‘You’re wasting your time, Lavender,’ Sir Richard said. ‘It’s not here. I’ve already looked.’
‘We have to check again.’ Lavender joined Sir Richard by the bed. He placed his hand on the dead man’s head and parted MacAdam’s fair hair. The scalp was burned red from the dye. Parallel lines of grey ran close to the roots down the parting.
David MacAdam had been what Lavender’s mother would have called a ‘fine figure of a man’. Probably in his mid- or late thirties, he would be as tall as Woods in his stockinged feet; nearly six feet tall. The dead businessman had well-proportioned shoulders and a broad chest but beneath the gaping crimson slash on his stomach an extra layer of fat snaked around his middle – the thickening waistline of middle age.
Despite his chubbiness and the greying hair, MacAdam had been a good-looking man with evenly spaced features. The blood had drained away from his face, leaving a deathly pallor, but apart from a trickle of blood beneath his nose, his complexion was clear of pock-marks and blemishes. He looked peaceful in death.
Lavender’s eyes followed the dried rivers of blood snaking down the man’s generous girth to the crumpled sheet and he frowned. Why did the man just lie there and let himself bleed to death? This must be a suicide. There was no other explanation for such passivity in the face of death. If he’d been attacked, surely he would have sought help?
‘What happened here, Sir Richard?’ he asked.
Sir Richard cleared his throat, removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. His medical bag was already in the room on the bedside table. ‘Well, as far as I can establish without an autopsia cadaverum, the fellow died from a single stab wound to the stomach. There are no other visible marks of injury or assault on his body.’
Lavender glanced at the dried lake of blood beneath the corpse. ‘What about on his back?’
Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ha! So, you think I’ve left the stone unturned, do you, Detective? No. I turned him over earlier – there’s no injury on his back. This is the only one. The blood from his nose is the direct result of internal haemorrhaging and not a separate injury.’
‘Can you tell us about the weapon we’re searching for?’
‘The blade was narrow, about half an inch wide and . . .’ The surgeon straightened and reached for his bag. He pulled out a long, thin metal object, which he gently inserted inside the wound on MacAdam’s stomach, pushing it in as far as it would go. Despite his revulsion, Lavender leaned forward to get a better look.
Sir Richard frowned and jerked the implement backwards and forwards against MacAdam’s flesh. He pulled it out, cast it aside and returned to his bag for another probe. This one had a slight curve to the blade and slid easily into the corpse. Finally satisfied, Sir Richard pulled out the implement and examined the dark stains mottling its surface.
‘The blade penetrated about four inches – and it was curved.’
‘Curved? What kind of street knife is narrow and curved?’ Lavender exclaimed.
Sir Richard shrugged. ‘It’s your job to answer that question. I can only give you the facts.’
‘Are those four inches right up to the hilt?’ Woods asked. ‘Were it jammed right inside of him?’ He’d finished his examination of the cold fireplace and chimney and was now on his knees by the bed, rummaging amongst the pile of discarded clothes and blankets.
‘I can’t tell.’ Sir Richard scooped up MacAdam’s discarded cravat from the floor and wiped his implements clean on the fine linen. ‘The weapon may have been longer and only partially inserted. Either way, it stabbed him in the liver, a solid organ that bleeds profusely. He was unfortunate. If the knife had penetrated him an inch or so lower and gone into the hollower organs, the stomach or the intestines, he may have survived.’
‘Gawd’s teeth! What devilish contraption is this?’ Woods pulled a large, sweat-stained garment made of strong linen from the bottom of the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. Rigid with whalebone stays, it trailed a line of discoloured laces behind it.
Sir Richard laughed. ‘Haven’t you seen a man’s corset before?’
Woods looked revolted. ‘Men wear these as well as women?’
Lavender smiled. ‘Some men do, especially those popinjays who’ve gained weight and are vain about their appearance – like MacAdam. I found a bottle of hair dye on the dresser, too.’
‘Does this knowledge about his vanity help us find out how he died?’ Sir Richard’s tone was sceptical.
‘No, but it gives us a better understanding of the living man.’
Woods continued to hold the corset at arm’s length. ‘This looks like a torturous contraption to me.’
‘I think you should try one, Constable,’ Sir Richard said, smiling. ‘It would suit you.’
Woods sucked in his belly and glared at the surgeon. ‘Are you sayin’ I’m fat?’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ll have you know, this is all brawn and muscle.’
Sir Richard grinned. ‘All brawn and no brains, eh, Woods? Yes, I’ve thought that for a while.’
Woods threw down the corset, rose to his feet and stomped across to the closet. He yanked open the door and rummaged through MacAdam’s clothes.
‘How long would it have taken MacAdam to die after he was stabbed?’ Lavender asked hastily. Woods’ shoulders were rigid with anger.
Sir Richard went to the washstand and poured water out of the jug into the bowl to wash his hands. ‘The effects of internal haemorrhaging are always difficult to gauge. It depends on the severity of the injury. The victim would have been blinded with headaches, quickly become dis-orientated and lost consciousness within twenty or thirty minutes.’ He picked up a thin towel and dried his hands. ‘That’s all the help I can give you, Lavender. It’s up to you now to make sense of this infernal mess.’
Woods slammed the door of the closet shut. ‘There’s definitely no knife or weapon of any kind in this damned room. There’s long-handled combs on the mantelpiece and there’s no blood on them.’
‘I told you so,’ Sir Richard grinned. ‘So, what do you think, Lavender? It’s quite a mystery, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Lavender agreed. ‘On the surface, it looks like our victim either stabbed himself with an invisible knife and lay back on his bed to die – or an unknown person assaulted him then walked out of this room through a locked door and took the weapon with him.’
‘Exactly what I thought!’ Sir Richard exclaimed.
‘And both scenarios are fantastical,’ Lavender replied. ‘MacAdam was obviously injured on the other side of his bedchamber door but came back here and died.’
‘But how is that possible?’ Sir Richard argued. ‘Mrs Palmer saw him on the stairs and he wasn’t haemorrhaging or complaining of any injury.’
‘He may have been too addled to notice,’ Woods said. ‘This room and the corpse reek of stale brandy.’
‘I’ve an idea.’ Lavender pointed to the soiled undergarment on the floor. ‘Ned, pass me the corset.’
Woods handed it over with disgust. Lavender soon found what he was looking for: a small, brown stain around a short tear in the cloth. He walked across to the better light at the window. ‘Check his shirt and waistcoat for rips and bloodstains.’
Woods bent down to scoop up the clothing. ‘I didn’t see any before . . .’
‘There might not be any blood. Look out for a straight, half-inch tear.’
Sir Richard watched curiously while the two men examined the clothes.
Woods’ fingers explored the fine linen of MacAdam’s shirt. He pointed to a faint mark. ‘It’s ripped like you said and there’s a stain – but I think it’s just dirt.’
‘There’s another tear in his waistcoat,’ Lavender said, ‘but no signs of any blood.’ He removed the jug and bowl and laid down the corset on the washstand. Next, he took the shirt and the dark-blue silk waistcoat and positioned them on top of the corset, trying to replicate how he imagined they were draped across MacAdam’s body. The tears in each garment lined u
p almost exactly but only the corset and the shirt had the tiniest specks of blood.
‘What does this mean, sir?’ Woods asked.
‘It means, Ned,’ Lavender said, ‘that MacAdam was stabbed when he was fully clothed and outside this room – but the wound didn’t bleed.’
Sir Richard frowned. ‘But an injury like this would have haemorrhaged profusely!’ the surgeon said. ‘You saw the state of the bed. These clothes should be covered in blood – and Mrs Palmer said he looked fine when she met him on the stairs.’
‘Is it possible,’ Lavender asked slowly, ‘that the constriction of the abdomen caused by the tight corset may have stemmed the external flow of the blood?’
Woods’ eyes widened. ‘What? You mean he were laced that tight he didn’t bleed?’
Sir Richard reddened with frustration. ‘A highly improbable theory, Lavender, but, yes – I suppose it’s possible. For a while, the bleeding may have been internal – but the pain would have been intense. He’d have known something was wrong.’
‘The lack of blood might have confused him. MacAdam may not have realised he’d been stabbed and had a life-threatening injury.’
‘He had been drinkin’ heavily,’ Woods said thoughtfully.
Lavender glanced back at the lifeless corpse on the bloodstained bed. ‘Gentlemen, I think we’ve just solved the first mystery of what happened to MacAdam. Now we need to talk to Mrs Palmer.’
Chapter Three
On their way back down the stairs, Sir Richard warned Lavender not to press Mrs Palmer too hard with his questions, claiming she was of a delicate disposition. Lavender frowned and didn’t respond. Delicate or not, Mrs Palmer was the last person to see MacAdam alive and – however improbable it may seem – she was now a suspect in this murder case.
A plain, silver-haired woman with pale, almost lashless eyes and a slightly bulbous nose, Mrs Palmer wore a black gown, which emphasised the whiteness of her skin. She put her needlework to one side when they entered the parlour and Lavender was struck with the elegance and grace of her long hands.
Shock flashed across her face and her hand fluttered to her mouth when Lavender explained what had happened to MacAdam. Sir Richard asked her if she needed a cup of tea to calm her nerves but the lady blinked back her tears and regained her composure.
‘Oh no, Sir Richard. No tea, thank you.’ Her voice was refined and gentle. She turned to Lavender. ‘Please don’t worry, Detective, I’m not as fragile as Sir Richard believes. I travelled the world with the British Army when my husband, Colonel Palmer, was alive. I’ve seen many sights in India that would give most young women the vapours – but I’ve always managed to remain conscious and calm.’ Her eyes flicked towards an oval miniature on the mantelpiece of a proud, whiskered man in army uniform.
‘Is that your late husband, ma’am?’ Woods asked sympathetically.
‘Yes, that was George.’
‘He looks a fine figure of a man.’
‘Yes, he was.’ For a moment, she seemed to be lost in her memories.
Sir Richard sat down opposite Mrs Palmer. He hadn’t put his coat back on and lounged casually in his shirt sleeves.
Mrs Palmer managed a sad smile and turned to Lavender. ‘I always thought Mr MacAdam was a very handsome man, too. I never realised he needed the aid of a corset to sculpture his figure. This is almost as big a shock as his death. I can’t believe he was mortally wounded when I saw him last night. I suspected nothing.’
‘Were he in his cups, ma’am?’ Woods asked. ‘Had he been drinkin’?’
‘Yes, I believe he was. He grunted when I wished him goodnight and he stumbled up the steps when he left me.’
‘Do you know where he went last night?’ Lavender asked.
She shook her head and her white lace cap wobbled on her silvery head. ‘I don’t. He left about seven o’clock and returned here at half past nine.’
Lavender nodded. ‘Whereabouts on the staircase did you meet him?’
‘On the floor above this room, just outside my own bedchamber.’
‘Isn’t that the floor below Mr Bentley’s room?’ Woods asked, voicing the question that leapt into Lavender’s own mind.
‘Yes.’
‘Was Mr Bentley in his room?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long has David MacAdam lodged with you?’ Lavender enquired.
‘For nearly a year.’
‘Was he a troublesome guest? Had he fallen behind with his rent?’
‘No, certainly not. He was a perfect gentleman and always paid me on time, although he’s a week or two behind at the moment. He was a most genial and charming man, very courteous.’
‘Were his heavy drinkin’ a problem?’ Woods asked.
She shook her head and smiled gently. ‘He wasn’t a heavy drinker, Constable. He occasionally imbibed, yes, but he seemed to handle his liquor well. I’ve had many gentlemen tenants over the years and Mr MacAdam was one of my favourites. Such a cheerful, pleasant man.’
‘Do you know which taverns or gentlemen’s clubs he frequented?’ Lavender asked. She shook her head again.
‘Did he ever talk with you about his family? We need to notify his relatives of his death.’
A slight pause followed and something indiscernible flickered across Mrs Palmer’s face. ‘Oh, of course you will, yes. Mr MacAdam was unmarried and never talked about any other family, although I believe his relatives own a textile business in Chelmsford in Essex.’ She dabbed her eyes with a lawn handkerchief. ‘He worked for the family business.’
‘What was it called, ma’am?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t remember the name . . .’ She paused, perplexed. ‘He used to stay here for short periods. He moved permanently to London about six months ago. He seemed to have plenty of money and was always smartly dressed.’
‘We need to know the name and address of this family business in Chelmsford,’ Lavender said. ‘His parents may still be alive or there may be other relatives, siblings perhaps, who work within the company. I’m sure they’d want to know about his demise.’
Tears welled up in her pale eyes and slid down her cheeks. She dabbed them hastily with her handkerchief. ‘Oh, those poor people! How sad they’ll be. I’m sure he was well loved by his family. Everyone who knew him in London liked him.’
‘Who were his acquaintances, Mrs Palmer? Can you supply me any names and addresses?’
Sir Richard shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and intervened. ‘I think that’s enough questions for now, Lavender. We don’t want to distress Mrs Palmer any further.’
Woods turned to face Lavender and lowered his voice. ‘I saw a pile of personal papers in the bookcase in MacAdam’s room – and I think a company ledger is amongst them. It might give us a clue about the textile business, sir.’
Lavender nodded. ‘Well done, Ned. I apologise for any distress I’ve caused you, Mrs Palmer, and I’ll need to talk to you again, but you’ve been most helpful.’
Now weeping profusely, Mrs Palmer could only nod her head.
Lavender and Woods backed out of the parlour. Sir Richard leaned forwards and took the distressed woman’s hand in his own when they left the room. Lavender closed the door gently behind them.
The hallway was refreshingly cool after the heightened emotion in the parlour.
‘I’ll go back up to the room and find that ledger,’ Lavender said quietly. ‘I need you to interview the maid, Ned. Find out what she saw and heard this morning and last night and check her account matches with that of her mistress.’
Woods’ grey eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Do you think she may be lyin’, sir? She seemed a pleasant lady to me, genuinely upset.’
Lavender frowned and he wrestled with his instinct to agree with Woods against the nagging seed of suspicion that niggled in his logical brain. ‘I think there’s something she’s not told us about MacAdam. As far as we know, she was the last person to see MacAdam alive. She may have administered the fatal stab wound.’
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Woods gasped. ‘But what would be her motive?’
‘I don’t know. It’s early days yet in this investigation and we must treat her exactly the same way we would any other suspect.’
‘What about young Bentley? Maybe MacAdam met him on the next floor after he’d left Mrs Palmer outside her room.’
Lavender nodded and thought back to the coat of arms on the gleaming carriage door. ‘We’ll leave him until later. There’s something I need to find out before we interview Bentley – and I suspect we need to travel to Essex this afternoon. Notifying MacAdam’s next of kin of his death must be our priority today.’
Woods nodded and turned towards the kitchen door at the rear of the hallway, but he turned back and looked over his shoulder. ‘And what about him?’ The tone of his voice and the angry jerk of his thumb left Lavender in no doubt that Woods referred to Sir Richard. ‘If you suspect her, then you can’t rule out that he’s involved. I’ve never known him so helpful in one of our investigations – or so carin’ about a livin’, breathin’ woman.’
Lavender agreed with him but conscious of the couple on the other side of the parlour door, he held up his hand. ‘We’ll discuss this later.’
Chapter Four
Back up in MacAdam’s bedchamber, Lavender wedged open the door to air the stinking room. He avoided looking at the silent, bloodied corpse on the bed and caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece. His brown, slightly hooded eyes were frowning with concentration. He brushed back a lock of dark, wavy hair from his high forehead and focused his attention on the shelf of books and papers.
Most of the books were borrowed from circulating libraries. They were a mix of sentimental melodramas, visitor guides to London attractions and a well-thumbed volume entitled The Manners and Conduct of an English Gentleman.
There was also a receipt from the bank of Messrs Down, Thornton and Gill, acknowledging a deposit of fifty pounds. He pocketed the receipt and turned back to the shelf.
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