by John Kerr
‘Sawyers and the cook had a wager as to who would be next. Of course, it was only a matter of time before Mrs Clark was dismissed.’
‘Do you know this?’ asked Cameron.
‘She wouldn’t own up to it,’ replied Mary Ann. ‘But Sawyers overheard Mr Cranbrook telling her.’
‘But she was very close to Mrs Cranbrook, was she not?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, indeed. After she lost the baby, Mrs Clark—’
‘Mrs Cranbrook had a miscarriage?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary Ann with a nod. ‘And afterward Mrs Clark moved into her bedroom, and Mr Cranbrook took the spare room at the top of the stairs.’
‘Did Mrs Clark share Mrs Cranbrook’s bed?’
Mary Ann briefly looked down and then said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve read your testimony before the coroner’s inquest,’ said Cameron. ‘How you first observed Mr Cranbrook in distress, summoned Mrs Clark, and assisted her attempts to revive him.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were present with Mrs Clark in his room when he collapsed?’ asked Cameron. Mary Ann nodded. ‘Did he say anything to Mrs Clark to the effect that he had poisoned himself, instructing her not to tell his wife?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Might he have confided this to her when you went downstairs to fetch the water and mustard?’
‘Impossible,’ said Mary Ann emphatically. ‘He was unconscious when I left the room, and unconscious when I returned. He never spoke a word after calling out for hot water, until the doctors arrived, that is.’
‘Very, well,’ said Cameron, rising from his chair. ‘This has been most illuminating.’
The following day Cameron was obliged to wait for over an hour at Dr Bell’s Harley Street clinic, as the surgeon was delayed in completing his rounds at St. Bart’s. Anticipating the contingency, Cameron had brought along a copy of Trollope’s Phineas Finn, which enabled him to ignore the curious assortment of Londoners, some heavily bandaged, crowded into the clinic’s waiting-room. At length Dr Bell appeared, and learning that the detective was waiting to see him, immediately summoned Cameron to his small, windowless office, the walls of which were adorned with a number of diplomas and certificates.
‘So you’ve been hired by Aunt Margaret,’ said Royes Bell, gazing at the brief letter of introduction Cameron handed him. Cameron nodded. ‘Charles,’ said Bell, ‘was not only my cousin but my good friend. What can I do to help you find his murderer?’
‘The esteemed Dr Gill is convinced your cousin took his own life.’
‘That’s absurd,’ said Bell. ‘I was with Charles days before his death, and he was his usual chipper self, with everything to live for.’
‘After you arrived at The Priory,’ said Cameron, ‘as I understand it, accompanied by Dr Johnson, did Cranbrook briefly regain consciousness?’
‘Yes,’ said Bell. ‘Charlie recognized me and I put the question to him: “What have you swallowed?” “Laudanum”, he said. He added that he’d taken it to relieve a toothache and may have swallowed some. Dr Johnson pressed him, but he insisted he’d taken nothing but laudanum.’
‘Mrs Clark,’ said Cameron, ‘has testified that she informed Dr Johnson that Cranbrook confided to her that he’d poisoned himself—’
‘A damnable lie—’
‘Why should the woman have lied?’
‘Obviously, to deflect suspicion from herself.’
‘That’s mere conjecture,’ said Cameron. ‘I’m interested in facts.’
‘Well,’ said Bell hotly, ‘here’s a fact for you. When Dr Harrison first arrived on the scene, Mrs Clark told him Charles had swallowed chloroform, that she’d smelt it on his breath. Never said a word about Charles having poisoned himself. When she later told Dr Johnson her tale, she insisted she’d informed Dr Harrison, who vehemently denied it. I heard all of this with my own ears, and it caused me to conduct my own investigation.’
‘I see,’ said Cameron calmly. ‘And what did you discover?’
‘A small quantity of chloroform on the mantelpiece, together with a half-empty vial of laudanum. I went to the kitchen and had the cook provide me with samples of what Charles had eaten and drunk at dinner – mutton, green beans, and some burgundy wine, no trace of anything suspicious.’
‘So Cranbrook was feeling well enough to have dinner?’
‘I was told,’ said Bell, ‘that he joined his wife and Mrs Clark for supper and then retired to bed, at which point he became violently ill.’
‘I see,’ said Cameron. ‘And what else did you learn?’
‘I interviewed all the staff, the butler, cook, maids, the gardener, all of whom stated they knew of no reason why Charles would poison himself, nor why anyone else should do so. And lastly, I questioned Cecilia.’
‘And?’
‘Cecilia feared that Charles had suffered a heart attack, that he’d been worried about “stocks and shares”, something like that, but that Mrs Clark had told her his illness was the result of swallowing chloroform. I thereupon searched her bedroom and boudoir and found only a large number of homeopathic and patent medicines, rosewater, and the like.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I searched Mrs Clark’s room as well as the stables and greenhouse and found no evidence of poison of any kind.’
‘Very thorough, I must say,’ said Cameron. ‘If only the Metropolitan Police had been half so efficient.’ He rose from his chair.
‘Mr Cameron,’ said Bell, seated behind his desk. ‘I know of your reputation. Do you agree with me that Charles Cranbrook was murdered?’
‘Yes,’ said Cameron with a nod. ‘I do.’
‘Do you have a hypothesis?’
‘Not yet,’ said Cameron. ‘But I’m beginning to believe there were a number of people who may have been happy to see him go.’
With the privacy afforded by the etched-glass partition separating their booth from the adjoining one, Duncan Cameron and James Clifton were satisfied they could speak freely in the upstairs salon at Wilton’s, the fashionable St James’s seafood restaurant. Waiting somewhat impatiently as the waiter de-boned and served their sautéed Dover sole, Cameron sipped his wine and said, ‘As you were saying, the rooms are within a block of Notting Hill.’
‘Quite right,’ said Clifton, tucking his napkin into his shirt collar. ‘A shabby little house on Lancaster Street, divided into flats.’ He paused to sample the sole.
‘And the lodger?’ said Cameron.
‘There are several tenants. The lodger in question is a cove by the name of Harmsworth, a Yorkshireman with an accent so pronounced I could scarcely make him out. At all events, he confirmed that Gully delivered a bottle to him, with instructions that it was to be given to Mrs Clark.’
‘Did he know Gully by name?’
‘No, but when I described him, he said, “That’s the chap”.’ Clifton paused to butter a crusty French roll and take a swallow of wine. ‘But here’s the interesting part,’ he continued between bites. ‘When I asked him if he knew what the bottle contained, he exclaimed, “Cor blimey!”’
‘Shh,’ said Cameron, leaning across the table.
‘Sorry,’ said Clifton in a low voice. ‘“Poison”, he said. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Poison”, he repeated. “It said so on the label, with a skull and crossbones”.’
‘Hmm,’ said Cameron, rubbing his chin. ‘A laurel water mixture certainly would not have been labelled as poison.’
‘Well, Cameron,’ said Clifton proudly, ‘I think we’ve cracked it. I say …’ He flagged down a passing waiter. ‘Would you pour us another glass?’
After the waiter had poured more wine, Cameron said, ‘Oh, you do?’
‘It’s simple, my good Cameron. Here you have Gully, consumed with jealousy, conspiring with Mrs Clark, who doubtless detests Cranbrook for his ill treatment of Cecilia. Gully, a physician, supplies her with poison, and voila!’
‘You’re suggesting the little woman was capable of cold-blooded mu
rder,’ said Cameron, ‘simply because she disliked her victim? And that the renowned Dr Gully would freely admit to a private detective that he met the woman and agreed to supply her with a suspicious substance, a fact which never surfaced in the police investigation or the inquest? And what became of the mysterious bottle Gully delivered to this Harmsworth fellow?’
‘It seems to have disappeared,’ said Clifton with a frown. ‘Harmsworth says he never gave it to Mrs Clark, and it simply vanished.’
‘Vanished,’ repeated Cameron. ‘Well, to sum up, this much we know: Cranbrook, a man with upper-class pretensions but no money of his own, marries an extremely wealthy young widow. He promptly sacks many of the household servants, much to his wife’s chagrin, violent quarrels ensue, she suffers a miscarriage, Cranbrook is evicted from her bedroom, and his place is taken by Mrs Clark. Gully, allegedly at Mrs Clark’s request, delivers a mysterious bottle to one of her lodgers. When Cranbrook collapses, Mrs Clark tells at least two credible witnesses that she believes he ingested chloroform. Later that night she tells one of the attending physicians that Cranbrook admitted to poisoning himself, an assertion vehemently denied by the first physician to arrive on the scene, and more importantly, by the upstairs maid, who was present in the room at the only time the admission could have been made.’
‘Very perplexing,’ said Clifton, dabbing at his chin with his napkin.
‘And lastly,’ said Cameron, ‘when repeatedly questioned by the physicians after regaining consciousness, Cranbrook insisted that the only thing he’d swallowed was a bit of laudanum, a vial of which was found on the mantel.’
‘Well, where does that leave us?’
‘I’ll warrant Mrs Clark was lying,’ said Cameron, ‘about Cranbrook admitting to poisoning himself. The question is why. Oh, and there’s one other intriguing fact.’ Cameron leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘According to Mary Ann, the upstairs maid, Cranbrook informed Mrs Clark he intended to sack her, something she chose not to disclose to Cecilia.’
‘Very curious,’ said Clifton.
‘If we’re to get to the bottom of this,’ said Cameron, ‘we must have a more perfect understanding of the relationship between Cecilia and Mrs Clark, and why the affair between Gully and Cecilia came to an end. I intend to question them myself. Meanwhile, Clifton, I should like you to pay a visit to Balham and see what tidbits you can turn up.’
Chapter Sixteen
SEVERAL DAYS PASSED before Duncan Cameron received a reply to the telegram he’d sent Sir Richard Henderson, requesting permission to interview his daughter Cecilia as a part of his investigation into the death of Charles Cranbrook undertaken at the behest of Lady Cranbrook. Henderson readily acceded to the request, though he cautioned that Cecilia may be of little help, as she is in poor health, inviting Cameron to come to Buscot Park and stay the night. In the meantime, Cameron dispatched James Clifton to Balham with instructions to mingle freely with the locals and keep his ear to the ground.
Departing from Paddington on the mid-morning train, Cameron gazed out on the sunlit late-summer countryside, admiring the honey-coloured stone cottages, the occasional manor house, the fields of blue and yellow wildflowers, and cattle, as Shakespeare described them, resting under the canopy of an ancient oak. For a while he read his Trollope, and then put the novel aside and turned to the volume he’d borrowed from the library of the Royal College of Physicians, detailing the prescribed uses of poisons in the treatment of certain ailments. Continuing to believe that antimony, or tartar emetic, was a very odd choice of poison with which to commit murder, Cameron was curious about who, in the course of lawful behaviour, might be possessed of it. The passage in the textbook devoted to antimony was extremely brief, describing its use to induce vomiting and as a sedative but cautioning that even a tiny overdose could lead to death. One final comment, however, caught Cameron’s attention: ‘In veterinary medicine, tartar emetic is sometimes used in worming horses and other large animals.’ Closing the volume with a snap, he turned his gaze to the window, noting his reflection in the glass as the train slowed perceptibly at the approach to Swindon Station.
From the Cotswold village, Cameron travelled by rented carriage to the town of Faringdon, an hour’s journey, and thence along a country lane bordered with hedgerows through splendid countryside to the elaborate stone gate that marked the entrance to Buscot Park, one of the finest country houses in Oxfordshire, if not all of England. Situated on a slight rise in the heart of 3000 acres of rolling parkland, the palatial eighteenth-century house had been designed by the noted architect James Darley and constructed of native limestone in the Palladian style. Cameron counted seven chimneys on the steeply pitched slate roof as the carriage came to a halt on the gravel drive. A liveried footman unloaded Cameron’s valise and then escorted him up the stairs where another servant led him to the drawing-room. Sir Richard Henderson rose from his chair as Cameron entered the richly appointed room, with eighteen-foot ceilings, elaborate mouldings, and walls painted pale blue. His tread creaking on the old parquet, Cameron approached Sir Richard with outstretched hand and said, ‘Good day, sir. You have a magnificent home.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cameron,’ said Henderson with obvious pride. Though knighted, his fortune had been self-made in the mining industry and his pretensions were those of the nouveau riche. ‘Shall we sit, or do you prefer to rest in your room after your travels?’
‘Let’s sit,’ said Cameron agreeably, ‘though a glass of water would be much appreciated.’
‘Sawyers,’ said Henderson, ‘bring us water.’ Turning back to Cameron, who sat in the chair beside him, he said, ‘Terrible, this business about Charles Cranbrook. Dead at the age of thirty after only four months’ marriage.’
‘Do you believe he took his own life?’ asked Cameron.
‘Do you?’
‘No.’ Both men waited for the butler to serve glasses of water from a tray. ‘Nor,’ said Cameron after the butler retired, ‘does my client, Lady Cranbrook.’
Henderson shook his head with a grimace. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I doubt Cecilia will be of much assistance to you. She’s devastated after all she’s endured.’
‘Was there trouble in the marriage?’ asked Cameron, after taking a sip of water.
Henderson hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Yes. Cecilia came home for a visit and seemed quite unhappy. Insisted she could not go back to Charles, which, of course, was out of the question.’
‘When was this?’
‘In midwinter. My God, the poor girl can’t seem to find her place in a marriage. Virtually the same thing happened before, with Captain Castello.’
‘What, if I may ask,’ said Cameron, ‘was the cause of Castello’s premature death?’
‘Drink,’ said Henderson. ‘Simple as that. Drank himself to death. This was after his estrangement from Cecilia. He left her a fortune, however, much to my surprise and, frankly, dismay.’
‘Dismay?’
Henderson nodded and said, ‘The inheritance of sizeable wealth by an eligible young woman can be a curse, attracting unscrupulous men like iron filings to a magnet.’
‘Was Cranbrook such a man?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Father….’
Both men turned in their chairs to observe Cecilia, wearing a blue silk tea-gown and matching slippers, standing in the entrance to the room.
‘Yes, dear?’ said Henderson as both men rose from their chairs.
‘Are you ready for me?’
‘It would be best,’ said Cameron in an aside to Cecilia’s father, ‘if I were to question her alone.’
‘This gentleman,’ said Henderson, ‘is the private detective Duncan Cameron. I would suggest that you talk to him in the library.’ Turning to Cameron, he added, ‘Please let Sawyers know if you’d care for tea or something to eat.’
Cameron chose a comfortable leather armchair facing Cecilia, seated on a sofa in the library, redolent of cigar smoke, and filled with book
cases of leather-bound volumes. She clutched a goblet filled with straw-coloured wine, not, surmised Cameron, her first of the afternoon. He briefly studied her delicate features, her large, sensual eyes and bow lips, her auburn hair in ringlets; pretty yet wan, with a forlorn expression. The object of desire, he considered, of James Gully, of pathetic indifference to Captain Castello, and of greedy possession by Charles Cranbrook.
Taking a sip of wine, she said softly, ‘Where shall we begin?’
‘If I’m going to provide any consolation to my client,’ replied Cameron, ‘in understanding how Charles came to be poisoned, it’s essential that you are entirely candid and forthcoming, even if I touch on matters that frankly are embarrassing to you.’
‘All right,’ said Cecilia with a nod.
‘I’d like to begin with your relationship with Dr Gully.’
‘If only I’d listened to him,’ said Cecilia, suddenly bursting into tears. Cameron merely looked at her, inviting her to explain. ‘He warned me,’ she said, wiping away her tears. ‘Insisted Charles was only after my money and that marriage was fraught with risk.’
‘I see,’ said Cameron, holding her in his steady gaze.
‘And yet it might have worked,’ she continued as if anxious to unburden herself, ‘but for the fact that I shared my secret with him. That I had been involved,’ she explained, ‘in a love affair with James.’
‘With Dr Gully.’
‘Why not admit it?’ she asked, as much to herself as to Cameron. ‘It’s been spread across every newspaper in London. At all events, I chose to tell him, to afford him the option of ending the engagement, which he chose not to do. But then, within weeks of the wedding it seemed, he was consumed with jealousy. His mind was made up that I still loved James, and nothing I could say or do would alter it.’
‘I’m curious,’ said Cameron, ‘why someone as proper and fastidious as Charles appeared to have been, would have married you, having learned of your affair with a much older married man?’
