A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘They drowned when I was seven. In America, near Rhode Island. We were on board a paddle steamer called the SS Larchmont. It collided with another ship. I was on board too but I survived…Evidently.’ Christopher smiled weakly. ‘My governess put me into a lifeboat.’

  ‘What became of her?’

  ‘She drowned too.’

  Creswell suspected he now understood why this young man had been so keen, almost desperate, to sign up. He pressed on, ‘How did your sister react when you joined up?’

  ‘She shouted a lot.’

  ‘She was angry because she was scared maybe?’

  ‘Yes, that could have been it. When I was younger, Bella used to say that she’d keep me safe. I think she thought I’d be safe at College.’

  ‘What did your sister think about the white feather?’

  Christopher frowned. ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Nurse told me,’ Creswell said.

  ‘Bella said she’d like to wring the woman’s neck but she says that about a lot of people.’ Christopher yawned and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. Philippa’s brisk step sounded behind them.

  ‘I think that’s enough excitement for now,’ she said firmly, and then meeting Creswell’s eyes, ‘Thank you Canon.’

  He realised that his headache had gone. ‘One last thing Christopher: what are you going to do with that photograph of Al’s grave?’

  ‘I don’t know. Keep it I suppose.’

  ‘Why don’t you send it to Al’s parents?’

  ‘Alright, I will. I kept a few leaves from the site as well. They’re all dried up now. Stupid really.’

  ‘Not at all. Send those as well. Such things are precious.’

  The Plume of Feathers Inn was a squat skewed building that bulged like a parasitic growth from the wall of the medieval Westgate. From the High Street, the Inn’s tall windows and castellated roof line gave a rather grand impression, but it was a false one. The Inn’s true origins were revealed on Tower Street where the roof sagged over dingy-white plastered walls and its ground-floor windows were almost lost below eye-level. Inside, the bar was dark, the floorboards sticky, the mostly solitary clientele swathed in pipe smoke. For Creswell, it was a place of refuge well away from the Cathedral where he could sit anonymously in a corner with a pint of bitter ale, letting his mind wander. He always gravitated there when he felt in low spirits and on days when he missed Mamie the most. That evening, the other customers consisted of two exhausted elderly labourers, their heads almost touching the bar, and a courting couple whispering and giggling in a high-backed booth.

  Creswell chose a pint of Gale’s and took his favourite corner seat overlooking the upper High Street. He swilled his mouth with the mahogany-coloured liquid and hoped that journalist Harry Pipe would be in tonight. He needed someone to talk to. He could not remember another investigation that had frustrated him so much. In the army there had always been a clear distinction between victim and villain, hero and ruffian. But now he did not even have a clear picture of Grace Mundy in his mind; she floated like those black spots that formed strange patterns inside his iris whenever he looked at a white wall. Sometimes he saw her as an archetypal blackmailer, clutching the postcards in one hand, the silver box in the other, a leer on her avaricious face. And then an altogether different image would appear; a dedicated midwife, gurgling baby in the crook of her arm, a one-woman crusader for duty and high morals.

  As he took another swig, the door swung open and Harry Pipe crossed to the bar. He stood puzzling over the taps before choosing Gale’s as he always did. Chubby and baby-faced, a curvature of the spine forced him to hold his left shoulder higher than his right and to wear a built-up shoe. Creswell had first struck up a conversation with Harry the week after Mamie’s death and over the months had become to regard him as a friend, although not an entirely trustworthy one. Harry was a mine of gossip; he had an ability to almost mesmerise people into talking by setting his head to one side and staring at them through smeary spectacles as if every answer they gave was filling him with innocent astonishment. It was an invaluable quality for a journalist.

  Creswell beckoned and Harry picked up his tankard and shambled over to Creswell’s table.

  ‘Drowning your sorrows, eh Canon?’

  ‘Not at all. Pull up a seat.’

  ‘Thanks, but you can’t fool me. How long has it been now? Nearly a month and no sign of any arrests.’

  Creswell pulled a face. ‘I’ve a few leads.’

  ‘Care to expand?’

  ‘Not on the record.’

  ‘Off the record then?’

  ‘There’s one suspect who has a motive, alibi’s shaky and yet…’

  ‘You don’t think he did it?’

  Creswell shook his head.

  ‘So the suspect’s a man?’ Harry smiled mischievously.

  ‘Harry,’ Creswell warned, ‘you know I can only go so far. I don’t want to end up in your next column. Tell me, what do you know about the family of Christopher Steele, the boy soldier at the College?’

  ‘What, he’s not involved is he?’ Harry said.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. I’ve been asked to provide him with pastoral care and would like to know more about his background.’

  Harry seemed convinced by this white lie. ‘Well, both parents are dead as far as I know. Rich types from Itchen Abbas, so he won’t be short of a bob or two when he turns 18. Not that it’ll make up for…you know. Anyways, he’s got one sister – Isabella – married to Jeremiah Hibberd up at Badger Farm. He’s a strange one. I’ve never heard him say more than two words in company, but he’s the life and soul of SCATS meetings so I’m told. But you’d expect that in his line of work. You can tell that he adores his wife. He’d do anything for her, I’d say. That’s all that comes to mind.’

  Harry took off his spectacles and began to wipe them on the sleeve of his tweed jacket; Creswell had come to realise that this was a sign that he had put his crime correspondent persona to one side. ‘So, the first Christmas without Mamie coming up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘I’ll have duties at the Cathedral.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to say…you’d be welcome round at ours afterwards, for food and such…’ Harry coughed, ‘…if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d like that.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’

  A rather awkward silence followed.

  ‘How is Mrs Pipe?’ Creswell asked.

  Harry beamed. ‘Blooming. I still can’t believe Cicely…’ He was interrupted by a commotion at the door as two men stumbled over the threshold, already half-cut by the looks of them.

  ‘…’bin strangled,’ one was saying.

  ‘No, he’d been hit over the head, that was plain as day.’

  ‘How would you know? We hardly saw anything, worse luck.’

  ‘I saw some blood.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Harry called out.

  ‘A body down on Canon Street. If you hurry, you should get a look.’

  Harry replaced his spectacles. ‘Shall we?’ he said.

  Outside number 92 Canon Street, the constable lifted the rope cordon to let Creswell through; he was conscious of Harry slipping in behind but had not the heart to stop him.

  ‘In there.’ The constable pointed to a square entranceway leading to a dark vestibule. Something was lying on the ground, covered by a rather jolly red and green tartan blanket.

  As Creswell opened the wrought-iron gate, a face with anxious shadowy eyes thrust itself into the window and then disappeared.

  ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’ Harry whispered.

  Creswell nodded. Canon Street had long been infamous for its prostitutes. Despite its church-like arched windows, this was a house of ill-repute.

  Creswell peeled back the blanket to reveal the body of a rotund, well-dressed man. He was lying on his side, his ba
ck to the street and feet pointing towards a side door. Harry picked up a candlestick from the doorstep and lit the stub with a match. He held the light to the dead man's head.

  ‘Good God,’ Creswell took a step back, ‘it's Chaloner.’

  ‘The eminent doctor,’ Harry said and then drew breath. ‘Look at his face.’ Carved into Chaloner's forehead, in jagged cuts, was the word ‘THIEF’.

  ‘Why?’ Harry murmured.

  Creswell knelt and peered at the bloodied mess that had been Chaloner’s temple. ‘That man in the Feathers was right.’

  ‘Battered with the proverbial blunt instrument.’

  ‘But what was Chaloner doing here of all places?’

  Harry barked with laughter. ‘Clergymen! Oblivious to what’s on your doorstep.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Chaloner was a regular. Maybe he hadn’t paid his bill.’ He chuckled to himself.

  ‘Harry, have some respect.’

  ‘Sorry, not keen on the sight of blood. If I’m laughing, then I’m not puking. Don't tell anyone, it wouldn’t be good for my reputation.’

  ‘I won’t tell.’

  There was the sound of bolts being pushed back and the door opened a couple of inches.

  ‘Is he dead?’ a woman’s voice said.

  Creswell scrambled to his feet and approached the door. ‘I’m afraid so, miss...?’

  ‘Just Trinnette.’ The woman showed her face, her voice shaking. Beneath a film of white make-up and rouge, she was hardly more than a girl.

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Yes, he was...a kind man.’ Not the description that Creswell expected. ‘He was late and I’d gone upstairs to look out of the window...and then I heard shouting and the police came. To think he was on the doorstep when - ’ She made a choking sound.

  ‘There was nothing you could have done miss,’ Harry said.

  ‘Did you see anybody on the street, or anything that struck you as odd?’ Creswell asked.

  ‘No, there was nobody.’ Trinnette’s voice rose hysterically. ‘Do you think they’ll come back?’

  ‘They’re long gone miss,’ Creswell said. ‘Nothing to worry about now. Tell me, did Dr Chaloner confide in you, about something that was troubling him perhaps?’

  ‘He never talked about anything like that. He was always so cheerful. I can’t believe that anyone would wish to harm such a kind old gentleman.’

  Harry let out a guffaw, swiftly disguising it as a cough.

  ‘Thank you miss - Trinnette.’

  The door closed softly.

  ‘So what now?’ Harry said.

  ‘For you, back behind the cordon. For me, who knows?’

  ‘Spoilsport! You wait, you’ll be asking for my help again soon enough.’

  19

  Wednesday 3rd December

  As Creswell entered the Head Constable’s office, Sim stood up and dumped a black holdall onto the desk. Sim leaned over it to shake Creswell’s hand.

  ‘I’m led to believe that, yet again, you were one of the first on the scene of our latest killing,’ Sim said, ‘accompanied by Mr Harry Pipe no less,’ he added.

  ‘The constable kindly allowed me to examine the body in its locale,’ Creswell replied, ignoring Sim’s quip about Harry. ‘The face was quite a mess.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Is Scotland Yard taking an interest in the case?’

  Sim shrugged. ‘I’ve notified the proper channels. Only time will tell whether the murder of a retired doctor will be more worthy of their attention than the murder of a middle-aged char.’

  ‘Is that Chaloner’s bag?’

  ‘Spot on. It was found tossed in a corner by the body. Care to join me in taking a look?’

  The bag had seen better days: the leather had worn away in the creases, one of the handles had torn away from its rivet and there were scratches around the lock. Sim turned the bag upside down and shook it vigorously, scattering the contents over his pristine desk. He poked at them with his pen and then picked up each in turn: a stethoscope, its earpieces unpleasantly smeary; a broken-backed notebook with RC embossed in gold on the cover; a fountain pen; smelling salts; an empty pill box; a water-stained cardboard file bound with string; a small paper packet.

  ‘Any money?’ Creswell asked.

  ‘None in the bag or on the body. Stolen most likely.’ Sim opened the paper packet, smiled wryly and handed it to Creswell. Inside was a French letter. ‘He came prepared,’ Sim chuckled.

  Creswell picked up the bulging file and untied the string. It contained a sheaf of yellowing papers, each one headed The Diocesan Refuge for Friendless Women and Girls in elegant looped handwriting. Underneath, three columns: first, a date, the earliest 1897, the last entry 1915; secondly, names, Mrs Barratt, Miss Nye, Mrs Dean, Mrs Petrie, Miss MacDonald...; finally a short paragraph outlining a medical diagnosis, mild fever; pregnancy-induced sickness; ulcer;...

  ‘What was he doing with these?’ Creswell murmured to himself.

  Sim glanced at one of the papers. ‘The Diocesan Refuge...that’s the one on Eastgate Street. Rather old, aren’t they? He probably just forgot about them.’

  ‘Perhaps. Mind if I keep a few of the more recent ones for a while?’

  Sim regarded him curiously. ‘Do you think there’s something in them?’

  ‘No – I don’t know.’

  ‘Got one of your hunches eh Strange? You keep them and tell me if anything comes of it. By the way, that Don, Tokarev: he’s not a likeable chap is he. We gave him the third degree. Strong motive, evasive about his whereabouts but I fear a good barrister would make mincemeat of the evidence. So I’ve authorised his release. For now.’

  ***

  Philippa met Canon Strange by King Alfred’s statue to catch the four o’clock bus to Compton. Strange asked the driver to drop them by the track to Badger Farm and then chose two seats at the back of the bus. On their rain-buffeted journey, the wind swaying the bus alarmingly, Strange seemed morose and withdrawn, merely remarking that Bella Hibberd was ‘as tough as old boots’ despite her prissy exterior. Philippa soon abandoned attempts at conversation and instead amused herself by eavesdropping on a mother and her young son sitting a few rows in front.

  ‘Look at the sunset darling. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Mummy, why are the clouds red?’

  ‘Well it’s because of the heat and light from the sun I think,’ the woman looked down at her son and smiled tenderly. ‘Let’s look in the library next time we’re in town.’

  ‘Yes mummy. What do clouds feel like?’

  ‘Wet I should think, and cold.’

  ‘Hot mummy, you mean hot.’

  ‘No darling, cold.’

  ‘But they’re red, mummy, from the sun you said.’

  The woman ruffled her son’s hair. ‘I’m sure you’re right dear. I’ve never touched a cloud. Maybe you will and then you can tell me.’

  Philippa had to turn her face away to disguise her unexpected tears.

  The bus driver stopped at the track as agreed and they stumbled through the mud and stones to the farmhouse door. A smartly dressed maid took their sodden coats and showed them into an immaculate parlour. A few minutes later, Jeremiah Hibberd and his pregnant wife entered. Their manners were guarded and aloof. No refreshment was offered. As Mr Hibberd helped Bella to lower herself into one of plumped armchairs, Philippa took the opportunity to write a surreptitious note: Mr Hibberd is approximately 50 years of age, wiry with a swarthy, deeply lined face. His eyes are his most striking feature – dark, closely set, restless. He always seems to know when I’m observing him. I can’t hold his cold stare; it’s too unnerving. He’s scrupulously attentive towards Bella, almost overly so, a hand always placed on her shoulder or arm to guide her. This is a united front if ever I saw one.

  Philippa was relieved to be involved with the investigation again – it gave her something other than George Elkins to worry about. She was living in a state of constant anxiety. A smell of sweat on the
street, or the sound of a distant shout, or a grunt behind her as she waited in the grocer’s queue – all these would make her heart jump and her breath quicken. Despite Dorothy’s confident reassurances, Philippa knew in her heart that George’s presence in Winchester could not have been a coincidence.

  ‘What are you doing here Philippa?’ Bella said.

  ‘I’m assisting Canon Strange.’

  ‘Assisting? In what way?’

  ‘I..er..take notes, help with medical matters…’ It sounded so trite.

  ‘Well I am surprised.’ Bella wrinkled up her nose. ‘It’s hardly a fitting activity for a young lady.’

  Philippa felt herself colouring. ‘I don’t agree,’ she answered.

  Bella shrugged and looked away.

  Jeremiah took up position behind his wife’s chair. ‘Make it quick,’ he said, his voice surprisingly authorative for one who spent his life in windswept fields. ‘Bella should be lying down: doctor’s orders.’

  Creswell Strange barely acknowledged the request. ‘Mr Hibberd,’ he began, ‘would you kindly confirm your whereabouts on the night of the 10th of November this year. And Mrs Hibberd too please.’

  ‘I was here,’ Jeremiah said.

  ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’

  ‘Mrs Hibberd can of course. Look here, what’s this all about?’

  The question went unanswered, the Canon instead directing his gaze at Bella. She eyed his muddy shoes with obvious distaste.

  ‘I’m always here in the evenings. I haven’t been out since…’ Bella made a show of thinking, ‘the Junior boys’ play in October. I forget what it was. You were there too Philippa.’ She smiled colludingly.

  Philippa pretended to be busy with her notebook.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Strange said. ‘Can you vouch for your husband’s whereabouts on the night of the 10th?’

  Bella frowned. ‘I think so. Jeremiah is so regular in his habits.’ She reached up and squeezed her husband’s hand. ‘What day of the week was that?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Oh, nothing ever happens on a Monday.’

  ‘Answer my question Strange,’ Jeremiah said, ‘what’s this about?’