envision the scene. “Was it large, like a picnic hamper?”

  “No, m’lady, just an ordinary little basket—with a folded white napkin covering the top.”

  Clementine shook her head. “I am sorry, really I am—does that mean there wasn’t one perhaps?”

  “I am not sure if there is any significance at all quite yet. I will check with Cook; she might be able to cast some light on it.”

  “What are your thoughts about this young Ellis, Jackson?”

  Mrs. Jackson cleared her throat. “I am thinking that Ellis might not have been in the kitchen garden at all, m’lady. In other words, she might not have delivered the basket as she had been instructed to. She was particularly evasive when I questioned her about what time she had arrived and left. And it turned out that she was being untruthful about how long she had taken.” Mrs. Jackson tapped her notebook lightly with her pencil and Clementine decided that a little perspective might be needed.

  “She is not likely to have hit Captain Bray on the head though, is she? She is just a little thing, and Captain Bray was a tall man, well over six feet.” She wondered why Mrs. Jackson was so concerned about the girl in the first place. “Was she distressed about the murder?”

  “Yes, she was most distressed. And I imagine it was because she a
nd her friend Fuller were quite infatuated with Captain Bray.” At Clementine’s I-told-you-so glance she rushed to say, “Nothing alarming, m’lady, just silly schoolgirl behavior. Ellis is a nice enough girl: willing and kindhearted, perhaps a bit too flighty for hospital work. But she might have seen something or someone and is scared to talk about it; there is something about her account that bears some checking out.” She glanced down at her notebook. “Major Andrews pointed out to me that Captain Bray might have been crouched down to gather potatoes or just bent over when someone hit him on the head.”

  Clementine got up from her chair and, extending her arms, she clasped her hands together and swung them as if she were playing golf. “So he was not hit like that,” she said as she energetically demonstrated a swift upward sideways swipe, which would certainly have landed her ball in the rough. “But more like … this.” She raised her arms straight up above her head and, hands clasped together, swung them down in a chopping motion toward the carpet.

  “Exactly, m’lady. The blows would have been downward to connect with the crown of his head, rather than sideways to connect with its side. Or at least that is what Major Andrews observed.”

  “When you talked to Inspector Savor did he mention whether they think the spade might have been used? It does have a long handle.”

  Her housekeeper looked disdainful when she mentioned the inspector’s name. Jackson does not approve of that particular individual either, she thought.

  “No, m’lady, Inspector Savor asks the questions and we do the answering. I can’t imagine that anyone would ask him for information about the particulars of the murder—he is a most … impatient man.”

  “Yes, I imagine his preferred interview method would be intimidation. But what is alarming is that he seems to have formed a deep antipathy for our officers and the hospital. I am hoping he will not spend a lot of time on who murdered a man he has already dismissed as a coward, Jackson. In fact I think what worries me most is that the Market Wingley constabulary might simply turn this investigation over to the Royal Army Medical Corps for court-martial, which would put our hospital in complete jeopardy. Since Colonel Valentine’s police force is suffering from a lack of experienced men, he might have already decided to hand this matter over for a military investigation.” As she said this she felt a flutter of anxiety and noticed that Mrs. Jackson looked troubled, too. This is what is propelling her into this inquiry with such zeal, she thought. Our hospital and its good works are at risk.