Death of an Artist (Riley Rochester Investigates Book 5)

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘Try telling that to Danforth.’ Salter rubbed the back of his neck, a sure sign of his agitation. ‘He’s been like a bear with a sore head all the time you’ve been gone, picking on us lot something rotten. Said our paperwork was all out of order and made the three of us go through the lot of it on all our cases dating back to the year dot, as well as tidying up loose ends on the robberies you left us to look into.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Gawd knows. Petty jealousy if you ask me.’ Riley nodded, feeling a burst of anger threatening his normally calm disposition. ‘He was fit to be tied when you didn’t invite him to your shindig. Not that I blame you for that. He would have lowered the tone. But still an’ all, most of the rest of us went, and talked about it afterwards. I mean, how often do the likes of us get to rub shoulders socially with grand lords and ladies?’

  Riley snorted. ‘The company of grand lords and ladies is overrated. We’re no different to the rest of you.’

  ‘Just…well, grander.’

  Riley gave a wry smile. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Yeah well, it was an eye-opener for all of us and we’re right grateful that you had us there. Of course we talked about it. Our colleagues wanted chapter and verse and Danforth couldn’t avoid overhearing.’ The corners of Salter’s mouth turned down. ‘But he got his revenge, right enough. Damned petty-minded…’

  ‘Don’t get yourself worked up. He won’t be assigning me to paperwork and you know as well as I do that a new case will come in soon enough. Not that I’m wishing a murderous end for anyone, but it will happen. Speaking of which, the superintendent has asked to see me, so perhaps there’s something for us already.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Salter replied, pulling a hard-done-by face.

  Riley made his way to Superintendent Thompson’s office, where he was greeted warmly by his superior—a man he held in high regard.

  ‘Welcome back, Rochester,’ Thompson said, standing from behind his desk to shake Riley’s hand. ‘That wedding of yours was quite the event. Mrs Thompson was gratified to be invited.’

  ‘I am glad you were both able to come.’

  ‘I trust you enjoyed your trip and that Lady Riley is in good health.’

  ‘I did, thank you sir, and she is.’ He turned to face Danforth, who was sitting in a chair across from Thompson, studying his fingernails and pretending disinterest in a conversation that, if Salter was to be believed, had him seething. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said politely.

  ‘Rochester.’

  ‘Have a seat,’ Thompson said, scowling at Danforth’s verbal economy. Riley wondered at the depth of the man’s resentment and his rank stupidity. In front of their superintendent at least, he should have the sense to keep his resentment hidden. He was well aware that he had a long way to go before the brass forgot his transgressions. ‘Glad to have you back, Rochester. You have been missed.’

  ‘I dare say the criminal fraternity has not taken a break during my absence, sir.’

  Thompson guffawed. ‘You’d be right about that.’

  ‘Which makes me wonder why Salter and my constables have been consigned to paperwork when their skills could have been put to much better use.’

  ‘No need to worry the superintendent about that,’ Danforth said, roused into asserting himself. Thompson, Riley was perfectly sure, would not be aware of the menial and unnecessary tasks that his trained detectives had been forced to undertake. ‘It’s an administrative matter that you and I can thrash out later.’

  Which was precisely why Riley had chosen to mention in front of Thompson, confident that the superintendent would take his side if it came to a battle of wills. Not that Riley needed anyone to fight his corner, but even he would baulk at deliberately ignoring a senior officer’s direct order, which presumably was why Danforth had instigated the paperwork purge in his absence, fully aware that Riley would raise objections. He just hadn’t anticipated that he would do so in front of Thompson. But if push came to shove and Riley was shown to have been deliberately insubordinate, then Thompson would have no choice but to support Danforth’s demand to have him dismissed.

  Nice try!

  ‘I hear there are two murder investigations under way,’ Riley added, driving home his point, ‘and Salter in particular would have been an asset to either one of them.’

  Thompson frowned. ‘I tend to agree. However, we will talk about this later.’ He addressed that remark to Danforth. ‘In the meantime, Rochester, there’s something new for you. Danforth was going to give it to Inspector Parkin, but he’s still knee-deep in the murder at Stepney.’

  ‘I forget Rochester was due back today,’ Danforth said with a dismissive wave.

  Riley didn’t believe a word of it but allowed the lie to pass uncontested. ‘What is the case, sir?’ Riley asked.

  ‘A nasty one.’ The superintendent shook his head. ‘A young woman, a governess, done to death in the grounds of a house in Dulwich.’

  ‘Dulwich?’ Riley crossed his legs as he brought to mind the fashionable suburb of South London with its large houses and exclusive boys’ college founded over two hundred years previously with letters patent from King James the First. ‘I hope you are not referring to the home of my acquaintance, Lord Vermont.’

  Danforth snorted. At a sour look from Thompson he turned that snort into a cough.

  ‘I thought you might know his lordship,’ Thompson said. ‘And yes, unfortunately it is his household. The governess taught his two daughters. That is about all I can tell you so far. The local police were called, and they have just sent for us. We have informed the pathology office, and Dr Maynard will meet you at the scene.’

  ‘Well then sir, if you will excuse me. Salter and I will take Carter and Soames. We’ll get down there and see what’s what.’ He fixed Danforth with a non-accusatory glance. ‘After all, it is not as though we have anything of a pressing nature with which to occupy our time.’

  ‘Yes, get along with you Rochester, and let me know what we have as soon as you find anything. Doesn’t do to keep the likes of Lord Vermont guessing. No, not you, Danforth,’ Thompson added tersely when the chief inspector also stood. ‘We had not finished addressing other matters.’

  Danforth re-seated himself but still managed to scowl at Riley when he briefly glanced back from the doorway. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said.

  Riley walked briskly back to his office, feeling a surge of energy at the prospect of a new murder to investigate. Thoughts of taking up a less dangerous occupation more suitable to fatherhood were already dissipating. This is what he most enjoyed doing, and he was good at it. With the exception of Danforth’s pettiness, Scotland Yard was a stimulating place to work; his colleagues on the whole were an amiable bunch united in their determination to keep the general populace of the rapidly expanding city safe.

  He frowned at the thought of murder coming to Lord Vermont’s door. Riley wasn’t well acquainted with the viscount, but his mother would be familiar with the family’s circumstances. It might be necessary to cut corners by asking her if she’d heard anything to the family’s detriment—anything sufficiently serious to lead to murder. Riley chuckled. She denied absolutely ever listening to gossip yet was an unfailingly reliable source of the latest en-dits.

  ‘Come along, gentlemen,’ he said to the three detectives as he walked into the main room. All three of them looked up from piles of paperwork, their expressions hopeful. ‘We are for Dulwich. We have a murdered governess on our hands.’

  They breathed a collective sigh of relief that was perhaps not altogether appropriate given that their reprieve came at the expense of a young woman’s life and abandoned their papers with a speed that defied any true enthusiasm for the task.

  ‘I’ll get me coat,’ Salter said, leading the exodus.

  Chapter Two

  The detectives took hansom cabs to cover the two-mile journey to Victoria station, where they embarked upon the next train to Dulwich. At Sydenham, the majority of passengers disemba
rked, chattering away about their intended destination, “a very palace of crystal—the Crystal Palace”. The cast-iron and plate glass structure, three times the size of St. Paul’s Cathedral, with innovative glass walls and ceilings that made internal lighting unnecessary, had housed the Great Exhibition in Hyde Park. Now relocated to Penge Park, visitors from around the world still flocked to see it, keeping the British Empire at the forefront of the industrial revolution.

  Riley watched the disembarking passengers idly through the carriage window as he pondered upon what little he knew about Lord Vermont.

  ‘A baptism of fire, sir,’ Salter said from the adjoining seat. ‘A suspicious death on your first day back, I mean.’

  ‘I didn’t anticipate returning to my duties and sitting with my feet up, sergeant.’ Riley rubbed his chin. ‘I am thinking about Lord Vermont’s situation, in case you mistook my distraction for annoyance. He’s an odd cove. A bit of an intellectual, and a semi-recluse who seldom ventures into society.’

  ‘He must be a reasonably young man if he has children who require a governess,’ Salter remarked.

  ‘He’s in his late forties or early fifties, I would imagine. I do know that he sold off the estate that had been in his family for generations upon the death of his father. There was a lot of talk about it at the time.’

  ‘Letting the side down. Lowering standards,’ Salter said, grinning and shaking his head.

  Riley would never make the admission, but he’d missed Salter’s down to earth ribbing about his own social status. ‘Something of that nature, I dare say,’ he replied laconically. ‘Personally, if he was struggling to maintain the place, then I don’t blame him for cutting his losses. Family pride is all very well, but times are changing and the exorbitant cost of maintaining large country piles is rapidly becoming a millstone around their owners’ respective necks. My brother constantly complains about the cost of running Chichester Hall. Especially now that he doesn’t have an heir to leave it to,’ he added softly.

  ‘But your lady mother would throw a fit if he even thought about selling it.’

  Riley nodded. ‘Precisely. However, we were discussing Vermont. He sold up and moved to a more modest…well, modest by his standards, and manageable property in Dulwich. I gather he now lives off his investments. There’s something else nagging at me.’ Riley snapped his fingers. ‘I have it. He was married before, but his first wife died. He has a son from that marriage who works as a stockbroker at Charles Stanley.’

  Salter let out a low whistle. ‘Even I’ve heard of them. A prestigious outfit.’

  ‘Who select their employees with discretion. Being a viscount’s heir wouldn’t have made an iota of difference to…what’s his name?’ Riley furled his brow in an effort to recollect and snapped his fingers again when it came to him. ‘Daniel Vermont. He would have been accepted on merit, not because of his background.’

  ‘Well, if Papa is an intellectual, perhaps the apple didn’t fall too far from that particular tree.’

  ‘Right. Anyway, Vermont sold up, remarried and moved to Dulwich. Perhaps it was simply a case of the old place being too much of a drain on his resources. Either that or it held too many memories of his previous marriage. He has children from the second marriage, obviously, but I have absolutely no idea how many or how old they are. There must be at least one daughter, hence the need for the unfortunate governess. Anyway, we shall soon find out.’

  The train wheezed as it slowed in a billow of steam and drew into Dulwich station. The four policemen left the train and asked the station master for directions to Village Way.

  ‘Ah well now, you can’t miss it.’ He pointed in the appropriate direction. ‘Won’t take you above five minutes to walk there. It’s where all the toffs live. Big houses with high walls and gates closed against the riffraff.’ He sniffed. ‘Still an’ all, it keeps the place exclusive like. Tickets now, please.’

  ‘The station master wasn’t joking,’ Carter said a short time later, looking up at the impressive houses that they passed as they searched for the right address. ‘Not a bad place to live, if you can afford it. Close to London, but rural like.’

  ‘Here we are, sir.’ Salter pointed to a high brick wall surrounding a large, double-fronted house rising up over three floors and occupying a wide plot. Ivy covered the walls and encroached on the windows. A uniformed policeman stood at the closed gates, deterring gawpers. Salter identified himself and Riley.

  ‘The body’s in the orchard over yonder,’ the constable told them, saluting smartly and looking relieved that reinforcements had arrived. ‘My guvnor’s there, waiting for you to take over, like.’

  ‘Has Doctor Maynard arrived yet?’ Riley asked.

  ‘No, sir. Just all of you.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  Salter opened the small side gate placed there for the convenience of those on foot, negating the need to open the larger ornate gates that were wide enough to admit a carriage. He stood back and allowed Riley to pass through it first. Riley absently thanked his sergeant as he glanced around, taking stock of his surroundings. Formal gardens in hibernation for the winter months sported wide lawns coated with frost giving way to an orchard on the left of the property. It was enclosed on all sides by an extension of the wall that ran along the frontage.

  ‘Someone’s keen on their security,’ Salter remarked.

  ‘What was the victim doing in the orchard?’ Riley mused aloud. ‘And why wasn’t she missed?’

  Expecting no answer, he looked up as a burly uniformed sergeant approached.

  ‘You gentlemen must be from Scotland Yard,’ he said, sniffing.

  ‘That we are.’ Riley introduced them all.

  ‘Sergeant Bingham at your service, sir.’ The sergeant scratched his whiskered chin, looking slightly bemused. ‘Been in service here for thirty years and ain’t never known anything like this before, I can tell you that much. It’s not like in the big city where I expect you see girls dead as doornails every day.’

  ‘We have seen more victims of violent crime than we would like, it’s true,’ Riley confirmed. ‘Now, sergeant, what can you tell me?’

  ‘Not a lot, sir. Come and see for yourself.’ He started to walk towards a figure lying on her back beneath the bare branches of an apple tree. ‘We didn’t like to ask questions, seeing as we knew you’d be coming to do the job. All I can tell you is that the girl’s name is Miss Melanie Mottram. She was engaged as governess for his lordship’s three daughters and had worked here for six months. It were her afternoon off yesterday. I did have a brief word with the cook. She were the one who sent for me when the groom came upon the body. Right upset they all were. No one knew Miss Mottram hadn’t returned home, yer see. The poor lass must have been out here all night. Happen she died of exposure. She might have come home after dark, tripped and fell, banged her head like, and passed out. It was cold enough to freeze a witch’s tit, begging your pardon for the language sir, and she wouldn’t have survived for long.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Riley shared a pensive glance with Salter. He thought that if the girl had been murdered—which had yet to be established—and if the crime had been committed outside the house, albeit in private grounds, it would extend the suspect pool considerably. He glanced at the walls, which were high, but not high enough to deter a determined intruder. And there was also the question of the side gate they had entered the property through. Was it kept permanently locked or could anyone stroll in during daylight hours?

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  The girl’s eyes stared sightlessly up at the bare branches above her head. Perhaps no more than twenty two or three, Riley could see that she had been very pretty in life, but the grey pallor of violent death had robbed her of her vibrancy. This was no accidental death, as portrayed by Sergeant Bingham; that much was immediately obvious to Riley. He crouched down beside the girl and took a closer look.

  ‘What are you thinking, sir?’ Salter asked, his knees c
reaking as he too crouched.

  ‘What I am wondering, sergeant, is why she came into the orchard in the dead of winter, probably after dark.’

  ‘An assignation?’ Salter suggested.

  ‘Perhaps. She looks as though she was wearing her best dress and coat. Vibrant violet isn’t a colour that a governess would wear in the execution of her duties. I’ll lay money on the fact that she was meeting someone and had dressed to impress him.’

  ‘Can’t see any obvious cause of death,’ Salter said, tugging at his ear. ‘I can see why Bingham thought she might have died of exposure. She looks peaceful. As though she fell asleep and didn’t wake.’

  ‘Look.’ Riley pointed at a discoloured patch of earth, protected by the tree trunk.

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘That’s my guess but I would prefer not to move her until Maynard and the photographer arrive.’ His gaze fell upon an embroidered purse that had fallen several feet away from the victim. Riley picked it up and examined its contents. The return half of a train ticket to London, presumably valid for the previous day. The outward half had been used and the return half clipped, implying that she had boarded the train but not handed the used ticket in at her destination, as Riley and his detectives had been required to do that morning. There was a rusty key that didn’t look as though it would open any of the doors to the house, a small amount of money, a handkerchief and a few insignificant odds and ends. He handed the bag to Salter, who placed it in the satchel he carried to collect evidence.

  ‘Are the family at home, Sergeant Bingham?’ Riley asked.

  ‘They are, sir. I asked them all to wait in the drawing room until you arrived.’

  ‘Thank you. You did the right thing.’

  Riley had Carter and Soames conduct a methodical search of the immediate area in the hope that Miss Mottram’s assailant might have obligingly left behind a clue or two.

  ‘There’s a narrow track leading this way, sir,’ Carter said.

  ‘Find out where it goes.’

  Carter disappeared and returned shortly to report that it led to the stables.