Death Will Find Me (A Tessa Kilpatrick Mystery, Book 1)

by Vanessa Robertson

  There was string tied around the brick, securing a sheet of paper in place. Tessa stiffened as she saw it, her earlier belief that this was a simple act of random vandalism ebbing away. She untied the strings and smoothed the paper. There, in writing familiar to her, was a message.

  “You keep interfering. If you carry on more people will die and their blood will be on your hands. I can’t stop until this is over.”

  ‘There’s a tray of tea in the morning room.’ Tessa felt Bill’s hand on her shoulder, warm and reassuring, but she drew away and handed him the note.

  ‘Look.’

  ‘Is this the same handwriting as the last note?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you give that one to Rasmussen?’

  ‘No. I thought it was best ignored. He might have stopped me from – well – whatever it is I’ve been doing. I thought I was helping, but it seems I’m just meddling and making things worse.’

  ‘You’re not making it worse. You know that. We’re further on than we would have been if you’d just left things to the police.’ Bill spoke sharply but Tessa just shrugged.

  ‘Let’s go and show this to the policeman and have a cup of tea.’

  And while Bill closed the shutters and slotted home the bolts, Tessa left the dining room, returning to reassure Florence that there was nothing she could have done to prevent the incident and to hand the note, crumpled and insignificant at first glance, to the constable. The laughter and glitter of the evening had faded instantly, and now she felt heavy of heart, wondering what the letter writer had in mind and who might be next on their list.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  By ten o’clock the next morning, the broken glass was cleaned up and a glazier had been summoned to effect a repair. Florence had done her best to polish out some of the gouges on the dining table – not especially successfully; Tessa hoped that she could find a French polisher who would be able to restore it to its former gleaming glory.

  Soon, the worst of the scratches were hidden beneath piles of paper and manila files. Florence had moved them from Heriot Row and the sight of them in her dining room made Tessa’s heart sink. She slid a folder across the table to conceal other scratches that the brick had left the night before, hiding the reminders of the killer’s anger.

  Even in her pale and simple new home, there was no escaping the war. Some of the documents she looked through were dusty, others spattered with mud, and others were pristine office copies created at a safe distance from any danger. They and the minute details recorded on them were the records of the war – The Great War – the war to end all wars. Events of life and death and violence reduced to neat notes, calmly and dispassionately noting down the attacks, the casualties, even the weather. And disciplinary matters such as the court martial of Private Norrie Douglas.

  Sighing, Tessa placed a cup of tea to one side, sat down and drew towards her the folder containing the details of the court martial in which the three dead men had been involved. It was the only event that linked all of them, so far as they knew at the moment, and Tessa was sure that this single event – sadly routine and all too commonplace – was the key to the murders, and that the key to avoiding more deaths probably lay in the sparse recording of its proceedings.

  Sounds from the rest of the house broke her concentration. Florence was running up and down stairs, putting away the contents of yet more parcels that had arrived from the department stores of the city, containing Tessa knew not what, save that they were items selected by her mother and were deemed essential to a well-run household. The cleaning woman who’d been recruited by her mother’s cook-housekeeper was busy polishing the hall floor and whistling while she did so.

  More than this though, Tessa was distracted by the events of the night before. She’d barely slept, the motives behind the brick that had been hurled through her window and the note that had accompanied it had played on her mind. It was an act of aggression, of fury and frustration. The brick was a tangible outburst of violence, intended to make her pay serious attention to the message it accompanied.

  Assuming it was from the murderer, it was clear that they had a plan and it was a finite one. Perhaps once the killer had ticked off the names on their list they planned to stop? But her involvement implied that other people would die if she didn’t back off. Presumably Forrester and Bartlett, assuming they had survived. But who else could he mean? Bill? Rasmussen? And if her interference was the threat, then why not simply kill her? And that last sentence had an air of desperation about it.

  Her drifting thoughts were brought sharply back when she heard Bill’s voice in the hall. Straightening her shoulders so that she appeared brisk and organised when he entered the dining room, she turned to the second page of the court martial report and the heart-breaking story of young Norrie.

  ‘Good morning.’ Bill grinned and sat down across from her on the other side of the table. He wore a check shirt and a jersey and his hair was still damp from his morning ablutions. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Try not to worry. We’ll find him. Last night was just an empty threat. If the murderer actually wanted to hurt you, it wouldn’t be necessary to make these big gestures.’

  ‘If you say so. But it feels like he’s threatening those around me and that worries me.’

  ‘I can look after myself. Try not to worry.’ Bill put on his most reassuring tones, but that just made Tessa want to scream. She was worried and telling her not to feel like that didn’t help. ‘So what are we looking at today?’

  ‘This court martial has to be the main thing. It’s all there is that links the dead men. None of this,’ – she waved a hand at the heaps of paper – ‘seems to show any other connection. Not even the same push towards enemy lines or whatever.’

  ‘And do you have a suggestion for our next course of action?’

  ‘The first thing we need to do is find out what happened to Forrester and Bartlett.’

  ‘Quite. There are no details about them here. For all we know they could be dead or missing. While you were getting dressed for the party yesterday, I sent a telegram to the general asking him to see if there was any more recent news of them.’ Bill leaned back in his chair. ‘Hopefully, by the time Rasmussen arrives, the old boy will have sent a reply.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I enjoyed the party.’ Bill changed tack. ‘Until we got home, obviously. It was good to see you laughing. Different to all those ghastly country weekends I’ve seen you at lately. You seemed to sparkle.’

  ‘That was probably just my jewellery. It was fun though. I wasn’t wondering which of the women there had caught the eye of my philandering husband.’ Tessa smiled, then turned more serious. ‘Mind you, an odd thing happened.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘A woman approached me when I was on my own. I didn’t know her, although I may have seen her at some other occasion. She said that it was important she talk to me, but she wouldn’t talk at the party.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Quite fashionable, bobbed hair and all that. The sort of woman that you’d normally expect to see at the centre of a group, being the life and soul of the party. But she seemed nervous. She said it was important she speak to me in private.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Me too. I said that I would be at home this afternoon.’

  ‘Was that wise? To meet her here, that is. Maybe somewhere more public would have been better. After all, you don’t know why she wants to see you.’ Bill looked concerned. ‘She could be one of the people who think you did away with James. Possibly even the person who wrote the note or threw the brick.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Tessa was surprised at herself now that Bill mentioned it. Since she’d been injured she tended to be more alert to the possibility of danger. Inviting an unknown woman who had such an urgent need to speak to her into her home was careless. ‘She’s coming sometime this afternoon. I’ll make sure that Flor
ence is around.’

  ‘Or me. If you see her in the drawing room, I can read in the library. Discreetly out of the way but handy if needed.’

  ‘True. If she turns out to be trouble then you’re probably better placed to defend me than Florence.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you can defend yourself, but I’d prefer to be sure you were safe.’

  Tessa knew that she could deal with threats. In the past, when the need arose she had been ruthless. The motive behind this woman’s visit was unknown, but Tessa had a feeling any violence would be emotional rather than physical. This woman, she was certain, was not the brick-thrower. It must be something to do with James – she could think of no other possible reason – but insistence on meeting in private seemed rather extreme if the woman merely wanted to express her sympathies. A short letter would have been perfectly adequate.

  Inspector Rasmussen arrived on the dot of nine o’clock and the telegram boy a few minutes later, just as Florence was divesting the policeman of his hat and coat. Bill ripped open the telegram and waited not-so-patiently for Tessa and Rasmussen to finish exchanging pleasantries. He coughed pointedly, impatient to share the news that had just arrived.

  ‘Is it something exciting?’ Tessa asked, returning to her seat at the table.

  ‘It’s certainly helpful.’ Bill waited for Rasmussen to take a seat before continuing. ‘As we know, there were three men on the court-martial panel – James, McKenzie and Forrester. The first two are dead, as is Robbie McNiven, who was called as a witness to the private’s supposed cowardice when he was given an order. There was also another officer involved, a Major John Bartlett, who was the private’s commanding officer and also a witness. We have no information here in these records about Bartlett and Forrester and so I asked the general if he knew anything. He’s writing with more details but I have their locations.’

  ‘And?’ Tessa wasn’t in the mood for Bill taking his time.

  ‘Well, it seems both of them got home, although I’m not sure what condition they’re in. Forrester is a patient at Craig House Hospital now, has been for a year or so since the old War Hospital closed. Bartlett was also a patient there but has recently returned to his family home in North Berwick.’

  ‘He’s recovered?’ Rasmussen frowned.

  ‘It doesn’t say.’ Bill handed him the flimsy sheet of paper. ‘It could well be that they don’t think he’ll improve much so they might as well send him home if there’s someone to look after him.’

  ‘We’d better go and visit Bartlett then.’ Tessa was already itching to get going. ‘He must know something. And he could be at risk too if we’re right and this is all linked to that court martial.’

  ‘As could Forrester,’ pointed out Bill. ‘Although he’s probably safe enough in the hospital. Hopefully they keep an eye on the patients and who’s coming and going.’

  ‘We have the name of Bartlett’s doctor at Craig House here. Perhaps we should visit or telephone him first. I’d like to know more of Bartlett’s condition before we arrive on his doorstep with questions.’ Rasmussen was his usual contemplative self, not keen to rush in until he had all the facts. Tessa sighed.

  ‘Shall I telephone? He might tell me more than he would a policeman. I could pretend to be a cousin or something.’ Rasmussen looked up at Tessa, aware that she was correct, and that her charm and cut-glass accent would probably glean more information than his more serious manner. Tessa suspected that the somewhat dour policeman didn’t find people as forthcoming as she did. If she mentioned her role in the FANY, then hopefully the doctor would see her as a comrade of sorts and that would help still further. Tessa grinned at his unspoken agreement. ‘I thought so. I’ll telephone from the library.’ And she took the telegram with the doctor’s details and disappeared upstairs.

  Twenty minutes later, her scheme having worked perfectly, Tessa reported back to the two men.

  ‘It’s as we suspected. John Bartlett suffered significant spinal injuries from which he will never recover and is now confined to a wheelchair. He also has shellshock and this has affected his mental competency. The doctor also suspects that there were some head injuries that went undiagnosed and which haven’t helped. Bartlett is, it seems, luckier than most in that he has family who can look after him and the money to pay for nurses and so forth, and so the hospital has discharged him. He now lives at the family home in North Berwick with his sister.’

  ‘Poor chap.’ Tessa knew Bill was thinking that it was only the luck of the draw that any of the rest of them hadn’t ended up in the same state.

  ‘Unlikely to be our murderer then.’ Rasmussen sounded less sympathetic than Bill and rather more irritated. ‘We’d better visit him though, just in case he can string a helpful sentence together.’

  ‘I’m sure your caring attitude will be immensely soothing.’ Tessa turned to Bill. ‘I have a visitor this afternoon. Perhaps we could drive over and call on Bartlett tomorrow morning?’

  He nodded his assent and she turned to Rasmussen, a questioning eyebrow raised.

  ‘I suppose so. You never know.’ His tone was grudging.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And Forrester? I didn’t mention him to the doctor as I wasn’t sure that he’d believe that he was also a distant cousin. But he might have useful information if we talk to him in the right way’ Tessa tried to sound optimistic but Rasmussen looked doubtful.

  ‘Maybe. He can wait though.’ He sighed and got to his feet. ‘I must go. My superiors want me to brief them on the case. They are not happy that the number of dead bodies is mounting and I have nothing to go on save the hunches of a couple of amateurs.’

  The inspector left then, with a nod to each and a swish of ill-tempered overcoat. Tessa and Bill looked at each other and smiled.

  ‘A little dyspeptic this morning, don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely. Hopefully, his senior officers will be more encouraging than he expects.’ Bill seemed unsympathetic to Rasmussen’s travails.

  ‘I can’t say that I like being described as a mere amateur. Without us he wouldn’t have even known about the court martial.’ Tessa shook her head and started to stack the unwanted files, ready to despatch them back to the War Office.

  ‘It’s not much though is it? Three murders and all we’ve got is a single event that links them. And the last two people involved in that seem to be incapable of being either the guilty party or of giving any useful information. Maybe the court martial isn’t the link? Maybe the murders aren’t actually linked at all? Maybe what we think are similarities are mere coincidences?’

  ‘No. The court martial is the key.’ Tessa spoke with conviction. ‘We need to know more about Norrie Douglas who was tried for cowardice. That can’t be the only reason for all these killings. Maybe there were ulterior motives to prevent him from talking?’

  ‘I think we may be at a dead end though, Tessa. If Bartlett can’t tell us anything, then we’ll have to pin all our hopes on Forrester being able to help. And that doesn’t sound likely.’

  ‘The answer’s out there somewhere. And I promised McNiven’s mother that we’d find whoever killed her son. We have to keep looking, keep asking questions – keep thinking.’ Tessa added another file to the stack in front of her, aware that any answers she could give Mrs McNiven would be a cold comfort.

  Chapter Thirty

  Three o’clock drew near, and Tessa started to feel unsettled about her prospective visitor. Earlier, she had felt curious, wondering who the woman was and what she could possibly want. Now, as the appointed time drew closer, she felt apprehensive. Perhaps she wouldn’t turn up and would simply fade away, destined always to be a mystery, a tiny footnote in her life. Tessa fiddled with her bracelet, a sinuous gold chain set with diamonds, a birthday gift from James in the days when he loved to be romantic. His last birthday present to her had been a new pair of motoring goggles.

  The bell jangled in the hallway and Tessa jumped. She waited by the fireplace for Florence to show
her guest up to the drawing room. Wanting to appear friendly rather than twitchy and nervous, she checked her polite smile in the glass, and turned to greet the visitor.

  ‘Miss Catherine Holland to see you, Lady Kilpatrick.’ Florence did not approve of Miss Holland. Her feelings were conveyed in the tiniest clues that the visitor would never notice but that stood out immediately to Tessa. Perhaps she had been curt; perhaps it was the rouge and lipstick that adorned her face despite it being only three in the afternoon; perhaps it was her skirt, again, cut just a little too short. Either way, Tessa was alert, for Florence was a shrewd judge of character.

  ‘Miss Holland, how kind of you to call on me.’ Tessa was aware that any kindness was her own but that was by the by.

  ‘Lady Kilpatrick. Thank you for seeing me.’ Catherine was nervous, her eyes darting around the room.

  Tessa asked Florence to bring tea, and showed the other woman to the sofa as she took the armchair at right angles to her, smile still in place. For the ten minutes it took Florence to return with a tray, the two women made rather stilted conversation. Tessa asked if Catherine was from Edinburgh, and she replied that she was not, although she didn’t volunteer more information. Tessa asked if she had family in Scotland. Catherine did not. Tessa asked how she’d found the city and its recent cold snap and Catherine replied that she didn’t like cold climates but supposed that one could get used to anything. Meanwhile, Tessa searched her memory trying to recall where, or even if, the two of them had met before.

  When both were furnished with cups of China tea and lemon, Tessa turned a more business-like gaze on her visitor.

  ‘When we met at the Inveries’ party last night, you said you needed to talk to me as a matter of some urgency. How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘Well, it’s…’ Catherine’s voice tailed off and Tessa waited, watching her stare down at her tea as she gathered her thoughts before replacing her cup in its saucer in a decisive manner. ‘I don’t know how much you know of your husband’s life.’