Fell the Angels

by John Kerr

  ‘Was?’

  ‘I ’aven’t laid eyes on him for months. He stopped in one evening, sat by himself at the bar, brooding-like. Had three or more pints. And here’s the thing.’ Higgins excused himself to wait on two men at the other end of the long bar. Returning to Clifton, he said, ‘Mr MacIntosh, the owner of the hotel, dropped by and casually happened to mention Cranbrook – the deceased – by name. Well, this cove perked up and said, ‘Cranbrook?’ I nodded, and he said, ‘That bloody whore’s son.’ I remember it very well, as the gent turned suddenly so angry.’

  ‘I see,’ said Clifton, sipping his drink.

  ‘I said to the bloke, “What about Cranbrook?”, something along that line, and he says, “He’ll get what’s comin’ to him. His days are numbered”.’

  ‘Those were his exact words?’ asked Clifton.

  ‘I would swear on it,’ said Higgins. ‘I was shocked, actually, but he explained he’d just been sacked by Cranbrook and his wife was expecting a baby. And then he said, and I quote: ‘I wouldn’t want to be in Cranbrook’s shoes. He’ll be dead within months.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Clifton. ‘Did you report this to the police?’

  ‘They never asked me. Mr MacIntosh said I should keep my mouth shut, and I do as told. But as you enquired …’

  ‘When did this conversation occur?’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Higgins, scratching his chin. ‘It would have been in February.’

  ‘A final question,’ said Clifton. ‘Do you recall the gentleman’s name?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Higgins, screwing up his face. ‘He may have looked after Cranbrook’s horses. Oh, yes. Griffiths. George Griffiths. That’s the name.’

  The late summer day was warm and sunny, and the Malvern Hills were pale blue and ringed with cottony cloud when Duncan Cameron’s carriage arrived at the hydro from the railway station. Cameron stood for a moment gazing at the impressive, redbrick Tudor mansion, incongruously connected by the covered bridge to the more conventional Victorian house. Walking up the flagstones to the entrance, he gave the bronze knocker a sharp rap. To the tall, prim woman who answered the door he said, Yes, the doctor was expecting him, as he’d wired ahead. Observing the mostly frumpy women in their plain cotton shifts as he passed through the building, he politely thanked his escort and strode into a large, pleasant office with a view of the rose garden where Dr Gully was awaiting him at his desk.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Gully cheerfully, rising from his chair and reaching across the desk to shake his visitor’s hand. ‘The celebrated Mr Cameron.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine, sir,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Let’s sit,’ suggested Gully, walking around his desk.

  Cameron chose an armchair facing Gully and began the interview by asking a few knowledgeable questions about the water treatment based on his extensive reading of Gully’s writings. ‘It would appear,’ Cameron observed, ‘that business is thriving at the clinic.’

  ‘Business is well enough,’ said Gully. ‘Most of my patients are firm believers in the salubrious effects of hydrotherapy and consequently are indifferent to the libels that were heaped upon me in the Press.’

  ‘It is true, however,’ said Cameron mildly, ‘that you were engaged in a love affair with Miss Henderson.’

  ‘I don’t deny it,’ replied Gully. ‘I remain very much in love with her, poor child, though I fear her mind is shattered.’

  ‘Judging from my recent interview at her family estate in Oxfordshire,’ said Cameron, ‘I would agree that her condition is very fragile. I wonder if you might explain how your affair came to an end?’

  ‘As you are in the employ of Lady Cranbrook,’ said Gully, ‘and considering your distinguished reputation, I shall be entirely frank. My relationship with Cecilia was exposed by an unscrupulous solicitor and his sister in the most dishonourable fashion, resulting in threats of suits and counter-suits and maltreatment of Cecilia by her village neighbours. Under the circumstances we mutually agreed it would be best if we ceased seeing one another.’

  ‘Would you say that Cecilia was influenced in this decision by Mrs Jane Clark?’

  ‘I would say that she was influenced by Mrs Clark in virtually all decisions.’

  ‘Including her decision to wed Mr Cranbrook?’

  ‘Especially in that disastrous decision. It was Mrs Clark, after all, who made the introduction.’

  ‘Did you dislike Charles Cranbrook?’

  ‘I never met the man,’ said Gully with a frown. ‘But from everything Cecilia told me about him, and what I’ve since learned, I considered him a scoundrel.’

  ‘Did you counsel Cecilia that marrying Cranbrook would be a mistake?’

  ‘I most certainly did,’ replied Gully. ‘It was obvious to me that he was marrying her for her money.’

  ‘Obvious?’

  ‘To someone of my professional experience,’ said Gully with a trace of asperity. ‘Cranbrook is the stepson of a man of great wealth, travelling in the circle of privilege at the gentlemen’s clubs, yet forced to eke out a living as a barrister.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cameron. ‘Cecilia stated to me that she informed Cranbrook of her affair with you to afford him the opportunity to terminate the engagement.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gully with a nod. ‘She sought my advice on the matter. I urged her not to marry the cad but, if she was determined to do so, to share her secret with him, considering the probability that he would learn of it from other sources.’

  ‘And he nevertheless decided to go forward with the wedding.’ Gully again nodded glumly. ‘Do you know why?’ asked Cameron.

  For a moment Gully stared into Cameron’s expressionless eyes, suspecting that his interrogator knew the answer to his own question. ‘Yes,’ said Gully, ‘I believe I do. There was the money, Cecilia’s large fortune, of course, though she made legal arrangements to protect herself to the extent possible. But there was also the matter of Cranbrook’s own, shall we say, indiscretion.’

  ‘That he too,’ said Cameron, ‘had been involved in an illicit affair.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gully. ‘Cecilia told me that Cranbrook was willing to forgive her as he had been guilty of the same sin.’

  ‘Do you know the identity of the other woman?’

  ‘No,’ said Gully. ‘Nor, I believe, does Cecilia. It was merely something in Cranbrook’s hazy past.’

  ‘You mentioned that Cecilia was strongly influenced by Mrs Clark,’ said Cameron. ‘Did you dislike Mrs Clark?’

  ‘Mrs Clark struck me as a cold, hard woman,’ replied Gully, ‘though there’s no doubt she served Cecilia faithfully. I would say that Mrs Clark disliked me.’

  ‘Why, then,’ said Cameron, ‘would you have had dealings with Mrs Clark in the weeks before Cranbrook’s poisoning?’

  ‘Oh, the matter I mentioned to your colleague?’ said Gully. ‘Mrs Clark’s request that I provide her with something to help Cecilia sleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It seemed a reasonable request, and I complied as a favour to Cecilia, providing her with an innocuous mixture of laurel water and spearmint, which has a soothing effect on the mind.’

  ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd,’ said Cameron, ‘that you were instructed to deliver this admixture to Mrs Clark’s lodger in Notting Hill?’

  ‘I presumed it was for her convenience.’

  ‘It strikes me as singularly inconvenient,’ rejoined Cameron, ‘as you were a mere five-minutes’ walk from Mrs Clark at The Priory. What would you say, Dr Gully, if I were to tell you that Mrs Clark’s lodger, a man named Harmsworth, says that the bottle you delivered to him was labelled poison?’

  ‘What?’ said Gully, jumping up from his chair. ‘That the man’s lying! Do you suppose,’ he said in a heated tone, wagging a forefinger at Cameron, ‘I would have volunteered this information to your colleague if I had a hand in Cranbrook’s poisoning?’

  ‘He insists the bottle was labelled poison,’ said Cameron evenly. ‘
Though the bottle has disappeared.’

  ‘Balderdash,’ said Gully.

  ‘Can you think of a reason why Mrs Clark might have wanted to murder Cranbrook?’ asked Cameron, standing up to look Gully in the eye.

  ‘Cranbrook was of a type,’ Gully replied, ‘I have seen all too often in my practice. A man who regards his wife as his property, capable of brutal mistreatment. Mrs Clark no doubt witnessed Cecilia’s suffering at the hands of Cranbrook. But would this have led her to murder him? I couldn’t possibly say.’

  ‘Unless,’ suggested Cameron, ‘there was the added element of jealousy.’ Gully’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you suppose,’ said Cameron, ‘Mrs Clark was in love with Cecilia?’

  Gully considered. ‘That possibility,’ he said, ‘has never occurred to me. But Cecilia is a passionate, sensual young woman who’d been awakened to the pleasures of the flesh. But Mrs Clark … I must say, it’s an intriguing hypothesis.’

  Slipping his watch from his pocket, Cameron checked the hour and said, ‘You’ve been very generous with your time, Doctor, and I appreciate your candour.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Gully. ‘But you must understand that as much as I loathed Charles Cranbrook, I had nothing whatsoever to do with his death.’

  Tedious business, considered James Clifton as he trudged along the village pavement, having completed his third interview of the day with a chemist in Streatham. Like the first two, the proprietor maintained records dating back at least a year of all sales of poisonous compounds as required by law. There were only a few instances of the sale of tartar emetic, in each case to a physician with a medical practice in the vicinity. Traversing the green fields and woods of Tooting Bec Common, Clifton decided to reward his exertions with a stop at the Rose and Crown for a pint of the local bitter and a ploughman’s. After lunch and a friendly chat with the local patrons, several of whom he remembered from his previous visit, Clifton consulted his notes, looking up the address of the Pickford Apothecary at 17 Elmfield Road, the fourth of five such establishments listed in the directory. After a five-minute stroll, Clifton peered through the half-curtained windows and let himself in. Mr Pickford, the pharmacist, a tall, slender man wearing spectacles and a white coat, stood at the counter with a mortar and pestle. On the shelves behind him was a neat array of jars and bottles of varying colours and sizes, and the small anteroom was redolent of carbolic acid.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Pickford, looking at Clifton over the rims of his spectacles.

  ‘Howd’ya do,’ said Clifton as he approached the counter.

  ‘Toothache?’ said Pickford. ‘I might suggest laudanum.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Clifton agreeably. ‘The teeth are just fine, though I’ll admit to sore feet what with all the walking. I’m looking for information rather than medicine.’

  ‘I see. What sort of information?’

  Clifton produced an engraved card and slid it across the counter. ‘We’re engaged in an investigation,’ he said, with the air of someone sharing a secret.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Pickford, holding the card up to his face. ‘And how may I help you?’

  ‘You maintain records, I presume, of the sale of poisons?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said the chemist. ‘A requirement of my licence.’ He nodded toward the framed certificate on the wall with its elaborate script and blue seal.

  ‘Over what period of time,’ said Clifton, ‘do these records exist?’

  ‘As the law requires, the current calendar year and the year preceding.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Clifton. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘We – Mr Cameron and I – are interested in knowing to whom you may have dispensed antimony, or tartar emetic, during the twelve months preceding April of this year.’

  Pickford rubbed his chin. ‘Tartar emetic,’ he repeated. ‘Rarely dispensed, very rarely. I daresay most physicians aren’t familiar with it.’

  ‘What about for veterinary uses?’

  ‘I can’t say. Let me consult my records.’ Pickford disappeared into a back office from which he returned after several minutes. ‘Let me see,’ he said, opening a notebook on the counter and running a finger down a line of neat entries, recording the names of the toxic substances, the dates, and the identities of the purchasers. ‘Here we are,’ he said, looking up. ‘Five grams of tartar emetic sold to Dr Davis Witherspoon on 6 June 1871.’

  ‘I see,’ said Clifton. ‘Any others?’ He imagined his query would end in the same result as the preceding three.

  ‘Aha,’ said Pickford, turning the page. ‘Here’s another. Ten grams dispensed to Dr Panghurst at St Luke’s Clinic on October 22nd of last year.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Clifton a bit impatiently.

  ‘I seem to remember another,’ said Pickford, ‘as it’s such an unusual request, frightfully toxic, you know.’ Turning another page, he said, ‘Yes. Here it is.’ He tapped a finger on the page. ‘Ten grams of tartar emetic dispensed on 12 December, 1871, to one George Griffiths.’

  ‘What?’ said Clifton with a startled expression. ‘Griffiths, you say?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the chemist. ‘With the notation “for veterinary use”.’

  Seldom in their five-year association had Duncan Cameron seen James Clifton in a state of such excited animation. ‘We’ve cracked this one, Cameron,’ said Clifton, smacking a fist into his palm. ‘No doubt about it.’ Both men were seated in leather club chairs in a quiet corner of the walnut-panelled bar at the Cavendish, Cameron’s club in Mayfair.

  ‘Something to drink, gentlemen?’ asked the porter at Cameron’s elbow.

  ‘A whisky and soda, if you please,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Gin and Angostura,’ stipulated Clifton. After the man returned with their drinks and withdrew, Clifton’s normally expressionless dark eyes shone with excitement. ‘The bartender at the Bedford Hotel,’ he began as Cameron listened with rapt attention, ‘had a vivid recollection of the encounter. The casual mention of Cranbrook’s name by the hotel’s proprietor prompted an angry outburst, too profane to be repeated in the confines of your club.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cameron, sipping his whisky.

  ‘The man explains that Cranbrook sacked him just as his wife is about to deliver a child and goes on to say, “His days are numbered. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. He’ll be dead within months”.’

  ‘He is certain?’

  ‘Insists he would swear to it. And lastly, he identified the man as George Griffiths, the stableman at The Priory.’

  ‘Whose dismissal,’ said Cameron, ‘according to Mary Ann, caused a violent row between Cranbrook and Cecilia.’

  ‘But there’s more,’ said Clifton in a conspiratorial tone. Inclining his head toward Cameron, he said, ‘I interviewed all five chemists in the vicinity of Balham and Streatham, who, as required by law, maintain records of the sale of all poisons. As you might imagine, there were very few of antimony or tartar emetic. In all but one instance, they were to local physicians.’ Clifton paused to take a sip of his drink. ‘However,’ he added importantly, ‘a chemist in Balham by the name of Pickford sold ten grams of tartar emetic with the notation “for veterinary use”, and the buyer was one George Griffiths.’

  Cameron eyed him impassively and asked, ‘When did this sale occur?’

  ‘December of last year,’ said Clifton. ‘The twelfth of December.’

  ‘And when did the barman’s conversation with Griffiths take place?’

  ‘In February.’ Cameron sat silently, staring into the distance. ‘Well?’ said Clifton. ‘I say, old boy, surely you’d agree we’ve cracked the case.’

  ‘Griffiths,’ said Cameron, thoughtfully stroking his chin. ‘The worming of horses. I’ll grant you this, Clifton, we may not know the identity of Cranbrook’s murderer, but we now know the source of the poison that was used to kill him.’

  Clifton gaped at Cameron, unable to think of a word to say, the wind having gone completely out of his once billowing sails
.

  Chapter Eighteen

  DUNCAN CAMERON STARED out the bay window at the rain falling in dull grey sheets. He’d waited impatiently for most of the day for a reply to his telegram to the police constable in Balham, which he now held in his hand. George Griffiths was, in fact, well known to the constabulary, with several arrests for public intoxication and a conviction for battery that earned him thirty days in the Balham lock-up. But more importantly, the message concluded: SUBJECT NOW BELIEVED TO BE IN CROYDON. Folding the paper in his pocket, Cameron walked to the desk in his study and removed his Colt .45 from the lower right-hand drawer. After loading it, he slipped it into a holster concealed under his jacket, and then donned his coat and hat, took his umbrella from the stand, and headed out in the rain.

  Croydon, a fashionable middle class suburb, was accessible by train from Victoria Station and hence it was late afternoon when Cameron arrived at the station in the centre of town. Griffiths, he reasoned, dismissed from his previous position and with an arrest record, would have difficulty securing employment at a private residence, nor were there many residents of the town wealthy enough to keep their own stables. Enquiring at the railway station, he learned that there were two public livery stables nearby, and it was at the second of these, McDougal’s on the Pitlake Road, where Griffiths had been recently employed until dismissed for brawling. ‘Considering the time of day,’ said the proprietor, ‘you’ll likely as not find ’im at the public house down the road.’ Cameron entered the establishment, with a sign depicting a golden calf over the door, at the hour of seven, hung his coat and dripping hat on the stand and made his way past tables packed with local tradesmen to a cramped space at the end of the bar, as all seats were taken. ‘A gill of whisky, if you please,’ he said to the barman. Once his drink was in hand, he surveyed the dim, smoky room, filled with the clamour of conversation, observing a small, separate parlour at the rear. After a time, he ordered a second drink, and when the barman slid it across the counter casually said, ‘Do you happen to know a man named George Griffiths?’