Fell the Angels

by John Kerr

  ‘No. He said he was going to Balham, at something like half past two. It was the last time I ever saw him.’

  ‘In your judgement, Mr Hope, was Cranbrook a contented man?’

  ‘I would say so. He seemed happily married, and to a beautiful woman. In fact, he was extremely proud of the property in Balham. He continued to enjoy his other pastimes, playing chess and lawn tennis, for example.’

  ‘Was he in any sort of trouble, financial difficulties, for example, that might explain his taking his life?’

  ‘Why, no. It’s quite unthinkable that Charles could have committed suicide.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He did mention, however,’ said Hope, leaning closer to Cameron, ‘that his stepfather was vexing him over some losses he’d incurred in the stock market.’

  ‘But he was a wealthy man,’ suggested Cameron.

  ‘Charles?’ said Hope with a short laugh. ‘His stepfather is as rich as Croesus, as I’m sure you know, but Charlie had to work for a living. Law’s a respectable profession, certainly, but not likely to make one rich.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Cameron, rising. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hope, standing and reaching across the desk to shake his visitor’s hand. As Cameron turned to go, Hope said, ‘I say, Mr Cameron …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Returning to his flat on Beaufort Gardens, Cameron whistled an air as he gazed up at the bright green canopy of the plane trees. He advised his dour Scottish housekeeper that he desired a pot of Orange Pekoe, and then retired to his study with Angus, his Scottie. Tossing his jacket over the back of a chair, he sat at his desk with a fresh writing pad and sharpened pencil. The encounter with MacDonald at the pub had been fortuitous, he considered, and the interview with Cranbrook’s partner Hope had yielded interesting details. Once his cup of tea, unsweetened and with milk, was at his elbow, he composed a succinct account of the day’s findings: the distance from Gully’s lodgings to The Priory, the arrangement of the upstairs bedrooms, the fact that Cranbrook slept in a separate room from his wife, that he spent the night before the crime at his club in town, complained of being ill in the morning, returned early to The Priory, where a riding incident left him shaken and unwell to the point that that he had to be helped upstairs by the butler, and that he’d sacked the stableman within a month before he was poisoned. And, Cameron considered after taking a sip of tea, that Cranbrook did not possess wealth and was distressed over losses in the stock market shortly before his death. Quite an interesting picture, he reflected, as he put his pencil aside and reached down to scratch the dog’s ears.

  Next morning, as Cameron did not expect Clifton’s return from his travels until later in the day, he decided to pay a call on Detective Chief Inspector Cox at Scotland Yard. Donning a heather-mixture tweed cap and his ulster, as the day was cold with dense, swirling fog, Cameron travelled by hansom cab to Trafalgar Square, where he instructed the driver to turn on Whitehall and again on Whitehall Place, arriving at 10.00 a.m. at the former medieval palace that housed the London Metropolitan Police. He was well acquainted with Scotland Yard, and vice-versa, though he had not previously met Chief Inspector Cox, a high-ranking official he suspected had been assigned to the case due to the elevated social station of both the deceased and his widow. The inspector was seated at his desk in a cramped second-floor office with a view of the courtyard when Cameron was shown in, his long coat draped over his arm.

  ‘How do you do,’ said Cameron, reaching out to take Cox’s hand. ‘I appreciate your seeing me.’

  ‘The famous crime detective Duncan Cameron,’ said Cox, fixing him in his gaze. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘My services,’ said Cameron as he sat in a chair facing the desk, ‘have been engaged by Lady Cranbrook. I understand you oversaw the investigation into her son’s death.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Cox. A large man, he had a prominent forehead and long side-whiskers that joined a walrus-like moustache. ‘Unfortunate affair.’

  ‘I was hoping,’ said Cameron, casually crossing his leg over his knee, ‘that you might share your findings with me.’

  ‘I presume,’ said Cox, resting his elbows on his cluttered desk, ‘you’ve read the report of the coroner’s inquest?’

  ‘I have, though in my opinion it sheds very little light on the case.’

  ‘I quite agree. One would have thought Dr Gully was on trial for adultery. My investigation revealed that Cranbrook was poisoned with tartar emetic, either by his own hand or by an assailant.’

  ‘A rather odd choice of poison, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Antimony?’ said Cox. ‘Highly lethal, at even the smallest doses, and readily available from a chemist.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cameron, ‘but quite difficult to administer. If mixed with food it has a highly noxious odour and taste, and if added to wine, it turns cloudy. It is, however, soluble in water, in which it is tasteless.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cox, drumming his fingers on the desktop, ‘my men did a thorough search of the premises and failed to find a trace of the poison. As for the murder hypothesis, there was certainly ample opportunity, some seven or eight persons who had access to the deceased’s person on or about the time of the alleged poisoning, but what’s wanting is motive. Such a crime is obviously premeditated, carefully planned in advance.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘I personally interviewed all the key witnesses and am convinced none of them had a motive for seeing Mr Cranbrook dead.’

  ‘Not Dr Gully?’ said Cameron, flicking a bit of ash from his sleeve.

  ‘Oh, Gully was jealous, no doubt,’ said Cox, leaning forward. ‘But it is inconceivable to me that such a kindly old gentleman was in any way implicated. And, therefore,’ he concluded in a self-satisfied way, ‘we are left with the hypothesis of suicide. And here we have evidence.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘First, the statement of Mrs Clark that Cranbrook confided he had poisoned himself, and second, the expert opinion of Dr Gill, who examined Cranbrook and questioned him in the hours following his poisoning.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cameron, ‘but according to the report, one of the other physicians challenged Mrs Clark’s assertion.’

  ‘That may be,’ said Cox, spreading his large hands on his desk, ‘but I repose great confidence in the opinion of Dr Gill, the leading medical doctor in the city who, after all, spared the prince consort from death by typhus. Doctor Gill is convinced Cranbrook poisoned himself, as Cranbrook expressed no surprise or shock when he was told he’d ingested a lethal dose of poison.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cameron, rising from his chair, ‘it’s apparent you’ve conducted the investigation with the usual thoroughness and professionalism of the Metropolitan Police. I’m much obliged to you for sharing your conclusions.’ With a quick shake of the chief inspector’s hand, Cameron turned and let himself out. Donning his coat and hat in the foyer, he walked the short distance from Whitehall Place to the Embankment in fog so thick he nearly collided with a nurse pushing a pram. Strolling beside the indistinct river with his hands clasped behind his back, Cameron reflected on his interview with the pompous police inspector who, in the usual fashion of Scotland Yard, had clumsily bungled the investigation, failing to interview key witnesses such as the doctors who’d attended the dying man, dismissing Gully as a suspect out of hand, and making no effort to identify others who might have had a motive. Nor, he considered as he stopped to listen to the boom of the foghorn of a ship gliding past on the water, to determine the origin of the poison used to murder Cranbrook. All in all, the circumstances surrounding the death of Charles Cranbrook were as murky as the London fog and as disagreeable as the stench of bilge emanating from the Thames. Approaching the ghostly silhouette of Waterloo Bridge, Cameron decided to duck into Gordon’s Wine Bar for some toasted cheese and
a glass of claret before returning to Beaufort Gardens and his much anticipated conversation with James Clifton.

  Clifton’s travels had taken him first by rail to Malvern for a scheduled appointment with Dr James Gully, thence to Oxfordshire to interview Cecilia Cranbrook at her family’s country estate, and lastly to Birmingham to meet Mrs Jane Clark at the home of her sister, returning on the afternoon express to London’s Paddington Station. Clifton’s arrival at Cameron’s flat coincided with the Scottish housekeeper’s serving tea, accompanied by squares of shortbread, still warm from the oven, strawberry jam, and cucumber sandwiches. Clifton, a large man with an appetite to match, greedily helped himself to a plate as Cameron lounged on the sofa in his study, casually spinning the empty chambers of a long-barrelled Colt .45 revolver.

  ‘The Americans,’ he said, ‘have produced by far the finest sidearm. Not surprising, considering the frequency with which they resort to it.’

  ‘Frightfully violent race, the Americans,’ said Clifton, between bites of shortbread.

  ‘My dear Clifton,’ said Cameron, sitting upright and laying aside the revolver. ‘Pray describe your interviews.’

  Wiping crumbs from his lips with a napkin, Clifton said, ‘I’ll save the best for last. Let me begin with Mrs Cranbrook. A poor, miserable woman, though quite pretty, who couldn’t control her tears, though I detected little fondness for her deceased husband. You see, Cameron’ – Clifton paused for a sip of tea – ‘the lady was entirely undone by the coroner’s inquest and all that was written in the Press about her affair with Gully. She struck me as, well, almost indifferent to the fact that Cranbrook had been killed and without any notion as to why, or by whom, he’d been poisoned.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Cameron, sampling a square of shortbread.

  ‘Mrs Clark, on the other hand,’ said Clifton, ‘was as cold as ice. Her statements to me matched almost precisely the testimony she gave at the inquest. How she found Cranbrook, her attempts to revive him with a mixture of hot water and mustard—’

  ‘A mixture,’ interrupted Cameron, ‘widely used to induce vomiting. As a means of rescuing one from poisoning. Interesting.’

  ‘Quite. Let me see.’ He consulted his extensive handwritten notes. ‘She confirms that she told Mrs Cranbrook and the doctors that she smelt chloroform on Cranbrook’s breath, but insists Cranbrook admitted to poisoning himself. Says relations between the deceased and his wife were “cordial” and insists Gully no longer had anything to do with Cecilia. Bridles at the suggestion Cranbrook’s death was anything other than suicide.’

  ‘And the best?’ said Cameron, reaching for a cucumber sandwich. ‘You saved for last?’

  ‘Do you mind?’ said Clifton, taking the last of the shortbread. ‘My interview with Dr Gully. A very impressive individual. Freely admits that he was in love with Cecilia, though he owns it was an error of judgement for a man his age. Extremely bitter about the sensational newspaper reportage of the affair. But here’s the interesting bit. Gully is certain Cecilia was the victim of maltreatment at the hands of her husband, perhaps violence. Convinced that Cranbrook married her strictly for money.’

  ‘Would you say,’ said Cameron, reaching for his teacup, ‘that Gully, in love with the beautiful creature who is suffering at the hands of an abusive, avaricious husband, might have resorted to murder?’

  ‘Perhaps. But even more intriguing, Cameron, is the fact that Gully maintained contact with Mrs Clark.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  DUNCAN CAMERON SAT at the round table in his dining alcove, the bay window of which looked out on the leafy esplanade of Beaufort Gardens, enjoying his customary breakfast of two eggs, boiled precisely for four and one-half minutes, crisp bacon, and dry toast. Reaching for the china pot, he poured a second cup of black coffee, Jamaican Blue Mountain, for which he’d acquired a fondness during his travels in the West Indies. He observed a man wearing a bowler hat glide past the window on a bicycle, followed after a moment by the large form of James Clifton with a thick parcel under his arm.

  ‘Hallo, Cameron,’ said Clifton upon entering the alcove after a few moments.

  ‘I see you brought the newspapers,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Just as you specified,’ said Clifton, taking the chair opposite and unwrapping the parcel. ‘The Times, the Evening Standard, and The Pictorial World, all from the week of the coroner’s inquest.’ The Scottish housekeeper, a small woman wearing an apron, with her grey hair in a bun, appeared, wordlessly placed a cup and saucer before Clifton, and poured him coffee.

  ‘May I have a look?’ said Cameron, reaching for one of the newspapers. Studying its columns, he said, ‘Here’s what the Evening Standard had to say about Cecilia: She was a miserable woman, who indulged in a disgraceful connection.’

  ‘The Times,’ said Clifton, folding over another newspaper, ‘was even less kind. She was an adulteress and an inebriate,’ he read aloud, ‘selfish and self-willed, a bad daughter and worse wife. The Press showed far more interest in her affair with Gully than the poisoning of her husband.’

  ‘What is curious to me,’ said Cameron as he thoughtfully nibbled a piece of toast, ‘is not that the doctor had a love affair with one of his patients, a beautiful, highly impressionable young lady, but that he would have ended it. Neither was married?’

  ‘Cecilia’s first husband, from whom she inherited her fortune,’ replied Clifton, ‘died while still in his twenties, after the couple separated. Gully, on the other hand, is married. His wife, however, is quite elderly and reportedly confined to an insane asylum. He claims not to have seen her for thirty years. But surely, Cameron, you’re not suggesting the affair was anything less than a gross indecency—’

  ‘While it may be perfectly acceptable,’ said Cameron equably, ‘especially among the upper classes, for a married man to keep a mistress, it is unpardonable for a young woman, even an unmarried one, to engage in a dalliance with an older man. I have no doubt that it was Gully who enticed her into the relationship.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’ve been reading his writings, published for the most part in medical journals. Besides advocating homeopathic medicine, Gully is an outspoken supporter of the rights of women. Argues they should be given the suffrage, for instance.’

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘And moreover, attributes the malady of hysteria, so prevalent among affluent, middle-aged women, to what he describes as a want of sexual gratification in their marriages.’ At this, Clifton visibly reddened. ‘Not quite an adherent of the free love movement,’ concluded Cameron, ‘but a believer that women, like men, should actually derive pleasure from sexual intercourse.’

  ‘Cameron!’ said Clifton with a look of exaggerated reproach. ‘What about Mrs McNab?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Cameron. ‘She’s as deaf as a post. And so I return to my question. Why would Gully have ended the affair?’

  ‘Well,’ said Clifton, after taking a sip of coffee, ‘he didn’t say. He intimated that Mrs Clark exerted an increasingly strong influence over Cecilia. I detected that Gully distinctly disliked the woman. Perhaps she persuaded Cecilia to end the affair and marry Cranbrook.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Cameron, ‘Gully had dealings with Mrs Clark shortly before Cranbrook was poisoned.’

  ‘He made it plain,’ said Clifton, ‘that she approached him one morning at Balham railway station to ask a favour: to procure medication for Mrs Cranbrook that might help her sleep. Says he obliged her with a solution composed chiefly of laurel water which he delivered, at Mrs Clark’s instruction, to her lodger in Notting Hill.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cameron, pushing back from the table. ‘You are to seek out this lodger and ascertain what became of this so-called laurel water while I shall interview two very important witnesses neglected by the police: Miss Mary Ann Stokes and Dr Royes Bell.’

  Cameron had little difficulty locating Miss Stokes, the former upstairs maid at The Priory, who had found another position in the vicin
ity and lived with her mother in a modest cottage in nearby Streatham. Arriving at the house at the hour of six on a pleasant summer evening, he rapped his knuckles on the door and, after a moment, was greeted by Mary Ann’s mother, a thin woman of indeterminate age wearing a bonnet and shawl who, after hearing Cameron’s explanation of the purpose of his visit, consented to the interview with her daughter in the parlour while she eavesdropped from the adjoining kitchen.

  ‘How long,’ began Cameron, once they were situated in the snug room with a pot of tea, ‘were you employed in the Cranbrook residence?’

  Speaking so softly that Cameron was obliged to lean forward, Mary Ann said, ‘I was engaged by the missus directly after she moved into The Priory. Before she was married to Mr Cranbrook.’

  ‘Were you treated well?’

  ‘By the missus, you mean?’ Cameron nodded. ‘Yes, very well, though Mrs Clark could be a bit harsh.’ Relaxing a bit, Mary Ann explained, ‘Mrs Clark supervised the household. That is, until Mr Cranbrook come along.’

  ‘Would you say they were happily married?’ asked Cameron.

  Mary Ann frowned and bit her lower lip. ‘I suppose I may speak openly,’ she said, ‘as I’m no longer in service and in view of what happened.’ Cameron nodded encouragingly. ‘I’ve been engaged to a number of households,’ she continued, ‘and never have I witnessed such quarrelling. Mr Cranbrook was, well, very angry with the missus for the way she managed the household. Before the marriage we’d been a contented lot. But afterward, oh my. First it was Fanny, one of the parlourmaids, he got rid of, and then Rance, one of the gardeners. And next when he sacked Griffiths, well, what a scene!’

  ‘Do you know if Mr Cranbrook physically harmed his wife?’

  ‘He once struck her in the face,’ said Mary Ann. ‘Knocked her to the floor in the dining-room, or so I was told.’

  ‘Did he threaten to sack the other servants?’