The Good Wife

by Jane A. Adams

  Henry had moved to the bureau and Mickey opened the first of the wardrobes. This was a man’s wardrobe: suits, shirts, overcoat. Drawers and a foldaway mirror and a place for brushes. He opened the drawers, rifled through, finding only handkerchiefs and ties and underwear. He moved to the second wardrobe, glancing across at Henry who was examining the bureau with attention and focus. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Household bills, receipts, a postcard from Bournemouth and a bundle of letters which look as though they were written from her husband. No doubt when they were courting.’ He set them aside, wondering if they would reveal anything useful about this young woman, before she had been married and moved to become a doctor’s wife. ‘An address book and an appointment diary.’ He flicked through both and then slipped them into his pocket and after a moment added the letters too.

  Mickey frowned, slightly ill at ease with that last act, but accepting that they knew very little about Martha Mason – though it seemed unlikely to Mickey that the cause of her death could have been something that happened eight or nine years ago, before she moved here. However, one never knew.

  He opened the second wardrobe. Dresses, a winter coat, knitwear packed away in linen bags and laid on the floor of the wardrobe. Shoes and then: ‘This must be her ordinary handbag,’ Mickey said. He brought it over to the bed and tipped it out. ‘Shopping lists, bus tickets, receipts for groceries. A little purse containing change, a comb and mirror and another address book.’

  ‘Hold on to the address book, then we can compare.’

  Mickey nodded, put the rest of the contents back into the bag and stowed the bag back in the wardrobe. He bent down to examine two of the shoeboxes, wondering why she didn’t keep her shoes in them, but when he touched them he realized that the weight was wrong for shoes. He opened them up and then brought both back to the bed.

  The first contained photographs, Christmas cards, little mementos such as theatre tickets. The shoebox itself had been covered with flowered cretonne and decorated with a blue bow. A quick survey revealed that these were things that Martha must have collected since her marriage and included small tokens of affection and snapshots of days out with friends. He turned to the second box, this one feeling heavier, and when he opened it Mickey was quite surprised to see silk scarves. He moved these aside and discovered that one was wrapped around something unexpected.

  ‘Well, well. That is not something I thought to find.’

  Henry looked over and then crossed to where Mickey was standing, staring at the gun, a Beretta and clip containing five rounds of ammunition which had been neatly wrapped in a red silk scarf and placed at the bottom of the box. ‘Now what would a respectable doctor’s wife be doing with one of these?’

  FOUR

  Dr Mason had been shocked. He had never seen that before, he told Henry and Mickey. ‘Inspector, I have no idea where that came from. It couldn’t possibly be Martha’s. What on earth would she need a gun for?’

  ‘You are aware of the box?’

  ‘Yes, of course. There are two shoeboxes, she covered them with that fancy fabric and used them to keep postcards and photographs and keepsakes. Martha was like most women – she had a tendency towards sentiment. Not that I have any argument with that, women are emotional creatures. Keeping these remembrances gave her pleasure.’

  ‘I do not think this is a remembrance.’ Mickey pointed at the gun.

  Dr Mason stared at it. ‘I served as a medic in the war, it has left me with a dislike and discomfort with all weaponry. I saw enough of the hurt that arms could inflict back then. That Martha could have such a thing is beyond belief. It must have come from somewhere else … why would she have a gun? Why would she bring a gun into our house, knowing how I felt about such things?’

  To that there was no immediate answer.

  ‘Dr Mason, we have made a cursory search but now it seems a more thorough search might be necessary. Your wife possessing such a thing suggests that––’

  ‘Suggests what? Martha was a good woman – anyone will tell you that. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. There has to be a reasonable explanation for—’

  ‘Someone having killed her?’ Henry suggested. ‘I doubt any explanation could be reasonable when it comes to murder.’

  Dr Mason was either genuinely deeply shocked or very good at dissembling, Mickey thought. He took Henry aside and suggested that they send for Dr Phillips and ask him to take his friend home for a few days and Henry agreed, noting this would make it easier to carry out an efficient search if the owner of the house was not present. It wasn’t quite what had led to Mickey’s suggestion but he didn’t bother trying to explain that to his boss. Henry was in full investigative mode now, and in that mood he steamrollered everybody and everything and had little concern for people’s feelings.

  Dr Phillips was summoned and the situation explained to him. He appeared equally shocked that his friend’s wife should own any kind of weapon. The idea of Martha owning a gun he seemed to find almost laughable until it was shown to him, nestling in among the scarves and gloves and handkerchiefs in the box, a box her husband would never be likely to explore, being full of women’s things and nothing to do with him.

  Dr Mason, supervised by Mickey, packed a suitcase and then surrendered the house keys to Henry and went on his way. He looked white and shocked and even more defeated.

  ‘Right.’ Henry stood in the centre of the bedroom and looked around. ‘So we begin again, and we treat this like a crime scene.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Mickey told him. ‘But we begin again tomorrow, with fresh minds and a little more energy. It is now past seven in the evening, and I told you that my stomach thought my throat had been cut perhaps three hours ago. So now we go and we eat, and then we rest and we start tomorrow with clear heads.’

  For a moment it looked as though Henry would argue, him being the senior officer, but he and Mickey had worked as a team for far too long for rank to matter and Henry had learned the sense of listening to his sergeant by now. So they locked the house and were driven to the hotel.

  ‘So,’ Mickey looked across at his boss and made sure that he had actually tackled most of his meal before raising the subject of the investigation, ‘what do we make of this so far?’

  Henry Johnstone took a sip of his beer, then to Mickey’s satisfaction speared a piece of pie from his plate. ‘That this young woman perhaps took advantage of a doctor’s affection in order to reinvent herself. Maybe too great a conclusion to reach on the evidence so far, but I wonder how much anyone knew about her life before she arrived. Before she agreed to marry.’

  ‘She seems to have made a success of her reinvention,’ Mickey observed. ‘The majority verdict is she was respectable, helpful, devoted and in general a good wife. But what else was she before she arrived here, and does this have a bearing on whoever killed her? Or is it some random act – we cannot rule that out.’

  Henry nodded, chewing thoughtfully. ‘So we need to find out who Martha Mason was before she became Martha Mason. I have the letters with me and will read through them tonight, and if you can compare the two address books and see who can be identified … The diary seems to contain little: appointments to meet with friends, notes to remind her husband of events such as business meetings and committees of various charities with which they seem both to have been involved. She seems still to have acted as his secretary. I will give you the diary, and you can compare the names to those in the address book and contact them. We should begin with those she has seen most recently.’

  ‘And then tomorrow begin a systematic search,’ Mickey agreed. ‘She seemed confident, concealing the gun in that box, that a husband would not be curious. My guess is that he is a man intent on his own work and also perhaps lacking in imagination where women are concerned; it would not occur to him she would conceal or dissemble or have such skill that he might not know what she was doing. For a woman to keep a gun implies that she feels her life is threatened. But for a woman not to
keep that weapon with her, perhaps implies that she thinks the threat is no longer immediate.’

  ‘But she was wrong about that,’ Henry responded. ‘Her husband mentioned that she was working as a typist. He must be asked where and if she had any particular friends that she continues to be in touch with. I think he did mention that there was somebody.’

  Mickey nodded, having a similar memory of the conversation. ‘I would also like to look into Dr Mason’s background. He and Phillips seem to have gone through medical school together; both claim to have no family and make the same claim also of Martha. The only person in this to have any familial ties is the Phillips wife, Nora. Everyone else seems oddly cut loose and I have to ask myself if it’s too much of a coincidence, that three people without anchor of family and friends should fetch up together in the same place and form such a close alliance.’

  ‘That could be the reason for such a close alliance,’ Henry posited. ‘Like calls to like. I have always found it hard to understand those families who seem to be happy in one another’s company and to imagine what that must be like. I feel alienated from it as you well know.’

  ‘And yet your sister has set up a very happy home, you’ve seen first-hand that it can be done.’

  ‘And as you also well know, I tend to view anything my sister does as unique and not necessarily replicable by other people.’ Henry allowed himself a slight smile, knowing that this was a weakness on his part.

  Mickey merely acknowledged this with a nod. Had he been pushed to it he would probably have made a similar comment about his wife. Both men valued the women in their lives very highly.

  ‘So tomorrow, we see what has emerged from our appeal for witnesses, a photograph of Mrs Mason has been widely circulated now both in the local and the national press. It’s to be hoped that people get in touch and to be further hoped that someone has seen her with this presumed friend she met in the crowd. Added to that we have the van, the blue Austin car and the man in the dark blue suit without the hat and we should appeal for witnesses to this combination. It could be that he is totally innocent and has missed the appeal for information and has yet to come forward.’

  ‘And we have in our favour the fact this is a woman well known in her community and highly thought of in that community, so the public will no doubt want to help. Of course that will lead to many false leads, but it is easier to gain information about a respectable woman than it is about one of the more unfortunate kind.’

  Mickey acknowledge the truth of that with a wry smile. It was something that made neither man happy but it was nonetheless a fact. ‘Somehow,’ he said, ‘I doubt now that the full answers are here, in this place. My guess is that whatever history this murder has, the story began down south with whoever this woman was back then.’

  FIVE

  The post-mortem was to be held the following morning at the workhouse infirmary, and the driver arrived just as they were finishing breakfast.

  They collected their gear and settled in the back of the Wolseley Seven. Henry watched the passing scenery through the car window. It was only a short drive from the Saracen’s Head to the site of the workhouse which, Henry was saddened to learn, was still in use though it was now termed a Public Assistance Institution.

  He doubted the change of terminology improved the situation for those resident there.

  Emory had told him that there was also a fever hospital on the same site and also an infirmary, which is why the post-mortem was to be performed there.

  It had rained during the night, but the morning was clean and clear and the air in this predominantly rural area was fresh and scented by cow parsley and hawthorn. Henry had always loved the scent of hawthorn, though he knew this was considered strange. In the village where he had grown up hawthorn was never brought into the house because, the old people said, it carried the scent of death and was suitable only for funerals. He could remember his mother arranging cow parsley in among the June roses on the kitchen table. She would never have taken such flowers into the rest of the house, but their father rarely came into the kitchen and therefore this was a safer place. Henry reflected that his mother had made little impression on the rest of the house; everything else was arranged and organized to his father’s taste and there was no room for compromise.

  He wondered again how on earth she had come to be married to such a man. It came to him that had Cynthia made a similar mistake he would probably have committed murder rather than subject Cynthia’s children to the kind of childhood they had shared. Then he reminded himself that his sister had far more sense and strength, hard-won but rock solid.

  An orderly lead them into a cold, tiled space. Martha Mason’s body had already been laid out and the surgeon had already made his preliminary notes.

  ‘Apologies for the early start, gentlemen, but I have a full day of operating on the living.’

  Henry was silent but Mickey thanked the surgeon for fitting this investigation into his schedule.

  ‘I think there can be little doubt about what killed her,’ the medic said, turning the woman’s head for their inspection. The blood had been washed away and the deep wound was now visible, a single impacted fracture that had sent bone into brain and split the skull wide.

  ‘That was a heavy blow,’ Mickey observed. ‘And single too. No hesitation, no smaller blows to put her down first. Just this one.’

  ‘And as you say, delivered with considerable force and definite malice. This was no accident; I doubt it was a question of someone knocking her down in order to rob her.’

  Mickey would not normally encourage such speculation, but he nodded; he had no doubt this was the correct assessment.

  Henry was examining the woman’s hands and wrists. Bruises had developed post-mortem and fingermarks could now clearly be seen on her left arm.

  ‘Someone held her hard. Could the blow be struck while she was being held?’ he mused. He stepped back, raising an arm and extending his hand as though holding somebody, swinging a practice blow. The other two watched him and Henry nodded. ‘It could be done, but I think it would seem awkward. I wonder if he released her and then she began to run so he struck hard to stop her from running. Any speculation as to the weapon?’

  ‘Until I open the skull I can only speculate, but see here …’ The surgeon inserted a finger into the wound. The finger disappeared almost to the second knuckle.

  ‘Not a simple hammer, then,’ Mickey said thoughtfully. ‘Something with more of a point? A brick hammer, perhaps. Is there a curve that you can feel or is the line straight?’

  ‘I can say more when I section the brain, but from touch alone the hole feels straight but somewhat tapered. A point, a poleaxe perhaps would be my guess, such as the slaughterman might use. Something that would easily pass through even the skull of a great beast such as a bull or a horse.’

  ‘Would such a tool be available on the racecourse?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Unlikely. If a horse is injured such that it needs to be put down, then the vet usually deals with it by shooting.’

  ‘And there would seem to be no defensive wounds,’ Henry noted, looking again at the woman’s hands and arms.

  ‘Overall, she seems to have been in generally good health. Will you stay for the remainder of the post-mortem? Or should I send a message to you of anything significant I might find? The cause of death seems obvious – it would be a waste of your time, gentlemen, to remain for the formalities.’

  Henry agreed with him and he and Mickey left soon after.

  ‘If he’s right,’ Mickey commented, ‘then it does not seem to have been a random sort of weapon. Not one that was picked up on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘No one commented on there being signage on the van that was seen. Had it been from a butcher’s shop or something similar I would have expected observation of that, particularly from our travelling friends. Local butchers no doubt dispatch their own animals, but I doubt many carry the tools of their trade around with them in their deliver
y vans.’

  They sat in silence in the back seat of the police car, each puzzling it out on the short drive back to Dr Mason’s house. All was locked up tight and extra checks had been made during the night. A beat constable was hovering by the gate as they arrived. ‘I’m glad to have caught you, sirs,’ he said. ‘The house is secure, but the neighbours reported a disturbance in the early hours of the morning. Someone prowling in the back garden. They let the dogs out and they made barking enough to drive the devil away and the neighbour then took a torch and went to inspect the rear garden. There are footprints near the French window, and the neighbour tells me that the latch is faulty and could easily be forced. I have checked it and it seems to be in order, but I thought you might wish to know this. I would have got word to you earlier,’ he added, ‘but the neighbour, Mr Morris, and his wife, having had their sleep disturbed decided that to summon a constable in the middle of the night seemed a little … superfluous, once the dogs had seen off any would-be intruders. They left the dogs to roam in the yard to raise the alarm and went back to bed.’

  Interesting, Henry thought.

  Mickey thanked the constable and said that he would go and speak to these neighbours forthwith. Mr Morris had already left for work, the constable told him. But Mrs Morris and the live-in maid, Elsie, were expecting them.

  Mickey followed the constable into the next door front garden and rang the bell, the constable being eager to make introductions and, Henry thought, to be in on the excitement of this being a murder case. Henry let himself into Dr Mason’s house and stood in the hallway, listening to the sound the house made now that it was unoccupied. It had been quiet when they had called yesterday, but now it was deathly so. Hushed and stilled and already taking on that lonely abandoned air that homes adopt when their families are absent for long. Not, Henry thought, that this ever presented as a family home. It was a place of business where Dr Mason and his wife lived above the shop. The gardens were well attended and designed to give a good impression, but they were formal and strictly ordered and somehow Henry could not imagine children playing there, not even in the long garden at the back.