by Sarah Rayne
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘All right, stand down, Dr Shilling. For the moment, anyway.’
Thalia came next, and gave her evidence briefly and concisely. Flora had the impression that Thalia was shutting her eyes so that nobody would see her, in the manner of a child.
Thalia said she had looked in on her cousin and his wife just before the funeral guests left, and explained that they had all been concerned about both Royston and Eloise.
‘Royston had had some kind of heart spasm. Dr Shilling had given him something for it.’
‘Propranolol,’ said the coroner, flipping his notes back.
‘Yes, I think it was that.’
‘Because of the funeral presumably?’
‘Yes. We had all been very upset.’
‘Of course. Go on if you will, Mrs Caudle.’
Thalia said there had been a great deal of blood on the bed, and that Dr Shilling had told them that both Eloise and Royston were dead, Royston from a heart attack, Eloise from haemorrhage following the perforation of a stomach ulcer. They had all accepted this, and the funeral had taken place two days later. They had wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. ‘All the anguish in one lump,’ said Thalia.
‘Did you know Dr Shilling had falsified the cause of death?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You didn’t – forgive me, Mrs Caudle, this must be very distressing for you – but did none of you question the abruptness of Eloise Ingram’s death? Or ask Dr Shilling questions about it?’
Thalia looked at the coroner and then said, with a faint air of reproach, ‘With respect, you have to remember that we were all stunned. My son had just been killed in a car crash. He was nineteen. This all took place on the afternoon of his funeral. We were none of us in a fit state to reason or to think very clearly, other than to be profoundly grateful for Dr Shilling’s help. He dealt with the formalities for us. We were punch-drunk with misery.’ Flora noted that this was an extremely effective line, and then was cross with herself for suspecting Thalia of deliberately trying to create an effect. I might do it, thought Flora. And I daresay Juliette might do it as well. But it simply wouldn’t occur to Thalia. Or would it? She’s an odd creature at times. Secretive. Concentrate, old girl, here’s the inspector.
Inspector Mackenzie had the air of an old hand at these affairs, and gave dry and deliberate evidence of the exhuming of the body ‘because of certain suspicious circumstances’. He said this with an air of finality, and was succeeded so swiftly by the forensic pathologist that the reporters barely had a chance to register the brevity of the policeman’s explanation.
As the pathologist took the stand, the coroner and Inspector Mackenzie exchanged looks, because this was the part of the proceedings over which they had no control at all. The coroner thought that so far things had gone amazingly well, and that even Dr Shilling’s unexpected admission had not really thrown things off course. Providing there were no other revelations to come from the pathologist, he could wind things up and direct the jury. At the moment it was touch and go whether the verdict would be death by misadventure or manslaughter against John Shilling. But the cause of death was still to be established.
The first really awkward moment came when the pathologist reported the presence of a near-lethal dose of chloral hydrate in the subject’s stomach, which appeared to have been administered in brandy. This produced a stir of uneasy interest, and Juliette and Flora stared at one another in bewilderment.
Flora said, ‘But Eloise never drank brandy. She hated it.’
‘Then somebody must have given it to her.’
‘She wouldn’t have drunk it.’
‘She might if she was heavily sedated.’
Two people from the back row, who, having managed to get into this exceedingly promising inquest, did not want to miss any denouement that might be going, both said ‘Shush’ very sharply indeed, and George shunted further down the bench to disassociate himself as much as possible from his wife’s embarrassing relatives.
The pathologist was explaining that alcohol together with chloral hydrate could produce extremely deep levels of coma, and then death. ‘There was the characteristic irritation of mucous membranes and skin,’ he said. ‘It’s impossible to know how long the coma state lasted, but it’s probable that she passed from that into death.’
Juliette said, softly, ‘Oh, the old pet,’ and George, who had been about to denounce the pathologist as a prattling old creeper, suspended judgement.
There had been no marks on the body indicative of suicide, said the pathologist, and Eloise Ingram had been in quite good health. He gave details of his findings, some of which were graphic and some of which were vaguely embarrassing, lost himself amid a welter of bone density and degeneration of fatty tissues, dwelled briefly on liver weight and kidney function, and confused several of his listeners by reference to an old appendicectomy scar.
Juliette remarked, not quite sotto voce, that one apparently got a far more thorough examination when one was dead than ever one did when alive.
‘And,’ said the pathologist, emerging from a flurry of notes, ‘although I have heard the evidence of Mrs Caudle and Dr Shilling, I have to say that my examination showed that the cadaver had not suffered any significant blood loss.’
The journalists’ pencils skidded across their notebooks all over again, and the coroner, with the feeling of seeing a hitherto unsuspected abyss open up at his feet, said, ‘None at all?’
‘No. I understand,’ said the pathologist, whose name was Simcox, ‘that Dr Shilling believed massive haemorrhage from stab wounds to be the actual cause of death.’
‘But it was not?’
‘No. There were no wounds on the body,’ said Simcox.
‘Then the cause of Eloise Ingram’s death was the chloral hydrate?’
‘Almost certainly. Chloral hydrate isn’t as strong as some of the more recent drugs in the narcotic or opiate range, but administered with alcohol and in sufficiently large quantity, it can be fatal. The analysis showed a sufficiently large presence of the drug to have caused death in this case.’ He began to explain about dosages and quantitative analysis, and Juliette whispered to Flora, ‘But what about the blood?’
‘What about the blood?’ said the coroner, as if in faithful echo of this.
‘Well,’ said Mr Simcox, regarding the court solemnly, ‘I made a close examination of Eloise and Royston Ingram’s bedroom.’
‘Yes?’
‘It had been very thoroughly cleaned up, but we did find traces of blood, minute but sufficient for analysis.’
‘But you’ve said she didn’t die from loss of blood. And there were no wounds.’
‘That’s correct. The blood wasn’t human blood,’ said Simcox. And then, with timing and delivery that would not have shamed Olivier, ‘It was beast blood,’ he said.
There was a silence. The coroner took off his glasses and regarded Mr Simcox. ‘Could you repeat that, please. I don’t think I can have heard properly.’
‘To be precise, it was sheep’s blood,’ said Simcox. ‘Not very fresh – it had been subjected to a freezing process.’
‘Let me get this clear,’ said the coroner. ‘You’re saying that the blood that Dr Shilling and Mrs Caudle saw on Eloise Ingram’s body and on the bed was that of a sheep?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that it had been frozen?’
‘Yes. The picture that presents itself,’ said Simcox, ‘is of a quantity of beast blood being obtained and—’
‘Mr Simcox, I wonder if you would mind not using that expression.’
‘What expression?’
‘Beast blood,’ said the coroner, with force. ‘I don’t doubt it is correct usage in pathology and forensic circles, but it conjures up the more gruesome types of horror fiction. And the gentlemen of the press are already devouring this tragedy with their customary tastelessness.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry. Well, the – the
blood was probably obtained from an abattoir under some pretext or other and stored in an ordinary domestic deep freeze.’
‘And then smeared on the body to make it appear that Eloise Ingram had slashed her wrists or been stabbed?’
‘That was our conclusion. Perhaps with the aim of implicating someone, or perhaps with the idea of covering up the real cause of death. Either of those or perhaps both of them. That’s what it looked like. But it’s not for me to say.’
‘No, but considering all the evidence, which we can now do—’ The coroner broke off as the jury foreman held a hastily whispered colloquy with his fellows, and then hesitantly raised a hand. ‘Yes, Mr Foreman?’
‘I hope it’s in order to interrupt at this stage, sir, but several of us would like to ask a question before you go any further.’
‘By all means.’
‘Does Mr Simcox have any suggestions as to what kind of reason you could give to get blood from an abattoir? Because nobody over here can think of a single one.’
‘A good question,’ said the coroner. ‘Well, Mr Simcox?’
‘Oh, it isn’t very difficult. You could say you were teaching a sixth-form class about analysing the properties of blood. Or you could say you were an amateur dramatic society putting on a play. Or even giving a first aid demonstration. It’s quite difficult to fake blood convincingly, and it can be dreadfully messy to use ketchup or paint. It’s far better to use beast—to use animal blood. I believe there’s actually an abattoir near Covent Garden that supplies several of the theatres. Grand Guignol and Greek tragedy, you know,’ added Simcox chattily.
Juliette was heard to murmur, ‘Just like we’ve got in front of us now.’
‘All right, Mr Foreman? That seems reasonable to me. Does it to you?’
‘Oh yes, thank you very much, sir. We hadn’t thought of any of those.’
The helpful Mr Simcox was dismissed, and the coroner looked at the jury.
‘I expect,’ he said, ‘that most of you were thinking this would be a case of death by misadventure. I thought so myself. But Mr Simcox’s evidence makes a vast difference. There’s no reason to doubt any of it, or indeed to doubt the ability of Mr Simcox or his team.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Taking into acccount the bizarre fact of the animal blood on Eloise Ingram’s bed and the presence of chloral hydrate in her body, there was certainly murderous intent, although as to the murderer’s identity we can’t say. That’s a job for the police, and if you return a verdict of murder or manslaughter, they will begin their own investigations. Your job now is to weigh the evidence you have heard very carefully indeed and give us your verdict.’ He paused, and then said, ‘But I do most strongly recommend that you cannot, in justice, return any other verdict than that of murder by person or persons unknown.’
Thalia, leaving the court with Flora and George and Juliette, thought that on balance things had not gone too badly. It was a wretched nuisance that the business with the blood and the chloral hydrate had come out, but she had been prepared for that. She was not in the least worried that suspicion would fall on her. She had obtained the blood anonymously – it had been ridiculously easy to get it from the large impersonal abattoir. She remembered how she had laughed in secret over her cleverness, and how satisfying it had been to set the scene in Eloise and Royston’s bedroom that day. She had sprinkled the sheep’s blood on to the bed, and the scent of it had mingled with the scent of triumph. It had been deeply and fiercely exciting.
She had been clever and cunning and she had covered her tracks completely. She would not be found out because everything she had done had been guided.
John Shilling would probably be charged with murder or manslaughter – Thalia was unclear as to the difference and it did not much matter – and it would be assumed that he had administered the chloral hydrate. Thalia did not think he would drag in the family, and even if he did, it would not do them much harm. They had not done anything criminal, Shilling had done the criminal part.
Really, she was managing everything very well indeed. She had had a fair amount of luck, of course, but on the whole it was all by her own efforts. The thought was a good thought, it was very nearly sexual in quality.
Sexual.
The thought of Dan Tudor surfaced again, and with it all the memories, some of them good, some of them outstanding, every one of them linked to Edmund.
Chapter Seventeen
It had never been possible to find Edmund’s exact replica, of course; Thalia had known that, and she had never tried.
He had been the most beautiful child. Even Royston had said this once, and the aunts had always made a great fuss over him and said, oh, what a lovely boy, and wouldn’t his poor dear father have been proud? It was only natural that Edmund should like being the centre of attention; it was kind of him to let the aunts fuss over him. The aunts enjoyed fussing and it did not hurt anyone.
It had been much later that Royston had turned against Edmund, saying the boy was lazy and selfish and a parasite and that if he carried on like this there might not be a place for him in Ingram’s. This was spite and jealousy on Royston’s part, and in the early years it could be disregarded. It was only when Royston began trying to persuade the rest of the family to his side that it became dangerous and it was then that the schemes and the plans for making Royston and the rest pay for their treachery began to uncoil in Thalia’s brain.
And Edmund was not lazy or selfish; it was just that different rules applied to him. You did not apply the rules of a carthorse to a thoroughbred. Edmund was at odds with the harsh, jarring twentieth century; he would have been more at home in an earlier age, one of the golden Renaissance ages, a time of music and poetry and love, because he had been filled with all those things. But it was no good expecting Royston and Eloise or the aunts to understand any of this.
Thalia’s discovery that there existed in the world a few young men (and one or two girls) who possessed a spark of Edmund’s own golden quality happened without warning, shortly before his fifteenth birthday. He had changed by then, of course, and he had grown up. The golden-haired seraph had grown into a wand-slim young boy; a mischievous Apollo, with secrets in his eyes. He was charming and irresistible and it was small wonder that annoyed or embarrassed fathers – once or twice mothers – came to the house to complain. Trying out his wings, Thalia had said. Acting like a dirty little pervert, rejoined Royston. The aunts had twittered anxiously, because fourteen was surely far too young for, well, for that kind of thing. Elspeth’s husband George said severely that he himself had been a great deal older than Edmund before embarking on his first physical relationship with a girl, and added that he wouldn’t have dreamed of attempting anything of the kind with Elspeth until after they were married. ‘Well after,’ said Elspeth.
‘It isn’t just that,’ said Royston curtly, and called George into the small study at Hampstead. They were closeted together for a very long time, and Elspeth said afterwards that George had emerged shocked to his toes but had refused to tell what had been said.
The trouble was that none of them had understood that Edmund would want to experience all the pleasures available to him and that those silly girls had been utterly bewitched. It was unfair and unkind of Royston and George to say that Edmund was behaving like a pervert. Even Juliette once remarked that Edmund was precociously immoral and acted like some half-fledged Arabian princeling, draped on a silken divan and disdainfully inspecting females as if they were a new consignment of Circassian slaves brought for his consideration. There was nothing callow or half-fledged about Edmund, and anyway Juliette was the last person to talk about immorality.
It had been the oddest of coincidences that after the first of these episodes Thalia should begin seeing similarities in one or two of the young men who came her way through her charity work, but so it was.
The work itself was tedious beyond words – Thalia had got into it without realising how boring it would be – but once involved it was difficult to get out. T
he first time she saw this pallid likeness to Edmund was shortly after the first of the incidents with the bewitched girls, and the similarity struck her with such force that for a moment it blotted out everything else.
She had tried to dismiss it; it was surely only the bloom of youth, or a likeness of colouring and type. But it would not be dismissed. The young man was helping with a student counselling service that some boring Hampstead women’s group were setting up, and Thalia had been asked to help as well. He was reading psychology at London University and he had what people called a social conscience. Helping with the new group was part of what he said was field work. Edmund had been away at school then, and the days were occasionally empty and there had been a fierce satisfaction in seducing the student. Seeing the spill of golden hair on her pillow, feeling the firm, supple thighs and strong jutting manhood had brought such violent satisfaction that Thalia had begun to look for others: strong, attractive young men who possessed bright, darting reflections of Edmund. It was astonishing how many there were. It might only be colouring or the slant of a cheekbone or the curving smile. Or it might be a shard of intelligence, or an interest in the things that interested Edmund. They were all golden and special, of course – Thalia was not going to associate with monosyllabic yobs.
The gratifying thing was that when she beckoned to them, they came to her bed without hesitation. They were not monosyllabic, although occasionally they were genuinely inarticulate. Once or twice she miscalculated and they turned out to be impotent and therefore had to be discarded. But the strong, virile ones, the ones who had been made in Edmund’s likeness, could be used several times over. After Edmund died it became even more necessary to continue the search.
Dan Tudor was the exception. He had not been made in Edmund’s likeness at all but there was the sharp, bright mind that Edmund would have developed if he had lived; the impression that he would not suffer fools gladly, too slight to be called arrogance but too definite to be missed.
