by James Andrew
Blades referred to notes again. ‘Apparently, she’d started travelling around. We have the name of a hotel in Leeds she stayed in, so we will check there. And thank you. Continue with your duties.’
The men put their notebooks and pencils away and muttered amongst themselves as they stood up and proceeded to leave.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Blades and Peacock were again shown into Digby’s ornate sitting room, the first thing Blades noticed was that the butler stayed in the room with them. After motioning them towards chairs, he seated himself beside Digby. Blades gave Digby an inquiring look. ‘You want your manservant present during police inquiries?’ He wondered just how nervous this suspect was.
‘You’re under a misunderstanding,’ Digby said. ‘He’s more of a general factotum and friend.’
‘Is he?’ Blades said, who had never heard of such a thing.
‘The relationship goes back a bit,’ the ‘servant’ said as Blades again took in the uprightness of his bearing and the firmness in the voice. ‘My name’s Eric, Eric Blair. I was a friend of a friend, to begin with. I was visiting someone else in Craiglockhart Hospital when I came across Digby.’
‘Go on,’ Blades told him.
‘That’s the hospital where they treated shell-shocked patients.’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘He was in quite a state.’ Eric paused as he gathered his words. ‘As were a lot of them. I’ll tell you about one. He was shot in the leg and taken to a field hospital where his wound recovered, but his right arm remained useless to him. He couldn’t move it. Stiff as a corpse it was. Which was odd because he hadn’t been shot there. There was no wound whatsoever. The mind does funny things. Take Digby.’
Blades noticed Digby tensing at this. ‘Do you have to?’ Digby said.
‘The inspector needs to understand.’
‘I suppose.’
‘He was shell-shocked but the opposite of violent. He was unable to speak or, apparently, hear or move. He didn’t anyway. Just sat and stared into space. What he’d seen in the war had so appalled him he’d totally withdrawn into himself. Though mind you, when I came across him, he’d advanced from that. He was talking a bit and moving about, recovering.’
Eric paused, took out a pack of Woodbines and lit one. He drew in from the cigarette, then stared at the smoke as he breathed it out.
‘I need to get this right,’ he said, ‘so that you understand it. When he came out of his silence, he started jabbering quite a bit. Not to anyone at all most of the time, just himself, or so everyone thought. Then they realised he was talking to people, but not to anyone who was actually there. He seemed to be imagining his dead comrades were there beside him. He was talking to them.’
Blades looked at Digby who was sitting very still and quiet as if hating having to listen to this.
‘It was a dreadful thing that war,’ Blades said. ‘It must have been awful out there.’
‘You weren’t out?’ Digby said.
‘No,’ Blades replied, momentarily feeling the need to defend himself but not finding anything to say.
‘It was awful,’ Digby said. ‘Those machine guns mowing everyone down. Everyone in my platoon was chopped down at the knees as we moved forward at the Somme. But the bullets missed me completely. Now, why was that?’ The look Digby gave Blades as he waited for an answer was accusing. Blades did not know what to reply.
‘Some people feel guilty because they’re still alive,’ Eric said. ‘Digby does. So he’s glad to be able to help people.’
‘So many people dying. So many. How does the mind cope with that?’ Digby said. ‘It’s incomprehensible. Where did they go? They must have gone somewhere. That’s what people think. That’s why they come to me.’
Blades looked at him carefully. He supposed it would be difficult to doubt that sincerity.
‘Anyway, I was saying.’ Eric paused again and took in a particularly deep breath of smoke. ‘Some of them on the ward started getting séances up. I think most of them were larking around. And they roped Digby into it. They thought it would get him talking a bit with other people, the ones in the room. Not that it happened in the way they intended. Digby became their medium. The dead spoke to his fellow patients through him. Digby wasn’t someone who’d be having a bit of fun. They could see that. Then they realised all that time Digby had seemed to be talking to himself, he hadn’t been. The dead had come back and were talking to him.’
As Blades watched Eric lean forward in his chair with an intent stare, he could see that the man was serious.
‘Were they?’
‘You’re not a believer?’ Eric asked.
‘Eric is,’ Digby said. ‘He always has been. He was a worker in the Spiritualist church for years before he met me.’
‘When I found out about Digby, I watched him in his séances and I realised this was someone who could be a big help in our church. He was never passed fit for active service again, but he did recover as such and, when he did, I was in touch with him and welcomed him into our community. In time he became a minister and has been doing countless good for us and for so many grief-stricken families for a couple of years now.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. What was the name of the doctor who treated you at Craiglockhart, Mr Russell?’
Digby’s eyes widened, and he looked as if he was considering refusing to reply, but he said, ‘Dr Anderson. Dr Philip Anderson. There were other doctors, but he was the one who supervised my case.’
‘And the name of your doctor here?’
Digby forced the words out. ‘Dr Summerfield.’
‘Good. Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re not convinced, are you?’ Eric said to Blades.
Blades gave him a casual glance, then looked back at Digby who had shifted in his seat and seemed to be biting his lip. Then, turning to Eric, Blades said, ‘It’s early in the investigations, sir. We’re not convinced about anything.’ But what he was thinking was that there was no way Digby was innocent. There must be some explanation for that poker.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dr Humbold was a middle-aged man; his face was careworn, due to work Blades assumed but, though serious, it was a kind face. Blades was looking at him behind his desk in his consulting room. The doctor’s surgery was a converted sitting room in an ordinary house, with a waiting area adjacent, where Blades had noticed several patients seated.
‘What can I do to help you, Inspector?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about one of your patients.’
‘Which one?’
‘Digby Russell.’
‘That young man? What is it you want to know about him?’
‘You’ll have heard about the murder of Miss Evelyn Wright?’
‘Oh yes. Everyone in Birtleby has heard about that. Is Digby Wright a suspect?’
‘Unfortunately, yes, and we know he has a history of shell-shock. What I want to ask is if, in your clinical experience with him, you consider him to be a young man with a propensity to violence.’
‘Violence? Digby Russell?’ Dr Humbold looked surprised but gave it thought and, as he did, the lines on his forehead deepened. ‘I can’t, of course, divulge confidential information.’
Blades, who already knew that, waited to see what the next response would be. He hated trying to elicit the help of doctors but, as he was aware how unhelpful any sign of irritation on his part would be, he kept as patient an expression on his face as he could muster.
‘But there might be things I could say that would help. It’s not my impression Digby is a violent man. He strikes me as being somewhat innocent, not a predator, and somebody who is more likely to be manipulated than to do the opposite.’
‘May I ask what makes you say that?’
‘A lot of my patients believe in Spiritualism, and he believes in what he’s doing. I don’t get the impression he’s any kind of fraud.’
‘Would you say he hallucinates?’
Dr Humbold sat
back in his chair and his eyes perused Blades as he sighed. He tapped his fingers. He said nothing.
‘You won’t answer that question?’
‘I can’t.’
‘I’m sorry if I crossed the line. I didn’t mean to.’ Though if Blades could have forced a detailed clinical analysis from Dr Humbold, he would have done. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
Then, to Blades’ surprise, Dr Humbold volunteered another piece of information.
‘He could be influenced by someone else, which might be what is happening with his séances. He’s very much under the influence of Eric Blair.’
‘Who takes advantage of the form his hallucinations take?’ Peacock said.
As a frosty look had come over Dr Humbold, Blades continued, ‘The voices that come to him from beyond the grave, shall we say?’
‘Though I’ve no definite knowledge of what I’ve just said, you understand?’ Humbold replied. ‘It’s speculation.’
‘Of course, sir. I do. By any chance, did you have communication with his doctor at Craiglockhart?’
‘Yes, and I can’t divulge it to you.’
This Blades had expected, though he did wait for a few moments to give Dr Humbold the chance to add anything he wished. As Dr Humbold said nothing, Blades said, ‘Have you any idea whether that doctor is still there?’
‘You do know that Craiglockhart closed down, don’t you? That was only operative for a couple of years.’
‘Was it?’
‘It was a war hospital. Those doctors will have scattered all over the place by now. Perhaps if you looked up a medical directory, that would tell you where he is.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, you’ve been more than helpful. Thank you again. I’ll leave you to your patients.’
‘I’m glad to have been able to help you.’
* * *
When Blades and Peacock returned to their car, Peacock said, ‘No doubt you read something into the fact he didn’t answer that question about Digby possibly hallucinating?’
‘Digby hallucinates. That’s what I read into that. And you’d think getting confused about reality would make him dangerous, even if it’s not the picture that Humbold wants to paint. Something doesn’t add up about that. Humbold says Digby’s not a predator, yet his relationship with Evelyn Wright suggests he was out to take advantage of her, which fits in with what other people tell us. On the other hand, he has no history of violence that we know of and he doesn’t look violent to me, just weak.’
‘Maybe you haven’t seen the things I’ve seen.’
Blades looked inquiringly at him.
‘In the war. It’s surprising how violent these weak ones can be.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’ But Peacock did not elaborate.
‘It’s easy to get a gut feeling about Digby, isn’t it?’ Blades said.
‘A pity about the fingerprints on the poker,’ Peacock said.
Blades was glad to be reminded of this. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘Supposition is fine. But proof’s what matters. Which won’t stop me checking out that hotel in Leeds. I’d love to know if Digby spent time with Evelyn Wright there. If he and Evelyn did shack up there, I would think he’s our man.’ But even as he said it, doubts emerged in his mind. In that last case, they had been convinced more than once about who committed the murder, only to get it wrong. If Digby was innocent, Blades wouldn’t want him to go through what Harry Barker and Bob Nuttall had. The inquest had pointed the finger straight at them because they had looked so guilty, only for facts to prove otherwise later. They must have gone through hell in prison, on remand too. After what they had been through in the trenches, he, the great Inspector Blades, had made them go through that.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next day came the routine of a brief inquest when due formalities were gone through at which nothing surprising transpired, but, after that, Blades and Peacock were free to go to Evelyn Wright’s hotel in Leeds. The Princess Grand Hotel Leeds certainly lived up to its soubriquet of grand, Blades thought as he and Peacock stood outside the three-storey, stone-built edifice fronted by the classical pillars of its front portico. The lawns in front of it deserved to be described as such too.
‘How the other half live,’ Peacock muttered.
‘If this was the hotel Evelyn stayed at, she had good taste.’
‘Haven’t I heard of this place before?’ Peacock asked. ‘Didn’t Queen Victoria’s son Eddie bring one of his mistresses here?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t read the scandal sheets myself. Prince Eddie, eh?’
‘And Queen Victoria herself? Wasn’t that another woman who was at a loose end after the death of the man in her life? Wasn’t there talk about her and that Highland servant of hers, Brown?’
‘I did hear about that.’
‘It’s human nature, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Which we always seem to meet the worst of. I sometimes wish I could see less of it, but never mind. Here we are, Leeds, the scene of Miss Wright’s adventures away from home. What did she get up to outside the goldfish bowl of Birtleby?’ There was a weary tone to Blades’ voice as he said this, but a briskness in the stride of the two policemen as they walked into the reception area of The Princess Grand.
It was a large space, with a desk on the right-hand side of the entry and elegant, cushioned chairs to the left where a couple was seated in relaxed poses: he, besuited in a fine grey cloth; she, resplendent in her well-cut blue linen day dress. They looked askance at Blades and Peacock, who appeared much as they were, underpaid and over-sombre policemen. Blades strode to the reception desk where a stout man with short-cut black hair and a pencil moustache stood and aimed a polite smile at him. Taking in the man’s bearing, Blades assumed him to be the manager.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Blades showed his card. ‘I’m here investigating a case.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the man replied; his professional demeanour slipped as he unconsciously tugged at his sleeve.
‘We’re trying to establish the movements of a lady called Miss Evelyn Wright, who would have travelled here from Birtleby and stayed about a month or so ago.’
‘I’ll look at our register, sir,’ the manager replied as he drew towards him a large book which lay open on the counter. ‘About a month ago, you say?’
‘That’s when she would have left, probably about the 26th. She would have stayed with you for about a month before that.’
The man turned the pages. ‘Here you are. This is when she left.’
‘You’ve found her. At first go. That was efficient.’
‘She did sign out on June the 26th. I’ll try to see when she signed in.’ He turned more pages. ‘Here she is. Arrived on May the 20th. Stayed in a room with an adjoining sitting room on the first floor. Is there anything else I can do to help?’
‘Do you remember her by sight?’
‘I do. A well-mannered lady, softly spoken, expensively dressed. Not overdemanding. An acceptable class of person to have around the hotel.’
Blades wondered at the hesitation the manager made that statement with, and what that might mean. ‘Do you know if she met up with anyone while she was here?’
‘She did mix with other guests. And she sometimes shared a table with a Mr Osgood, who didn’t stay but whom she knew from somewhere else. I remember him. Very careless about where he parked his car. Big, flashy model. A Bentley Sports no less, but he put it anywhere. We were always having to ask him to shift it, so the other guests could get their cars in or out.’
And perhaps that was the reason for the reserve. The company she kept. ‘He was definitely called Osgood, not Russell?’
‘For sure. Osgood. He was a bit of a loud, unforgettable person.’
Blades and Peacock swapped looks. Perhaps this Osgood explained the uncooperative evidence in Birtleby.
‘An arrogant type?’
‘Very. Came from a good class though. Posh accen
t. Careless manner. A generous tipper.’
Blades noticed Peacock looking unprofessionally agog. But it was no wonder. This was a different type of person in the case.
‘How did the relationship between him and Miss Wright appear?’
‘Casual. Close. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company hugely. I assumed there was a romantic relationship, but the waiters might tell you more – or the maids.’
‘Did you hear what they spoke about?’
‘No. Again, the waiters could have done, though whether they took note of it or not I don’t know.’ The manager shrugged his shoulders rudely, Blades thought. Perhaps he was tiring of the questions. Then, with a frown on his face, the man asked, ‘May ask why you are enquiring after Miss Wright? She seemed a law-abiding lady.’
‘I don’t doubt it but she’s dead. Murdered.’
‘God. When did it happen?’
‘At her home in Birtleby a couple of days ago. We’ve been making inquiries in Birtleby and we’re spreading our net wider now.’
‘There won’t be any publicity for this hotel, will there? Customers wouldn’t like that.’
Blades gave him a reassuring look. ‘In my experience the public love that sort of thing. You’ll probably find them flocking to stay in the same room she stayed in. But we’ll try to keep you out of the public eye. Don’t worry.’
‘I would prefer it.’
‘I don’t suppose you know how I can get in touch with this Mr Osgood?’
‘No. But someone else might.’
Then Blades and Peacock found themselves interviewing several members of staff, including a waiter called Joe Perkins. He was a small man approaching middle age who looked a bit careworn. He had an obsequious smile which Blades was suspicious of, but he told himself to beware of prejudice.
‘Jack Osgood? Now there’s a fellow.’
Blades was pleased to learn his first name.
‘Biggest swank you’re likely to meet, with his bright silk waistcoats and his gold pocket watch and flashy rings; and he likes a fat cigar after dinner too. Loud voice. You can’t miss it from across the room. Charming fellow though. Enormous smile on him and when it comes your way you feel like you’re the most important person in the world even if you are only his waiter. Only a young fellow. I did wonder what he could see in that Evelyn Wright. He had plenty of money and could have got anyone. And Evelyn Wright? It was Wright, wasn’t it? She loved all the attention he smothered her with. I suppose he made her feel young again. Though you could see she meant nothing to him.’