by Ruth Rendell
‘How d’you do? I know who you are. Mike told me. I’m Amyas Ireland.’
So that funny old pair hadn’t had a one-off indulgence when they had named Janina. Again Wexford’s thoughts seemed revealed to this intuitive person.
‘Oh, I know,’ said Ireland, ‘but how about my other sister? She’s called Cunegonde. Her husband calls her Queenie. Look, I’d like to talk to you. Could we get together a minute away from all this crush? Mike was going to help me out, but I can’t ask him now, not when he’s off on his honeymoon. It’s about a book we’re publishing.’
The girl in black and orange, Burden’s nephews, Sheila Wexford, Burden’s best man and a gaggle of children, all carrying plates, passed between them at this point. It was at least a minute before Wexford could ask, ‘Who’s we?’ and another half-minute before Amyas Ireland understood what he meant.
‘Carlyon Brent,’ he said, his mouth full of duck. ‘I’m with Carlyon Brent.’
One of the largest and most distinguished of publishing houses. Wexford was impressed. ‘You published the Vandrian, didn’t you, and the de Coverley books?’
Ireland nodded. ‘Mike said you were a great reader. That’s good. Can I get you some more duck? No? I’m going to. I won’t be a minute.’ Enviously Wexford watched him shovel fat-rimmed slices of duck breast on to his plate, take a brioche, have second thoughts and take another. The man was as thin as a rail too, positively emaciated.
‘I look after the crime list,’ he said as he sat down again. ‘As I said, Mike half-promised . . . This isn’t fiction, it’s fact. The Winchurch case?’
‘Ah.’
‘I know it’s a bit of a nerve asking, but would you read a manuscript for me?’
Wexford took a cup of coffee from a passing tray. ‘What for?’
‘Well, in the interests of truth. Mike was going to tell me what he thought.’ Wexford looked at him dubiously. He had the highest respect and the deepest affection for Inspector Burden but he was one of the last people he would have considered as a literary critic. ‘To tell me what he thought,’ the publisher said once again. ‘You see, it’s worrying me. The author has discovered some new facts and they more or less prove Mrs Winchurch’s innocence.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you ever heard of a writer called Kenneth Gandolph?’
Wexford was saved from answering by the pounding of a gavel on the top table and the beginning of the speeches. A great many toasts had been drunk, several dozen telegrams read out, and the bride and groom departed to change their clothes before he had an opportunity to reply to Ireland’s question. And he was glad of the respite, for what he knew of Gandolph, though based on hearsay, was not prepossessing.
‘Doesn’t he write crime novels?’ he said when the enquiry was repeated. ‘And the occasional examination of a real-life crime?’
Nodding, Ireland said, ‘It’s good, this script of his. We want to do it for next spring’s list. It’s an eighty-year-old murder, sure, but people are still fascinated by it. I think this new version could cause quite a sensation.’
‘Florence Winchurch was hanged,’ said Wexford, ‘yet there was always some margin of doubt about her guilt. Where does Gandolph get his fresh facts from?’
‘May I send you a copy of the script? You’ll find all that in the introduction.’
Wexford shrugged, then smiled. ‘I suppose so. You do realize I can’t do more than maybe spot mistakes in forensics? I did say maybe, mind.’ But his interest had already been caught. It made him say, ‘Florence was married at St Peter’s, you know, and she also had her wedding reception here.’
‘And spent part of her honeymoon in Greece.’
‘No doubt the parallels end there,’ said Wexford as Burden and Jenny came back into the room.
Burden was in a grey lounge suit, she in pale blue sprigged muslin. Wexford felt an absurd impulse of tenderness towards him. It was partly caused by Jenny’s hat which she would never wear again, would never have occasion to wear, would remove the minute they got into the car. But Burden was the sort of man who could never be happy with a woman who didn’t have a hat as part of her ‘going-away’ costume. His own clothes were eminently unsuitable for flying to Crete in June. They both looked very happy and embarrassed.
Mrs Ireland seized her daughter in a crushing embrace.
‘It’s not for ever, Mother,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s only for two weeks.’
‘Well, in a way,’ said Burden. He shook hands gravely with his own son, down from university for the weekend, and planted a kiss on his daughter’s forehead. Must have been reading novels, Wexford thought, grinning to himself.
‘Good luck, Mike,’ he said.
The bride took his hand, put a soft cool kiss on to the corner of his mouth. Say I’m growing old but add, Jenny kissed me. He didn’t say that aloud. He nodded and smiled and took his wife’s arm and frowned at Sylvia’s naughty boys like the patriarch he was. Burden and Jenny went out to the car which had Just Married written in lipstick on the rear window and a shoe tied on the back bumper.
There was a clicking of handbag clasps, a flurry of hands, and then a tempest of confetti broke over them.
It was an isolated house, standing some twenty yards back from the Myringham road. Plumb in the centre of the façade was a plaque bearing the date 1896. Wexford had often thought that there seemed to have been positive intent on the part of late-Victorian builders to design and erect houses that were not only ugly, complex and inconvenient, but also distinctly sinister in appearance. The Limes, though well-maintained and set in a garden as multi-coloured, cushiony and floral as a quilt, nevertheless kept this sinister quality. Khaki-coloured brick and grey slate had been the principal materials used in its construction. Without being able to define exactly how, Wexford could see that, in relation to the walls, the proportions of the sash windows were wrong. A turret grew out of each of the front corners and each of these turrets was topped by a conical roof, giving the place the look of a cross between Balmoral castle and a hotel in Kitzbuehl. The lime trees which gave it its name had been lopped so many times since their planting at the turn of the century that now they were squat and misshapen.
In the days of the Winchurches it had been called Paraleash House. But this name, of historical significance on account of its connection with the ancient manor of Paraleash, had been changed specifically as a result of the murder of Edward Winchurch. Even so, it had stood empty for ten years. Then it had found a buyer a year or so before the First World War, a man who was killed in that war. Its present owner had occupied it for half a dozen years, and in the time intervening between his purchase of it and 1918 it had been variously a nursing home, the annexe of an agricultural college and a private school. The owner was a retired brigadier. As he emerged from the front door with two Sealyhams on a lead, Wexford retreated to his car and drove home.
It was Monday evening and Burden’s marriage was two days old. Monday was the evening of Dora’s pottery class, the fruits of which, bruised-looking and not invariably symmetrical, were scattered haphazardly about the room like windfalls. Hunting along the shelves for G. Hallam Saul’s When the Summer is Shed and The Trial of Florence Winchurch from the Notable British Trials series, he nearly knocked over one of those rotund yet lop-sided objects. With a sigh of relief that it was unharmed, he set about refreshing his memory of the Winchurch case with the help of Miss Saul’s classic.
Florence May Anstruther had been nineteen at the time of her marriage to Edward Winchurch and he forty-seven. She was a good-looking fair-haired girl, rather tall and Junoesque, the daughter of a Kingsmarkham chemist – that is, a pharmacist, for her father had kept a shop in the High Street. In 1895 this damned her as of no account in the social hierarchy, and few people would have bet much on her chances of marrying well. But she did. Winchurch was a barrister who, at this stage of his life, practised law from inclination rather than from need. His father, a Sussex landowner, had died some three years before and had left him what for the last decade
of the nineteenth century was an enormous fortune, two hundred thousand pounds. Presumably, he had been attracted to Florence by her youth, her looks and her ladylike ways. She had been given the best education, including six months at a finishing school, that the chemist could afford. Winchurch’s attraction for Florence was generally supposed to have been solely his money.
They were married in June 1895 at the parish church of St Peter’s, Kingsmarkham, and went on a six-months honeymoon, touring Italy, Greece and the Swiss Alps. When they returned home Winchurch took a lease of Sewingbury Priory while building began on Paraleash House, and it may have been that the conical roofs on those turrets were inspired directly by what Florence had seen on her alpine travels. They moved into the lavishly furnished new house in May 1896, and Florence settled down to the life of a Victorian lady with a wealthy husband and a staff of indoor and outdoor servants. A vapid life at best, even if alleviated by a brood of children. But Florence had no children and was to have none.
Once or twice a week Edward Winchurch went up to London by the train from Kingsmarkham, as commuters had done before and have been doing ever since. Florence gave orders to her cook, arranged the flowers, paid and received calls, read novels and devoted a good many hours a day to her face, her hair and her dress. Local opinion of the couple at that time seemed to have been that they were as happy as most people, that Florence had done very well for herself and knew it, and Edward not so badly as had been predicted.
In the autumn of 1896 a young doctor of medicine bought a practice in Kingsmarkham and came to live there with his unmarried sister. Their name was Fenton. Frank Fenton was an extremely handsome man, twenty-six years old, six feet tall, with jet black hair, a Byronic eye and an arrogant lift to his chin. The sister was called Ada, and she was neither good-looking nor arrogant, being partly crippled by poliomyelitis which had left her with one leg badly twisted and paralysed.
It was ostensibly to befriend Ada Fenton that Florence first began calling at the Fentons’ house in Queen Street. Florence professed great affection for Ada, took her about in her carriage and offered her the use of it whenever she had to go any distance. From this it was an obvious step to persuade Edward that Frank Fenton should become the Winchurches’ doctor. Within another few months young Mrs Winchurch had become the doctor’s mistress.
It was probable that Ada knew nothing, or next to nothing, about it. In the eighteen-nineties a young girl could be, and usually was, very innocent. At the trial it was stated by Florence’s coachman that he would be sent to the Fentons’ house several times a week to take Miss Fenton driving, while Ada’s housemaid said that Mrs Winchurch would arrive on foot soon after Miss Fenton had gone out and be admitted rapidly through a french window by the doctor himself. During the winter of 1898 it seemed likely that Frank Fenton had performed an abortion on Mrs Winchurch, and for some months afterwards they met only at social gatherings and occasionally when Florence was visiting Ada. But their feelings for each other were too strong for them to bear separation and by the following summer they were again meeting at Fenton’s house while Ada was out, and now also at Paraleash House on the days when Edward had departed for the law courts.
Divorce was difficult but by no means impossible or unheard-of in 1899. At the trial Frank Fenton said he had wanted Mrs Winchurch to ask her husband for a divorce. He would have married her in spite of the disastrous effect on his career. It was she, he said, who refused to consider it on the grounds that she did not think she could bear the disgrace.
In January 1900 Florence went to London for the day and, among other purchases, bought at a grocer’s two cans of herring fillets marinaded in a white wine sauce. It was rare for canned food to appear in the Winchurch household, and when Florence suggested that these herring fillets should be used in the preparation of a dish called Filets de hareng marinés à la Rosette, the recipe for which she had been given by Ada Fenton, the cook, Mrs Eliza Holmes, protested that she could prepare it from fresh fish. Florence, however, insisted, one of the cans was used, and the dish was made and served to Florence and Edward at dinner. It was brought in by the parlourmaid, Alice Evans, as a savoury or final course to a four-course meal. Although Florence had shown so much enthusiasm about the dish, she took none of it. Edward ate a moderate amount and the rest was removed to the kitchen where it was shared between Mrs Holmes, Alice Evans and the housemaid, Violet Stedman. No one suffered any ill-effects. The date was 30 January 1900.
Five weeks later on 5 March Florence asked Mrs Holmes to make the dish again, using the remaining can, as her husband had liked it so much. This time Florence too partook of the marinaded herrings, but when the remains of it were about to be removed by Alice to the kitchen, she advised her to tell the others not to eat it as she ‘thought it had a strange taste and was perhaps not quite fresh’. However, although Mrs Holmes and Alice abstained, Violet Stedman ate a larger quantity of the dish than had either Florence or Edward.
Florence, as was her habit, left Edward to drink his port alone. Within a few minutes a strangled shout was heard from the dining room and a sound as of furniture breaking. Florence and Alice Evans and Mrs Holmes went into the room and found Edward Winchurch lying on the floor, a chair with one leg wrenched from its socket tipped over beside him and an overturned glass of port on the table. Florence approached him and he went into a violent convulsion, arching his back and baring his teeth, his hands grasping the chair in apparent agony.
John Barstow, the coachman, was sent to fetch Dr Fenton. By this time Florence was complaining of stomach pains and seemed unable to stand. Fenton arrived, had Edward and Florence removed upstairs and asked Mrs Holmes what they had eaten. She showed him the empty herring fillets can, and he recognized the brand as that by which a patient of a colleague of his had recently been infected with botulism, a virulent and usually fatal form of food poisoning. Fenton immediately assumed that it was bacillus botulinus which had attacked the Winchurches, and such is the power of suggestion that Violet Stedman now said she felt sick and faint.
Botulism causes paralysis, difficulty in breathing and a disturbance of the vision. Florence appeared to be partly paralysed and said she had double vision. Edward’s symptoms were different. He continued to have spasms, was totally relaxed between spasms, and although he had difficulty in breathing and other symptoms of botulism, the onset had been exceptionally rapid for any form of food poisoning. Fenton, however, had never seen a case of botulism, which is extremely rare, and he supposed that the symptoms would vary greatly from person to person. He gave jalap and cream of tartar as a purgative and, in the absence of any known relatives of Edward Winchurch, he sent for Florence’s father, Thomas Anstruther.
If Fenton was less innocent than was supposed, he had made a mistake in sending for Anstruther, for Florence’s father insisted on a second opinion, and at ten o’clock went himself to the home of that very colleague of Fenton’s who had recently witnessed a known case of botulism. This was Dr Maurice Waterfield, twice Fenton’s age, a popular man with a large practice in Stowerton. He looked at Edward Winchurch, at the agonized grin which overspread his features, and as Edward went into his last convulsive seizure, pronounced that he had been poisoned not by bacillus botulinus but by strychnine.
Edward died a few minutes afterwards. Dr Waterfield told Fenton that there was nothing physically wrong with either Florence or Violet Stedman. The former was suffering from shock or ‘neurasthenia’, the latter from indigestion brought on by over-eating. The police were informed, an inquest took place, and after it Florence was immediately arrested and charged with murdering her husband by administering to him a noxious substance, to wit strychnos nux vomica, in a decanter of port wine.
Her trial took place in London at the Central Criminal Court. She was twenty-four years old, a beautiful woman, and was by then known to have been having a love affair with the young and handsome Dr Fenton. As such, she and her case attracted national attention. Fenton had by then lost his practice, lo
st all hope of succeeding with another in the British Isles, and even before the trial his name had become a by-word, scurrilous doggerel being sung about him and Florence in the music halls. But far from increasing his loyalty to Florence, this seemed to make him the more determined to dissociate himself from her. He appeared as the prosecution’s principal witness, and it was his evidence which sent Florence to the gallows.
Fenton admitted his relationship with Florence but said that he had told her it must end. The only possible alternative was divorce and ultimately marriage to himself. In early January 1900 Florence had been calling on his sister Ada, and he had come in to find them looking through a book of recipes. One of the recipes called for the use of herring fillets marinaded in white wine sauce, the mention of which had caused him to tell them about a case of botulism which a patient of Dr Waterfield was believed to have contracted from eating the contents of a can of just such fillets. He had named the brand and advised his sister not to buy any of that kind. When, some seven weeks later, he was called to the dying Edward Winchurch, the cook had shown him an empty can of that very brand. In his opinion, Mrs Winchurch herself was not ill at all, was not even ill from ‘nerves’ but was shamming. The judge said that he was not there to give his opinion, but the warning came too late. To the jury the point had already been made.
Asked if he was aware that strychnine had therapeutic uses in small quantities, Fenton said he was but that he kept none in his dispensary. In any case, his dispensary was kept locked and the cupboards inside it locked, so it would have been impossible for Florence to have entered it or to have appropriated anything while on a visit to Ada. Ada Fenton was not called as a witness. She was ill, suffering from what her doctor, Dr Waterfield, called ‘brain fever’.
The prosecution’s case was that, in order to inherit his fortune and marry Dr Fenton, Florence Winchurch had attempted to poison her husband with infected fish, or fish she had good reason to suppose might be infected. When this failed she saw to it that the dish was provided again, and herself added strychnine to the port decanter. It was postulated that she obtained the strychnine from her father’s shop, without his knowledge, where it was kept in stock for the destruction of rats and moles. After her husband was taken ill, she herself simulated symptoms of botulism in the hope that the convulsions of strychnine poisoning would be confused with the paralysis and impeded breathing caused by the bacillus.