Her Saving Grace

by Catherine Winchester

“He was a good man, much older than me but he had a very good heart, and he indulged me when many husbands wouldn’t.”

  “That’s… nice.”

  It seemed clear to Damaris that Annabelle pitied her. She wanted to explain that without William, she would never have had her wonderful son, but talking about him was too painful so she accepted the pity.

  Nathaniel came to her rescue then and asked his mother about the plans for the Harvest Festival this year, even though it was months away and he probably wasn’t the slightest bit interested.

  His mother patiently explained the many things that would need to be done, and Damaris breathed a sigh of relief that her interrogation was over.

  After dinner they all retired to the drawing room and Annabelle took a seat at the pianoforte in the corner but before she could begin, the sound of hooves on the gravel driveway drew their attention.

  Due to the late hour, rather than wait for the visitor to be announced, Nathaniel made his way to the entrance hall, Damaris following.

  The butler was already at the door, and opened it for them to step through.

  The rider cantered to a stop and they approached him.

  “What’s going on?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I was sent to fetch you,” the rider exclaimed. “Constable Smyth has been attacked.”

  “Where?” Damaris demanded, unwilling to waste time getting the details now when she could see for herself.

  “Dean Street.”

  “Thank you.” Nathaniel said and turned back towards the house, calling for his carriage to be readied.

  Chapter Nine

  When they arrived at the scene, a clerk from the town hall was there, along with Dr Worthington. A crowd had formed around the body but they were keeping their distance.

  Nathaniel pushed through them, Damaris following in his wake. He had considered telling her to wait for him in the carriage but he knew it would be a waste of time.

  “Doctor Worthington?” Nathaniel said as he entered the clearing. The other man looked up from his position, crouched over the body. “This is Lady Wellesley.”

  The Doctor nodded towards her then looked back to Nathaniel, who knelt down beside him.

  “What happened?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I haven’t been here long myself. It appears however, that the constable was robbed.” He pointed to Smyth’s head. Moving the oil lamp that he held closer so that Nathaniel could better see the wounds. “He seems to have been hit on the back of the head at least three times, ambushed if you will, and his wallet is missing.”

  Smyth’s head was indeed a bloody mess. Nathaniel looked to the constable’s belt, where his black quilted wallet usually sat, but it was missing.

  He glanced at Damaris to make sure that the gruesome sight of the body wasn’t upsetting her. She was looking around at the crowd however, not at the body.

  “Will you autopsy the body anyway?” Nathaniel asked, remembering that the initial cause of death in Charles Howard’s case had been incorrect.

  “If you want me to.”

  “There’s no need,” Damaris entered the conversation, finally turning her gaze to the men. “The small amount of blood means that he was alive for only a very short time after the blows were delivered, so there’s little doubt that they killed him. It wasn’t a robbery however.”

  Nathaniel got to his feet and approached her, wondering what caused her to make such an assertion.

  “His wallet is missing,” he reminded her.

  “Yes but most robbers won’t kill, murder is a far worse crime than robbery. One blow should have been enough to stun him but they hit him three times, hard, meaning that death was the intention of the attack, not robbery.”

  Her logic was sound but still. “This is a bad area of town, not exactly known for its wise and intelligent folk. Perhaps the robber panicked, perhaps this was his first crime?”

  “But he wasn’t killed here.”

  “What makes you say that?” he asked.

  “Because it rained this morning and he would have worn a coat to work. He’s still in his uniform, therefore he was coming from work, and leaving his coat behind would have been foolish, in case it rained again in the morning.”

  “Forgetfulness is hardly proof.”

  Damaris stepped closer to the body.

  “May I?” she asked Dr Worthington, pointing to his lamp.

  “Of course.” He handed it to her and she knelt down beside the body, not caring that the dirty cobbles could ruin her dress.

  “See here?” she said, moving the lamp closer to the head and pointing to rivulets of blood that had run down the constable’s cheek.

  “I do.” Nathaniel crouched beside her.

  “There was enough blood to run down the cheek, but there’s no blood pooled in the road. He was moved here after he died.”

  The doctor and Nathaniel shared a look.

  “He could have crawled a few paces,” Dr Worthington suggested.

  “Fluids move towards the ground,” Damaris asserted. “If he had crawled, either his head would have been up, in which case the blood would have run towards his chin, or his head was down, slumped, in which case the blood would have run towards his forehead. The blood here runs in straight lines from the back of his head, over his cheek to his nose, with no change in the direction of travel. The straight lines mean that after he was hit, he didn’t move, so where is the pool of blood?”

  Nathaniel raised his eyebrows, asking the doctor if she was correct. Worthington nodded.

  “I can’t argue with such sound reasoning,” the doctor said, sounding impressed.

  “So where was he killed?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Wherever his coat is. Find the coat and we’ll find where he was killed,” she stated.

  “He’s in his uniform, so he was likely killed in his office.” Nathaniel reasoned.

  Damaris headed towards the carriage, pushing her way back through the crowd.

  Nathaniel looked to the doctor.

  “I’ll have the body removed to my surgery,” Worthington assured Nathaniel, who hurried off in Damaris’ wake.

  ***

  The town hall was empty at this time of night but the rear door wasn’t locked, as it should have been.

  “What was he doing here so late?” Damaris wondered. He didn’t seem like the type to work long hours.

  “He might not have been,” Nathaniel argued. “He might have been killed earlier, shortly after the building was locked up, then the murderer could have waited until after dark to dump the body, to reduce the likelihood of being seen.”

  They entered the building silently and listened for any untoward noises. When there were none, they headed to the front door, lit one of the oil lamps there and made their way to Smyth’s office. His door was unlocked too.

  “There’s his coat,” Damaris said as they entered; it was hanging from a hook behind the door.

  “Nothing seems out of place,” Nathaniel noted as he looked around.

  “But if nothing happened here, why do you think the doors were unlocked.” Damaris asked.

  “How would the killer have a key?” Nathaniel countered.

  “He wouldn’t but Smyth would. Our killer went to the trouble of moving the body, so why not use the keys and lock up?”

  “The killer forgot the coat as well,” Nathaniel reminded her, still looking round for anything that might be out of place. “If I had to guess, I’d say the killer came here to find out how much we knew about your father’s death. For whatever reason, Smyth surprised him and he had no choice but to kill him. Moving the body was an ill thought out attempt to disguise the murder.”

  Nathaniel bent over and looked at the bottom of the desk.

  “Did you find something?” She asked.

  “Just a small scratch,” he said, showing her where the desk feet had moved perhaps an inch, leaving small scuff marks on the floor.

  “So the struggle likely happened in here,” Damaris reasone
d.

  “Probably but if Smyth bled in here, the killer must have cleaned it up.”

  Damaris moved behind the desk and began to go through the drawers.

  “He had a diary,” she said, bringing out a small, leather bound book.

  “What appointments are listed today?” Nathaniel asked. He began to go through the pockets of Smyth’s coat.

  “Nothing.” She began to leaf through the book. “He doesn’t seem to use it.”

  Nathaniel groaned.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing just… I bought him that diary and told him to use it, I kept hearing complaints that he was late or had missed meetings. He kept promising that he would.”

  “It’s a shame he didn’t, we might have an idea of where he’d been and why he was here late. What if the killer made an appointment to see him out of hours?”

  “With the intention of killing Smyth?” he asked.

  “Why not? He is supposed to be investigating my father’s death and if he’s dead, it will take time for someone else to be appointed.”

  “If he was still investigating, I’d send a message asking the Bow Street Magistrates to send us a couple of Runners, who would probably be a lot more efficient than Smyth.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “That if Smyth was murdered to slow the progression of the investigation, the killer probably isn’t local. Most locals know how inept Smyth is… or was. If this was just a case of bad timing and Smyth was killed because he happened upon the killer, then it could be a local man.”

  He ceased looking through the pockets and began turning the coat back and forth.

  “But we have no proof either way.” Damaris sighed.

  “True,” he admitted. He began to tear the coat’s lining, creating a hole. “And there’s a third option that we haven’t discussed.”

  “Oh?” She turned to see what he was doing and found him pulling folded papers from the coat lining, which he opened to show her that they were bank notes.

  “That Smyth might have been involved with your father’s disappearance, perhaps bribed or bought off for his silence.”

  “If so, why kill him now?” she asked.

  “Because he’s no longer investigating, so he’s of no use to them? Or maybe he tried to blackmail them?”

  Damaris took the notes from him and began to look through them. “Ten pounds?”

  “That’s a lot of money to a man like Smyth. It would certainly explain why he wasn’t more efficient.”

  Constables could charge the parish for the services they provided and the more they did, the more they could charge. It was unusual for a constable to be so lackadaisical about his job.

  “We have no way of telling how many other payments he’s had over the years. They could have paid him hundreds, this might be all that’s left from a larger payment.”

  “Was he married?” Damaris asked.

  “He was. I suggest we speak with his wife and see how amenable she is to us searching the house.”

  “Do we need her permission?”

  “No, but it’s easier that way. If she has nothing to hide, she should be amenable. Shall we go now?”

  Damaris nodded. “We should come back here in daylight, just in case we missed anything.”

  Nathaniel tucked the money back into a coat pocket and folded the garment over his arm. “We should lock the door behind us; I’ll send my driver to get the keys from the head clerk.”

  “Or…” Damaris produced her lock picks.

  “You can lock a door as well as opening one?”

  “It’s exactly the same,” she said, “you just turn the tumbler the other way once the levers are aligned.”

  “I’m not exactly sure what you just said but I’ll trust that you can do it.” He smiled, pleased by her ingenuity.

  They stepped out into the hallway and Nathaniel held the lamp close to the lock, while Damaris got to her knees to pick it.

  “That was quick,” he said when she was finished.

  “I used to be a lot faster,” she said, accepting his hand to help her up. “I’m out of practice.”

  ***

  A parish constable has many duties and as well as catching criminals, they are also responsible for organising the local Militia Muster, maintaining fences and field gates, supervising and aiding beggars, vagrants and those passing through, enforcing some punishments, financially rewarding acts of bravery and collecting taxes.

  Because of that, constables needed to be able to read and write, as well as maintain bookkeeping accounts, which required a certain level of education. As such, most constables were of the lower middle classes, the sort of person who didn’t do manual labour and might be employed as a clerk, agent or notary. As such the Constable’s home, provided by the parish, was in the professional area of town, although slightly larger than most of its neighbours.

  Smyth’s family however, appeared to be poorer than their neighbours. The daughter who opened the door was perhaps thirteen and wore a nice dress, but it was old fashioned and had been darned in a few places. Her eyes were dry, although the cries of another woman could be heard coming from inside.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m Lord Copley, Justice of the Peace, this is Lady Wellesley, my… assistant. We’d like to talk to you about your father.”

  “We know what happened,” she said sadly. “You’ve no need to stay and offer condolences, but I thank you for coming.”

  “We’d like to speak to your mother if we may, about your father.”

  “What for?” she sounded confused.

  “We’re trying to find whoever killed your father.”

  “You’d best come in then.” The girl stepped back, opening the door wide for them.

  Nathaniel removed his hat and stepped into the kitchen.

  “Ma’s through there.” The girl pointed to a door at the end of the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Mrs Smyth was seated in front of the fire in the living room, wailing to a friend who was comforting her, wondering what was to become of them now that her husband was dead.

  Nathaniel introduced himself and Damaris, thoroughly unsure of how to handle a hysterical woman, quietly watched.

  Nathaniel asked a number of questions but no matter what he asked, Mrs Smyth wailed her reply, so much so that it was hard to understand her. After fifteen minutes, she hadn’t told them anything useful.

  “I wonder if we might look around the house?” Nathaniel asked. “Perhaps starting with your husband’s desk?”

  “Yes, yes, what do I care for his desk now? Oh, what is to become of us? We will be turned out into the street without his wages!” Mrs Smyth began crying again and her friend hugged her.

  Nathaniel wanted to assure her that she would be taken care of but until he knew if her husband was guilty or innocent, he couldn’t offer such assurances. They headed back to the kitchen, where the daughter was tidying, and she directed them to a small room on the other side of the kitchen; her father’s study.

  Damaris began going through the desk but when they had searched half the room and not discovered anything useful, Nathaniel moved back to the kitchen.

  “Did you find what you were after?” the daughter asked.

  “No. I just wanted to ask how you are. It seems as if your mother is getting all the sympathy.”

  The girl shrugged. “We didn’t see much of Pa,” she said, explaining her lack of emotion over his loss.

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  She shook her head. It was highly unusual for a family to have only one child.

  “What sort of a man was your father?” he asked.

  Again she shrugged. “Don’t really know. Like I said, we didn’t see much of him.”

  “He didn’t live here,” Damaris stated, emerging from the study into the kitchen. “There is no bill, letter or book dated later than 1814.”

 
The girl blushed and turned back to her task.

  “There’s also no servant, when a house this size would demand at least one and your clothes, while made of quality fabrics, are second hand.”

  The girl didn’t turn around, doing her best to ignore Damaris as she scrubbed a perfectly clean work surface.

  “Where did your father live?” Damaris demanded. “Withholding information is illegal,” she threatened. She didn’t know if it was illegal or not but it sounded as if it could be. “Do you want to be charged and taken to jail?”

  The scrubbing got harder but the girl still ignored them so Damaris strode over and grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn.

  “Tell me where your father lived!”

  “Lady Wellesley!” Nathaniel didn’t raise his voice but his tone brooked no argument. “You will wait for me in the carriage.”

  “But she knows-”

  “Now, if you please.”

  Damaris looked from Nathaniel to the girl and back again, before finally storming out in frustration.

  “I am sorry,” he told the daughter. “She… well, she doesn’t do well with people sometimes.”

  The girl didn’t answer but neither did she resume scrubbing. She stood still, her arms wrapped around her waist and her head bowed.

  “What’s your name?” he asked but again she didn’t reply. “You won’t be arrested,” he assured her.

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and quickly looked away. “Sally.” She said in a small voice.

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Sally.”

  “And you, Sir.”

  “Can you read and write?” he asked.

  “I can, Sir.”

  “And do you have employment?”

  “No, Sir.”

  Although she wasn’t crying like her mother, he knew that she had to be worried about her own future now that her father was dead.

  “Then I believe I can find you employment. A friend of mine is in need of a conscientious clerk who he can train up to keep track of his stock for him. Would you be interested?”

  “How do you know I’m conscientious?” she asked.

  “I met your mother,” he answered with a conspiratorial smile. “This house has no servant but is spotlessly kept, which means that one of you acts as a grown-up, and I doubt that is Mrs Smyth.”