by Ali Carter
I parked and made my way to Rose Cottage, and as I was turning the corner of the red brick garden wall and about to go through the pretty cast-iron gate, my attention was grasped by a flick of raw sienna glowing on top of a green tuft of grass. Bending down I realised it was an autumnal leaf that had blown far from its tree, and was now all curled and crinkled into a delicate sculptural form. The detail of the leaf was amazing, and every bit of me wanted to preserve it on canvas forever. I carefully laid the leaf on the palm of my hand and took it to the safety of my bedroom.
Many people probably think it is easy to find something to paint, and of course having ideas is relatively easy. But finding something that ignites that flame inside and convinces you of the value of your subject is something much rarer, and it cannot be contrived. There is no logical pattern to this process and at barren times I can get myself into a fearful panic that never again will a subject present itself. So when, like now, something grasps my attention by chance it is the best feeling ever, and fuels inside me a strong desire to paint forever.
Still, the leaf could wait.
I was worn out. I lay down on top of the eiderdown on my single bed and gazed at the ceiling as my mind went over the events of the last few days. Suddenly it struck me that the feeling I’d experienced when Diana had turned to me and exclaimed, ‘My dear they say he may have been murdered,’ was very similar to the one I had just had looking at the leaf.
I began to see parallels between investigating a murder and painting a picture; the two things share far more in common than at first is obvious. Both are about getting to the absolute truth: weeding out all the distracting details, getting rid of the periphery and paring down to nothing other than the simple facts. It seemed to me that uncovering a murderer could follow a very similar process to painting a leaf or drawing a pet. Careful observation and allowing my hand-eye co-ordination, or my mind, in the case of a murder, to be led by visible facts rather than previous knowledge.
What I mean is that when I come to paint or draw something familiar, such as a leaf or the nose of a horse, I have to block out the image my memory has conjured up already, and instead study whatever it is in front of me, as if it is an abstract shape that I am seeing for the very first time. I have to explore it with my eyes and senses alone, without processing my thought into words. If I abide by this I get to the absolute essence of the subject when I paint. Therefore, if I can put truth on canvas in my art, should there be any barrier to get to the bottom of the truths in our own flesh-and-blood lives? I couldn’t see why there should be.
All of a sudden I had the unshakeable conviction that I would be the one to solve this case. And if I combined my obsessive observation with my nosy-parker instincts then surely I had a good chance of uncovering the murderer. A highly charged feeling rushed straight through me. I punched the air and flung myself back into my pillow.
Too fired up to sleep, even though I had felt shattered only minutes earlier, I flicked on the telly.
Local news reporter Mark Foster’s middle-aged, deadpan face stared at me. The volume was on mute and the strap line along the bottom of the screen read: ‘Breaking News: Landed Gentry parishioner found dead in Spire Graveyard…’ As the words ticker-taped across the bottom of the screen the sentence grew in length: ‘…murder investigation led by Detective Inspector Grey: 0800 4617 2323, the number to call with any information relating to this death.’
The rumour mill would be in overdrive. I was in for a late night of gossip with Nanny, that was for sure.
As it was, Nanny was home earlier than she thought and by 7pm we were in her front room sitting in the two armchairs, staring straight at the permanently on but rarely audible television.
I’d cooked us spicy meatballs on a bed of rice.
‘Fancy food this, Susie, and nicely laid out,’ Nanny said, and then returned to what she really wanted to talk about. ‘A shocking day. I knew there was something funny going on but I can’t for the life of me believe it was murder. That’s one hell of a grudge someone must’ve had…’ Nanny’s eyes were bright with excitement as she continued to talk about the scandal, rarely pausing for breath.
I was very hungry. In that way sleepiness can make you, I was no longer concentrating on conversation and only noticed Nanny was half a bowl behind me when I looked up to listen to her question, ‘Do you think the murderer’s still in the village?’
‘Diana doesn’t actually think he’s been murdered, so we’d better not jump too far ahead,’ I reminded Nanny.
‘Of course he was murdered, Susie. The news wouldn’t say what wasn’t true. And Mary and me were thinking that Lord Greengrass upset a fair few people in his time. For what it’s worth I reckon that Ronnie from the Horn had something to do with it – he’s a sly dog if there ever were one, and he’s always had it in for posh people.’
Nanny pushed a meatball into her mouth.
‘Ronnie?’ I asked. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Dunno. But he’s a temper on him and it’s been worse since he lost his friend at the beginning of the year.’
‘But why would he want to kill Lord Greengrass?’
Another meatball disappeared into Nanny’s mouth.
‘Lord Greengrass talked gruff to people, like us servants, and he built a troop of enemies.’
‘In that case, why have the same servants been here for so many years?’
‘Truth is that servants like this place. The Greengrasses give more perks than most big houses and it’s not as if they are a large family, so it’s easy work with plenty of free time.’
Nanny had seen two generations through Beckenstale Manor. Bridging the gap between servants and family gave her an insight into the goings-on here the likes of which no one else had. I found it quite difficult to tell where her loyalties lay and never more so than right now.
‘Mary reminded me this afternoon of Phil and Iona Yard. I’d almost forgotten that they used to live on the estate.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Years ago they farmed the bit where all the new houses are, as well as the land now covered in those planted trees. Shame Susie, I liked it with sheep and cows. Much prettier.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘Let me think – it was after Arthur left school and I’m pretty sure he’d finished at university too. Eighteen years ago would be right. We thought Arthur would come back and help run the estate immediately, but Lord Greengrass pushed him to go and work in London first.’
I’d heard Diana say exactly the same. ‘It’s his father’s fault he ever married that woman. He made him go to the City. Had Arthur come here straight after university then Asquintha never would have crossed his path.’
‘Tell me more about the Yards,’ I urged Nanny.
‘Can’t remember exactly. I liked them alright, but it didn’t end well, I can tell you that.’
‘So they fell out with the Greengrasses?’
‘Don’t quote me on this but I think Lord Greengrass told the Yards to leave, just like that, with no matter that it meant losing their job and their home. Shepherd said they got paid a packet, enough to buy themselves a nice house but it weren’t the same. Their old farm was everything to them.’
In Nanny’s words I hardly recognised the Alexander I knew. What a cruel man if this was even half true. And it could well be completely true. Farmers employed by an estate were, I knew, unlike contract or tenant farmers who have individual written agreements, liable to be sacked at any time for no good reason.
It wasn’t pretty, but contract law almost always has a loophole where employers can wriggle out of a relationship with their employees. Well-known in farming speak as ‘the three waves goodbye’, a compulsory chain of meetings between employer and employee to discuss declining profits of the farm. These meetings are the necessary hoops an employer has to jump through before they can sack their employee, under the premise that together they have failed to come up with a viable business plan. Every farmer in th
e country knows that a fourth meeting will ensue with a lawyer present and the bad news will be broken to the farmer that his job is being taken away.
‘So you reckon the Yards had the three waves then?’ I asked Nanny.
‘They did. And so Mary says the Yards’ll have a big grudge.’
Nanny popped the final meatball in her mouth, and announced to me with a wink, ‘And Butler Shepherd weren’t too keen on Lord Greengrass neither.’
Nanny’s suggestion made me feel very awkward. It was disloyal and highly unlikely.
I ignored it, and changed the subject. ‘Where were Arthur, Asquintha and the boys on Sunday morning?’
Nanny, in her excitement, got the wrong end of the stick. ‘Now you’re on to something, Susie. Asquintha’d have more motivation than the rest of us to get rid of Lord Greengrass. She’s a tough time being accepted.’
I didn’t want to provoke Nanny’s suspicions of Asquintha so reverted to my initial question. ‘But Nanny, I was wanting to know where were Arthur, Asquintha and the boys on Sunday morning?’
‘Arthur took the children to church in St Catherine’s, a bit of a way from the Manor.’
‘Why there?’
‘There’s a Sunday school that’s popular locally, and Asquintha believes that their children should go to church where there’s a bit of entertainment for them.’
‘And Asquintha?’
‘Enjoying a lie-in.’
I asked Nanny if she fancied a cup of tea.
‘I nearly forgot to say, Susie. I saw Antonia Codrington in the village today and she wants you to drop in tomorrow. That doctor chap left a bag and she wonders if you’d mind taking it back to Sussex when you go.’
I said I would, but then I wondered if Antonia was trying to set me up with Henry. If so, I could see the logic behind me taking his bag to my home for him to collect. But I could also see that being married for a long time meant they must have forgotten how loaded arranging for a single man to call on me alone at home would be.
I drank my tea in bed, then popped to the loo one more time and curled up under the duvet, all ready to drift off. But annoyingly I couldn’t slide into sleep.
My mind was all abuzz.
To distract myself I flicked through the photographs of Situp I’d taken on my camera. Most of them were taken outside and in all but one Situp was alert and full of playfulness. Strangely though, in every single picture taken inside Situp had his head dipped low and his tail between his legs. I hadn’t noticed it when I was staying – so much for me being super-observant at all times! – but now it was perfectly clear that there had been something inside the Glebe House that upset Situp.
I placed my camera on the side table, turned off the bedroom light, lay flat on my back, eyes closed and eventually drifted off thinking about the little black cat and how the wonderful velvety quality of its short-haired coat would be a challenge to paint accurately.
Zzzzz.
Unbeknown to me, although I mustn’t get above myself and think that it is my right to be kept up to date with the investigation, both Arthur and Asquintha had been called into the county police headquarters for questioning yesterday evening. This all became apparent at this morning’s meeting, which had just begun. Detective Inspector Grey, mortuary clerk Dr Toby Cropper, Diana, Arthur, Asquintha and me were sitting down the two long sides of the marble-top table in the conservatory. Mary had just been in and placed a tray of hot coffee and a plate of biscuits on the table.
‘Shall I pour the coffee, Ma?’ asked Arthur.
‘Yes please, dear.’
‘Not for me, thank you,’ said Inspector Grey, obviously itching to get on with delivering his news. He and Toby were sitting opposite the rest of us and there was a slim folder on the table in front of them.
I was momentarily distracted, trying to decide if it was insensitive to be having a murder investigation meeting in a conservatory. It was far less gloomy than the library, but all these condolence flowers stuffed into vases and placed round the edges of this glass Victorian extension emphasised the sad subject of death and funerals. Fortunately no one else seemed affected by the poignancy of our surroundings.
Arthur sat down between his mother and his wife, moving the Phalaenopsis orchid out the way as he placed the plate of biscuits in the centre of the table. None of us reached for one. Asquintha, who was sitting next to me, hugged her mug with both hands, looking as if she hadn’t slept a wink last night.
‘Right,’ said Inspector Grey, flipping open the folder. ‘Let’s continue.’
Firmly and rather too loudly he went on. ‘With no explanation or evidence of natural cause of death, a subsequent in-depth autopsy has revealed that unlawful killing is almost certainly the unfortunate outcome. I will be overseeing and carrying out the full investigation into this. I can assure you, My Lady, that the case will not be dropped until we have found and convicted the perpetrator.’
After a pause, during which time we all shot quick looks at each other, Inspector Grey went on. ‘Under my instruction the forensics team has carried out further examinations and we now have clear evidence of murder. Dr Cropper will now continue.’
Dressed in a respectable corduroy blazer, if a little dishevelled, Toby cut a handsome dash alongside portly Inspector Grey. With a well-educated accent his soft voice carried an academic lilt as he explained: ‘An X-ray revealed a patch of internal bleeding around Lord Greengrass’s precordium, which is the area immediately above the heart. From this we can tell that the cause of death is commotion cordis.’
Inspector Grey nodded in a way that implied this is exactly the outcome he had predicted. I, on the other hand, very much doubted if any of us other than Toby knew what ‘commotion cordis’ meant.
Saving us from our ignorance, Toby elaborated. ‘Commotion cordis is Latin for agitation of the heart, which in its simplest form would be explained as cardiac concussion. This symptom is seen in patients whose chest has been struck directly over the heart during the cardiac cycle, that is the cycle of the heart beat, thus causing cardiac arrest.’
Toby looked towards Inspector Grey, who then said, ‘Our investigation report states that between the hours of 11.15am and 11.25am, during the Spire Commemoration service on Sunday the 26th of November Lord Greengrass, whilst relieving himself in the graveyard, fainted due to low blood sugar, and as he fell to his feet he unintentionally knocked himself out on a mossy boulder, firmly secured in the ground…’
Diana drew in a heavy breath. We all took our eyes off Inspector Grey and looked towards her.
‘…And from the depth of the abrasion on Lord Greengrass’s forehead we can measure the blow at point 0.725 on the unconscious scale. This tells us that he would not have regained consciousness for at least 180 seconds. It was during these three minutes that the murder was carried out.’
Arthur stuck up his hand. I thought it an extraordinary action for a man in his thirties, and in whose home we were all sitting. Then again, who knows how anyone would act in a similar situation?
‘Could it be that Father died of a heart attack?’ said Arthur.
‘I am sorry to say that I can be absolutely sure that could not be the case,’ Toby said gently. ‘Your father’s family has no trace of predisposing cardiac abnormalities, and although a heart attack can lead to cardiac arrest, they are not the same thing.’
No longer raising his hand Arthur desperately asked, ‘But how do you know it wasn’t a heart attack which led to the cardiac arrest?’
Toby explained that he had worked for some years as a heart surgeon. ‘A heart attack is a sudden interruption to the blood supply to part of the heart muscle. This can cause immense chest pain but the heart is still sending blood around the body, and the person remains conscious and continues to breathe. However, when a cardiac arrest occurs, the heart suddenly stops pumping blood around the body, resulting in instant loss of consciousness and inability to breathe, and without specialised resuscitation death will occur in a matter of a v
ery few minutes. The evidence from the autopsy shows that Lord Greengrass had a cardiac arrest after a blow to the chest.’
Arthur accepted the explanation and turned to his mother, whose expression didn’t flicker. There looked to be a silent battle going on between her thoughts and the news being delivered.
Clearly refusing to believe that her husband had been murdered, Diana spoke with an accusatory tone. ‘Wasn’t that man Henry Dunstan-Sherbet a doctor? Couldn’t he have done anything?’
‘I’m afraid not, My Lady,’ said Toby patiently. ‘As I said, a cardiac arrest leads to death within minutes and requires immediate cardiopulmonary resuscitation to halt it. His statement is that Lord Greengrass had already died when he found him.’
‘Didn’t he know how to do the resuscitation?’ asked Diana, ignorant to the fact it required necessary medical equipment.
‘Without a defibrillator there was very likely nothing that anyone could have done,’ said Toby patiently.
So, that was it. Now we all knew that the bruising on Alexander’s chest was evidence that with one blow someone had ended his life.
By the looks of her, Diana was still struggling with the facts of her husband’s death. She stared stonily out of the conservatory, and then took a long, slow sip from her mug of coffee.
I noticed that Asquintha was still grasping her mug with both hands. I wanted to reassure her but she was too preoccupied to catch my glance.
Inspector Grey cleared his throat. ‘I think I could add some useful detail.
‘We are searching for the murder weapon which, in accordance with the area of bruising, is approximately three and a half inches in diameter, blunt-ended and upwards of half a kilo in weight. We are proceeding with the investigation as quickly and as thoroughly as we can, and have conducted several interviews.’
