Fell the Angels

by John Kerr

  Clifton bowed slightly and said, ‘How do you do, madam.’

  ‘How dare you,’ said Mrs Clark, after placing her basket on a chair. ‘Barging into my house without invitation—’

  ‘Your niece,’ said Cameron equably, ‘was kind enough to show us in.’

  ‘That may be, sir, but I shall show you out.’

  ‘If you will spare a few minutes,’ said Cameron, unmoving, ‘I have a few questions for you. As you know, I’ve been engaged to investigate the murder of Charles Cranbrook.’

  ‘Murder?’ said Mrs Clark with asperity. ‘Charles Cranbrook wasn’t murdered. He took his own life.’

  ‘I would suggest,’ said Cameron, ‘that you join us in the parlour and consent to answer my questions.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ she said crossly, ‘though it would serve you right if I tossed you out.’

  Cameron chose an armchair facing Mrs Clark, who sat alone on the horse-hair sofa, with Clifton seated uncomfortably in a rocking chair next to her. The small room had the air of middle-class respectability, with antimacassars on the arms of the sofa, lithographs depicting scenes of rural life on the walls, and a braided rug before the hearth. Crossing his long legs, Cameron held his palms together in the attitude of prayer and said, ‘Let me begin by asking how you came to be employed by Miss Henderson.’

  ‘I answered a notice in the newspaper, shortly after Cecilia … Miss Henderson moved into The Priory.’

  ‘You may refer to her as Cecilia,’ said Cameron, ‘as she called you Jane when I recently spoke to her. You were living at the time in London?’

  ‘Yes, at my house in Notting Hill. I needed work as I have two children to bring up, my husband having died prematurely.’

  ‘Your duties at The Priory,’ said Cameron, ‘were to supervise the household staff.’

  ‘Yes, and to manage the expenses, keep books of account.’

  ‘And provide Cecilia with companionship?’

  ‘I don’t deny it. She was new to the neighbourhood and had few friends. I would accompany her on rides on the common or shopping trips into the city.’

  ‘At the time, was Cecilia involved in a relationship with Dr Gully?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An intimate relationship?’

  ‘As you are reputed to be a celebrated detective, sir, I presume you’ve read the salacious newspaper accounts.’

  ‘Touché,’ said Cameron with a smile. ‘How would you describe your standing with Dr Gully?’

  ‘He seemed a kindly enough old gentleman,’ replied Mrs Clark, ‘but I considered it wicked of him to pursue a vulnerable young woman like Cecilia, especially with her great wealth, and I cautioned her it could come to ruin.’

  ‘Which it did,’ said Cameron. Mrs Clark nodded. ‘Would you say,’ he asked, ‘that the affair was ended by mutual consent?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘though the doctor kept his house in Balham, no doubt in the hope of renewing the affair.’

  ‘And after Cecilia’s remarriage, do you believe Gully was jealous of her new husband?’

  ‘Oh, extremely jealous. He wrote Mr Cranbrook the most wretched letter, accusing him of marrying her for her money.’

  ‘A single letter?’ asked Cameron. ‘Or several?’

  After the briefest hesitation, Mrs Clark said, ‘Only one.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cameron. ‘And did Cranbrook marry Cecilia for her money?’

  Mrs Clark stared into Cameron’s pale-blue eyes, betraying no emotion. ‘Not so far as I know,’ she replied after a moment. ‘Though Cecilia’s habit of extravagant expenditure seemed to vex him.’

  ‘Do you suppose,’ said Cameron, adopting a conversational tone, ‘that Gully was so consumed with jealousy and unrequited love that he resorted to murdering his rival?’

  ‘Charles Cranbrook was not murdered. Nor, in my opinion, was Dr Gully capable of such a thing. Why, he would scarcely harm a fly.’

  ‘I understand there were quarrels in the marriage,’ observed Cameron.

  ‘I do not know if you have been married, sir, but in my experience there are always quarrels in a marriage. This was no different.’

  ‘I’m told that Cecilia was particularly distressed over Cranbrook’s insistence on sacking Griffiths, the stableman.’

  ‘She disagreed, of course, but naturally Mr Cranbrook was master of the house.’

  ‘Griffiths was extremely angry and bitter, breathing threats against Cranbrook,’ said Cameron, ‘as his wife was expecting a baby and they were forced to move out of the coach house.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Mrs Clark without emotion.

  ‘Turning to the night Cranbrook was poisoned,’ said Cameron. ‘You were the first to attend to him.’

  ‘Yes. I did everything in my power to save him.’

  ‘You sent Mary Ann for hot water and dry mustard.’ Mrs Clark nodded. ‘Which you mixed and administered to the unconscious man, is that so?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Why did you do so?’ At this question, the hitherto impassive Clifton gave Cameron a curious look.

  ‘Because he demanded hot water,’ replied Mrs Clark.

  ‘Yes, he did. So Mary Ann testified before the court of inquest. But you administered hot water mixed with mustard. A well-known emetic, a method of inducing vomiting, which it succeeded admirably in doing. Why would you have done so, unless you had foreknowledge that Cranbrook had been poisoned?’

  ‘I smelt chloroform on his breath,’ Mrs Clark replied without hesitation. ‘And he admitted to me he’d taken poison, as I’ve repeatedly stated. I was merely trying to save him.’

  ‘And when did this admission occur?’

  ‘When Mary Ann went downstairs to fetch the hot water.’

  ‘Mary Ann insists that Cranbrook was unconscious when she left the room and unconscious when she returned a few minutes later.’

  ‘He admitted to me he’d poisoned himself,’ said Mrs Clark calmly, ‘when we were alone. Instructed me to say nothing about it to Cecilia.’

  ‘I find this a very curious assertion,’ said Cameron, leaning forward. ‘When you later confided this to Dr Johnson, he demanded to know why you hadn’t said something earlier, and you insisted you’d mentioned this vital communication to Dr Harrison, who vehemently denied it. I choose to believe Dr Harrison and am certain, madam, that you were lying then as you are lying now. The question in my mind, is why.’

  ‘I assume you’re going to accuse me of murdering Charles Cranbrook.’

  Ignoring the comment, Cameron said, ‘Not only did you invent this tale about Cranbrook’s admission of suicide, you also lied about Cranbrook’s treatment of Cecilia and the state of their marriage. As you well know, he abused her cruelly, and the brief marriage was a shambles.’ Mrs Clark merely glared at her accuser. ‘But of even greater interest to me,’ continued Cameron, ‘than these mistruths is what you chose not to reveal.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have it on the word of two credible witnesses that Cranbrook informed you, some weeks before the murder, that he intended to sack you, which you, curiously, never disclosed to Cecilia.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I can only think of one reason why you would have kept this extraordinary piece of news from Cecilia, and that is to deflect suspicion from yourself in the eventuality Cranbrook was murdered.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Mrs Clark started to rise from the sofa and then sat down again.

  ‘I happen to believe,’ said Cameron, ‘that you were in love with Cecilia. And that you despised Cranbrook for his terrible mistreatment of her. You knew she wanted to get out of the marriage. You knew he’d never consent to a separation, as he was wholly dependent on her wealth.’ Cameron rose from his chair and stood towering over Mrs Clark. ‘And lastly, you knew you were about to lose your position at The Priory, losing your lover to a man you hated, and forced into penury.’ Mrs Clark glared at Cameron with eyes as dark as coal. ‘And so,’ concluded Cameron,
‘when Cranbrook was poisoned, you concocted the story that he admitted to killing himself, and then shrewdly you told no one that he intended to dismiss you.’

  ‘All very fanciful,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘but nothing that would hold up in a court of law.’

  ‘The question is why,’ said Cameron, beginning to pace on the rug before the hearth. ‘Either because you committed the murder … or because you were protecting someone else who did.’

  ‘I believe I’ve heard enough,’ said Mrs Clark, rising from the sofa. ‘You and your friend may go now. You don’t seriously believe that I’m going to admit to these scurrilous accusations….’

  ‘It might have been Cecilia herself,’ continued Cameron. ‘Or it might have been Dr Gully. Or even Griffiths. Each of them certainly had ample motive to see Cranbrook dead.’ He paused and looked her in the eye. ‘But it wasn’t,’ he said flatly. Turning to Clifton, who was paying rapt attention to Cameron’s monologue, he said, ‘It might interest you to know that Mrs Clark’s maiden name was Blackthorn. Jane Blackthorn.’

  ‘What of it?’ she said angrily.

  ‘Cranbrook was poisoned with tartar emetic,’ said Cameron coolly, ‘which Griffiths purchased in December to worm the horses and which he kept in an unlocked cabinet marked deadly poison in the stables. There it remained after Griffiths was sacked. The night Cranbrook was poisoned, his killer slipped into his bedroom through the upstairs window and emptied the packet of tartar emetic into the water pitcher on his night stand.’ Cameron paused and stared at Mrs Clark, who was now hanging on his every word. ‘As Cranbrook was about to retire to bed,’ said Cameron, ‘he poured his usual glass of water and drank it. The problem with your having poisoned Cranbrook, my dear lady, is that you were in the company of Cecilia before, during, and after supper right up to the moment he called out for hot water.’ She met his steady gaze. ‘The killer slipped into Cranbrook’s bedroom when he went downstairs for supper. Having poured the poison into the water pitcher, the killer left by the same means – through the open window and down to the roof and on to the lawn. By means of a piece of lattice-work I found concealed in the shrubbery.’

  ‘An interesting speculation,’ said Mrs Clark.

  ‘However,’ said Cameron with a small, satisfied smile, ‘in the process of beating a hasty retreat, something was dropped.’ He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and produced a folded handkerchief. ‘This,’ he said, unfolding it on his palm. ‘An ordinary lady’s handkerchief, but with the name ‘Jenny Blackthorn’ embroidered in the corner.’ He held it out for Mrs Clark’s inspection. As he did so, she blanched and her steely reserve dissolved in a flood of tears. ‘Your niece, if I’m not mistaken,’ concluded Cameron.

  ‘Poor Jenny,’ muttered Mrs Clark as she held her face in her hands. ‘Poor, poor Jenny.’

  ‘Who, I believe,’ said Cameron, ‘had been involved in an affair with Cranbrook.’ Mrs Clark nodded miserably, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘By whom she had a child,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Clark softly. ‘Little Davy.’

  ‘Jenny murdered Cranbrook,’ said Cameron, ‘and you, knowing it, tried to protect her.’

  ‘It was the least I could do,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘after the suffering she’d endured.’

  Turning to Clifton, Cameron said, ‘Be a good fellow, and go to the kitchen and ask for a pot of tea.’ After the lapse of five minutes, an interval passed in silence, the plain girl returned with a tray, teapot, milk jug, cups, and saucers. After serving each of them, she withdrew, and Mrs Clark, now composed, said, ‘Charles Cranbrook began his affair with Jenny when the poor girl was in her teens. He put her up in cheap rooms in Maidenhead. All through his law studies at the Temple he treated her as a kept woman, fathering the boy, who’s now six.’

  ‘And then,’ said Cameron, ‘when it suited him, he abandoned her.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but at Jenny’s insistence he provided modest support for the boy. That is, until he met Cecilia. Oh, God,’ she groaned, unleashing another wave of tears, ‘it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Pray go on,’ said Cameron after a moment.

  Wiping her eyes, Mrs Clark said, ‘Once Cranbrook realized he was fixed for life, after working out an arrangement with Cecilia’s solicitor and setting a date for the wedding, the support for Davy abruptly ended. Nor would Cranbrook answer poor Jenny’s letters. He was so heartless. When you asked if there was more than one letter accusing Cranbrook of marrying Cecilia for her money—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There were two. When he showed me the second, I knew it was from Jenny by her handwriting.’

  ‘But what I don’t understand,’ said Cameron, ‘is how Jenny would have known about the poison Griffiths kept in the stables.’

  Mrs Clark looked down at the floor and then sadly raised her eyes. ‘As you’ve learned this much,’ she said, ‘you may as well know it all. After Cranbrook abandoned her and the boy, Jenny – my dead brother’s only child – was ruined. And so, to put food on the table, she was reduced to … she became a fallen woman.’

  Cameron grimaced, and Clifton muttered, ‘A terrible shame.’

  ‘And by pure happenstance,’ Mrs Clark continued, ‘she fell in one night with that rogue Griffiths. This was before he was sacked. He took her back to the stables, where she discovered the poison.’

  ‘How did you learn this?’ asked Cameron.

  ‘The poor girl told me one day when I went to see her, taking a cake for the boy. She was beside herself with recriminations for what Cranbrook had done, threatening to take matters into her own hands. I pleaded with her, but how was I to know? And she knew where Cranbrook could be found, knew the house. And so, that night when he collapsed, in my heart of hearts I knew it had to be poor Jenny.’

  ‘I suspect,’ said Cameron, looking into Mrs Clark’s red-rimmed eyes, ‘that someone helped her discover that Cranbrook was sleeping in the spare bedroom.’ Mrs Clark looked down at the floor.

  Finishing his cup of tea, Cameron rose from his chair and said, ‘Well, it is as I suspected from the beginning.’

  ‘What?’ said Clifton with an astonished expression. ‘From the beginning?’

  ‘Well, not quite the beginning,’ said Cameron. ‘But from the moment I discovered the obvious defects in your account, madam,’ he said, turning to Mrs Clark, ‘and learned that Cranbrook had carried on an affair with another woman.’

  ‘I suppose I should thank you,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘as you’ve taken a great burden off me.’

  ‘You know I shall have to report this to Scotland Yard,’ said Cameron.

  Mrs Clark nodded and said, ‘Yes, but Jenny’s gone away. Taken the boy and fled the country.’

  ‘Aided with funds from her relations, I imagine,’ said Cameron.

  ‘I’d never admit to it.’

  ‘Well, madam,’ said Cameron, ‘we must take our leave, as we have a train to catch.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Cameron. I am sorry if I caused you a great deal of trouble.’

  Taking her hand, Cameron said, ‘You, Mrs Clark, are one of the few actors in this sordid affair who behaved with honour and courage. Clifton, we must be on our way.’

  Epilogue

  THE DAY FOLLOWING his interview with Mrs Clark, Duncan Cameron paid a call on Detective Chief Inspector Cox at Scotland Yard, whom he presented with the embroidered handkerchief found at the crime scene and provided a succinct account of his theory of the case. ‘All very well and good,’ commented Cox in a patronizing tone, ‘but I maintain this was a case of suicide, not murder.’

  ‘I defer to your judgement,’ said Cameron, ‘as you are free to investigate the matter further if you choose,’ aware that the suspect, whom he was certain had committed the crime, had fled the country. Cameron next called on his client, Lady Cranbrook, and her husband at their mansion on Palace Green. After exchanging the customary pleasantries, Cameron delivered his devastating findings with as much tact and gentleness as he wa
s able: that their son had indeed been murdered and by someone no one had suspected in the police investigation or the coroner’s inquest. A poor young woman in Maidenhead by whom he’d fathered a bastard son, whom he had abandoned as soon as he was engaged to marry the wealthy Miss Henderson. After assuring Lady Cranbrook, who was prostrate with tears, that neither a police investigation nor prosecution of the young woman was likely, and that as a consequence the matter would remain strictly confidential, he bid them good day, patting the substantial cheque in his breast pocket.

  In the aftermath of the coroner’s inquest, James Gully, curiously, chose to remain at Orwell Lodge, his cottage in Balham. His professional reputation, however, was damaged beyond repair by his merciless cross-examination during the inquest about his scandalous relationship with Cecilia and by the lingering question of his possible guilt in the murder, both of which received extensive coverage in all of the leading newspapers. With the death of his partner, Dr Wilson, his once-thriving practice of the water cure at the hydro in Malvern declined precipitously, though some faithful adherents remained to the end. And so Gully grew old in his cottage, his once brilliant reputation in tatters, his heart broken, the once vigorous outdoorsman frail and alone, attended by his spinster sisters until he died quietly at the age of 75. He never spoke to Cecilia again.

  For a time she remained sequestered with her mother and father at Buscot Park, having dismissed the staff and sold most of the furnishings at The Priory by the time of the coroner’s inquest. Her prized collection of artworks was sold at auction some months later at Bonham’s in London. As her father was deathly ill, and her mother and siblings would have nothing to do with her, Cecilia adopted the assumed name ‘Wilson’ and purchased a seaside cottage at Southsea, in Hampshire, where she moved in the autumn of 1872, some seven months after Charles Cranbrook’s death. Her large fortune still intact, she employed a cook, two maids, a gardener and coachman and spent her days alone, except for the servants, drinking copious amounts of brandy and sherry as she gazed forlornly from her bay window at the ships plying the slate water of the Solent. Cecilia continued this solitary existence, increasingly dependent on alcohol, for another eighteen months, until in the summer of 1874 she received an unannounced visit from an uncle, her mother’s Scottish brother, who found her in a drunken stupor, consuming a bottle of brandy a day. Unwilling to heed her uncle’s advice to summon a doctor, she was fated to die, perversely, in precisely the same fashion as her first husband, vomiting dark red blood caused by the haematemesis that destroyed the lining of her stomach. Dead at the age of thirty-two, she was buried in an unmarked grave. Under her will, she made generous bequests to Jane Clark’s son and daughter and to a granddaughter of James Gully and left the residue of her vast estate in trust to her brothers and sister’s descendants.