by Granger, Ann
‘I know you didn’t. I’d like to see your master, if you’d be so good to take in my card? Please tell him, I will not disturb him for long.’
The maid retrieved a small silver tray from a side table, placed my card carefully in the centre of it, and bore it away, leaving me on the doorstep and the door wide open. She was gone for almost ten minutes. Eventually she reappeared to announce: ‘The master will see you in the garden. He always goes out into the garden after dinner. You can come through or go round the side, as you wish.’
‘I will go round the side,’ I said. ‘I just go straight down the garden, do I?’
‘I’ll show you,’ the maid offered in a burst of efficiency.
I followed her round the outside of the house and we set off down a narrow garden path until we reached a small forest of rose bushes. Above the scent of roses, I smelled tobacco.
My guide pointed to a curl of smoke rising into the air. ‘That’s him,’ she said cheerfully. She then abandoned me and set off rapidly back to the house.
I made my way round the bushes and came upon an elderly man sitting on a wooden bench, peacefully smoking his after-dinner pipe.
‘Dr Croft?’ I asked, hat in hand.
He rose to greet me. This revealed him to be tall, lean in build and sinewy. He had a fine head of silver-grey hair and wore a shabby velvet jacket that had a look of an old friend.
‘To give me that title would be a courtesy. I am but a bachelor of medicine and I no longer practise. Please join me . . .’ He gestured at the place alongside him on the bench.
I sat down and observed, ‘You have a fine garden here, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, the roses have done very well this year. Last year they were plagued with greenfly. Soapy water is the best remedy for that, you know.’ He had retaken the place beside me.
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Yes. Now, this year, we had a great many ladybirds and that’s an insect that devours greenfly. So we had far less trouble. Nature’s balance, eh?’ Seamlessly, he went on, ‘Did you have any difficulty with Mary?’
‘The maid?’ I guessed. ‘She appeared a little alarmed to learn I was a police officer.’
‘She’s very good girl, excellent worker, utterly reliable, but not very bright. I attended her birth. It was difficult. I fancy the infant was starved of sufficient oxygen.’
Mary had, then, been engaged by the doctor as an act of charity, or because he felt some responsibility for her slow wits.
‘What can I do for you, Inspector Ross? I am sure you have more purpose to your visit than to discuss my roses.’
The doctor’s tone was comfortable, but there was a touch of steel behind it. I had thought carefully how to begin this conversation; but I had now a shrewd suspicion that I might not be the one in charge of it.
‘Well, sir, it is a somewhat delicate matter. It concerns a former patient of yours who died some sixteen years ago, a Mr Isaiah Sheldon, of Fox House.’
‘Sixteen years ago, eh?’ said Croft, puffing at his pipe and watching the smoke rise into the air.
‘You do recall Mr Sheldon, sir?’
‘Indeed, I do. I am surprised you have come all the way out here to ask about him now.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and studied it. ‘A doctor is, you know, somewhat loath to discuss a patient with anyone who is not a family member. There is a duty of confidentiality, rather like that of a priest or a lawyer. Even, I might venture to suggest, like an inspector of Scotland Yard?’
‘That would depend, sir, whether it proves relevant to inquiries. What I want to ask you about is, in any case, a matter of public record. It concerns the death certificate.’
Croft turned his head to look at me and I was startled by the sharp gleam of his dark eyes beneath the bushy silver brows. ‘Bit late to ask about that, isn’t it?’
‘We have received a report – I would say it is no more than rumour – suggesting we might look into the death of Mr Sheldon. We are aware he passed away sixteen years ago. We are busy people at the Yard and anxious to settle the matter and close the file as soon as possible. That is why I have taken the liberty of coming out here to Putney and troubling you. I apologise.’
Croft waved his pipe back and forth to dismiss my apology as unnecessary. ‘Refresh my memory,’ he said. ‘What did it state on the death certificate?’
‘I have it here, sir.’ I took the copy Morris had obtained that morning and handed it to Croft.
He read it carefully and handed it back. ‘Yes, cardiac failure, quite so. He was of an advanced age, you know. Although,’ Croft permitted himself a smile, ‘as one grows older, one is less inclined to admit any age is advanced. I am seventy-nine myself.’
‘You surprise me, Dr Croft. You appear in excellent health.’
‘Oh yes, I am. Well, given the usual aches and pains.’
‘Do you recall if you had any doubt about the cause of death in the case of Mr Sheldon?’
Croft took his time before replying. ‘I was confident in the reason I gave on the certificate there.’
I began to suspect that Croft would not volunteer information but he would answer questions. If I could find a way into the conversation, he would speak fairly freely. While I sat silent trying to see how I might do this and give a lead, without overplaying my hand, Croft decided to help me out.
‘Tell me, Inspector Ross, are you by any chance acquainted with the comedy by the French writer, Molière, usually translated into English as The Imaginary Invalid?’
‘I have not studied French, alas, Doctor. My wife may know it. She learned French as a girl. She had a French governess for a short time.’
The Imaginary Invalid? Suddenly I thought I saw his reason for asking. ‘Mr Sheldon was such a person? A hypochondriac?’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. But, just as with the character in the French play, he was very concerned with his health. I was required to call on him regularly. On one occasion he might fancy his pulse faint, on another his heartbeat irregular. He was plagued with headaches. His joints ached. His appetite had failed. His digestion was at fault. He either could not sleep or slept too much. He felt weak, lacked any energy. All of these things he was pleased to describe as his symptoms. It did no good to point out his advanced age; and such inconveniences come with that, as I mentioned to you just now in my own regard. Or that he took little or no regular exercise, hardly left his house, and ate unsuitably rich food. He would insist I prescribe some medication. Rhubarb pills or bismuth usually did the trick.’
‘Were you surprised when you learned he had died? Had you attended him that day?’
‘Not on that day. I had attended him a few days earlier. He had complained of shortness of breath. I suggested a light diet in order that he might lose a little weight, and a reduction in his consumption of wine and spirits. Although, to be fair, I would not have described him as severely overweight. I lectured him on general fitness and suggested a gentle walk each morning might help him regain some general measure of well-being. He was quite horrified at the idea. I listened to his heartbeat. It was not the heart of a man of twenty, admittedly, but I did not detect any severe irregularity. I cannot remember what I prescribed. It would have been some harmless panacea.’
I indicated the death certificate. ‘But you confidently gave cardiac failure as cause of his death.’
‘Eventually, Inspector, it is the case with all of us that our hearts stop beating and we die. Of course, the causes of our hearts doing that vary tremendously. When I thought through all the things he’d complained to me of, I decided that his heart must have been failing and this had led to his death – that and his age. I could also have said that he worried himself to death! But that would not be medically acceptable.’
‘Do you recall the day he died? I realise I am asking you to think back sixteen years.’
Croft’s pipe had gone out. He tapped the bowl against the wooden arm of the seat to dislodge the remains of the tobacco. ‘I remember i
t very well, as it happens. It was in June, but it had been a very warm month, and on that day we were treated to a sudden thunderstorm and downpour.’
It was all I could do not to cry out aloud in triumph. Everything we learned supported Mills’s tale. This went far beyond coincidence. Surely the assistant commissioner could not object to further investigation now? ‘Yes, sir?’ I prompted.
‘The storm had barely passed and the rain ceased – I recall how the water dripped from the trees – when a servant arrived from Fox House, asking that I come at once.’
‘A woman or a man?’ I asked quickly.
Croft glanced at me with raised eyebrows. ‘A man, I fancy it was the gardener. He was in a state of alarm and requested I come as fast as I could. Mr Sheldon had collapsed. I hurried to the house where I found the entire household in a state of panic.’
‘Where was Mr Sheldon?’
‘Upstairs in his bedroom.’
‘You are sure of that?’ I asked in surprise. This was not what I’d expected. It did not tally with Mills’s tale of Sheldon having died in the parlour. From elation I was plunged into uncertainty.
‘Oh, yes, quite sure. I was conducted up there to see him.’ Croft puffed at his pipe.
‘It was not possible he had died elsewhere in the house?’ I held my breath.
Croft eyed me. ‘I suspect you have more information than you are willing to divulge, Inspector. I don’t know whence you have it. But you are right. I was given to understand he had been found unconscious downstairs, before the parlour fire.’
Again I had to suppress an urge to exclaim, yes!
‘It had at first been assumed he was sleeping,’ Croft continued. ‘But a maid had brought in some tea at the time he was accustomed to drink a dish, and been unable to rouse him. The gardener and stableman had been summoned to carry him upstairs. They had laid him on his bed. They had partially undressed him.’
Croft paused. ‘Sheldon had continued to dress in the fashion of his youth. In fact, he bore a remarkable resemblance to His late Majesty King William the Fourth and I suspected it was his small vanity to play to it. He always wore a collar with high points and a silk stock, with a brocade waistcoat. All this had been removed and his shirt unbuttoned. I saw at once that he was dead. Grotesquely, they were attempting to revive the corpse with application of a mustard plaster to his chest. I made the usual checks for signs of life, of course. But clearly he’d been dead for over an hour or more. He was already cool, despite the hot plaster. I detected the onset of rigor in the extremities.’
‘Were you surprised that they had carried a dead man upstairs?’
‘People do not always behave logically, Ross. You must have had some experience of that in your work. When a death occurs unexpectedly, as in this case, it is not unusual to find the household in considerable confusion, and a reluctance to face the fact that the worst has happened. They did not wish to accept that he was dead, hence the mustard plaster. Let me add that I have more than once in my long career been called to view a dead body, only to have the corpse sit up and demand to know what I was doing there! So errors of judgement around death are not uncommon. They were clinging to hope – in vain.’
‘You checked for the vital signs, Doctor, but you did not examine the body closely for anything else?’ I asked.
‘What else?’ asked Croft, his sharp gaze resting on me again. ‘Are you suggesting I missed something, Inspector?’
‘I suggest nothing, sir. I merely ask for my own satisfaction.’
‘There was no necessity for closer examination. I’d examined him some three or four days earlier. He was eighty-three, had complained for some time of advancing weakness and general indisposition. His style of living was self-indulgent. His heart had given out. I was quite satisfied that was the immediate cause of his death. I was pleased that his end had been so peaceful, sleeping before his own hearth, because he was a fine old gentleman, known for his charitable ways. His idiosyncrasy, if you wish, was his obsession with his health.’
‘Thank you, Dr Croft, I’ll trouble you no more,’ I said, returning the death certificate to my pocket. ‘I would only ask for your discretion in the matter of my visit. I would not wish the family to be troubled.’
Those sharp dark eyes beneath the bushy brows rested on me for a last time. ‘I see no reason why I should trouble the family,’ he said.
I left him to his pipe and his roses. The evening had drawn in while we’d spoken. The sky was flushed a dusky crimson. The roses seemed to me to glow in this light like large jewels. (I was growing poetic!) Their scent was enhanced. I envied Croft his retirement and hoped that when his time came – not for a long time yet, of course – that he passed away sitting peacefully in his garden, enjoying his pipe.
When I eventually arrived home, I found Lizzie awaiting me eagerly, demanding to know what I’d learned at Putney. Biddle had told them where I’d gone. It wasn’t all he’d done.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Lizzie, ‘that Constable Biddle has eaten your pork chops.’
‘What?’ All the way home the image of a plate of fried chops had filled my head. I had dwelled on it to disguise the memory of Croft’s certainty that there had been no mystery regarding Sheldon’s death.
‘He looked hungry,’ explained my wife, ‘and we didn’t know when you’d return. There is a portion of cold steak pie and plenty of cheese. Or, if you’d prefer something hot, I can cook you bacon and eggs.’
‘The steak pie will do very well,’ I said, sinking into a chair. ‘But Biddle is becoming altogether too familiar a sight here!’
‘You sent him with a message,’ she pointed out.
‘Next time I’ll send someone else!’
Lizzie waited impatiently while I ate the pie. ‘What did you learn?’ she asked, as I set down my knife and fork.
I recounted all the conversation. ‘He was more helpful than I’d anticipated; and I must say his recall was excellent. He even remembered the storm. Or perhaps it was because of the storm he remembered the day so well. So far everything has supported Mills’s tale to a remarkable degree. I believed him at the time and, if possible, I believe him even more now.’ I paused to sigh and shake my head.
‘I have to confess that the optimism I felt when talking to Croft faded on my journey home. The good doctor was satisfied as to the cause of death. After sixteen years he won’t change his mind and it would do no good if he did. If he’d had doubts at the time, well, things might have been different.’
‘But why did they move the body?’ demanded Lizzie obstinately. ‘Why all that piece of theatre with a mustard plaster? It is grotesque and can only have been in an attempt to fudge the circumstances of his death.’
‘Croft didn’t find it grotesque. He believed they were only unwilling to accept Sheldon had died. He’s known “dead men” sit up. So have I. Dr Carmichael, who has carried out so many postmortems at police request, told me that he has twice in a long career begun an incision only for the “corpse” to let out a groan. Sheldon’s household were trying to bring about resuscitation. No, no, it won’t do. I am afraid, Lizzie, we have reached the end of our investigations. Even if the assistant commissioner agreed to my delving further into things, I don’t know where I could now turn my attention. I don’t think even your informant, Mrs Hogget, could help. Mills would be satisfied at the efforts we’ve made.’
‘Well, something else may turn up,’ said Lizzie, refusing to accept defeat. ‘One door closes and another opens, don’t they say?’
‘Not in police investigations, my dear, or not often.’
‘Pah!’ said my wife robustly. ‘You are only tired. Look how many doors have been slammed in your face – metaphorically speaking – since you first heard Mills’s story. You haven’t given up and I know you won’t now. Something will turn up, you’ll see. Keep your fingers crossed!’
There is a saying that one should be careful what one wishes for.
Chapter Nine
THE NEX
T two days, although busy from the point of view of the Yard, found me concerned with matters of deception, burglary and other ways of theft, including demanding money with menaces. I also had reports of rape, bigamy and child abandonment: all the things that go on in great cities and small villages up and down the land, to a greater or lesser degree, and serve to erode any confidence a police officer ever had in his fellow man. I was forced to put Fox House out of my mind. But not the disappearance of Jane Canning and her daughter, Charlotte.
Mr Hubert Canning could not be considered a matter of routine, but his appearance had become almost as regular a feature in my life as any of the others.
I was expecting to see him, after reading the letter from my colleague in Southampton. I anticipated that Miss Stephens, following Hughes’s visit, would have contacted Canning about his wife’s disappearance, demanding to know what had happened to her great-niece. Sure enough, Canning erupted into my office in his usual manner, with that mix of outrage and pomposity I’d come to associate with him.
‘This is disgraceful!’ he announced, glaring at me.
‘Do sit down, Mr Canning,’ I invited him. ‘Tell me, what is disgraceful?’
Canning plumped himself down on a chair pushed forward by the obliging Constable Biddle. He shook a forefinger at me. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know to what I refer!’
‘Mr Canning,’ I told him as calmly as I could, ‘I am a very busy man. The whole of Scotland Yard is a busy place and the police force, as a body, is constantly being called upon for all manner of urgent matters. We are continuing to search for your wife and daughter. I do hope that we shall soon have some news of them. When we do, I’ll contact you at once.’ Canning opened his mouth but before he could speak, I continued, ‘You will understand, therefore, that your continual appearance here does nothing to help and a certain amount to hinder.’
Canning’s mouth opened and closed several times. His complexion darkened to an unhealthy purple and I was about to send Biddle for a glass of water when the visitor spoke.
