by David Field
‘You mean he groped her as well?’
Abigail nodded with a sour expression.
‘I came in here one day looking for more ink, and he had his hands round her — her bosom. Then there was one awful time when I came back early from my normal midday walk because it had begun raining and I didn’t have my brolly and I heard — well, suggestive noises from upstairs. I made as much noise of my own as I dared, to let them know that I was back and I heard him curse loudly. Then a few minutes later he came down the stairs and ordered me to collect the Acquisitions ledger from the rear bedroom, where you work now. She was still in just her stays and the bed was all rumpled, like it had been slept in. She looked so embarrassed and ashamed and I’m sure he sent me up there just to humiliate her. Nothing was said, but it was obvious what I’d interrupted.’
‘Horrible!’ Esther confirmed with a genuine shudder.
‘Embarrassing for me, as well,’ Abigail confirmed. ‘I couldn’t look poor Miss Marianne in the face for a long while after that.’
They fell silent as they heard the front door to the salon open and Ormonde calling out, ‘Why is there no-one at the counter? Miss Prendergast, get in here immediately!’
‘Yes, Mr Ormonde,’ Abigail replied dutifully as she rose quickly from the table and scuttled through the open glass doors. Esther gritted her teeth as she listened to Ormonde loudly berating Abigail and refusing to accept her explanation that she had been listening intently for the sound of potential clients entering the salon.
‘Pig!’ Esther muttered softly as she made her way back upstairs.
From behind her accounts desk she looked across at the photographs on proud display along the mirrored dressing table that Marianne must have used in order to beautify herself. Almost all of them seemed to feature both Marianne and her grubby brother and the only one Esther could see from that distance that was only of Edgar himself was one of a young boy in his early teens dressed in a sailor boy’s outfit, no doubt an old family photograph that had survived from years ago, was now at least twenty years out of date, and would hardly do for the purposes that Jack and Percy had in mind. It would have to be one of the double photographs and the sooner she could acquire it, the sooner she could escape this awful place, where the continuing presence of the dead sister was almost palpable.
Her chance came two days later, on the Thursday of her first week of pretended employment, when Ormonde announced that he was travelling into Buckinghamshire to value some paintings that were being sold off as part of a family estate. Esther had, from the very start of her ‘employment’, travelled to and from work with her long-handled canvas shopping bag, into which she had sewn a secret compartment in the highest tradition of shoplifters everywhere and it was into this that she intended to slip whatever photograph she could find.
As she heard Abigail on the floor below explaining to a client that ‘Mr Ormonde is away for the day, but he asked me to look out for you especially, and to show you our latest Morisot’, she determined that the time was right. She moved across to the dressing table and looked carefully at her options. There was a large one of Ormonde and the lady who was presumably his sister, since many of the other photographs featured the same lady. It appeared to have been taken in a back garden somewhere and behind the two smiling people in the immediate foreground was some sort of two storied building that looked like a farmhouse.
Esther had been carefully briefed in her task and she turned the glass frame over carefully in her hand, then unhooked the sheet of cardboard that was holding the photograph in place. She sighed with satisfaction as she confirmed that there was another photograph beneath it, then removed the one she was about to purloin and carefully replaced the cardboard. As she placed the frame back carefully from where it had been sitting, lining it up as closely as possible with the clear dust-free mark on the lace dressing table cloth, she glanced down at what was now the new photograph on display. It was of a young lady — clearly Marianne herself — smiling at the camera as she sat on a seafront wall somewhere or other. Content with her acquisition, Esther heaved a sigh of relief and placed the photograph carefully in the hidden compartment of her shopping bag, making a point of leaving work slightly early, so as to avoid any premature return home by Ormonde.
Back at her own home, she proudly displayed the fruits of her theft and Jack smiled as he leaned down to kiss and congratulate her. Then he glanced down at the photograph.
‘She doesn’t look much like her painting in the gallery, but still a Hell of a lot more attractive than when I saw her last, on the mortician’s slab like a side of beef in a butcher’s shop.’ He saw Esther go pale and hugged her to him. ‘Sorry, my clever darling. Police work coarsens you, I’m afraid.’
‘I tell you what,’ Esther replied, ‘I could never be a shoplifter. My heart was pounding like a steam engine while I was stealing it. I guess I must be naturally honest.’
‘And naturally beautiful. Much prettier than this fancy lady, for all her wealth.’
‘I don’t think she had a particularly happy life,’ Esther said sadly. ‘But does she remind you of anyone?’
‘No — who?’
‘Lucy.’
‘My sister?’ He looked more carefully at the girl in the photograph and nodded slowly.
‘Yeah, I see what you mean. But fortunately she’s very much alive, with three children. Which reminds me — we’re invited to the christening in a fortnight, in the church we were married in. Lucy’s invited all her theatre friends, so it should be fun.’
Chapter Ten
‘Have you removed a photograph from this dressing table?’ Ormonde demanded furiously as he turned towards Esther, red-faced. Esther’s heart leapt, but she managed to adopt an innocent and slightly offended look, as she replied.
‘Most certainly not. Why would I have occasion to?’
‘This dressing table and all that belongs on it, remain the property of my late sister, do you understand?’ Ormonde bellowed back at her. ‘Touch anything on here and you’ll court instant dismissal, whoever your uncle is. Be in no doubt on that score!’
‘Of course,’ Esther replied meekly, suppressing the intense desire to demand to know who he thought he was talking to. His face remained an unhealthy red as he stormed from the back bedroom and thumped heavily down the stairs, allowing Esther to breathe more freely as she resumed her boring work.
An hour later she heard Abigail gently calling up the staircase that the morning tea was ready and that Ormonde had gone for what he had described as ‘a long walk to calm myself’.
‘I heard him bellowing at you earlier,’ Abigail confided. ‘What did you do wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Esther insisted. ‘He seemed to be of the belief that I’d removed a photograph from the dressing table that he keeps in that creepy shrine of his that he insists that I work in. It’s really a strain on my nerves, being up there, surrounded by a dead woman’s belongings — some days I could swear that she’s glaring up at me from that ominous bed that fills half the room, as if she was laid out ready for her funeral.’
Abigail shuddered slightly. ‘You’d be as well not to talk in such terms to Mr Ormonde,’ she warned Esther. ‘He’s inclined to believe in all that nonsense about the spirits of the dead returning to trouble us and on one occasion he went so far as to mention his beliefs to me. It was shortly after Miss Marianne died — not a week later, as I recall — and he told me that he’d visited one of those women who defraud the more credulous of society out of money in return for placing them in so-called communication with the souls of those who have passed over. The charlatan had apparently advised him that Miss Marianne’s spirit is restless and remains — “earthbound” I believe was the expression he employed — because of the tragic way in which she’d died.’
‘How did she die, exactly?’ Esther asked with the appropriate degree of innocence, hoping to learn what explanation Ormonde was giving to those around him.
‘She threw herself from a tr
ain while the balance of her mind was disturbed,’ Abigail advised her, ‘or at least that’s what Mr Ormonde says.’
‘Was that the coroner’s opinion?’
Abigail shook her head. ‘There’s been no coronial enquiry as yet, because — or so I believe — the police are investigating the circumstances surrounding Miss Marianne’s untimely end. There was a young gentleman here from Scotland Yard, enquiring of Mr Ormonde when he last saw his sister and under what circumstances. The accident occurred down in Wiltshire, where Mr Ormonde has a residence to which he and his sister would resort at weekends.’
‘And did this police officer give you any reason to believe that Mr Ormonde might have known more about his sister’s death than he was admitting?’
‘Certainly not,’ Abigail replied stiffly. ‘Mind you, the young man was most agreeable to the eye and I hope he continues his enquiries here. I met him in the street shortly before you arrived here and he gave me cause to believe that he might be seeking my further acquaintance.’
Esther suppressed a smirk as she imagined Jack weaving his boyish charm and she tried to return the conversation to something more profitable, if only to obviate the need for Jack to once again turn on the charm in the direction of a young art assistant who was quite comely in an old-fashioned looking way.
‘And Mr Ormonde believes that the spirit of his dead sister may still be wandering loose here in the house, given her untimely end? Is it not suggested by these “Spiritualists” that those who die by their own hand are condemned to remain earthbound until their originally allotted span of life here in this world has expired?’
‘You clearly know more about these things than you were originally prepared to admit,’ Abigail replied with a slightly suspicious look as she collected the tea cups and headed for the hot water geyser. ‘As for Mr Ormonde, he seems to have become a changed man since Miss Marianne died. He was so confident before then — totally possessed of his own belief in his infallibility. Since then, he’s been more prone to sudden outbursts, as if his nervous system’s in disarray. I do hope he’s not sensing the spirit of Miss Marianne here in the building — if so, he might encourage her to show herself. I’d simple die if I saw her ghost and I couldn’t for the life of me bring myself to work upstairs in her old room, the way you’re called upon to do.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Esther replied, grinning mischievously, ‘if I see her wraith emerging from the wardrobe, I’ll be sure to scream and let you know.’
‘Don’t talk like that, even in jest,’ Abigail shuddered as she walked back out into the salon, leaving Esther deep in thought.
‘I have to submit my report to the Assistant Commissioner by the end of the week,’ Chief Inspector Wallace advised Percy as he pierced him with one of the stares for which he was so famous. ‘It had better be good, since it’s costing us so much. And when can we expect your nephew to resume his duties?’
‘He’s having to help look after the child while his wife performs her valuable role inside the suspect’s business,’ Percy reminded him, ‘and it would be a shame to forfeit that wonderful work done by our American colleague.’
‘So have we got enough evidence to buckle this man Ormonde?’ Wallace enquired, provoking a thoughtful shake of the head from Percy.
‘Not quite, sir, although the circumstantial case is building nicely. We’re pretty sure that we can prove that Ormonde — or at least, a man closely resembling him — boarded the same railway carriage as the deceased, just as the train was pulling out of Kemble Station. A man answering a similar description got off the train at the next stop — Swindon — and hired a cab back to Kemble. Later today I hope to be able to secure a photograph of Ormonde obtained for us by Esther Enright, my nephew’s wife, in the hope that the cabman from Swindon can identify him as the man who needed to return to Kemble so late at night.’
‘So where did he go when he got back to Kemble?’
‘He paid a local carrier to take him back to the converted farmhouse that he owns in a nearby village, where he and the deceased had spent the weekend, but not before he’d been seen searching for something he may have dropped at the station entrance in his pursuit of his sister shortly before she met her death. We believe that “something” to have been the key to the back door to the house they’d both left earlier, and one of the servants employed at that house — the coachman and gardener — can confirm that Ormonde had earlier left the house in pursuit of the deceased and that when he returned later that night, he tried to pass off his presence at the back door, minus the key, as a mere visit to the outside lavatory, although the key was by then missing from its usual place behind the back door. Finally, we have the evidence of a local tottie that Ormonde bribed her to give him an alibi for the hours between ten and midnight that night.’
Wallace nodded as he took in all this information. ‘I can agree with you that the circumstantial case is a good one, but do we have nothing that directly links him with the woman’s death?’
‘We may have, sir, although no guarantees. According to the man Gregson — he’s the coachman I mentioned a moment ago — when Ormonde turned up back at the house, his jacket was ripped and had several buttons missing from it. These were presumably all the result of his struggle with his sister as he heaved her out of the carriage, and the missing buttons were quite distinctive, made out of ivory or something similar. I’m planning on going to the Lost Property Office at Paddington, in the hope that some cleaner found them when the carriage was being turned round in London. If so, and we can match them to the torn jacket, then we can link him directly with some sort of scuffle.’
‘Is that all?’ Wallace demanded. ‘And you haven’t mentioned any motive for his murdering his sister. A jury will need a good motive, as you well know.’
‘That’s pretty strong, sir. We can put together a fairly persuasive collection of bits and pieces to suggest that the deceased was carrying her brother’s child. We can prove that they had some sort of argument on the evening she died, suggestive of her having cancelled an appointment with an abortionist here in London, much to his annoyance.’
‘Is that your motive?’ Wallace enquired with a further frown. ‘Surely she could have given birth and been forced or bribed to keep quiet about who the father was? That sort of thing happens so frequently these days that it’s hardly a disgrace any more, although God knows it should be!’
‘Perhaps not a disgrace in Whitechapel, Mile End or Putney, sir — but in the sort of fashionable circles in which Ormonde lives and conducts his art business? Even if she’d kept quiet about who the father was, the mere fact that she’d conceived a child out of wedlock would be disgrace enough for a man as conscious of his social image as our Mr Ormonde.’
‘So has this wife of young Enright managed to unearth anything of additional value?’
‘Early days yet, sir. I’m planning on speaking with her later today and finding out what she’s managed to learn so far, but her presence there is as much a matter of keeping the suspect under observation as anything else.’
‘And how much is this costing us in baby-minding fees?’
‘Nothing at all, sir. Mrs Enright has secured the services of a near neighbour who’s prepared to do the work for less money than Ormonde’s paying for unwittingly clasping our viper to his bosom.’
‘So why does Constable Enright need to remain off active duties?’
‘His wife’s peace of mind, mainly. I recommend that we continue to go along with that arrangement, sir, at least until we can be certain that there’s nothing more to be gained by having our own spy in the enemy camp. As an added bonus, it just so happens that Esther Enright’s expecting again, so we can also use her to investigate the possibility that Ormonde’s reason for killing his sister was her refusal to go through with the abortion. Among the items we found in her purse was the address of a shady clinic in Marylebone, so if our suspicions are correct, we can also nab ourselves a quack abortionist. That alone, I feel sure, would aff
ord Her Majesty great satisfaction.’
‘Very well,’ Wallace relied grumpily. ‘I’ll report upstairs that we have a strong circumstantial case out of all the work you’ve done thus far, but you’d better think of some way of getting us the sort of “smoking gun” stuff that impresses juries, if we’re going to see Ormonde swing.’
Jack and Percy entered what looked like a massive jumble sale in the largest church hall imaginable, as the Lost Property Senior Clerk proudly explained to them how the various compartments within the network of shelves were labelled with the dates, stations of origin and type of train.
‘Take this one fer example, sirs,’ he invited them as he pointed proudly at a section close to the double entrance doors through which they had just passed. ‘That’s the 0735 from Bristol to London Paddington and each of the sections bears the date o’ the service, like that one there. It musta bin rainin’ in Bristol that mornin’, seein’ as ’ow there’s so many umbrellas in that cubby ’ole. Now, if yer just gives me the name o’ the service, an’ the date, we’ll see what we’ve got fer yer, shall we?’
Percy consulted his notebook and gave the Clerk the details. He led them proudly down between two lines of shelves, muttering to himself as he announced the various service sections they were passing. After what felt like a hundred yards further down, towards the back of the room, he stopped at a vertical line labelled ‘Cheltenham to Paddington’, then selected ‘9.15pm’ from the descending line and rummaged through a pile of boxes until he turned with a triumphant smile and handed them a medium sized cardboard box.
‘There yer go, gents. If it’s something bulky, like a ‘brolly or summat, there’ll be a piece o’ paper in there, tellin’ yer which number it’s stored under in a separate section at the end there. But as yer can see, it were a quiet night, wi’ just somebody’s ’at an’ a bag full o’ cachous or summat like that. The paper bag belongs ter the company, an’ it’s only what yer finds inside that’s “lost property”.’
