A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  Doctor Roger Chaloner tugged at Creswell’s chair. ‘Squeeze in Canon.’ Chaloner’s jowly face was already rosy, his waistcoat struggling to contain his belly. ‘Wish she’d hurry up with the beef,’ he continued jovially, ‘why else are we all here?’

  Creswell sat down, murmuring in what he hoped was a non-committal way. His chair was directly in front of the fireplace where the maid was loading the glowing cinders with fresh logs. He turned to Mrs Chaloner, a squat square woman with tired eyes.

  ‘Roger loves his beef,’ she said, smiling benignly.

  ‘Wish she’d hurry up with it,’ her husband repeated. ‘Pour you a glass Canon?’ Without waiting for a reply, Doctor Chaloner filled Creswell’s wine glass almost to the brim. Drops showered onto the table and then gradually merged into a translucent crimson pool inside one of the wood’s indentations. ‘Quite a decent Chateauneuf. A considerable improvement on last year’s bilge water. Now tell me, have you worked out who murdered that Mundy woman yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Chaloner guffawed. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Give it up man. Do something better with your time.’

  ‘No I can’t do that.’

  Chaloner glanced slyly at Creswell. ‘Don’t want to give up working with that lovely young assistant of yours? I don’t blame you. And what’s this I hear about some Russian Don being arrested? Been interfering with the boys, I’ll wager.’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Creswell attempted to change the subject. ‘The flowers were magnificent again this morning Mrs Chaloner. We expect great things from the Christmas display.’

  Mrs Chaloner sighed. ‘It’s always a struggle. Most of the women never turn up and then when they do, they sit around gossiping and won’t do as they’re told. I even had to do the Nave pedestal myself yesterday.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘You’d think they’d be glad to do something decent,’ Doctor Chaloner said, ‘but then what can one expect from that sort. Husbands: layabouts and rabble-rousers the lot of them.’

  ‘Some of them are unemployed certainly,’ Creswell responded.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Through no fault of their own.’

  ‘Nonsense, if I had my way…’

  A voice intervened from across the table, soft with restrained anger. ‘You’re talking of men who’ve risked life and limb for their country.’

  Chaloner leaned forward and wagged a finger at the young officer opposite to him. ‘That’s no excuse for unruly behaviour Captain Hill, or for forgetting their place.’

  ‘I must respectfully disagree Doctor; such men deserve respect and they deserve decent jobs.’

  ‘Then they should jolly well get off their backsides – apologies my dear – and find them. If I had my way, we’d do something about the children…ah here comes the grub.’

  The joint of beef arrived, glistening and swimming in its own juices, and steaming bowls of potatoes roasted in goose fat, buttered carrots and parsnips from the allotments in the Deanery Garden. The Dean made a show of carving, talking of the importance of the ideal slice of beef and discarding several slices as being too thick or uneven. Chaloner muttered ‘get on with it, man’ under his breath. Finally, everyone was served and conversation became desultory, replaced by the scraping of silver against porcelain. The heat from the rejuvenated fire beat against Creswell’s ankles and sweat began to run down the small of his back.

  Chaloner was the first to finish. He pushed his chair away with a satisfied nod and called to the head of the table. ‘Excellent, Mrs Brownrigg, as always.’ He turned back to his immediate companions and resumed the earlier conversation. ‘Our young men seem to believe they are owed a living. The candidate who can toughen up this country can count on my vote next time around.’

  ‘Who would you recommend?’ Captain Hill said archly.

  ‘There are plenty of good men in the running. Not that upstart Councillor certainly – Dorothy What’s-her-name – Wincanton.’

  ‘Wing-Smyth,’ Mrs Chaloner corrected her husband gently.

  ‘Yes, yes her,’ Chaloner continued. ‘Women shouldn’t involve themselves in politics. Not equipped to make the tough decisions, don’t you agree my dear?’

  Mrs Chaloner smiled vaguely. ‘I’d not attempt it myself,’ she said with a slight edge to her soft voice, ‘I cannot speak for Mrs Wing-Smyth. She has always struck me as most competent.’

  ‘Competent? A word for someone with little talent.’

  ‘Now, now doctor, that’s uncalled for,’ Creswell intervened. ‘Mrs Wing-Smyth was a great friend of my late wife.’ And a friend of his, he could have added.

  Chaloner shrugged. ‘I must say that you’re looking more yourself these days, Canon. Things getting back to normal eh?’

  ‘I don’t think they will ever be that,’ Creswell murmured.

  Chaloner harrumphed, ‘No, no I suppose not, but you’re young enough to marry again eh, and such a comfort to be among friends.’

  Creswell had never felt more alone in this gathering. He devoured the treacle-smothered sponge pudding, and refused a glass of Sauterne, despite Chaloner’s concerned urgings. It would be difficult enough to stay awake during Evensong and the setting was one of his favourites.

  He made his excuses to Mrs Brownrigg who looked as pained as if he was bearing news of a death in the family.

  ‘It seems such a shame that you’re going so soon. Well if you must…’

  The landing was refreshingly cool. He headed for the stairs. The Brownrigg’s maid was waiting at the bottom carrying a tray laden with freshly polished silver: four candlesticks, a salt pot and spoon, an embossed tankard, a drinking horn in the shape of a stag’s head, a bonbon dish with filigree sides, and a small hexagonal box. As he descended, he noticed that the box had an exquisitely enamelled lid set with a blue stone.

  He smiled at the maid. ‘That’s a beautiful box.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ the maid said, ‘it’s Mrs Brownrigg’s latest favourite.’

  ‘Has she had it long?’

  ‘No sir, she…’ The maid suddenly looked startled and scampered past Creswell up the stairs, the silver on the tray clinking like the charms on a gypsy’s bracelet.

  The Dean was leaning over the landing rail. ‘What are you doing with those, girl? Get them out of sight immediately. You know not to…’ He paused open-mouthed. ‘Creswell, still here?’

  ‘As you see.’

  Silence: the Dean’s gaze shifting back and forth from the trembling contents of the tray to where Creswell stood in the shadows. Recovering himself, the Dean beckoned to the maid, muttering that she could carry on with her work.

  ‘We should speak,’ Creswell said softly after the maid was out of earshot.

  The Dean nodded. ‘Not here. I’ll call on you after Evensong.’

  ***

  After tea Philippa collected the wheelchair from the porters’ lodge. It had a label tied to one of the push handles, a typically blunt but kindly note from Councillor Wing-Smyth. It’s second hand but hardly used. It was bought for the son of one of my fellow Councillors but the boy refused to sit in it, preferring to hobble about on crutches. I’m sure that Christopher will have more sense. Or at least you will. Dorothy W-S.

  She wheeled the chair through Chamber Court and across Meads, weaving around the muddy puddles. It was already getting dark. The sky looked as if it had been wrapped in a grey blanket and it had started to sleet. When she reached Sick House, she opened the door to the ward and backed inside. The push-rim left a swirly scratch on the paint – Frank would not be pleased.

  All the boys were up, even Prentis who had found some crutches from somewhere and had joined the gathering around Christopher’s bed. The boys’ heads swivelled in unison like startled rabbits in a field.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she began, but the door had swung shut trapping the chair’s footrest. By the time she freed the chair, the boys had returned to their beds, all except Prentis who was still draggi
ng his plastered leg across the floor. She abandoned the chair and went to help him.

  ‘I told you, this leg must be kept horizontal.’

  ‘Sorry Miss Lambert, I didn’t want to be left out.’

  ‘Of what? What was so important?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, glancing from boy to boy, ‘what was so important that you would disobey my instructions?’

  The chorus of ‘Nothing Miss Lambert,’ sounded evasive, the ‘miss’ accusing. What had Christopher been telling them? Fear - that he had overheard the conversation about her marriage - contorted in her gut. She pushed the chair over to Christopher’s bed. He was sat upright against the pillows, more alert than she had ever seen him before, his expression one of nervous excitement. She had dressed him in his thick flannel trousers and the softest pullover she could find; both looked about two sizes too big.

  ‘You shouldn’t let the other boys tire you out,’ she said, ‘they know they’re not supposed to disturb you.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I wanted to talk to them.’

  ‘Shall we try out this chair?’ Philippa eased Christopher’s body to the edge of the bed. She had asked a nurse from the hospital to come over to help but the woman had not turned up. She would have to manage as best as she could on her own. Christopher flinched as her hands touched his thighs.

  ‘I’ll be quick,’ she reassured him. She quickly lifted him down onto the wicker seat, her knees braced for a much heavier weight; it was as if his bones had been hollowed out. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad. Now let’s see what this chair can do. Hold on tight.’

  She started to stroll along the ward and then gathered speed, zigzagging around the beds as the other boys cheered and whooped. Christopher let out a giggle - a child’s laugh, the first she had ever heard from him. It was a wonderful sound.

  ‘Can I go outside now?’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid not; it’s sleeting out there.’

  ‘But I want to. You said we could.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t be good for you.’

  ‘Please, I have to…I have to go outside. Please.’

  It was a plea she could not resist; he sounded so desperate. ‘Alright, just for a minute or two.’

  She fetched a woollen blanket and tucked it around his leg and stump, drawing it up to his neck, and then tugged a knitted hat down over his ears.

  ‘Off we go.’

  The sleet had turned to snow, fat feathery flakes that had started to settle. Christopher stuck out his tongue and lifted his hands to the sky. ‘I used to like the snow,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go to Chamber Court and back.’

  ‘If I can make it that far. You might have to help me.’

  ‘I will.’ There was a new determination in his voice. He grasped the rims and began to push the wheels forward and did not stop until they reached the edge of Chamber Court. They paused, both panting. The flints embedded in the surrounding walls looked like miniature mountain peaks. Christopher asked to be taken to the centre. Philippa stumbled across the snow-covered cobbles, trying to almost lift the chair off the ground so that the bumps and jerks would not hurt his skin. The snow was falling faster now, flakes smothering her cheeks and nose and distorting her vision.

  ‘That’s my old dorm.’ Christopher pointed up at a window lit by flickering candle flame and guarded by weatherworn stone heads. ‘Someone else is in there now.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll find you a room that’s even better. Now we must head back. You’re turning into a snowman.’ It had been so rash of her to agree to this; Christopher’s dressings would be soaked and the cold air would have got into his lungs.

  She struggled to manoeuvre the chair in the thickening snow. Christopher did his best to help but he was tiring. ‘You just rest,’ she said, ‘and tell me what you were talking about with the other boys.’

  ‘They wanted to know about the war, and…’ he hesitated, ‘whether I’d killed anyone.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Christopher’s body convulsed as if an electric current had been fired through it. ‘I said, yes I had. Lots of times. Have you Miss Lambert?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because…when I woke up the other day, I heard you and Mrs Wing-Smyth talking about killing, and a gun. I wasn’t meaning to listen,’ he added.

  She found herself smiling at how ridiculous it was that she should feel so relieved.

  ‘We were talking about the body that was found by the Cathedral, that’s all,’ she said. She was sweating despite the cold. ‘The brain plays tricks on us when we’re waking up.’

  ‘Oh,’ Christopher sounded disheartened, ‘I wish I knew someone who’d killed someone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I could ask them if I’ll ever forget.’

  They had reached Sick House and Philippa shook Christopher’s blanket free of snow before continuing on to the ward. Her fingers tingled in the sudden warmth. She thought about the soldiers on the hospital train, the constant tension in their cheekbones, the blankness behind their eyes.

  ‘I don’t suppose you ever do,’ she answered, ‘but maybe it gets easier. Try to think about happy things, good things. Like snow. What’s your favourite memory?’

  Christopher paused. ‘When I was about seven, we used to paddle in the sheep-wash pond. It wasn’t much of a pond, just a bit of stream that was wider than the rest, and there was a willow tree that used to tickle our faces with its branches.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Itchen Abbas. All the children from my school went there in the summer. We’d roll our shorts right up and throw slimy weed at the girls. I’d try to make it land on their hats. I caught a frog once.’ He smiled fleetingly.

  ‘There now.’ Lifting Christopher back into bed was difficult, despite his attempts to claw himself up. She started to unwind his damp bandages.

  ‘But it feels like it wasn’t real,’ he whispered.

  It struck her that she was of no use to him. ‘Canon Strange used to be a soldier. Would you like to talk to him?’

  Christopher thought for a moment and then nodded. He closed his eyes, tucking his left hand beneath his cheek.

  ***

  The Dean called at Creswell’s house at ten minutes past five. A thin layer of snow had settled on his stiff shoulders and around the brim of his hat.

  ‘Damn this weather,’ he said, crossing the threshold and brushing the snow onto the floor. ‘So this is the place they found for you?’ He contemplated the narrow hallway impassively. ‘Do you keep a maid?’

  ‘A woman comes in for a few hours each day.’

  Meg galloped into the hallway and sniffed at the Dean’s groin. He pushed her away. ‘Engage a maid, that would be my advice.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Creswell said, giving the dog a soothing pat, ‘Now if you would follow me…’ He led the way into the parlour, using the seconds to calm himself. Almost every encounter with the Dean resulted in this sudden build-up of irritation. He decided to cut through any further attempt to discuss his domestic arrangements. ‘You have a silver box with a topaz lid in your possession. I am obliged to ask how you came by it.’

  ‘The silver belongs to my wife,’ Brownrigg said. ‘Shall we sit down?’

  Creswell ignored the suggestion. ‘What’s hers is yours, isn’t that so? It was apparent that you knew all about it.’

  The Dean stared at him. ‘You agreed to this meeting Mr Dean,’ Creswell continued, ‘I would prefer not refer this matter to Head Constable Sim. However, I may be forced…’

  ‘Very well Creswell,’ Brownrigg’s tone had softened, ‘it’s best to keep these things in the family so to speak. Mrs Brownrigg purchased the box.’

  ‘From whom?’

  Brownrigg shifted from one foot to the other. ‘From that woman, the one who was killed.’

  ‘Grace Mundy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know how Grace Mundy came
to have the box?’

  ‘My wife said that Mrs Mundy acquired it from the Russian Don, Tokarev.’

  ‘How did she “acquire” it?’

  ‘My wife didn’t ask.’ The Dean rolled his eyes. ‘She never asks.’

  ‘And how did your wife come to know someone like Grace Mundy?’

  ‘My wife has a…reputation.’

  ‘For?’

  The Dean stood in silence for a moment. ‘In certain circles, my wife is known for her willingness to buy precious silver, no questions asked.’

  ‘These circles are less than salubrious I assume?’

  The Dean nodded. ‘More than often. I owe favours to every jeweller and silversmith in Winchester. It’s an obsession,’ he added quietly.

  ‘I see. You realise that this corroborates Tokarev’s story?’

  ‘It does not prove that he did not kill her.’

  ‘Even so, you should have told me. At your request, I told you of my suspicions; you knew that Tokarev had said he’d paid Mundy off with the box.’

  A thin smile crossed the Dean’s face. ‘I – and I alone – will decide what is revealed about my wife. You would do well to remember that.’ There was barely suppressed anger in the Dean’s voice; it was the voice he used when Chapter meetings were not going his way.

  ‘Mr Dean, it’s often said that the dead have no secrets, and when a death has been violent, the living are sometimes obliged to sacrifice their privacy in the interests of justice…’

  ‘Strange, please do not lecture me.’ The Dean’s anger was palpable now. ‘If my wife purchased the box from Mundy – and no-one can prove that she did – it has no bearing on whether or not Tokarev killed that woman. If you choose to bring my wife into this matter, you will have me to answer to.’

  Creswell recognised the threat but his own anger mirrored the Dean’s. ‘If it came to that – and it has not yet come to that – it would not be a choice, it would be a necessity.’

  ‘Very well, you have made your position clear, as have I. Good night to you. And get this mangy dog out of my way!’

  There was a squeal from Meg as the Dean strode from the parlour.