Death of Connor Sanderson_Prequel to Fire & Ice Series

by Karen Payton Holt

  “When you see Reggie, tell him I had a run in with Rufus last night.” Connor chuckled drily. “I saved him from choking. He’ll hate me even more now.”

  Lavinia smiled, but Connor knew he had failed to lighten her mood.

  Touching the bone china teapot and finding it cold, with a raised eyebrow, Connor asked, “How long have you been waiting?”

  “About an hour, but it’s perfectly fine. I just needed to speak to you.”

  “What has happened?”

  “It’s Ivy.”

  “I know, she’s pregnant. Reggie told me,” Connor said quietly. “I also know Rice said the baby is mine, before he died.” He reached across the table and took Lavinia’s cold hand. “You know that is untrue. But, you must look out for her. I believe Rice treated her very badly. You must see the girl is looked after and not sent to the work house.”

  Lavinia stiffened and withdrew her hand. “You seem very concerned.”

  Connor sat back and scanned her tight face. She was no longer a carefree girl. He easily sensed the turmoil she battled with. “I apologize. I have no right to tell your father how he should handle the family affairs,” he said, gently.

  Tears glistened in Lavinia’s eyes, and Connor reached for her hand again. He stroked her fingers as though each one was made of spun glass, and for him, that was not so far from the truth.

  “Linny, please, you can’t believe I would use Ivy. You know me better than that.”

  The last time he had called her Linny, she had been thirteen and in her playroom. Connor used to tease her, but once he detected her ‘crush’, he took refuge behind formality to save her heartbreak.

  “No, I don’t believe that of you.” She gripped his hand and her knuckles blanched white.

  “What do you need to tell me? You’re scaring me.” Connor forced a reassuring smile, but he realized his words were true. Dread sat like a stone inside his chest. He concentrated harder on replicating human breathing and not breaking the bones in her fragile hand.

  A tear ran down her cheek. “Ivy. She’s dead.”

  For what seemed an eternity, Connor stared at her face. The tear left a pale mark in its path and, without thinking, he reached out and ran his thumb over it. “How? What happened?” he said, gently.

  She should her head. “No, you don’t understand. She was killed.”

  “What?” Shock jolted through him. Connor imagined a fall. An accident. But then a small voice inside him said, ‘liar’. He just wanted it to be so. He slumped in his seat. “How did she die?”

  “I don’t know for sure. The police are up at the Hall. I wanted to warn you.” Her eyes darted to his face. “And no, I don’t think you did it. I swear. But after you being questioned about Matthew, Captain Rice, I just thought I should warn you.”

  One word hurt him more than it should. She thought of him as ‘Matthew’. That was a shock. He tuned back in as she spoke again.

  “The servants are saying her neck was broken.” Lavinia gulped down a mouthful of cold tea to ease her dry throat.

  “She couldn’t have fallen?”

  Lavinia shook her head. “No, Mr. Phelps told Papa she was sitting in Mrs. Burnham’s chair.” A bubble of hysterical laughter erupted before she swallowed it down. “It was Mrs. Burnham shouting at Ivy that woke Mr. Phelps. She woke the whole house, I think.”

  Her cup rattled in its saucer when she carefully placed it down. Connor gathered both her hands on the crisp white table cloth and covered them with his own. “I’m so sorry.”

  Lavinia, because she had grown up at the Hall, had eaten cakes in the servants’ hall and played below stairs. Ivy was invisible to the family, her low station made that usual. But not to Connor, who used the tradesman’s entrance often as a youth. And not to Lavinia, either. Ivy was a friend.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I knew you would want to know. You liked Ivy. And I know she liked you, too.” At his sudden probing look, she hurried on, “I know she was smitten, Connor. But I also know you are above reproach.”

  ‘Thank you, for that,” Connor’s grateful smile lit his eyes. What Lavinia thought, really mattered to him.

  Glancing at the ornate clock on the wall, she sighed and slowly picked up her hat. “I better return home before they miss me.”

  “Of course. If Inspector Cavendish is involved, I know he bears a grudge. He will find a way to use Ivy’s crush as a motive against me. Reggie said she was due to be interviewed today. It doesn’t look good. But Linny-”

  He waited until she pushed the pin into her hat, pulled on her gloves, and looked at him.

  “Don’t worry about me. Promise? I’ll be alright.”

  “Just be careful, Connor.”

  “I will. I promise you that.” Tugging on her fingers, Connor said, “I’ll put you in a carriage.”

  With a weak smile, Lavinia nodded and got to her feet.

  With a hand at the small of her back, he guided her through the sea of diners and out onto the sidewalk. The rain still fell, and they stopped inside the porch-front of the Tea Room.

  Turning to looking down into her face, Connor lifted her chin. Strands of glossy black hair framed her anxious face. He missed the impish flirtatious girl of the last few years and suddenly realized he was a blind fool. He cared much more than he should. He couldn’t let the word ‘love’ pass his lips, but even though his heart was dead, he still felt it.

  “Take care, Linny. You are very special to me.”

  He knew she would kiss him, and he should move away, but he stayed. Her lips were warm and sweet as she ran her hand into the hair at his nape, and pressed her mouth to his. It was a stolen second for her, but he drowned in it for an eternity.

  She glanced up through dark lashes, daring him to be grumpy.

  With a smile, he darted out into the rain and hailed a cab. Handing her up into the carriage, Connor kissed the palm of her hand, in an intimate gesture he couldn’t resist, and said, “Stay safe.” He shut the door, stepped back, and stood in the downpour watching the departing carriage jostle for a place in the stream of traffic and disappear around the corner.

  Chapter 18

  Connor walked back to the hospital, lost in thought. Rain from his hair ran down over his face and beneath his collar, and passersby changed direction when they saw him striding towards them.

  How long have I got before Cavendish comes for me? It was not until he turned the last corner, that he noticed the downpour. Sluicing the water from his face and scraping back his hair, he tried to look at least halfway human once more. Changing his mind about using the front entrance, he headed down the side of the building, tracking along railings which resembled a row of stout black spears. Checking around and finding the street quiet, he vaulted smoothly over the top and swung up onto the concrete ledge of the first-floor window. Repeating the maneuver, he worked his way up three levels and forced the latch on the window of his room.

  Dropping inside, he grabbed a towel and dried his hair, stripped off his clothes and dropped them into the enamel bath. The clean shirt clung to his cold damp flesh as he hurriedly dressed. With a quick check in the mirror, he pulled his white coat from the tallboy wardrobe and left the room.

  Moments later, he swung through the door into the nurses’ station and stopped at the counter.

  “Good morning, sister.”

  With a smile, she handed Connor the clipboard holding the list of patients. Scanning the pages, Connor said, “Mr. Hodge. Is he still complaining of sharp pain?”

  “Yes, Doctor. He says the pain is still the same.”

  Connor frowned. Mr. Hodge was a surgical patient admitted when metal filings became embedded in the cornea of his left eye. Sir John operated, but could not save his sight.

  “I’ll look in on him, now,” Connor said, walking away slowly until the sister caught up.

  The side ward had eight beds in total. Connor stopped beside the fourth one on the left side, and the sister drew the curtain al
ong the rail until the illusion of privacy was complete.

  The man in the bed had other problems, too. Ulcers wept on both legs, not helped by poor circulation, and he would be discharged from The Royal Eye Hospital, only to be admitted to a general hospital. Mr. Hodge had both eyes closed, although he opened them a crack when Connor arrived.

  “Hey, Doc,” he muttered.

  “Mr. Hodge,” Connor glanced at the clipboard. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Just hurts like blazes. You said it would be better by now.”

  “It should be. Let’s take a look. Eye-drops please, sister.”

  Taking a light-pen from his pocket, Connor eased the eyelid open and passed the light over the opaque orb. He could not see any redness on the rim of the eye or post-operative inflammation of the eyelid. “It should feel more comfortable by now, Mr. Hodge. There is no discharge.” Connor pressed gently around the eye socket. “Any tenderness?”

  “No,” the patient admitted, almost grudgingly. “But it hurts. At night, mostly.”

  Connor pulled up a chair and put the clipboard down. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Although Hodge blinked both eyes rapidly, tears still escaped onto his cheeks.

  Connor scanned the wooden bedside table where a photo of a smiling, happier Mr. Hodge had an arm around a slight woman. Three small children used her skirts for balance, or as a hiding place, Connor couldn’t be sure which.

  “You can tell me,” Connor said, gently.

  The man sniffed. “It’s the hospital.”

  “Sorry? What do you mean?”

  “My Lucy. She can’t pay the bus-fare to the General. I’ll never see ‘er, or the kids, if I goes there.”

  Connor sighed. “Sadly, Mr. Hodge, staying here isn’t going to help Lucy or yourself, in the long run.” He patted the man on the shoulder. “I have a better idea. You provide the sister with your home address, and I’ll see to it that Lucy can afford the bus-fare.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can.” Connor stood up. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I haven’t done a good deed for a while. Let me do this one for you.” He left the ward wishing everything in life was so simple.

  His next stop was Sir John’s office. Mr. Donaghue’s post mortem results would be ready by now, and Sir John would expect Connor to show an interest in the patient. Usually, he would be eager, but it had dropped down the list of his priorities of late.

  Knocking on Sir John’s door, Connor detected two sets of lungs breathing.

  “Come in.” Sir John’s clipped tone seemed softened by distraction.

  Entering the room – the door presenting no problem now Connor was accustomed to his own strength – he stopped in mid stride as Inspector Cavendish rose from the seat facing Sir John’s desk.

  “Sanderson, I was about to send for you,” Sir John said, heavily. “Inspector Cavendish wants to talk to you.”

  Cavendish smiled. If malice had an odor, then Connor was certain it smelled like the mix of hormones radiating from the inspector.

  “Doctor Sanderson.” Cavendish did not look away as he said, “Thank you, Sir John.”

  His mentor bristled. “This man is my student. Surely you can divulge why you are looking for him. I might be able to help.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It is Police business. There’s nothing more I can say.”

  Connor returned Cavendish’s even glare.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Sanderson, I’d like you to come down to the station.”

  “Of course.” Connor turned to leave before turning back briefly. “Sir John, can I ask you to inform Reginald Cranham that I am helping the police with their enquiries. He is expecting me to dine with him later.”

  Cavendish reached out to rest a hand on Connor’s shoulder, but changed his mind at Connor’s ice-cold stare.

  <><><>

  Half an hour later, Connor faced Cavendish across the table in an interview room. Dark rings left by tea and coffee cups stained its surface, as well as deep scratches, where, he guessed, anxious detainees left to stew needed something to distract them.

  Cavendish made a show of shuffling papers and making notes, and Connor adopted a relaxed, ‘I’ve got all day’ pose. When a constable entered the room and silently took a seat in the corner, Connor got the feeling things were becoming more serious.

  “Firstly, Doctor Sanderson, I must read you your Miranda rights.” Clearly enjoying himself, Cavendish said, “...You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned…”

  Connor knew the drill and tuned it out, running through the possibilities of what could lay in store. If he’s detaining me, he must have something. But what?

  “You understand we have twenty-four hours to charge you?”

  Connor nodded.

  “We have a search warrant for your room at the hospital. My officers are there, now.”

  Connor raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you have anything to say?” Cavendish seemed disappointed when Connor remained calm.

  “I’ll answer any questions you put to me, Inspector. I can’t really contribute to this little chat without knowing why I am here.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Cavendish clasped his hands behind his head and stared at Connor. “It’s an interesting world, don’t you think?”

  “Very much so. I enjoy it when people surprise me.” Connor reluctantly said, “Thank you for not arresting me in front of Sir John.”

  “If you’d resisted, I would have. Talking of Sir John. Doctors hold a position of trust. I’m sure you’d agree.”

  “All human beings should be trustworthy, in my view,” Connor replied.

  “But with authority comes power,” Cavendish mused aloud. “Have you heard of Doctor Crippen? He was an eye and ear specialist, I believe.”

  “I’ve heard of him, yes.”

  “Now, he killed his wife. Once the appeal process runs its course, he faces being hung in Pentonville.” Cavendish unlinked his hands and sat forward once more. “Now, where were we? Ah yes, do you know Ivy Tindel?”

  “Of course, she works at Cranham Hall.”

  “Just so.” Cavendish placed a photograph face down on the desk.

  “When did you last see Ivy?”

  No one knows I saw her with Rice two nights ago. Connor decided to bend the truth. About a week ago. The last time I saw her, I was having a cup of tea with the housekeeper, Mrs. Burnham.”

  “Where were you last night, Doctor Sanderson?”

  “I saw Reginald Cranham for a short while, then walked back to the hospital.”

  “Did anyone see you return to the hospital?”

  “No.”

  Cavendish flipped the photograph over. In it, Ivy was lying back in Mrs. Burnham’s chair sleeping. “Ivy is dead, Doctor Sanderson. But I’m sure you know that already.”

  Does he know about Lavinia’s visit? Connor didn’t think so. Another lie hatched. “No, I didn’t know.” Connor turned the photo and took a closer look. “How? What happened?”

  “A broken neck. The assailant knew what he was doing. Very strong. Wore gloves and inflicted localized damage to the third and fourth vertebrae. Medical man, it seems.”

  “I wish I knew something, anything. But I can’t help you, Inspector. I’m sorry.”

  Cavendish silently retrieved the photograph.

  “If you remember anything that can help find her killer, then let us know.” Cavendish glanced at his watch. “Suspending the interview at sixteen hundred hours. You’ll spend a night in the cells. We’re holding you until the search warrant has been executed.”

  Connor was sure the choice of words was deliberate. “Very well,” he said, “oh, Inspector?”

  Cavendish paused in the act of gathering his paperwork into a folder.

  “My clothes? The ones you took yesterday. Will they be returned to me?”

  “When the lab has finished with them. Unless th
ey become evidence, of course.”

  Connor got to his feet when the inspector did, and the constable stood, poised with his hand on the door handle. At a nod from the inspector, the young copper tugged handcuffs from his belt.

  “Procedure, Doctor Sanderson, I’m sure you understand?” said Cavendish.

  Connor obligingly presented his back and felt the cold steel close around his wrists. “Sorry, sir,” the constable muttered quietly.

  As Connor turned around again, Cavendish grinned. “See what I mean? Ted here has cuffed more suspects than you’ve had hot dinners, and I’ve never heard him apologize. It’s the power of doctors and lawyers.” Turning his attention to the flushed constable, he said, “Take Doctor Sanderson to our nicest cell.”

  The man looked confused for a moment. “They’re all the same, Inspector.”

  “So, they are.” As if he’d suddenly lost interest, Cavendish left the room, not bothering to close the door.

  “This way, sir.”

  Connor followed the constable past the custody officer, who looked down from behind a counter set at shoulder height for his ‘customers’. It gave the sergeant a psychological advantage when booking in suspects.

  Beyond the door at the end of a corridor was a row of cells. At the first cell on the left, the constable swung open the door built into the grid work of iron bars, followed Connor inside, and removed the cuffs.

  Connor sat down on the narrow metal framed cot just as the constable said, “I’m sorry.”

  Connor laughed gently. “I understand, constable.” He took off his shoes while still sitting, then stood, shrugged out of his jacket, unclipped his suspenders, and removed his neck tie. The policeman put everything inside a paper bag and wrote the cell number on it.

  “Thank you, Doctor Sanderson. Can I bring you something to eat?”

  Connor answered truthfully. “No thank you, constable. I can’t face eating anything.”

  The gate clanged shut behind the officer, and the key grated in the lock.

  Connor studied the three walls painted dull cream. The toilet pan in the corner was clean, at least. It was almost dark outside, so the high-level barred window looked out on a charcoal-colored sky, still thick with cloud.