Those who commit crime and breach the peace hate us because we are the agents of their punishment and shame. Mostly they are ashamed. Men and women brought low by circumstance or drink or poverty, they are ashamed and that is why they hate us. We look at each other and we know that, if the cards had fallen differently, we each might be standing in the other’s shoes.
There are some men of my calling who are afraid of that, and it makes them bullies. They like to crow over the vanquished. They think to make themselves big by making others small. Every profession, I suppose, has its share of them, the loudmouths and the blowhards but, as I said, I tend towards quietness and that did not prevent me from reaching the rank of sergeant in the Broughty Ferry Constabulary.
I was quiet when I arrived back at Elmgrove with Mr Sempill. Mr Sempill, on the other hand, was quite strikingly profane. There was profanity from the moment he saw the body. Profanity as he raised his handkerchief to his mouth and profanity as he stepped carefully around the lobby. Profanity muttered from behind his hand as he examined the scene, and then, when he passed out into the other rooms, he spoke in hushed whispers which, to my mind, he might have been better to save for when he was in the presence of that poor lady.
“That newspaper is an indication of the timing,” he said. “A fifth edition. Find out when that’s printed, what time of the day. Find out if she had it delivered or if it might have been purchased here or up in Dundee.”
“It wasn’t delivered,” I said. “If it was delivered, there would be more of them at her back door.”
“Quite right, quite right. So she must have been out on that day. But three weeks ago! Who would remember?”
Mr Sempill covered his mouth again, left the room, crossed the hall and went down the passage to the kitchen. There was a pantry, but it was almost bare of food, a tin of tea, some sugar, a small store of apples from her own trees and a paper bag with a scone in it, turned rock hard. In the scullery Mr Sempill pointed to a piece of towel flung on the draining board by the sink. It showed signs of having been used; there was a damp sort of discolouration in it and some dark spots that looked like blood.
“Here,” he said, “he stood here and he washed off the blood. He was bloodied. And no wonder after that business out there.”
We had not been long in the house when Broon called from the door to tell us that Suttie had arrived.
“Stay out there!” Mr Sempill said, and we traipsed through the hall again, past the poor dead woman and outside to where the others were waiting.
The joiner Coullie was sitting on the step looking unhappy and the Chief Constable said: “Mr Coullie, your services are no longer required here – for the moment. You may return home, but I am placing you under a solemn instruction to discuss nothing of what you have seen here, lest you prejudice a future prosecution. And I am instructing you to return here as soon as possible with a coffin and a decent conveyance for the transfer of the remains to the morgue in Dundee.”
Coullie knuckled his cap insolently and went on his way, but before he reached the gate to the street, it opened and we could see the photographer Mr Rodger and the surveyor Mr Roddan arriving, each encumbered with the tools of his trade and, beyond them, a little knot of passers-by who had stopped to watch the show on their way to Divine Services.
Mr Sempill gave a nod to Constable Suttie and told him: “Secure that gate!” and Suttie went off like a rabbit, crunching down the gravel path in his big boots.
The Chief Constable welcomed the two gentlemen and thanked them for their service. He said: “You must steel yourselves. It’s a Hellish scene, but I am convinced that, if we apply the most modern methods of investigation, we will be able, very shortly, to bring the culprit to book and have him face the awful penalty of the law.
“Mr Roddan, you would oblige me with a full and exact diagram of the hall where the victim is lying and you, Mr Rodger, a photographic record: an exact photographic record is essential. The body of that woman must by examined. She is the only witness to her own murder and we need whatever clue that she can offer us, but that work cannot begin until every scrap of evidence from the scene has been recovered and recorded.”
And then he turned to me. “Sergeant Fraser,” he said, “I’ll have to away and inform Mr Mackintosh the Fiscal.”
I told him about the telephone at the Swans’.
“No. This is police business. I’m relying on you to take charge here. Search the place – get the constables to help you if you need them. Be thorough but gentle. Thorough. I want the floors swept and the sweepings kept. Record everything. Modern methods, thoroughness, that’s what this needs. I’m relying on you.”
So I flung my chest out and saluted and got on with it.
And this is what I found. There was part of a gold earring lying on the floor within twelve inches of her feet and a small brooch lying within arm’s length of the body to the south near the door, a pair of spectacles lying on the floor close beside her back and another gold brooch lying on her clothing at her back.
Going round that room, observing, noting, measuring – none too exactly, as I knew Mr Roddan would perform that task far more efficiently – I began to see, as if for the first time. The little bits of wreckage alone meant nothing, but together their whole story was laid out there for anybody who wanted to read it.
There was an upper set of false teeth lying on the right-hand corner of the doormat at the entrance to the drawing room. What a blow must have done that. And there was the lower set flung right across to the other side of the hall lying on the third step of the stair. Two blows in quick succession, back and fore, east and west, her face spinning, her neck snapping round – just to look at it and I could see it happening again as if before my eyes.
There was a shaped pad of sponge, wrapped in silk threads, the kind of thing ladies use to pile their hair around to give a false and deceitful impression that their own is rather thicker and richer than in reality, lying at her back and partly covered by her clothing. Close by that was a lorgnette with its chain attached, the proof of her failing eyesight. A glass vase lay on the floor, unbroken, not a chip or a crack, where it had fallen from the hall table and close to the front door.
The gasolier that hung from the ceiling just where the vestibule enters the hall was missing one of its glass globes. How could that have happened? A wild swinging blow that smashed it to bits? Was it dislodged somehow in the struggle and shattered in the fall? In any event, it lay there, broken but carefully set aside, on a brass plate lying in the middle of the doorway to Miss Milne’s drawing room.
Nearby there was a tangle of cut bay twigs, evidently intended for decoration – there was another bunch artistically arranged on another brass plate on the hall table, and on top of the twigs there was a lady’s hat. It was full of blood. The hatpin was in it and it was bent and curved to the shape of her head. The hat trimming was torn off. You could see it lying under her body and trailing out behind her. It was practically covered in blood.
There was blood all over the carpet, four separate pools of it, one where the blood had poured from her head and face, and we found others when we got her body lifted and all round the hall there were the signs of ransack; two travelling cases, opened, one a Saratoga trunk – one of those things that looks like the pirate’s treasure chest in adventure stories – and the other a tin cabin trunk hinged in two parts with one side for hanging garments and the other fitted with drawers. There were two handbags, a wine glass – unbroken – lay on the floor along with a cardboard box with bits of lace spilling out from it, and a broken poker. A broken poker with blood and hair sticking to it, the knob glinting out from those twigs on the floor, and the iron rod set aside on a little round table at the bottom of the stair. There was blood all over it, but, truth be told, a lot more of it on the brass knob. He held it the wrong way up and he hit her with the knob end until the knob flew off and then he stopped and he put it down there on the table. It was plain as day. Anybody could see it
. The carving fork from the sideboard was lying on the floor, the sort of thing that comes in a case with a big knife and a sharpening steel. We found them later, a matched set of them, with horn handles.
The blood went up the stair. There was more of it on the carpet on the third step of the stair, and further up, on a broad landing, another bit of green curtain cord, like the bit that was tied round her ankles. Everywhere you looked, everywhere, the whole floor was bestrewn with spent matches – dozens of them.
And there was one other thing. At the turning of the stair, in the corner, there was a tall brass vase. It was full of piss and starting to stink. I emptied it down the sink, rinsed it out and put it back just exactly as I found it.
5
DURING THE FORENOON Dr Sturrock arrived and had an examination of the body. Dr Sturrock is an unusually short man who favours a soft hat. He had been interrupted on his way to morning services and, not being a very diligent attender, he pleaded an emergency and left Mrs Sturrock at the door of the kirk and came away. Of course he had not thought to take his medical bag with him on such an outing, so he was forced to return to his home, gather such things as were needful and make his way – none too hurriedly I may say – to Elmgrove.
Dr Sturrock stopped in the vestibule and had private conversation with Chief Constable Sempill before joining me in the hall, where I stood guarding the body.
“Has she been moved?” he asked me.
“No, sir.”
“Nothing has been touched or disturbed?”
“Nothing whatever, sir.”
“Sergeant Fraser knows his duties, Doctor.” Mr Sempill sounded very ill-mannered and not at all like himself, but I imagine the strains of the horrible discovery and the responsibilities weighing on his shoulders must have affected his temper. “Now, what can you tell me about this lady?”
Dr Sturrock got down on his hands and knees and turned his head. He was looking Miss Milne right in the face, which is a task I would not have envied him, and then, with a grunt and a loud exhaling of breath, he sat up again. “I identify this as the body of Miss Jean Milne of this address and I am prepared to certify death,” he said.
The Chief Constable was furious. “Is that an attempt at humour, man?”
“What else would you have me say? The woman is clearly dead. At first glance it appears she died as a result of blunt force trauma to the skull – that is to say somebody beat her head in, likely with that bloodstained poker . . .”
“Not this bit of rock?” Chief Constable Sempill pointed to a large stone that was sitting on the tiled floor. Part of it had broken off and the broken corner was lying there beside it, the two wounds fresh and clean and new.
“It’s a doorstop,” said Dr Sturrock. “There’s not a drop of blood on it. I cannot conjecture as to how it was broken, but it was definitely not the weapon in this case.”
“Was there unpleasantness?”
Dr Sturrock got to his feet with a look of indulgent bafflement on his face and stood making notes in a little book with a silver pencil. “Unpleasantness? Unpleasantness? Look about you, man. The unpleasantness is before your very eyes. Speak Scotch or whistle, Chief Constable. You mean ‘was she raped?’ I can’t tell that either, not without disturbing the body. We need to get her into the mortuary for a proper examination and even then it might not be easy. This poor soul needs to be got into a decent grave.”
“How long has she been lying?”
“I can’t tell. This time of year, not too warm, indoors, not too cool either, not exposed to the weather, not disturbed by animals, a couple, three weeks. But I can tell you one thing for sure and certain: it wasn’t a robbery.”
Mr Sempill snorted at him. “Do me the courtesy of not teaching me my trade, Doctor, and I will do my best not to teach you yours. Observe the open boxes, the travel cases, the handbags. There has obviously been a rough and frantic search for valuables.”
But Dr Sturrock simply pointed with a flick of his pencil and said: “I count, one, two . . . six gold rings on the lady’s fingers. The search for valuables may have been rough and frantic as you suggest, but it was none too diligent.” He finished making his notes and said: “I’m sending for Templeman from Dundee. He knows his business and if the body’s to be lifted to the mortuary then, by rights, it’ll be under his jurisdiction.”
“But this is a matter of great urgency!”
“Havers, man. This poor lady has been waiting for a good fortnight. She’s in no rush. I’ll away home for dinner – Mrs Sturrock has a choice bit of beef. I will return later with Dr Templeman. My best advice to you is to ensure that the photographer is finished with his work before we get back and disturb the scene any further.”
And, with that, he snapped down the little brass catches in his portmanteau and went out the door again. But no sooner was he out the door than he opened it again and returned for a moment. “If it’s any help to you, I can tell you this,” he said. “She was definitely alive on October 16th. It was a Wednesday about dinner time, I’d say between half past twelve and one. I was on the tramcar, going along Strathern Road. Just before we got to Fairfield Road I looked up from my newspaper and saw Miss Milne.”
“You’re certain sure it was her,” said Mr Sempill, “definitely on the 16th?”
“No doubt. You know yourself she was . . .” He hesitated. “Well, speak only good of the dead, but she was odd and she went about dressed, how to say it kindly . . . dressed awful young for her years.” And then he said: “I’m away to my beef dinner. Good morning,” and rattled the door shut behind himself.
I suppose that left the Chief Constable at something of a loose end, and because Dr Sturrock had spoken to him in a less than respectful manner, he decided to take it out on me and the constables.
He had us chasing round the place, beating the bushes in the garden, catching our uniforms on thorns, getting our knees muddy all in the hopes of finding some forgotten clue, another poker that the killer had chosen to discard in the undergrowth or, well I don’t know what, and the worst part is neither did Mr Sempill. He was simply casting about for things to do because he had no idea what to do and, I’m sure, because he feared that he might be held to account for having failed to do something.
He ordered me to break Miss Milne’s postbox and take out all her letters and sort them into three heaps: one for circulars, advertising materials, newsletters from the church or any societies she may have attended, another for bills and such like, and the last for personal and private correspondence, all arranged by date, all piled up on the kitchen table. I sat there with a wee butter knife from the drawer slicing the envelopes, taking out the letters, glancing through them, piling them up, each with its envelope, each in order. Miss Milne had a wide circle of correspondence. We knew she liked to travel because she would stop at the police office with the key to the small gate and tell us she was away here and there, off to London for weeks and months at a time or on wee trips to the Highlands, and there were letters from the folk she met on her travels. Letters from men.
“Have you not finished that, Fraser? Well stop anyway. I need you out there with me, knocking on doors. Some of the neighbours must have a notion of what’s gone on here. Some of them must have noticed something or other.”
I scraped the kitchen chair back from the table and put on my hat. I was following, loyally, I knew well enough my duty and yet the Chief Constable’s bruised feelings were still chaffing and he urged me: “Come along, man, keep up. What are you waiting for?” in a tone that was neither respectful nor called for.
6
I AM SORRY to have to report that the Chief Constable’s energetic plans came to nothing. We hurried down the path, Mr Sempill striding out in front with me coming behind like his wee terrier out for a walk, my hat not even properly on my head yet – and respectable dress is something an officer of the police must give a due and proper regard – but he had no sooner flung open the gate than we found our way blocked.
Ther
e was a sturdy man in a long grey coat standing right in the middle of the gateway, as if his hand had been on the handle the minute before the door opened. I knew him at once for Norval Scrymgeour, a reporter from the Courier up in Dundee. I’ve often seen him, hanging about or pushing in whenever there’s a fire or a lost child or some other tragedy. I’ve even spoken to him once or twice up at the Sheriff Court when I’ve been called to give evidence. I don’t say he’s a bad man. He has a job to do and children to feed.
But there he was, standing like a mushroom under his brown bowler hat, and if Mr Sempill did not know him at once for a newspaper man, the photographer standing behind him, wrestling with a camera on a spider-leg frame, must surely have given it away.
I cannot say which of them, the Chief Constable or the reporter, got the biggest fright when that door swung open, but I can tell you who was the first to recover.
Have you ever seen a magic show where the conjurer boasts that “the hand is quicker than the eye”? Well, to this day I don’t know how it happened, but it seemed in a single movement the reporter had tipped his hat and produced a card, which he held out to Mr Sempill as a sign of his authority.
“Norval Scrymgeour,” he said, “the Courier,” as if that simple recitation was enough in itself to open the doors of Buckingham Palace. “Is Miss Milne dead?”
The Chief Constable was lost for words and he could think of no better reply than to shake his whiskers and say: “What? What?” before he turned and yelled back up the path for Constable Suttie to “get back here and secure this damned gate, as I ordered!” which was unfair as I had been present when he ordered both Broon and Suttie to search the gardens. Still, a moment or two of glowering and raging and a moment or two more spent filling the gate with his broad back gave the Chief Constable time to gather his thoughts, so when he turned back to face the reporter he had something to say.
“Now then,” he glanced down at the pasteboard card in his glove, “Scrimshank.”
The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne Page 3