A Death by Wounds: The first Lambert and Strange mystery

by J. D. Oswald

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Dorothy said impatiently. ‘I didn’t find out until recently.’

  ‘What did you do when you found out?’

  ‘What did I do?’ Dorothy’s voice rose. ‘What would anyone do? What would you have done? The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I decided to confront Grace. I went round to her house…’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘The day before the silence, the 10th November.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dorothy snapped. ‘Sometime in the afternoon I think. I didn’t expect that I’d have to account for my movements.’

  ‘So then what happened?’

  ‘She just came out with it, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She admitted that she and Chaloner had given my son away to a “better family” as she put it. She tried to justify herself, to deny that any money had changed hands, but I could see the lie in her avaricious little eyes.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘I must have left my umbrella in the hallway when I left. I didn’t kill her Creswell.’

  He nodded – he believed her, and more to the point, there was no way that Dorothy could have carried Grace’s body all the way from Hyde to the Cathedral Close.

  ‘How did you find out that your son was alive?’ It was Philippa’s voice, high and rather breathless; he had forgotten that she was still there.

  ‘I saw a birth mark on a boy’s leg and I knew it was him.’

  Philippa’s face broke into a smile. ‘It’s Christopher isn’t it? He’s your son.’

  Dorothy smiled back, a smile that reached her eyes. ‘Yes, Christopher is my son.’

  ‘And Robert’s too?’ Philippa asked.

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t know.’

  Creswell walked home slowly. The cold air infiltrated his clothes and chilled the sweat still clinging to his body. He began to shiver. In his mind’s eye, it was only too possible for him to see Dorothy as a young woman in love, giving way to her passions. But he should not dwell on that image. He must not. Instead he remembered her smile of pure joy when she admitted that Christopher was her son. She had been given a second chance, Robert too, and he felt – what was it? – envy, that was it, and it was painful.

  And yet again, Philippa had demonstrated the sort of insight that continued to elude him. Her instinct had told her that Dorothy was not a killer, whereas he had been so caught up in the momentum of the investigation that he had not stopped to consider who he had been chasing. He was angry with himself. He ought to have been ashamed too but he was not. The army had taught him that, when it came to murder, an investigator had to be ruthless. The evidence had led to Dorothy and that was that.

  He reached number 61B and let himself in. Mrs Stevens had left two letters and a copy of the Chronicle on the table. He took all three with him to his chair in the parlour. The Chronicle was a paltry edition, reflecting the lack of news this close to Christmas. One of the notices in the ‘Births’ column caught his eye:

  Hibberd – On the 14th, at Badger Farm near Winchester, the wife of Jeremiah Hibberd, of a son.

  He felt pleased for Bella, in a disconnected sort of way, although a little uneasy now that he knew the truth about Jeremiah. He would write to tell her that suspicion of involvement in Grace’s murder was no longer hanging over her husband. He could at least relieve her of that immediate anxiety; it would not be that family’s last encounter with the law.

  He turned his attention to the post. He recognised his tailor’s handwriting, the envelope no doubt containing the latest bill. The other letter had been hand-delivered and he opened it first. It contained a summons that Creswell could not ignore – a meeting of Winchester worthies at the Deanery the next morning, his presence described by the Dean’s Secretary as ‘quite imperative’.

  It was unusual for the Dean to express himself in that way. Minor Canons were, in the Dean’s eyes, like children, to be seen and not heard, and if they did express an opinion, they were to be tolerated with an indulgent smile and then determinedly ignored. Creswell was aware that he was one of the most disruptive ‘children’. Whenever he spoke out of turn, which he often did at Chapter meetings, others would immediately back him and the tension in the room would release as the Dean’s smile gradually faded. Creswell wondered what sort of trouble he was in.

  30

  Wednesday 17th December

  The Brownrigg’s maid showed Creswell into the Deanery’s dining room. Canon Quarrenden, the Precentor, and Braithwaite, Canon Residentiary, both thoughtful and kindly men, were already seated on opposite sides of the ancient table half-hidden from each other by a voluminous bunch of dried flowers displayed in a silver-rimmed crystal vase. The Receiver-General, Mr Wax and Mr Justice Galloway, a judge of the South Eastern Circuit, muttered together in the far corner of the room. Pearmain, the Head Virgir, stood silently by the Dean’s chair, burly arms folded.

  ‘What’s all this about Custos?’ Creswell asked him.

  Pearmain shrugged. ‘Wait for Mr Dean.’

  Charles Henniker, the Sacrist, pushed past Creswell and flopped into the nearest chair. ‘I hope this won’t take long,’ he remarked, ‘the boys are struggling with the Tallis.’

  The Dean appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah good, welcome gentlemen. Take a seat.’

  Everyone obeyed apart from Pearmain who merely unfolded his arms and placed them behind his back like a soldier at ease. Creswell found himself in the seat to the left of the Dean. An overwhelming sense of gloom came over him as heavy rain began to batter at the perpendicular windows.

  The Dean leaned over to him. ‘Tell me Canon, how many Boers died in the South African war?’

  ‘Official figures say thirty-four thousand,’ Creswell replied. ‘God only knows how many natives.’

  The Dean breathed in loudly through his nose and nodded slowly. ‘Well I’m sure you’re right and I’m wrong.’ He immediately straightened up and addressed the room. ‘Now, we are all aware of the delegation from South Africa visiting us over the Christmas season.’

  Everyone but Creswell nodded.

  ‘You have the advantage of me Mr Dean,’ Creswell said, feeling the first signs of anger tighten in his chest.

  ‘Really? I am surprised. Let me recap. In the interests of reconciliation, so favoured by my predecessor Dean Stephens, Winchester will be welcoming the Bishop of Natal and a couple of hangers-on. Let me see,’ the Dean consulted a notebook, ‘the Reverends De Villiers and Boskoop - Boers from the sound of them - and three judges from the Pretorian court, keen to learn from our eminent judiciary.’ He inclined his head towards Galloway who nodded in return. ‘Now have I forgotten anyone? Ah yes, five choirboys from the Diocese of Natal will join the choristers for the Christmas services.’

  Henniker snorted. ‘As if I didn’t have enough problems with the boys I’ve got.’

  ‘Now now Charles,’ Brownrigg said, ‘we must all enter into the spirit of this visit.’

  ‘And what “spirit” is that?’ Wax intervened. ‘Kowtowing to those who slaughtered our young men?’

  ‘I sympathise with your views,’ Brownrigg said, ‘but the wheels were set in motion by my predecessor I’m afraid.’

  ‘We were all persuaded by prejudice and ignorance into believing that the enemy were merely a hoard of savages,’ Creswell found himself saying. ‘It’s certainly time to make amends for that.’

  Frowning faces turned to him. ‘That seems to me less than respectful to our troops,’ Wax said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Creswell said swiftly, ‘I was one of them after all.’

  ‘I agree with Canon Strange,’ Canon Braithwaite said. ‘It is time to put enmity behind us.’

  It was well known that Braithwaite’s beloved nephew, Valentine, had fallen at Serre and his body had never been found. No-one, not even Wax, was prepared to contradict him.

  ‘Indeed,’ the Dean consulted his notebook again. ‘So let us get down to details. Our visitors are due to arrive on the 21st, tha
t’s four days from now. I’m informed that their ship has already docked and after a few days’ rest, they will make their way down the country by train. Naturally the Bishop will stay at Wolvesey. The boys will be housed at Pilgrim’s School and the judges in the lodgings. So that leaves the Reverends…um…’

  ‘De Villiers and Boskoop,’ Creswell said.

  ‘Exactly so,’ Brownrigg said dryly. ‘De Villiers as the more senior of the two will stay with the Precentor.’ Quarrenden smiled wearily. ‘It was suggested to me that Boskoop might lodge with Canon Strange, he being without family claims over the Christmas season.’

  The men around the table nodded or murmured their approval of what evidently was the Dean’s idea and no-one else’s, and one that scuppered Creswell’s plan for a cosy celebration around Harry Pipe’s fireside.

  ‘Mr Dean, I’m fully committed with a number of matters at present and you’re aware – I’m sure – of my history in the South African war. I hardly think it appropriate that…’

  ‘Nonsense, your knowledge of that country makes you the ideal host. Pearmain will see to the arrangements. Excellent. Now let us pray – a prayer for concord and harmony…’

  Rather a prayer to cut off further argument. Creswell bowed his head, breathing deeply to calm his quickening heartbeat. But maybe he should stay angry – better that than succumbing to the burden of sadness. At least he would not be alone for Christmas.

  Creswell was the first to rise from his chair. As he headed for the door, the Dean caught him by the arm.

  ‘One more thing,’ the Dean said tetchily, ‘a letter came for you.’ He brought out a crumpled envelope from his inside pocket. ‘Be so kind as to remind your correspondent of your proper address. We’re not a postal service here.’

  Creswell snatched the envelope and left without a word. He could not trust himself to speak. The Deanery door accidentally slammed behind him and he was glad. What now? He felt a need to talk to Head Constable Sim, not because he planned to tell him about Dorothy but because he needed a dose of normality, of straightforwardness. He remembered the letter that was still clutched tightly in his right fist. He smoothed it out and examined the envelope. It was made of good quality paper and the handwriting was small and neat. A woman’s, he concluded. The postmark had been smudged by so many clammy fingers that it was now illegible. He opened the envelope, drew out a letter written on the same thick paper and seated himself on a nearby wall to read it.

  Rousdon Boarding House

  Sherborne Lane

  Lyme Regis

  Canon Christopher Strange

  c/o The Deanery

  Winchester Cathedral

  11th December 1919

  Dear Canon Strange

  My name is Miss Mary Clitheroe. We met a week ago at the funeral of my poor cousin Grace Mundy. Have I recalled your name correctly? Please forgive me if I have not. I do so hope that this letter reaches you by way of the Cathedral. Now that I have had time to think, I have concluded that I must finally tell the truth, whatever the consequences may be.

  I am sorry if I appeared less than civil that day. This letter will provide, if not an excuse, at least an explanation for my manner. You might have thought that I wore a veil out of respect for my dead cousin. I was sad of course, but that was not the reason. I wear a veil to hide my face. It is not a sight fit for the world - the acid put paid to any small beauty I may once have had. It was 23rd February 1910 when it happened, a date I’ll never forget. But first I should explain that I used to be a midwife when I was younger, in Winchester, and I worked with Grace at the lying-in hospital and the Refuge. One night I was working late and I saw Grace taking one of the new-borns and handing the child to someone outside the door. I confronted her and she admitted that she was taking babies born to these vulnerable friendless women who trusted us to look after them, telling them that the babies had died. She said she was doing them a favour but I suspected that money was involved. She always liked nice things, expensive things, even as a girl. I remember that she used to borrow money from me to buy her latest fancy. I don’t think she ever paid me back. I told Grace that I would go to the police if she didn’t stop. Then on that February day, it was just getting dark and I was walking along St Clement Street when a man grabbed me from behind. This is a reminder to mind your own business, he said, and then he splashed some liquid on my cheek. The acid had been diluted, the doctors told me later, but even so, I pray I never feel pain like that again. I said that I did not see who had attacked me and in truth I could not see his face. But I know who it was. I recognised his voice, his shape. It was William Mundy. And I know why he did it. It was a warning, a punishment even, for what I said I was going to do. I knew Grace was wavering. She wasn’t a bad woman, not at first anyway. I didn’t suspect that William was involved, not until it happened. Maybe I should have guessed from the way that William was always so insistent that Grace should keep on working, even after her marriage. He must have been behind everything she did. I should have gone to the police then, but I was too afraid and too concerned with my own pain and disfigurement. And so, in a way, I am just as guilty as they are. When I heard about Grace’s murder, I knew it must have been him. She’d have crossed him in some way. Maybe she had started to regret her past and had determined to put things right. I hope so for her sake. Canon Strange, you struck me during our brief conversation as an honourable and dedicated man. Please put my confession to good use.

  Yours sincerely

  Mary Clitheroe (Miss)

  The letter fell from Creswell’s grip. His heart was pounding with excitement. Now he really would have something to tell Sim. But immediately he began to have misgivings. All he had to report were the allegations of an injured and resentful woman. He had no proof, no method and no sure motive. He rescued the letter from the mud and began to make his way along Water Close towards the Guildhall. The clouds had cleared to reveal a low winter sun, strong enough to transform the raindrops lingering on walls into smouldering columns of steam. He strode vigorously through the puddles, enjoying the temporary sensation of escape and breathing deeply of the chill rejuvenating air. As he neared Watergate, he saw a line of workmen filing along the path ahead of him, the same group that had been working on the foundations in November. Their foreman Jim led the way, pushing a wheelbarrow containing a large wooden trunk. Jim stopped at the gate to the castle grounds and began to fumble in his pockets before unlocking the ancient door.

  Creswell edged past the men but felt obliged to greet the foreman and ask after the gang.

  Jim made a rocking motion with his head. ‘Things would be better if we had some decent work to do, Vicar. Digging up the Bishop’s allotments ain’t a proper job for the lads.’

  ‘No I suppose not. What about the foundations?’

  ‘The Dean’s told us to seal off the trench until God knows when, “out of respect for the dead” he said. We’re storing most of the gear in there.’ Jim jerked his thumb towards mounds of dripping tarpaulins beneath the trees just inside the castle grounds.

  ‘So what’s this then?’ Creswell pointed to the trunk. ‘A removals job for the Bishop?’

  He had intended it as a light-hearted remark but Jim did not smile. ‘No, no it’s nothing,’ he said, placing his hand protectively on the lid of the trunk. ‘We were asked to take it to the trench, that’s all. But it’s nothing.’

  Something about Jim’s evasive tone made Creswell prick up his ears. ‘Oh yes, when did this happen?’

  ‘Don’t quite remember. A few weeks ago.’

  ‘What’s inside?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know.’ Jim glanced back at his men. ‘It’s empty now. It’s going in there with the other equipment.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’

  Jim shifted awkwardly and then stood aside. Creswell lifted the lid and peered inside the trunk. The wooden planks were surprisingly clean apart from a couple of stray leaves. He noticed thin scrape marks from a wire brush.

 
‘Have you cleaned this?’

  ‘No!’ Jim sounded frightened now. ‘We were told not to open it.’

  There was a dark brown spot, no bigger than a pea, in one of the corners. Creswell scraped at the spot with his fingernail and it flaked away like peeling paint. Blood, he had no doubt. He raised his head, his thoughts coming fast.

  ‘Who asked you to deliver this box to the trench?’

  Jim stared at his feet. ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  Jim remained silent.

  ‘Come on man, spit it out.’ Creswell felt the anger rising. He knew he was close to something important. ‘What are you afraid of? You’re an old soldier damn it!’

  Jim’s head shot up, his face flushed. ‘Begging your pardon, Vicar, you don’t understand. I have to think of the boys. He wouldn’t like it if his name was mentioned.’

  ‘Who?’

  Jim shook his head slowly.

  ‘Well, tell me where you got the box from then?’

  Jim considered for a moment, his mouth squirming. Then he gave a curt nod. ‘We were told to collect it from a house in Hyde.’

  ‘The street?’

  ‘Edgar Road. I can’t recall the number.’

  ‘Did you see who lived there?’

  ‘Nope. The box was out on the pavement. And…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We were told,’ Jim almost whispered, ‘to post a key to this door through the letterbox.’

  Creswell set off at a sprint, not towards the Guildhall but back the way he had come. Sim could wait; he had to see Phillippa.

  Creswell ran all the way to Sick House and burst into the ward. An elderly nurse wearily roused herself from her seat by the fire and hobbled towards him.

  ‘Where’s Miss Lambert?’ he panted.

  The woman stiffened. He could tell that she had taken offence at his abruptness.

  ‘I don’t know sir,’ she said cagily.

  ‘Has she gone out?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘When will she be back?’