by J. D. Oswald
‘She said midday. I told her I couldn’t stay later.’
He had an hour to wait. He left the ward and hesitated in the corridor until the cold began to make his left leg ache. He could feel his heart pounding fiercely; it was as if knowledge had made him afraid. Always when he had discovered something crucial, he hated any delay. He could go to Sim. It was tempting if only to release some of this pent-up tension but no, he wanted Philippa to be there. And he owed Harry a favour too.
He took himself off across Meads, past the front of School and through a narrow gateway by Chapel that led into Cloisters. A solitary Don, wrapped in blankets, sat on the stone bench running around the inside of the walkway, a newspaper spread out beside him. Creswell ignored him and headed through the arch that led to the chantry chapel.
Chantry’s stone had become streaked and darkened by the rain. Creswell raised his hood against the heavy droplets that fell from disfigured carvings of Chantry’s endower, Fromond and his wife Maud, and their menagerie of exotic stone beasts. Once inside, he was met by sunlight filtering through stained glass, grasping the gem hues and splashing them upon the floor and narrow pews. Creswell climbed the spiral staircase that led into an upper room used both as a library for neglected books and also as an informal dumping ground for unused objects too precious to throw away. He browsed the shelves idly, finally opting for a book of Psalms. He headed back down the stairs and slid into one of the pews. He was surrounded by images of Christ and his saints and angels, of beheaded and disembowelled martyrs, of bearded Bishops and Kings. Yet he knew that God had almost become an irrelevance in his life, a side-shoot rather than the trunk. He closed his eyes and tried to pray but instead of ordered contemplation, the image of the skeletal girl in the Boer concentration camp suddenly overwhelmed his mind. He had not thought about her for some time – why now? He opened the book at random and started to read Psalm 147.
Praise the Lord!
How good it is to sing praises to our God…
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
If only he could believe that.
He spreads the snow like wool and scatters the frost like ashes.
He hurls down his hail like pebbles.
Who can withstand his icy blast?
That he could believe.
***
Philippa arrived back at five minutes past twelve. She was surprised to find Creswell Strange seated on the bench outside the ward. He leapt to his feet.
‘Philippa, where have you been? You’re late.’
‘I’m not,’ she began, taken aback. ‘I’ve been to visit Bella and her baby. It seems I’m forgiven. A beautiful boy, rather small but healthy. They’re going to call him…’
‘Yes how nice.’ Strange’s face was flushed and his back had lost its characteristic stoop. He looked younger. ‘Philippa, I know who killed Grace Mundy.’ He paused, his eyes both anxious and excited. She could tell that he wanted her to react.
‘Who was it?’
‘William.’
‘Grace’s husband? Why?’
‘I…’ Strange frowned. ‘I don’t know why for sure but I do know how he got the body into the trench. He put Grace inside a trunk and then Jim and his men were told to collect it and take it to the site.’
‘But why would they do that?’
‘Because they were terrified of the person who gave the instruction?’
‘Who? William?’
‘No, well yes, William too but also a man for whom William works?’
‘Who?’ Philippa almost screamed.
‘Jeremiah Hibberd.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, the farmer disguise is an effective one isn’t it. In reality, he runs a criminal gang with fingers in many pies. William is one of his – how would I describe it? – henchmen, second-in-command even. Harry tried to tell me but I wasn’t listening.’
‘Who’s Harry?’
‘The Chronicle’s crime correspondent. He found out about Jeremiah and was roughed up for his pains.’
‘But how did Grace’s body get into the trench? Did Jim do it?’
‘No, he says he didn’t look inside the trunk and I believe him. It must have been William. He’d been given a key to the Wolvesey Castle gate.’
It all seemed so simple, Philippa thought, too simple. Had this case been about a violent and abusive husband all along? ‘I still don’t understand why.’
‘It has to do with the babies, I’m sure of it. William must have been involved somehow but how to prove it?…Wait!’ Strange reached inside his jacket, bringing out a small notebook. ‘Remember this?’
‘Yes, it’s Grace’s account book.’
‘Ah but is it? Look at the writing.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s the same writing as I saw on a letter sitting on the Mundy’s hallway table only on Monday. It was staring me in the face and I didn’t see it.’
‘So it’s…William’s notebook.’ Philippa went to stand next to Strange and together they examined the pages, heads almost touching. ‘This could be about the babies,’ she said. ‘See, date of birth on the left, then LIH could be lying-in hospital, Ref could mean Refuge. Why didn’t I see that before?! What about CR? Let me think – there’s a Cottage Rescue Home in Southampton. That could be it. B is boy, G is girl, then the birth weight.’
‘And the final column?’
‘The money. Twenty pounds, five shillings for this girl, and the initials ‘PB’ could be the person who took the child.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank God for efficient record-keepers.’
‘I wonder if William killed Grace because she told Dorothy the truth.’
Strange nodded. ‘He couldn’t take the risk that Grace would decide to tell others. I suspect he has Doctor Chaloner’s blood on his hands too. If you kill all the perpetrators, there’s no one left to tell.’
‘What should we do now?’
‘We find William. First I need to pick up Harry. I owe him a story. Join me?’
‘Of course.’
Strange grasped her by the hand and led her towards the door.
‘No wait, I can’t go,’ she said, ‘there’s no one to look after the boys.’
‘What about that nurse?’
‘She might stay if you paid her.’
Strange withdrew a note from his wallet and went into the ward. Moments later he returned. ‘Your prediction was correct. Shall we go?’
The offices of the Hampshire Chronicle occupied number 57 High Street, a whitewashed building which used to be a shop and still retained the quaint Georgian bay windows on either side of the door. They entered the front office and into a fug of cigarette smoke. Philippa could hear the rhythmic clunking of the printing presses in the back room and feel their vibrations running through floorboards and into her limbs. Strange beckoned to a young man sat before a typewriter in a gloomy corner. The man put on his spectacles and hurried forward. Philippa noticed that he wore a built-up shoe to compensate for a withered left leg. He had dark bruises beneath both eyes and a seeping scab on his forehead, the sure signs that he had been in a recent fight.
‘You’ve found something haven’t you?’ the man said, gazing at Strange intently.
‘Harry Pipe, this is Miss Philippa Lambert. To answer your question, yes we have, and if you come with us now, there may be an exclusive in it.’
‘Where to?’
‘Hyde.’
‘Let’s take the car. It’s out the back.’ Pipe led the way along a corridor lined with shelves stacked high with bundled newspapers, sheaves of paper and jars of ink, the bottom shelf a graveyard for broken typewriters. Pipe stuck his head into an open doorway.
‘I’m taking the car Mabel. Yes, I’ll fill in the form.’ He carried on, muttering over his shoulder about the inequity of having to account for every journey and pint of petrol.
They reached a scruffy yard where two cars and a van were parked. Pipe took them to the smaller of the cars, a Ford Mode
l T.
‘She’s not fast but she’s reliable. Jump in.’
Philippa climbed into the back seat. The car smelt of sweat-soaked leather. An egg sandwich, slightly nibbled, lay on the front passenger seat and Pipe threw it out of the window before allowing Canon Strange to sit down. He cranked the car into life and slipped into the driver’s seat.
‘Good let’s go.’ He laboriously manoeuvred the car out of the yard and onto a steep lane that led to Southgate Street. He glanced over his shoulder with a teasing smile. ‘So you’re the famous Miss Lambert?’
Philippa could not help but return his smile. Then it occurred to her that she was inside a car and had forgotten to be nervous.
There was no answer at 55 Egbert Street. Harry Pipe pressed his face against the bay window reporting that none of the lamps were lit. Strange hopped over the adjoining garden wall and knocked on the neighbouring door. What was that neighbour’s name? Philippa consulted her notebook.
‘Mrs Bunt,’ Strange said as the door opened a crack. ‘Do you remember me?’
The door was unchained and the woman came out onto the step.
‘Oh yes, it’s Canon…er..’
‘Strange. We’ve come to see Mr Mundy.’
‘You won’t find him in,’ Mrs Bunt said, folding her arms. ‘He’s gone off fishing again. I suppose folk deal with grief in different ways but really, he’s hardly said two words to me since Grace died.’
‘Has he gone to the water meadows?’ Pipe asked.
‘No sir, he always goes to Alresford, to his precious Eel House.’
It took nearly an hour to drive the seven miles to the outskirts of New Alresford. The entrance to this small market town was rather a grand one – a road called the Avenue with a wide tree-lined walkway on the north side, a gift to the town from a Victorian Bishop of Winchester. Harry Pipe turned the car down a side-road called The Dean and parked at the end by the bank of the River Arle. The road was smeared with mud and slime from a recent flood.
‘Unfortunately, it’s this way,’ Pipe said pointing to a rutted and branch-strewn path that headed in a westerly direction. ‘About quarter of a mile I’d say – ten minutes or so. You go first Creswell, and Miss Lambert too. I might slow you down.’
Philippa followed Strange onto the path, picking up a long stick to push sodden grasses out of the way. She noticed that the Canon was limping slightly on his left leg. After only a few steps, her boots began to soak up the muddy water as if they were made of litmus paper. The path meandered, sometimes teetering along the edge of the river bank, before pulling back from the brink and veering beneath dripping trees. The river had swollen to a couple of feet in depth but she could still see the pebbly bed through the crystalline water. A clump of watercress floated rather gracefully by, its pace outstripping their own.
Around the first corner, they encountered a huge puddle, almost half the length of a cricket crease. Strange turned to her.
‘Perhaps it would be better if you went back. Harry and I can continue on.’
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ She splashed through the puddle ahead of him, water invading her bootlace holes. She paused at the other side and waited for the two men. The car was now hidden from view and the isolation of their position hit her. What if William Mundy was armed and violent? There would be nobody on the path to hear their cries for help, not on such a bleak day as this.
‘Shouldn’t we leave this to the police?’ she whispered to Strange.
‘Not at all. We can handle Mundy.’
Pipe had dropped behind and seemed to be struggling to lift his built-up shoe out of the mud. He paused when he reached the puddle and stood bent over, panting. ‘It could be a little further than a quarter mile. Right, onward.’
Strange took the lead. They walked in silence. Five minutes went by and a small brick building came into view. Hardly bigger than a farmer’s hut, it straddled both banks and had a moss-covered tiled roof. The door in the side wall was closed. Philippa found cover under a fir tree.
‘Is that it?’ she asked.
‘I would think so,’ Strange answered.
She began to shiver.
‘I suggest we take a look inside,’ Strange continued. ‘Philippa please stay behind me.’
This time she did not argue. They walked in single file to the door and Strange pressed his ear against the flaking wood. ‘Someone’s in there,’ he mouthed. He pushed gently at the door and stepped inside. She followed, Pipe bringing up the rear. Her eyes were blinded by the sudden gloom.
‘Mr Mundy,’ she heard Strange say.
The gloom distorted and an indistinct figure rose up like a bewitched blanket.
‘I take it you’re not here to fish,’ Mundy’s voice said.
‘No, we’re not,’ Strange replied.
‘Take a seat then.’
Now Philippa could make out that Mundy had sat back down on a wooden crate, a pile of iron grills at his feet. He was holding a long pole, the length of a broomstick. At its end was a trident shaped metal fork with saw-toothed prongs.
‘Is that an eel spear?’ Strange asked.
Mundy nodded.
‘Serrated blades, a few inches apart, consistent with Grace’s wounds, wouldn’t you agree Miss Lambert?’
‘Oh – yes,’ she mumbled.
Mundy seemed to notice her presence for the first time. ‘It was to hand,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘I had it in the house for mending.’ He paused. ‘It was a quick death, like I give the eels. If only she’d kept her mouth shut but she couldn’t help confessing to that Councillor woman. She was even going to run down the street after her and beg forgiveness and all because the woman had got herself a title. Grace was easily impressed.’
Philippa felt herself shiver again. It was not from cold.
‘And Doctor Chaloner?’ Philippa thought she could hear a trace of fear in Strange’s voice.
‘Nothing the good doctor didn’t deserve. He did not do what he was told. Syphoning off more than his share of the proceeds from our little scheme, and doing deals on the side without paying his dues. That couldn’t go unpunished.’
‘You’re the one who should be punished,’ Philippa found herself crying out. ‘You’ve killed two people and bought and sold real babies, children, as if they were just bags of flour.’
‘They didn’t know anything about it, Miss. We were just fulfilling market demand. The way I see it, we were doing those young'uns a favour. They all went to good homes.’
‘You can’t know that.’
Mundy shrugged and carried on cleaning the spear.
‘You bastard,’ Harry said suddenly. ‘My wife is pregnant. I cannot imagine…’ He petered out.
‘What now?’ Philippa whispered to Strange. ‘Will you arrest him?’
‘No, I have no powers of arrest,’ Strange said. ‘Mr Mundy must turn himself in.’
A toothless smile spread across Mundy’s face. ‘I think not.’
‘I’m afraid I must insist.’ As Strange stepped forward, Mundy whipped the spear out in front of him. Strange gave a gasping cry and staggered onto one knee.
‘Don’t come any closer, any of you,’ Mundy hissed. ‘I’m going to walk out of here and you’re not going to stop me.’ Then, spear flung over his shoulder, he was gone.
Philippa rushed to the Canon’s side. ‘Creswell, has he hurt you?’
‘Just a scratch.’ Strange struggled to his feet. ‘We should go.’
They left the eel house. The sky had turned a sickly yellow, patterned with funnels of charcoal rain-bearing cloud. A flash of light registered behind Philippa’s eyeballs. It was followed a few seconds later by a thunder clap.
‘We’d better walk quickly,’ Pipe said.
‘Cicely’s pregnant?’ Strange said to him.
‘Yes, three months now.’
‘My congratulations.’
Then the rain came down, in lines like a doorway curtained with ribbons against flies.
Harry Pipe pulled up outside Canon Strange’s house on Kingsgate Street. It had stopped raining and the road was steaming where the sunlight hit the ground. Philippa climbed out of the car, her sodden coat leaving a pool of water on the indented seat cushion. Strange joined her on the pavement. His face was ashen. Pipe leaned out of the window and regarded them silently.
‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ Philippa said to Strange.
‘Just a little tired,’ Strange murmured. ‘You and Harry go and tell Sim what’s happened, and then come back.’
‘Don’t you want to come?’ Pipe said, ‘You should. It’s your case.’
‘No, no,’ Strange said wearily, ‘I should get inside before I catch my death.’ He turned away and went to unlock his front door.
Philippa got into the front passenger seat. It still felt warm. Her damp stockings stuck to the leather. Harry put the car into gear and moved off slowly. Then a faint metallic sound made her glance back. She saw a jumble of long limbs on Strange’s doorstep like a puppet with loosened strings. Her mind took a moment to comprehend that this heap was Strange himself.
‘Stop!’ she yelled. ‘It’s the Canon.’
Harry took a quick look over his shoulder and then swerved into the curb. Philippa leapt out of the car and ran back to where Strange had fallen. His eyes were closed. She tapped at his cheeks. There was no response. Then she realised that her hands were wet with blood. She pulled his cloak aside and unbuttoned his waistcoat, cursing her stiff unresponsive fingers. Blood was oozing from a serrated wound on his left side. His shirt was soaked with a circular stain. She pressed both hands over the hole and screamed.
31
Thursday 18th December
Philippa sat at the Canon’s bedside while he writhed and talked in his sleep. He was lucky, Doctor Godwin had told her. Although the wound was deep and the skin and flesh badly torn, the spear had not penetrated any organs. But loss of blood had been considerable and Strange must be watched in case of any deterioration and to prevent him tearing at his bandages. She had willingly agreed to be the night watcher.