‘I imagine my sergeant will be walking the course, getting a feel for the place and the lie of the land,’ Henry said. ‘So if you could suggest a vantage point where we might see him?’
Emory nodded and led Henry up into the stands, from where the seats on the top level could see right across the racecourse. They soon spied Mickey Hitchens; he seemed to be in company with a man and two boys. ‘Looks like he’s found himself some assistance,’ Emory said.
Henry sat back in the seat and folded his hands together across his chest. ‘Sergeant Hitchens is good at that,’ he said. ‘I, on the other hand, am good at being an awkward, cussed son of a bastard,’ Henry said without rancour. ‘Or so I am frequently told.’
Emory considered his response for a moment, and then said, ‘So you make a good team then.’
And then, that most unusual of sounds: Henry Johnstone laughed.
THREE
It had been assumed that Martha Mason’s bag had been stolen when she’d been attacked, but when Sergeant Emory, Mickey and Henry re-joined the police driver, he informed them that the bag had been handed in as lost property. A fact that had not come to light until early that afternoon.
‘All the lost property was brought to the station and gone through,’ he explained. ‘It wasn’t realized at first this bag belonged to the dead lady, only when it was opened up and the contents examined.’
The intent had been to go and interview the victim’s husband and the friends that she had been with, but Henry now decided that they should go immediately to look at the handbag and so they were driven to the police station on Burgage Lane.
Martha Mason’s handbag was of good quality, Henry thought. Black leather, lined with purple silk and closed with a gilt clasp shaped like a butterfly. He looked for a label but was unable to find one so he asked Mickey to take a photograph of it, not so much for purposes of evidence but because he suspected this might be more expensive than most doctor’s wives would possess. His sister Cynthia would know.
Inside was a blue, leather frame purse which also closed with a gilt clasp, though this one much simpler. ‘Do we know how much money she had on her?’ he asked.
Emory consulted his notes. ‘The husband thinks she would have had loose change, probably a ten-shilling note and perhaps a five-pound note tucked into the lining of her bag. She was apparently in the habit of keeping that for emergencies.’
‘In the lining?’ Henry looked. There was no obvious pocket in the interior of the bag so he decided that this was meant literally, though obviously in some way that could be accessed without tearing anything. The base of the bag was reinforced and stiffened and the inner reinforcement was held in place by four small brass rivets; Henry supposed that something could be concealed beneath. At the base of the bag on the outside were four tiny little feet, to protect the leather from wear, should it be placed on the floor. Henry experimentally twisted these and discovered that they did in fact unscrew, releasing the lining reinforcement which, when lifted free, revealed not one but two five-pound notes, neatly folded together with a small key.
‘Interesting,’ Mickey observed.
The bag also contained a handkerchief, a powder compact – dark-green, faux snakeskin, which seem to Henry to be at odds with the rest of the contents – a key ring with two keys on it.
‘House keys?’ Henry suggested. ‘Show them to the husband.’
A lipstick. ‘Do you think this was the shade she was wearing?’ Henry asked.
Emory shrugged. ‘Both are red. I’m afraid I’m not much of an expert in women’s mysteries.’
‘Mysteries indeed,’ Henry agreed. There was a small address book, with an attached pencil, and Henry flicked through this then handed it to Emory. ‘I wish every contact to be followed up,’ he said. ‘On the face of it nothing seemed obviously to be missing, but the husband might know.’
‘More likely the friend, Mrs Nora Phillips, would be aware of what was usually in Mrs Mason’s bag,’ Mickey suggested.
‘But we will ask both, and see what answers we get.’ Henry surveyed the small collection of items laid out on the table and then looked again at the bag. It wasn’t an oversized bag but it comfortably held the purse, the compact and the other things. ‘Would you say there was anything missing?’ he asked, not directing the question at anybody in particular.
‘I’m not so familiar with women’s bags,’ Emory protested mildly. ‘Not being a married man I miss out on that sort of thing. But I reckon my sisters usually have more in the nature of general detritus, if you get my meaning. Bus tickets and the like. But if this is not her regular everyday bag—’
‘My lady wife likes to be prepared,’ Mickey agreed. ‘I know she carries a small sewing kit, safety pins and the like. But then she does travel a good deal.’ He picked up the little bag and examined it thoughtfully. ‘The bag is nice quality,’ he said, ‘and it looks quite new, there is no fading to the lining, no wear on those little feet, no chafing on the handle. Perhaps it is a best bag, a going-out bag. Again the husband or the friend would know.’ He glanced up at his boss. ‘You think that despite appearances something might have been taken?’
Henry was reading the report about where the bag had been found – by a young couple who had noticed it kicked under a bush and assumed that it had been stolen from somebody. They had picked it up and given it to one of the stewards who had eventually put it in lost property and thence it had come to the police station.
‘So how far from where the body was found was the bag discovered?’
‘Quite a way,’ Emory said. ‘Closer to where she left her friend than to where she was found.’
‘So, that suggests that the bag was taken from her and then cast aside and the woman was either taken or went voluntarily to the paddock where the vehicles were parked. Taken through a crowded place, perhaps reluctantly. Someone would have seen. Many people would have seen.’
‘All of whom probably went home yesterday,’ Mickey observed. ‘Tracking them down now would be impossible, though an appeal for witnesses should still be made. It’s possible someone saw the lady with her killer.’
‘And most will probably have assumed anything they’d seen was a lover’s quarrel or just not seen because they were focusing on the race, or on the betting, or on being determined to have a good day out no matter what,’ Emory added.
Henry conceded all of that with a nod. ‘There has been an appeal for witnesses already put out?’
‘There has, both locally and in the national papers. That will be in today so we might get results if we’re lucky,’ Emory told him. ‘And we now know about the blue car and the man in the suit without the hat and that he probably left by that far gate. There’d be less people around to see him coming in that way and my guess is the couple entered by that far gate too.’
‘So we need to think about likely routes,’ Henry agreed. ‘He would have wanted to avoid crowds. The thing is, she appears to have gone to him willingly – assuming that the friend she saw in the crowds was this man.’
‘Nora Phillips said they,’ Emory emphasized. ‘I remember it particularly because her husband questioned her about it. He asked if she was certain it was “they” and not he or she, but definitely “they” and she said that Mrs Mason definitely said “they”. “I didn’t know they would be here and I haven’t seen them in an age” – which is suggestive.’
‘Suggestive but not definitive. If the dead woman wanted to conceal who she was meeting, if the meeting had been prearranged, then perhaps she might have prevaricated.’
Emory frowned. ‘Everyone reckons Mrs Mason to have been a good woman, a good wife, a solid figure in the community. You will not find anyone say anything against her.’
‘And yet she is a woman who kept secrets,’ Henry stated. ‘Her husband knew that she might have one five-pound note concealed, and that would have been sufficient for any emergency, but to have two plus this little key, whatever this little key fits, that suggests more.’
>
‘To me it just suggests that she is an average woman,’ Mickey argued. ‘Women’s handbags are always a mystery to their men. And women like to feel secure; having a little money put aside is what makes them feel secure most of the time. Both your sister and my wife would tell you that.’
Henry frowned. Mickey certainly had a point. When he and Cynthia had been growing up and had been desperately poor, his sister had been in the habit of concealing small amounts of money in various places ‘just in case’, and as far as he knew she still did this, even though she had married well and her future was secure. Perhaps he had a point. Five extra pounds was useful money but not so much that it might be suspicious.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we will think on this. We’ll go now and interview the husband and the friends.’
‘And then we’ll have usefully achieved all we can for today,’ Mickey said pointedly. Neither of them had eaten since leaving London, apart from sandwiches that Mickey had brought with him and shared with his friend and governor. ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut and so will yours when it gets time to consider it.’
Emory watched the interchange with interest noting how close these two men seemed. ‘You’ll find the food good at the hotel,’ he promised. He went out and called the driver.
Although Dr Phillips had his practice in Newark-on-Trent, both he and Dr Mason lived in Southwell, close enough to the racecourse that they could have walked on race day. A few members of the press had, as Emory had anticipated, tried to photograph or interview the families involved in the murder. Emory had constables posted to scoot them away from the Phillips’ door and told them, firmly, that they’d be better served waiting out events on Burgage Green. At least they’d then be able to decamp to the nearest pub, the Last Whistle, at lunchtime and in the evening.
Both Henry and Mickey had been photographed entering and leaving the police station and Henry knew that it would not be long before the newshounds had established precisely who they were. No doubt, until they could report progress on this case, there would be a reprise of other cases on which he and Mickey worked, appearing in the local papers the following day and in the national press on the day after.
Dr Phillips had opened his surgery that morning but had, as promised, arrived home for mid-afternoon and he had left a young assistant in charge of dispensing or general queries. Dr Mason, though he had wanted to go into work, had finally been persuaded that he’d be no use to anyone and was better off staying at home.
‘I understand that he wanted to bury himself in the work,’ Dr Phillips told Henry, ‘but the man can hardly string two sentences together. This has been a desperate shock to us all, and you can imagine what it must have been like for Clive to suddenly recognize his wife under such circumstances.’
‘It must have been a terrible shock,’ Henry agreed. ‘And Dr Mason was with you when the constable came for him, I understand.’
‘We’d been together for most of the afternoon, most of the day, in fact. We all had a picnic lunch, ourselves and the wives and the children and then Mason and I repaired to the bar, where we’d arranged to meet colleagues and friends. Truth be told, we’d all had a jolly afternoon. Mason had been called out twice. He was duty surgeon for the day and I was just there as backup should things go … Anyway, Clive had gone to attend to a drunk who had fallen and cut his head and to a jockey who I believe had dislocated his shoulder. Both minor incidences and neither of which in the end required police intervention. The drunk was taken home by his friends and reports that the jockey had been in a fight were apparently exaggerated.’
‘And Dr Mason was in good spirits, Mrs Mason also?’
‘Martha is always in good spirits. Was. One of the most cheerful women you would ever meet. Busy too, always on some committee or another. Frankly I don’t know what Clive would have done without her and I don’t know what he’ll do without her now. He could never have built the practice without her help. She did all the secretarial and reception in those first years, learnt basic dispensing, served as his assistant, even delivered his messages and his medications until he could afford to get a young man in. In fact, we now share an assistant – Gerald does two and a half days with each of us and I don’t mind telling you, Inspector, the first years of setting up in practice are tough. But we finally both have things on an even keel, with a good patient list and, largely due to Martha’s intervention, I have to say, we both donate a few hours free time every week at the workhouse, or the asylum, or the soup kitchens. And, of course, we are both on the register of police surgeons. You can imagine, our lives are busy and not always predictable. A man needs a good wife to hold the fort when there are so many demands on his time and Martha was a very level-headed sort – and, as I say, cheerful.’
Henry glanced across at his sergeant. He wondered if Dr Phillips was inferring that his own wife was perhaps lacking in some of these departments. Mickey’s twitch of a smile told him that his sergeant was thinking the same thing.
‘You both moved here at the same time, I believe.’
‘Indeed, we did. We went through medical school together and when a practice came up for sale in this area, we decided we would share responsibility for a time. That was a decade ago. Clive, and of course my wife’s family, helped me to set up my own practice and he continued with the original one. We have been at risk of sounding sentimental, Inspector, more like brothers than friends. Neither of us had much in the way of family and it has been a real blessing to have such a steadfast influence. I hope Clive will think the same of me.’
‘And you presumably married after you moved here?’ Henry queried. He was well aware of how poverty-stricken most young doctors were until they became established, unless they were lucky enough to raise the capital of a hundred pounds or more to buy into an existing practice.
‘I met Nora after I’d been here for about a year. Her father is in trade, owns two local grocery shops and Nora’s brothers have followed into the family business. In fact, it is through one of her brothers that I met Nora. He was a patient of the practice that we took over, he came along to check that we were still suitable, we got into conversation and over time we became friends. I received an invitation to dine and I met my future wife.’ Ephraim Phillips smiled and Henry gained the impression that he was in fact very fond of his wife, even if she was, as Sergeant Emory had turned it, somewhat flighty. It was interesting, Henry mused for a moment, had his sister used the term flighty she would have meant unreliable and somewhat wild; Emory simply meant that the woman was a little feather-brained.
‘And Dr Mason? Did he meet his wife here?’
For the first time Ephraim Phillips seemed uncertain, even a little uncomfortable. ‘No, he had occasion to make a trip to the south coast, and he met her there. They courted by letter for a time, and then she was persuaded to come and see if she could settle in this rather more rural environment than she was used to. In fact, she stayed with us for a few days and she and Nora became fast friends. Clive seemed even more smitten than he had been before and within months they were married.’
‘Did you find that strange?’ Henry asked.
Dr Phillips considered carefully before replying. ‘At first I was worried that my friend was plunging too fast and too deep. We knew nothing of this young woman, only that she and Clive had got into conversation on a promenade, of all places. This had led to them going to have tea in a Lyons tearoom – all very respectable. But Clive had fallen hard and of course we were worried. As it turned out, Martha was everything Clive had ever needed and indeed more. She has proved to be the perfect wife for a country doctor, and I have to say, a steadying influence on Nora. Nora can be a little excitable at times, but Martha has encouraged her to take on work with committees and to spread her wings socially. Nora will miss her terribly.’
At that moment came a light tap on the door which then opened, and Nora herself stepped through. She was a pretty woman, Henry thought. A mass of fair hair piled up in a loose bun, blue
eyes and full lips which were now turned down with anxiety when really they seemed designed only for smiling. Henry and Mickey were introduced and Nora took a seat at her husband’s side. Henry was rather gratified to see that he took Nora’s hand, patting it gently.
‘Just tell the inspector everything that happened. Just try to keep to the point,’ her husband instructed.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said as she smiled at her husband, and Henry realized that she had taken no offence at his words, just recognized perhaps that she often didn’t keep to the point.
‘You all had lunch together, a picnic lunch.’ Henry decided to begin with certainties before moving forward.
She nodded. ‘Martha and I had packed a picnic, and we all ate together in that little area beyond where the fairground had set up. It’s less busy there and the children could run around and not interfere with anyone. Occasionally the grooms bring the horses in to brush them down but it’s more of a cut through than anything else and the holiday crowd like to be closer to the racetrack.’
Henry could see that Nora’s husband was about to tell her to keep to the point but actually this was useful information. He asked Mickey for the sketch map they had drawn and asked her to point out where this was. He could see Dr Phillips itching to do this himself but Henry’s glance halted the impulse. Nora looked carefully at the map, asking Henry and then Mickey questions about it and then pointed. ‘It would be here,’ she said, pointing to a small enclosure at the back of the stadium. ‘Just there is where the fairground was set up. Beyond that is the paddock where poor Martha was found, isn’t it?’
Henry nodded.
‘Over there is where most of the horses are kept and in this area here, people cut through from one side to the other but it’s in the shade at that time of the day, at noon time, and it’s also away from the racetrack. The only people who picnic there really are families and there were a few families, perhaps a half-dozen. Some of them we knew and the children played together.’
The Good Wife Page 3