by Carola Dunn
“They’re a bit cramped.”
“But no worse than the casemates.”
“Where most of the yeomen live.”
Alec realized he had not yet considered the possibility that Crabtree might have been murdered by the wife of one of the residents. The downstairs shove was a method a woman might employ, but the use of the partizan argued against it, and few women would willingly hang about outside on a foggy night. What about a woman as motive—an irate husband as murderer? Men inclined towards excessive study of the Bible sometimes developed peculiar ideas about women. They were usually bachelors, not widowers, and Alec hadn’t come across any suggestion that Crabtree was so unbalanced, but it would have to be borne in mind.
“Thank you for your escort, ladies,” he said.
“If there’s anything else we can do . . .”
“Just call on us.”
“We liked Crabtree.”
“And this whole business is upsetting Daddy dreadfully.”
A natural dislike of trouble on his command, or something more significant?
“Besides, we really, really like Mrs. Fletcher.”
“She’s awfully nice, isn’t she?”
“I think so,” said Alec.
With a wave, they headed for the Officers’ Quarters. Alec turned his steps towards the hospital and his mind towards his first impressions of Dr. Macleod.
At the time, he had known too little about the murder to form any useful judgement of those he met. Macleod had seemed competent, and his report on the body agreed with that of the police surgeon. He had also seemed restless, even nervy. Illicit drug use could explain that, but it was not the first time Alec had come across RAMC doctors who were badly disturbed by civilian mayhem in spite of—perhaps because of—the horrific conditions they had dealt with in war.
Poor chap! If morphia was the only way he could deal with the memories, Alec was not about to harass him, as long as he was not selling the stuff to finance his gambling, or to pay blackmail.
In the foyer of the hospital, an orderly was whistling as he pared his nails with a pocketknife. A swift glance at Alec’s RFC tie and he dropped the knife, jumped to attention, and saluted. “Chief Inspector, sir! What can I do for you, sir?”
Alec’s fame had preceded him. “I hope you can give me some information. A Yeoman Warder was admitted last night, I believe?” It was less belief than guesswork—and hope. He didn’t want to have to tell Superintendent Crane he’d mislaid the man who could be either the murderer or the intended victim.
“Yessir.” The orderly consulted a large ledger. “That’d be the Yeoman Gaoler hisself, Sergeant Major Rumford.”
Alec breathed again. “Is there by any chance a note of the time?”
“Ten-fifteen P.M., it says here, sir.”
Quarter past ten. The fact baffled Alec. It fitted with Daisy’s memory of Rumford going off along the wall at a minute or so before ten, and he must have been the yeoman who followed the Carradine girls and Mrs. Duggan past the White Tower. But the police surgeon was pretty clear that Crabtree hadn’t been killed before eleven. Could Rumford have reported to the hospital to establish an alibi and sneaked out later? Or were they going to have to abandon the hypothesis of Rumford as murderer?
“Is Dr. Macleod available?”
“Dunno ’bout that, sir. He’s taking surgery, but there wasn’t many came to sick call today. I don’t think he’s got more’n a couple left. They leave by the back door, so I don’t see ’em. I’ll go check.”
“Thanks. If he won’t finish for a quarter of an hour or longer, I’d appreciate his fitting me in sooner. Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher.”
“Yessir!”
The orderly departed, to return moments later with an invitation to follow him.
Macleod’s office faced west and was flooded with sunlight. Its untidiness was no worse than many another doctor’s office-cum-examination room. He jumped up from his desk when Alec entered and shook his hand vigorously.
“How can I help you, Chief Inspector? Sit down, do.” His eyes were bright, too bright, the pupils pinpoints smaller than could be accounted for by the bright light.
Brenda Carradine was a perceptive young lady. Dr. Macleod was almost certainly taking morphia, a “dope fiend” as she had put it, or, as some would say, a morphinomaniac.
“First, I thought you’d like to know that the police surgeon’s preliminary findings agree with yours.”
“How encouraging! Perhaps I should join the police.”
Ignoring the mockery in his tone, Alec said stolidly, “Police surgeon is not a full-time job, I’m afraid. We use GPs in private practice with some specialized knowledge of forensic pathology. Doctor, I understand you admitted the Yeoman Gaoler, Rumford, to the hospital last evening. We’ve been looking for him.”
“Don’t blame me for not mentioning his whereabouts. I was asked about poor old Crabtree, and his whereabouts were all too well known.”
“Rumford is still here?”
“Unless someone has spirited him away.”
“His name was entered in your book at ten-fifteen. I assume that’s not the time he stepped through the door.”
“No, he’d have arrived a few minutes earlier. It didn’t take long to realize that he needed in-patient treatment. An interesting case, in its way. He was gassed in France, just a light dose, not sufficient to kill or severely incapacitate. Most of the time, he’s able to function perfectly normally. Then a pea-souper crawls out of the river and he’s hacking away again.”
“Like last night.”
“Like last night. He had a bad go of bronchitis last winter, with a touch of pneumonia, and I advised him to retire right away, to move as far away from London and the river as he could get. But the old sod said he wasn’t ready to go yet, much as some people would like to see the back of him.”
“What do you think he meant by that?”
Macleod gave him the blankest of blank stares. “I haven’t the foggiest—pun intended. Rumford said he didn’t intend to ‘die a Yeoman Warder’ and he wasn’t ready to turn up his toes yet, thank you.”
“ ‘Die a Yeoman Warder’? That’s an odd way to put it.”
“Not at all. It’s a quote from the Chief Yeoman’s toast to all new recruits: ‘May you never die a Yeoman Warder.’ ” Brimming with nervous energy, the doctor explained. “Once upon a time, the fee for appointment to the post of Yeoman Warder was two hundred and fifty guineas. Two hundred and fifty pounds was returned on retirement, the Constable bagging the odd shillings. If the man died before retirement, the Constable got the lot. You’ll never put your finger on the pulse of this bloody place unless you understand that it’s ruled by tradition.”
“I had gathered as much.”
“The Constable, by the way, is not one of your lowly bobbies. He is to the Resident Governor as is the Mikado to the Lord High Everything Else. Are you fond of Gilbert and Sullivan?”
“My wife and I have taken my daughter to several performances.”
“Ah, yes, I have made the acquaintance of Mrs. Fletcher. A remarkable lady.”
Alec would put up with a lot of flapdoodle in the hope of obtaining useful information, but he was reaching his limit. He suspected Macleod was aware of it. Before he could say anything, the doctor reverted to the Constable of the Tower.
“The Constable holds a sinecure, of course. The only time he turns up here is when he’s installed. The Lord Chancellor hands over the keys, symbolic golden keys. The Constable promptly hands them on to the Resident Governor and washes his hands of the place. Very wise. The Keeper of the Regalia, on the other hand, has his London pied-à-terre in St. Thomas’s Tower, and the present holder of the position makes considerable use of it. Have you met General Sir Patrick Heald?”
“Not yet.” St. Thomas’s Tower was in the Outer Ward, so Alec had no pressing need to speak to its inhabitant.
“You don’t want to. Supercilious bastard. Carradine’s not a bad bloke
, though, if only he’d rein in those two redcoat-chasers of his. As for Duggan—”
“Could we get back to Rumford? Is it possible he left and returned unobserved after you admitted him?”
Before he finished speaking, Macleod broke into convulsive, febrile laughter. At last, he recovered enough to gasp out, “No, my dear chap, it’s not possible. I gave him a hefty dose of morphia to stop the coughing, to relieve his chest pain, and to put him to sleep. ‘Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,’ you know. ‘To sleep, perchance to dream,’ ” he added savagely. “I wonder what the bloody hell the bastard dreams of.”
“Bastard?”
“Our Yeoman Gaoler is not a prepossessing character,” the doctor said with an airy wave of the hand, but Alec was certain he had some more specific villainy in mind. Blackmail, for instance.
The trouble was, Dr. Macleod was the one person who couldn’t possibly have mistaken Crabtree for Rumford. Worse, he’d just given an apparently unassailable alibi to the most promising suspect to date.
The dosage of morphia he’d given Rumford would have to be gone into, and checked with the police surgeon. However, it looked as if the Yeoman Gaoler had been dead to the world by the time the Chief Yeoman Warder was killed. All the same, he might very well have useful information, if only a reason for Crabtree’s going out so late last night.
“I’d like to speak to him, if it won’t exacerbate his condition.”
“You can speak to him all you like. It’s not going to affect him one way or another. When he came round, I decided his condition warranted another dose of the same. He’s in the arms of Morpheus.”
“Pun intended?” said Alec dryly. “When do you expect him to surface?”
“You can probably have a go at him tomorrow morning.”
“You’re keeping him under for another night? Is that the usual treatment?”
“Not usual, perhaps, but it’s been tried with some success. There’s not much else one can do. I want to be sure the attack is over and he’s in good shape before I bring him round.”
“I’ll be back in the morning. Incidentally, where were you at midnight last night? Watching your patient?”
“I left an orderly to do that, and a nurse with instructions for another dose as needed. I was tucked up tight in my beddy-byes.” Macleod was suddenly depressed, the morphia-induced animation beginning to wear off. “I don’t mingle more than I have to with those hidebound, narrow-minded . . . Oh, don’t get me started on the godforsaken army! I was asleep.”
“In fact, in the arms of Morpheus,” Alec said grimly.
Macleod stared at him, then dropped his eyes. “You might say so. I’ll get off it soon, though, I swear it!”
“I hope so. Did you ever treat Crabtree?”
“Not for so much as an ingrowing toenail. I knew him only to pass the time of day with, but by all accounts, he was one of those clean-living old men who ought by rights to have lived to a hundred. It’s a bloody world.”
“You don’t know of anyone who might have had it in for him?”
“No. Again, it’s hearsay, but I believe he was generally liked.” In a dull voice, he added, “I hope you get the bastard who killed him.”
“That seems to be the common desire. We’ll do our best. Thank you for your time, Doctor. Please give orders that if the patient should come round, he’s not to be told about the murder.”
“I already did. He’d be in no condition to have his colleague’s death broken to him.”
“Very good. I’ll see you tomorrow—if not before.”
Macleod didn’t react to this promise, or threat. He sat with bowed head, staring blankly at the top of his desk.
In the lobby, the orderly was now reading The Pink Un. He laid it down, not bothering to hide it, and came to attention with somewhat less alacrity than before.
“Dull job?” Alec observed with sympathy. “You don’t have many patients?”
“That about hits the nail on the head, sir. Stands to reason, you get a few hundred strapping young blokes and don’t throw bullets at ’em, they ain’t going to need a doctor too often.”
“No doubt.”
“What’s more, them Beefeaters is a hale and hearty lot, on the whole. I tell you, sir, some days, if it wasn’t for the odd kiddie falling off his bike and the like, we wouldn’t see no one here. We’re not in business just for the garrison, you see, sir, and with all them that lives in the Tower, we get a bit of everything. The doctor’s that good with the kiddies, you wouldn’t believe. Ought to be in one of them children’s hospitals.” He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “I heard he tried for a job but they didn’t want to hire a doctor as had been in the army ever since he got the letters after his name. Like he could’ve done aught else in ’14. Their loss!”
“And his.”
“A truer word was never spoke. He’s not happy, sir, but he does his job right enough and I ain’t heard no complaints.”
“Thank you.” With that information, Alec felt himself absolved from having to act on Macleod’s addiction, unless he found evidence of the doctor’s unlawfully selling the drug. What was more, Alec hadn’t even hinted at the misuse of morphine. The orderly’s testimonial to Macleod’s competence was unsolicited.
He took the man’s name for the record. As he closed his notebook, his gaze fell upon the Sporting Times, lying open on the desktop. The visible page was heavily annotated. “Follow the horses, do you?”
“I has a little flutter now and then, sir. It’s the doctor as knows all about form and odds and that. He makes notes, and when he’s done, he let’s us have his Pink Un. I won’t say he’s always right, but going by what he says, I win more’n I lose. Can’t ask better’n that, can you?”
“It sounds good to me,” said Alec, who ventured a half-crown each way on the Derby every year and expected to lose it.
He went to find Colonel Duggan at the barracks.
“Your sergeant’s made a big hit with my NCOs,” the colonel greeted him, grinning. “Some were inclined to take umbrage at being interrogated by a chap who didn’t fight. There are few stickier wickets than an uncooperative noncom! But he’s been telling them stories about policing in London during the War, chasing spies and black marketeers and pulling civilians out of collapsing houses after air raids. I hope he’s getting some useful stuff from them in exchange.”
“I expect so. DS Tring isn’t my right-hand man for nothing.”
“He passed on your request for a room with a ’phone in the Guard House. My adjutant just reported that it’s all set up for you.”
“Thank you, sir, that’s very kind of you.”
“I assume you’ll want to use it to ask my officers a few questions.” Duggan was no fool, Alec reminded himself. He had risen to his present position without the aid of family influence and connections. “I’ve given orders that they’re to make themselves available. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not at present, thanks. I must go and let the Governor know how the investigation is progressing, which, in confidence, is not very fast. Then I’ll send someone over to fetch your chaps, one at a time. I assume it’s best to start at the top?”
“Definitely. Can’t keep majors waiting while lieutenants have their say.”
“I’ll try not to keep anyone waiting about too long. I greatly appreciate your cooperation, sir.”
“I’m certain none of my people is involved. You’ll find it’s an internal affair, some quarrel among the Beefeaters. But the sooner it’s cleared up, the better for all of us. Good luck!”
“I wish I could say I don’t need it,” Alec responded, “but every time I think I’ve found a lead, it slips away.”
14
Alec returned to the King’s House. He walked by way of the fatal stairs, not that he expected to learn anything new, but to refresh in his mind the lie of the land. At the top, he turned and looked down.
Even in the now-bright sunshine, the steep, nar
row flight of eighteen or so steps looked dangerous. If it weren’t for the partizan, Crabtree’s death would surely have passed as an accident. So why use the damn thing? The only possible reason that suggested itself was an attempt to throw suspicion on the victim’s fellow warders, which, in turn, suggested that the murderer was not a warder.
He went on. Before knocking on the front door, he stopped to contemplate the balcony, the flat roof of a single-story excrescence filling the angle between the south and west wings of the Tudor building. It appeared to be an afterthought, adding a little extra space to the ground floor. The railing and the drop, though Daisy might balk at tackling them, would present no great challenge to anyone of moderate athletic ability.
On the other hand, climbing back in would be difficult without a ladder or assistance from above. He couldn’t imagine the Resident Governor taking anyone into his confidence on such an errand, but had he dismissed the Carradine sisters too quickly?
The front door opened. Webster came out, taking two or three steps before he noticed Alec.
“Oh, there you are,” he said irritably. “The Governor sent me to find you. I got through to the Constable at last and he wanted a full report on your investigation. What little we were able to tell him did not satisfy him, so now General Carradine wants a report he can pass on.”
Alec took the wind out of his sails. “That’s exactly why I was on my way to you. I thought it was about time I brought General Carradine up-to-date.” Not that he had the slightest intention of providing a “full” report, given that members of the household were still under suspicion. However, all senior police officers had to be expert at giving little away while making people—especially nosy reporters and self-important members of the upper classes—believe they’d heard a great deal.
They went into the house and up to the study. Carradine was sitting at his desk, staring morosely through the window at the site of the scaffold on the far side of the Green. He turned his head as Webster ushered Alec in.
“Oh, there you are, Fletcher. I hope you’ve some progress to report.”
