The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5)

by Granger, Ann

  ‘How dare you, Inspector Ross? How dare you?’ he asked in a croak. ‘I shall complain about your attitude. I shall make formal written complaint to the highest level! May I remind you that I am a taxpayer, a respectable citizen, of blameless reputation both in personal and in business matters. You are a public servant. I have been under considerable strain since the departure of my wife, taking our daughter. I should have thought that by now you could have found some trace of them! But do you go out looking for them? No. Instead, you contact another police officer, in Southampton, and he – he . . .’ Canning spluttered in rage. ‘He was so brazen as to call upon an elderly lady in poor health, my wife’s great-aunt, springing upon her, with no warning, the distressing news – that I’d hoped to keep from her – and leaving her in a state of alarm and despondency. It is a miracle she did not collapse with the shock!’

  ‘Inspector Hughes was surprised,’ I said, ‘that you had not already been in touch with Miss Stephens to tell her what had happened.’

  ‘Am I speaking to a brick wall?’ yelled Canning. ‘I did not want the lady disturbed or troubled with this matter. I made it clear to you that my wife would not have gone to Southampton. Indeed, she would have no means of getting there.’

  ‘The railway?’ I suggested.

  He looked taken aback, then shook his head. ‘No, no, she would not have had sufficient money on her.’

  Aha! I thought. ‘The housekeeping fund?’ I inquired mildly.

  ‘Mrs Bell takes care of the housekeeping,’ he snapped.

  ‘Mrs Canning’s personal allowance?’

  ‘Mrs Canning’s necessary expenses – her dresses and so forth – are taken care of by me. All bills are sent to me. I settle them.’

  ‘Well, then, her – what is commonly called “pin money” – her day to day small expenditure, what of that?’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Canning, beginning to look uncomfortable, ‘she would have had a little petty cash for trifles – little treats for the child, that sort of thing. But you claim to have seen Jane two days after she left the house. You tell me she was living under a railway arch! If so, it is clear she had no money or had spent all she had on her.’

  So now it seemed Canning accepted it had been his wife I’d encountered that night. But I’d learned an important thing. Jane Canning had been allowed only the smallest sums of actual cash. Why? Not because Canning was mean, in the usual sense. No, because he had feared something of this sort – that she might leave – and he meant to ensure she could not.

  ‘I think you have not been entirely frank with us, Mr Canning,’ I said. ‘I believe your wife has run away from your home of her own volition and you have known this from the beginning. It is not our job here at Scotland Yard to solve domestic disputes. However, it is our concern to find your daughter. To do that, we must find the mother. I’ll continue to do everything possible, but I do not expect, Mr Canning, to have you here in my office haranguing me and failing to cooperate by not volunteering all the facts! I would remind you that if you had come to us at once and not waited two days, there is a strong possibility we would have found Mrs Canning by now. Certainly, when I encountered a well-spoken woman with a young child sleeping beneath the arches, I would have suspected at once it might be your wife. You see? It is not the fault of Scotland Yard that the trail has grown cold.’

  Canning stood up. ‘And I do not expect to be spoken to in this manner by you, Inspector Ross! Be assured, I shall make a formal complaint.’

  ‘You are free to do so, Mr Canning.’

  Canning huffed at me, but found no more words. He turned and strode out.

  ‘I thought the gentleman was going to have a fit, sir,’ said Biddle.

  ‘Not if it didn’t suit his purpose!’ I said crisply. ‘Mr Canning is something of an actor, I fancy. His position is weak and he knows it. Off you go, Constable, I think you must have work to do.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Biddle, hurrying out.

  It was three days after my visit to Putney, and the day following Canning’s visit, that I was summoned to Superintendent Dunn’s office at mid-morning. Canning has made the formal complaint he threatened, I thought, as I made my way there. He has probably written to the commissioner. I braced myself and mentally marshalled my defence.

  But Dunn was not alone when I arrived. He had a police sergeant with him, one totally unknown to me. He was a stocky fellow with a ginger moustache who stood rigidly to attention by Dunn’s desk, his helmet tucked under his arm.

  ‘Good,’ said Dunn, as I came in. ‘There you are. This is Sergeant Hepple from Wandsworth Division. He has been sent by Inspector Morgan there to request our help. They have a murder investigation on their hands, it seems.’ Dunn gestured to Hepple to take up the tale.

  Hepple turned to me and saluted with his free hand. ‘A woman’s body has been found by the river on the mud, sir—’ he began.

  ‘Jane Canning?’ I interrupted in dismay, looking at Dunn.

  ‘What? No, not her.’ Dunn waved away my interruption irritably. ‘That has been established. The sergeant will explain how and why.’

  ‘The body was found at around half past eight this morning, sir, at low water just below Putney Bridge,’ resumed Hepple. ‘It was discovered by a bit of luck. The tide had turned and was coming back in. Low water last night was shortly before three. That meant high water this morning would be around a little before nine. You’ll understand, sir, that the body had to be removed from the location where it was discovered because the water would soon have covered it. It is at present in temporary housing; not a proper mortuary but a nearby shed of some sort.’

  ‘This is not an accident or suicide, some poor wretch leaping from the bridge?’ I asked. ‘The body could have been deposited there when the tide went out.’ (Maria Tompkins had sprung to my mind.) ‘Are we sure this is a murder?’ I looked at Hepple.

  ‘The outer clothing is muddied and damp. But her petticoat and, er, stays and so on, they are all dry and clean, sir,’ said Hepple confidently. ‘She has not been in the water. A doctor has attended and, in advance of a proper postmortem, has suggested she has been strangled.’

  A murder, then, almost certainly. ‘Is there any indication as to her identity?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed Hepple. ‘She is well known in the area, having lived there many years. Her name is Rachel Sawyer and she was employed as a housekeeper to Mr and Mrs Lamont at Fox House in Putney.’

  I could not repress a gasp and turned to Dunn.

  He was watching me with a gleam in his eye. ‘I thought you’d be interested in this one and that you would be the best person to investigate it, since you already know something about that household! So take Morris and get over there. Sergeant Hepple here will conduct you.’

  I turned to Hepple. ‘The body is in a shed, you say? Who is guarding it?’

  ‘One of our constables, sir. He won’t let anyone near, other than the doctor, of course. He’s a local man, a Dr Croft.’

  ‘Dr Croft! I understood Dr Croft had retired from practice!’ I exclaimed unwisely. From the corner of my eye I saw Dunn twitch an eyebrow at me in warning.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hepple, surprised, ‘you know the doctor, do you? Yes, he’s getting on a bit and doesn’t see patients on a regular basis. But he’s been of help to us a few times, acting as a police surgeon when needed.’

  ‘I will sign off the cost of a cab as necessary expense,’ said Dunn.

  So it was that very soon after, I, together with Morris and Sergeant Hepple, found ourselves crammed into a four-wheeler, of the sort nicknamed a growler from the rumble of its wheels, and similar to that driven by Wally Slater. I wished it had been Slater’s cab. That would at least have been clean. There was a strong smell of wine dregs coming from these squabs suggesting that the previous night some gentlemen had been conveyed home in it, after spending the evening carousing. Some women of the town had accompanied them – and it was not hard to detect that. The overpowering scent o
f cheap perfume mingling with the wine told me. Our discomfort was increased by our cramped conditions. None of the three of us could be described as of small build. Hepple sat facing Morris and myself, his helmet on his knees and pearls of sweat running down his face and collecting in his ginger moustache, which acted as a sort of sponge. From time to time he mopped it with a large red-checked handkerchief.

  ‘Let us not waste the time,’ I said to him. ‘Tell us everything from the beginning. Leave nothing out.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ began Hepple, ‘there’s not a great deal as I can tell you that I didn’t mention already, upstairs in the superintendent’s office – at the Yard.’ Hepple spoke the word ‘Yard’ with deep reverence. ‘Around half past eight, some youngsters down on the mudflats came upon a woman’s body. They were what they call “mudlarks”, sir, hunting for anything left by the river as the level dropped. They went running up from the river towards the High Street to seek help and ran straight into the parish clerk of that church, who was on his way to open up the building for the day. He went with them to where the dead woman lay. The tide had already turned, as I explained, and he knew that it would not be long before that stretch of riverbed would be completely under water again. So he told the three boys – that’s how many of them there were, sir – to stand guard and promised them a shilling apiece if they let no one near. The clerk made it clear they mustn’t touch the body or the clothing or take anything away. He was worried they might search the pockets, you see, sir. Then he went to find someone in authority.’

  The growler lurched and stopped. We heard our driver roundly cursing the coachman of a private carriage that had insisted on taking precedence, as it was entitled to do, over a hackney carriage. After a few moments we rumbled onward again.

  ‘Because of the urgency – the body being at risk of being covered by water – he went to the house of a magistrate, who is a member of that congregation, and was the nearest person available.’ Hepple coughed into his hand. ‘That’s Mr Harrington, sir. Mr Harrington sent one of his servants to Wandsworth police station for us. Then he went with the parish clerk back to the shore and organised the removal of the body – and in the nick of time, for the water was only inches from it by then. They carried her to a shed in the grounds of a house nearby. It’s by way of a potting shed, sir. There is a workbench in there and it was cleared and the woman laid out on that. The parish clerk had recognised her by then and declared her to be Miss Rachel Sawyer. She is the housekeeper at Fox House – or was.’ There was a pause and then Hepple added, ‘I gather she was a woman of a sour disposition.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘Not from personal acquaintance with her,’ Hepple said hastily. ‘But I heard the parish clerk say it to Inspector Morgan, when we got there.’

  There seemed to have been quite a crowd gathering around the temporary mortuary. ‘Was Mr Harrington, the magistrate, still there when you arrived, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir, he’d left, having business to attend to elsewhere. When we received the news at Wandsworth Inspector Morgan set out at once, ordering myself and Constable Beck to accompany him. When we arrived we found the parish clerk waiting very anxiously, as he had paid off the boys with the promised shillings, and sent them about their business. He was all alone with the body.’

  ‘It is a great pity,’ I said, ‘that he sent away the boys who actually discovered the body and are important witnesses. We shall have to try and find them again.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hepple, looking embarrassed. ‘I fancy Mr Morgan was very put out that they had gone. But the parish clerk was in a bit of a state and not thinking straight. We’ll find the young scamps again, never fear. They will go telling everyone they know about it and word will get back to us. Like as not they will be setting up regular guided tours, getting people to pay them a penny to show where the body was and describe it.’ Hepple cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Mr Ross, we took a look at the deceased and the parish clerk offered to go and fetch Dr Croft. I think the clerk was glad of the excuse to leave the body. He was still looking very queasy. So, Dr Croft turned up. He was alone, the clerk having made some excuse about work to do in his vestry. You will be able to speak to the doctor yourself, sir, as I think he is waiting until you arrive. Constable Beck was put on guard over the shed, I was sent to the Yard, and the gardener sent home.’

  ‘Gardener? Where did he come from?’ exclaimed Morris.

  ‘He’d helped earlier with the removal of the body into the shed. He had been hanging about since then, grumbling, because he wanted to be about his work, and objected very strongly to the use his potting shed had been put to! He was told he couldn’t go into his shed while the body was still there. But he still hung about grousing until we told him it would be some hours before he could use the place and we didn’t want him under our feet.

  ‘Mr Morgan sent for an experienced detective to come – which is yourself, Mr Ross, and the sergeant here with you – because Mr and Mrs Lamont are well known and respected locally and wealthy folk. They will want everything done proper. She don’t appear to have done herself in – killed herself – since there is no sign how she could have. Besides, she was a respectable woman. Mr Morgan declared it must be foul play and Dr Croft suggested it might be a case of strangulation. Well, we don’t see too many murders in that locality, you see, so Mr Morgan considered it a job for the Yard.’

  Morris gave a groan. ‘Has no one taken any statements?’

  Hepple looked offended. ‘Mr Morgan was of the opinion that you would wish to speak to the witnesses yourself, Mr Ross. That is to say, to speak to the parish clerk and the doctor. Mr Harrington has not been able to await your arrival. He has business in town, as I think I mentioned.’

  The noise from the growler’s wheels increased suddenly. We had rolled on to the wooden bridge across the river to Putney.

  ‘We’re here, sir,’ said Hepple, looking and sounding mightily relieved.

  We had arrived before the church and clambered down. The news had got about, not surprisingly. An eager crowd had gathered in the street and various individuals in it started to point out the new arrivals to each other. ‘It’s the detectives!’ we heard and, ‘It’s the Yard!’ A couple of young fellows raised a somewhat derisive cheer. I paid off the cabman and, with Morris, set off in the wake of Sergeant Hepple, our guide.

  ‘I don’t know about this, Mr Ross,’ muttered Morris. ‘The boys who found her have been sent away, the body has been moved, and I don’t know how many people have been called in to look at it before we arrive. Now half of Putney has turned up to see the show! All we lack is a brass band.’

  We had been following a path alongside the river, which was still high and lapping at the bank, although here and there a streak of fresh glistening mud at the very edge suggested it was already turning. I asked Hepple when low water was again expected.

  ‘Around half past three this afternoon, sir, or a few minutes before.’

  It wouldn’t help us. The place where the body had been discovered earlier was several feet below the surface of the water. When the tide receded, any evidence would have been washed away forever. There was a brick wall to our right. Leaning against it was a bearded man wearing a moleskin waistcoat and red neckerchief, arms folded. As we approached him, he demanded in a surly tone, ‘How long is it going to be?’

  ‘How long is what going to be?’ snapped Morris.

  ‘Until you move that woman out.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ demanded Morris, who was clearly out of sorts by now.

  ‘I want my scythe. It’s in the shed.’

  ‘Scythe?’ Morris sounded taken aback. ‘Who are you, then? The Grim Reaper?’

  ‘No, I’m Coggins, the gardener, and I was all ready to cut the grass today. Mr and Mrs Williams will be coming home tomorrow. They’ve been travelling in foreign parts. They will want to see the garden tidy and that’s my job, to make sure it’s so. But I can’t do it wit
hout my scythe and that constable won’t let me into my potting shed.’

  ‘Mr Williams,’ Hepple informed us, ‘is the owner of the property where the shed is – where the body is. But he’s away, as Mr Coggins has said, until tomorrow.’

  ‘And he won’t want to find a body in his shed and the grass not cut!’ shouted the gardener after us as we abandoned him.

  It wasn’t long before we were greeted by the sight of the legs and boots of several small boys. They had scrambled as far as they could up a brick wall and were leaning over the top, clinging on for dear life and eager for macabre entertainment.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Hepple in relief. ‘Oy!’ he added in a shout, ‘You just get down off there!’

  The boys all dropped to the ground, some landing on their feet and others in small heaps on the path and rolling around.

  ‘Were any of you among those who found the body?’ I demanded, as they sorted themselves out and examined their bruises.

  Disconsolately, they denied it. So we chased them away and opened a gate in the wall.

  The potting shed was situated at the lower end of the garden, shielded by some bushes. As we approached I sniffed the air and thought I could detect pipe tobacco smoke. We rounded the leafy barrier to find a stalwart uniformed man, presumably Constable Beck, standing with his hands behind his back. A little further off stood two men in conversation. One, bulldog-like in stance and appearance, must be Morgan. The other – the tobacco smell had already betrayed him – was Dr Croft. Of the parish clerk there was no sign. Beck looked relieved at seeing his sergeant.

  ‘Go and stand outside that gate,’ Hepple ordered him, ‘and keep those youngsters from coming back.’

  I held out my hand to Morgan and introduced myself. He, in turn, began to introduce Croft.

  ‘Inspector Ross and I are already acquainted,’ said Croft before Morgan could complete his introduction. ‘Well, Ross, I don’t think we anticipated seeing one another again so soon!’

  Morgan frowned at this unexpected turn in events, so I thought I should say hastily to him, ‘I had reason to call on the doctor a few days ago. Yes, Dr Croft, I had not thought we’d meet again – certainly not in these circumstances.’