“Very little. We know where he was found and when, but I have not turned up any witnesses. Where are his clothes?”
“All there, on the table. I’ve not had a chance to examine them.”
“Quite understandable,” said Major Vernon, going to the table and starting to look through them. “Any idea how it was carried out? What kind of weapon?”
“Metal. Crowbar or poker, something like that. Very systematic. I should draw a diagram, should I not?”
“That would be helpful,” said Major Vernon, handing him his notebook and a pencil.
Felix set about drawing an outline of a human body and then a rough schema of the contusions.
“There might be a little residue in evidence – a little rust, perhaps,” he said. “But there will, no doubt, be blood and skin on the weapon, should we find it.”
“And if it has not been wiped clean,” Major Vernon said. “Interesting – his pocket book is still here. With four sovereigns in it, so not a common robbery.”
“That will pay for his funeral,” Felix said.
“His clothes seem quite decent,” said the Major picking up one of the brown leather top boots. “Well made. Not cheap.”
“Here,” said Felix handing Major Vernon the notebook. “As you can see, the blows are all in the same direction, perhaps from someone swinging the bar with their right hand, and then working their way around, taking a limb at a time. Quite precisely done.”
He mimicked the movement, swinging an imaginary rod.
“He must have been restrained in some way. Any sign of that? Marks on his wrist?”
“Not that I can see,” Felix said. “The odd thing is that his ribs were left intact.”
“And that is odd why?”
“Because that would have undoubtedly have killed him. A punctured lung and he’d been on the slab.”
“What a very risky enterprise,” said Major Vernon.
“Where was he found?”
“All Hallows Square. By the gate to the churchyard – but I doubt it was done there. It’s well lit and no one apparently saw or heard anything untoward last night. It’s a very quiet spot, and respectable, in a shabby sort of way. But I am sure someone will have seen something.”
“He’s a big fellow, and heavy. It wouldn’t be very easy to move him.”
“I imagine there would be more than one person involved in this,” said Major Vernon, holding up the man’s shirt. It was almost entirely covered in blood. “No initials to go on. But it’s been well looked after.”
He walked back to the uncovered body on the slab.
“What happened to his ear?”
“I think there may have been an earring. Ripped out, presumably because it would identify him.”
“And what’s that, on his left shoulder?” the Major said. “A birthmark? A bruise?”
Carswell came and peered at it. He reached for his hand lens and smiled briefly.
“It’s a swallow, I think,” he said. “That’s one for your collection.”
“I’ve never seen a swallow before. Nor such a discreet one.”
“You just haven’t caught a man with one yet,” said Felix. “The odds are that this man has some criminal connection, given the circumstances in which he was found. Especially since they left the money on him.”
“And that orders were being followed?” said Major Vernon. “And a degree of discipline imposed from above, perhaps? Opportunists would have taken the money.”
At this moment one of the nurses came in.
“Mr Harper has ordered tea for you, sir,” she said. “In your room.”
Felix found he was glad of this excuse to be able to cover the body and leave.
“Ought I to be worried that you have a room here now?” Major Vernon said, as they went along the passage way.
“Wait until you see it,” said Felix. “It is more a cupboard than anything. There is not enough of it to undermine my allegiances. Tolley, who is only the surgical dresser, has a much better room.”
But when they went in, he knew Major Vernon had a point. He had been spending a great deal of time of late at the Infirmary. There had been a spate of interesting cases, and Harper had not hesitated to call him in.
The room, small though it was, had gained an accretion of his belongings: the shelf above the narrow bed bore a heap of new books on surgical techniques, while on the opposite wall he had gone so far as to pin up a mezzo-tint of a Scottish landscape that had caught his eye in the booksellers a few weeks ago. He even had a dressing gown to hand as well as a supply of fresh linen.
He poured out the tea.
“Harper is an excellent man,” said Major Vernon, taking his cup of tea. “I have your letters for you. Here.” He reached into his pocket and produced a large pamphlet along with his letters.
“What is that?” said Felix.
“A sermon by our new Bishop,” said Major Vernon, producing a large pamphlet from his pocket. “To commemorate his installation today.”
“Oh, that’s why the bells have been going infernally long,” said Felix, taking the pamphlet and the letters from him. The sermon, printed in dense text and unreasonably long, was accompanied by a full page illustration entitled “Morning Prayer.” This showed a wealthy, handsome young couple, their two small offspring and their female servants, gathered in a luxurious and fashionably fitted-out breakfast room. The father was reading from a large Bible and even the spaniel seemed piously disposed to listen to the word of the Lord.
“They are being distributed about the entire town,” said Major Vernon.
“For use in many privies,” said Felix.
“I rather fear so,” said Major Vernon.
“The man is a fool,” said Felix. “What a waste of money! What is his intention with this? It smacks of currying favour.”
“If he had wanted that, he would not have cancelled the Bishop’s Feast,” Major Vernon said. “That will not have been popular. No, from what I hear of him, he wishes to deliver Northminster from evil. He may have a point, of course, if men are being left for dead in the street.” He swallowed down the rest of his tea and went to look out of the window, resting his tall frame against the wall.
“Only one man,” Felix pointed out.
“True. But one in that condition is quite enough.”
“Do you have any idea who might be behind it?”
“Yes,” said Major Vernon. “And I shall go and see what he has to say about – if anything.”
When he had gone, Felix sat down and looked through his letters, accompanied by the seemingly endless peal of the Minster Bells.
There was little to surprise Felix in his correspondence. There was a long letter in his mother’s tiny hand that he put aside for later. He looked in hope for a letter from Ireland, although it annoyed him that he should. It was a foolish, sentimental habit, and most unprofitable.
-o-
It had been a while since Giles had cause to visit the premises of George Bickley, liveryman, noted horse-doctor and timber-merchant, and it was clear his circumstances had changed for the better. In the first instance, the timber yard and stables were now surrounded by a fine new brick wall and the business seemed to have taken over the property next door. There was a freshly painted sign at the gate announcing in bold letters “George Bickley, Building Contractor.” Given how fast the city was expanding, this was a shrewd move, and it was clear that the new enterprise was doing well. A respectful young clerk, black-coated and not the least bit flash, received him in the front office and took his name straight into Mr Bickley.
“Not in the stables this time, Mr Bickley?” he said, when he was shown into his office. The last time they had met, Bickley had been in his shirt sleeves, massaging a thoroughbred. “I was hoping to get a glimpse of some of your fine animals.” Today he was wearing a black frock coat and sober waistcoat and looked like any other man of business in Northminster. The only remnants of the sporting man were the knot of coloured ribbons in his buttonhole, and
his jewelled cravat pin.
“Pressure of business, Major Vernon,” said Bickley, getting up from his desk. “Unfortunately. But for old friends, I am still available. In fact,” he said, “let us go down there now. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“I might be tempted,” Giles said.
“Did they put your stipend up?” said Bickley.
“No, I came into a little money,” said Giles. “Of course, I should probably be investing it somewhere...” He shrugged. “But old habits die hard. A superlatively good horse is a pleasure it is hard to do without when the means present themselves.”
Bickley smiled and opened the door to an external staircase. “This way, if you please, sir.”
They crossed the busy yard, where carts were being loaded with supplies and men were running purposefully back and forth.
“You have a great deal in hand these days,” said Giles.
“Sometimes Lady Fortune is kind,” he said, and they turned into the immaculate stable yard. “Now, I have a three-year-old bay that might be just the thing for you. A friend of mine, about your build, thought him a good mount. An excellent hunter.” He signalled to the stable boy. “Bring out Duke!”
“I don’t suppose either of us have much time for hunting these days,” Giles remarked.
“You still have your hunting,” said Bickley.
“You might call it that.”
“That’s why you are here, I take it,” Bickley said after a moment.
Giles declined to answer, and instead, as the horse was brought out, went forward and began to make a show of assessing his points.
“Very handsome indeed,” he said. “Let’s see him walk.”
He went back to Bickley and they stood for a moment or two while the boy led the bay about the yard.
“Yes?” said Bickley.
“An excellent animal.”
“But you’re not here for that?”
“I’ve just been at the Infirmary,” Giles said, after a moment. “There’s a man there who has been savagely assaulted. Respectable looking man, well-turned-out, good pair of boots.”
“Robbed, I suppose?”
“No, that’s the strange thing. There were four sovereigns left in his pocket.”
“Why do you ask me?”
“He has the look of a sporting man. I wondered if you might know him.”
“Why would I? This town is full of strangers.”
“He has a tattoo on his shoulder, a swallow. And he’s well built, like a pugilist. I know you have some connections in that world.” Bickley made a slight incline of his head. “What puzzles me is how a fine, strong man like that ends up in such a condition, as if he was entirely unable to defend himself.”
Bickley said nothing but strolled forward, and taking the reins of the horse from the stable boy, began to extravagantly caress the horse’s neck.
“I cannot help you,” he said. “And why you think I might –”
“An earring ripped from his left ear,” Giles went on.
Bickley shook his head.
“You’d be better asking this fellow for yourself than me,” he said after a moment or two.
“I would, but he’s dead,” said Giles.
“You’re wasting my time,” Bickley said, pointing at him. “Why do you think I might have anything to do with this?” He gestured around him. “Why would I? With all this, eh? Your suspicions, sir, I don’t care for them. Take him back in, Jack,” he said to the boy.
Giles looked about him, at the immaculate yard, and then at Bickley, the king of his domain. He might have been wearing a frock coat, but it still had the sharp cut of the flash sporting man. Bickley had been a noted pugilist in his youth, and the intelligence was that he was still deep in the sport, with a stable of fighters in training.
But he was canny and careful. It had been impossible to make a concrete connection to him. And so it was with various other nefarious activities about the city. Bickley operated constantly at the margins of legality.
To Giles’ certain knowledge, he had lately, in addition to his horse dealing and doctoring operations, opened a large gin palace, according to the new fashion for such places, with glittering lights and dangerously cheap, strong gin. This had created a significant source of public disorder, as the many factory hands flocked there and then drank themselves into states of imbecility or savage-like violence.
As the horse was led away, Bickley strolled back to Giles, and in the mildest tone, said, “Take care where you stray, Major. And what you say. You may have your notions, but they are mistaken.”
“Thank you for your help,” Giles said, and turned and walked away.
As he approached the gates, a man who was just entering, caught sight of him, raised his hat to him and called out, “Good morning, Colonel – didn’t know you were expected this morning! Come to look over the new filly for the boss? She’s a sweet creature, don’t you think?” But as they drew close to one another, he looked sheepish. “Sorry, sir, I took you for –”
“Yes?” Giles said.
“No-one, sir,” the man said, putting up his hands. “Good day to you,” he finished and hastened away towards the stable yard.
-0-
Giles made his way back to Constabulary Headquarters. As he turned into the ancient inn yard, he wondered for how much longer the old building would stand. The lease on the place was due to expire in six months time, by which time the combined County and City constabulary would be moving to their new buildings on the Leeds Road. What then would become of the ancient Unicorn Inn, with its wooden galleries and sloping floors? A relic of an earlier time, it would be demolished and replaced by something modern and convenient, but lacking in character.
“Great progress, sir,” said Inspector Rollins, coming to greet him. “We likely have our man. Picked him up at the corner of Bell Street. Had to have a bit of a chase to get him, but Constable Planter brought him down. He was running away weapon in hand and took immediate flight at the sight of a uniformed man.”
“He’s admitted to it?”
“Not yet. Do you want to talk to him, sir?”
“What’s his name?”
“Horatio Baxter. He’s downstairs.”
“That’s a memorable name. Is he known to us?”
“I didn’t recognise him. And you are right about the name. Drew me up a little when he said it.”
“An alias, then?” Giles said. “Let’s have a look at this weapon first.”
Rollins took him into into his office.
“It’s a nasty object, I must say, sir.”
It was a wrought iron rod, about the size of a poker, but with more heft to it. It did indeed seem to match the description of the object that Carswell had described, and when he took it to the window and examined it, there seemed to be stains upon it.
“This needs to go down to Mr Carswell,” said Giles. “At once.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll take it myself,” said Rollins.
Giles went down to the holding cells and asked the duty sergeant where he would find Horatio Baxter.
“Number three, sir,” he said reaching for his keys.
“Has he said anything?”
“No, sir. Do you want to speak to him?”
“Not yet.”
Giles went to the cell door and looked in through the bars. A pair of wary eyes met his. Horatio Baxter was sitting on the bench, his fingers knotted. Giles took in what details he could of the man’s appearance. He was dressed in shabby, dirty clothes, but his figure seemed at odds with his dress. He was well-built and adequately nourished. His hair was neatly cropped, and he was clean-shaven. He was also sporting a gold earring in his right ear.
Giles signalled back to the custody sergeant to open the door.
“Stand up for the Superintendent!” barked the Sergeant.
Baxter pulled himself up reluctantly and his wary stare became contemptuous. The incongruity of his clothes became more obvious. He stood wel
l, almost defiantly. He was not afraid, certainly.
“Take off your coat, Baxter,” said Giles. The man complied, but slowly. He held it out almost as if waiting for an invisible footman to take it.
“Sergeant, take that,” said Giles.
Beneath the coat he wore a ragged shirt of blue flannel.
“And the shirt, if you please.”
He did this with the same contemptuous lethargy as before, revealing the taut upper body of a professional fighter. There was no doubt he would have had the strength to wield the iron rod with all the precision and force necessary to inflict such a set of devastating injuries. This was the body of a man who kept himself in good form, a man with great self-discipline. He was also a man who had put on dirty clothes for dirty work, Giles thought.
“Turn about now,” he said.
The man obeyed and as he did Giles caught sight of a mark on his right shoulder, which despite the dim light of the cell, seemed to be a tattoo. Carswell’s hand lens would have confirmed it, and Giles decided he should get one for himself, as he peered at it. It was certainly most striking.
“Now, is that a swallow?” he said after a moment. “That’s very curious.”
Baxter spun about, attempting to hide his back from him.
“Don’t go asking about what don’t concern you!” he exclaimed, attempting to grab back the stinking blue flannel shirt from the Sergeant. “I did it! That’s all you need to know! You take me and hang me for it now! I wish you bloody would!”
“Do you wish to confess to something, Mr Baxter?”
“Yes, yes, I do. I want it all signed and sealed. All regular.”
“And you think I will believe such a confession, Mr Baxter?” said Giles.
“You will have to believe it. You got me, didn’t you, with the rod in my hand? Isn’t that enough?”
“Give him back his shirt, Sergeant. You and I, Mr Baxter, will talk later.”
“I want to talk now,” said Baxter.
“And tell me a parcel of lies?” Giles said. “No, Mr Baxter, you can wait your turn and tell me the truth.”
-o-
Giles left Baxter and went out into the yard, just as an open carriage drew up containing Captain Lazenby in his plumed hat and silver lace. He was returning from the service at the Minster, accompanied by his wife dressed in equal splendour, but looking pale and anxious.
The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite (The Northminster Mysteries Book 5) Page 4