He smiled ruefully, and seemed to relax as his conversation turned from crime to the education of girls.
‘I had some trouble getting her placed, miss,’ he said, ‘because the original scheme – it was brought in by a gentleman called Sir James Kay-Shuttleworth – applied only to what they called “youths”. Girls didn’t qualify. So I told them that the term “youth” could apply equally to a girl, and they saw the point. And there she is, miss, training to be a fully-blown teacher.’
Frances rang the bell beside the fireplace, and in a moment Trixie appeared.
‘You will take a cup of tea with me, Inspector? I think it would benefit both of us.’
‘“The cups that cheer, but not inebriate.” Thank you, miss, I’d enjoy that.’
‘You have not been well, I think?’ asked Frances delicately.
‘I was very near death three months ago, having suffered for a number of years from consumption of the lungs. It is only by miracle that the severity of the disease abated to some degree, and I live to tell the tale. How very kind of you, miss, to ask me.’
‘I’m no stranger to illness, Mr Antrobus. I was a constant visitor to my father in his last days. Do you still take medicine, as a preventative, I mean?’
‘Yes, I have some prescribed medicines, and from time to time I still feel the need to use a lavender shovel. I find smoking greatly helps my breathing, and the doctor approves. I have only recently been subjected to the creosote treatment at the London Chest Hospital.’
Tea was brought in, and they occupied themselves for a while in quiet and unthreatening conversation. Frances asked after the welfare of his wife.
‘I lost my wife some years ago, miss, while I was still a uniformed sergeant. I live in a nice boarding house down at Botley, which is very comfortable, and easily affordable on my present wages.’
‘You speak well, Inspector, and you quoted Cowper just now. You evidently received a good education.’
Again, she saw the rueful smile.
‘I attended a grammar school until the age of fourteen, Miss Fowler, and lapped up everything that they could teach me there, including French, and a good dose of English literature. My father was a grocer, but he became trade-fallen, and I had to leave school. I got work on a farm for a while, but when I was twenty, I applied for the City Police here in Oxford, and was accepted. And I’ve been here ever since. Yes, I set great store by education, for people of all classes.’
‘Well, Inspector,’ said Frances, ‘that’s something that we certainly have in common. Now, after this dreadful business of poor Father’s exhumation, what do you propose to do next?’
‘As for that, Miss Fowler, I will do nothing until the results of the autopsy are known. If those results indicate foul play, then I shall visit your brother, the Reverend Timothy Fowler, and ask him about that packet of poison. No doubt he will have a complete explanation for how it came to be in his possession. I’m sure I needn’t ask you not to mention the matter of the poison to your brother, or to his young wife.’
Frances had felt an affinity for this ailing man from the moment that he had entered her study. It would have been impossible for her to explain why, even to herself. But her liking for him would not blind her to the fact that he was investigating the possibility that either she, or either of her brothers, or all three of them, had contrived to murder their father for gain.
‘You won’t forget, will you, Inspector,’ she said, ‘that Father was Warden of St Michael’s College, and that he actually lived there – and died there? I hope that you’ll be questioning his colleagues.’ Before she could stop herself, she blurted out: ‘You know what tensions and jealousies can mount up in a closed society made up of old maids!’
Inspector Antrobus laughed. It was the only response possible to her bold condemnation of the Senior College. He stood up, and extended his hand to his hostess.
‘I’ll leave you now, miss,’ he said. ‘As for your late father’s colleagues, you may be sure that I will not leave any of them unquestioned. Thanks for the tea. I look forward to our next meeting.’
Frances accompanied him to the front door of Makin House, which gave on to Occam’s Lane, a pleasant tree-lined thoroughfare that led to the village of Binsey. At the end of the lane, she saw him accosted by a short, heavy man in a black overcoat, who raised his bowler hat before engaging the inspector in what looked like animated conversation. Another policeman? A sergeant, perhaps?
It was as she turned back into the house that Frances Fowler realized that she was slowly becoming convinced that her father had indeed been murdered. It was now both foolish and unrealistic to believe otherwise. Could it have been Timothy? Surely not. Being in Holy Orders would certainly have restrained him from doing such a heinous deed. Besides, though too prim and proper for his age, he had a kindly heart: she had heard of many good deeds of charity that he had performed for those less fortunate than himself.
John? She could see John quite easily as a parricide. He was weak, and weak men did desperate things when cornered. John had made apparently full and frank confessions as a kind of effective defence. Admitting readily to lesser crimes, like financial skulduggery, was an effective way of masking something infinitely more sinister. And yet, she had to admit, it was Timothy who had hidden away the packet of poison in his house. She would think no more of the business until the autopsy was over.
The coffin of Sir Montague Fowler was taken from the family vault in St Mary’s churchyard at four o’clock in the morning of Wednesday, 4 July. It was early enough to be both cold and forbidding as the assembled officials followed the grim procession across the churchyard, guided by the light of lanterns, until they came to a brick-built stable, where a trestle table had been prepared for the reception of the coffin. It was a grim place, lit by flickering candles and oil lamps.
Dr Armstrong, who was to perform the autopsy, was assisted by Gerald Templar, and the proceedings were overseen by two officials from the Home Office. Two other doctors were also present. After all was completed, they left the stable, carrying a number of sealed jars containing the stomach, part of the liver, the kidneys and other viscera of the dead man. As the sun came up behind the trees, the remains of Sir Montague Fowler, duly returned to the coffin, were carried back to the family tomb.
The results of the autopsy were conveyed to Inspector Antrobus on the Friday following. He had been summoned to the City Mortuary in Floyd’s Row, where he found Dr Armitage waiting to receive him. The doctor told him the results of the post-mortem without preamble.
‘It was murder, right enough, Mr Antrobus. Murder most foul and malignant, and the means of committing this murder was the administration of a substance known as mercuric chloride, or corrosive sublimate.’
‘And you found traces of this in Sir Montague Fowler’s body?’
‘Hardly traces. Massive quantities. Embalming had had no significant effect on the organs which Templar and I selected for special attention. The stomach had been washed out during the final stages of Sir Montague’s illness, and was consequently empty of contents, but crystalline deposits deeply adhering to the stomach lining proved to be lethal quantities of mercuric chloride. The liver, and the kidneys also contained large deposits of this deadly substance.’
‘When you examined the organs today, did you do so alone, or were you assisted by Dr Templar of St Michael’s?’
‘Templar had helped me to remove the organs from the body at the post-mortem on Wednesday, but today I examined the organs alone – well, not alone, because my surgical assistant, Mr Highgrove, was in attendance. Wheeler was not there.’
‘Was there anything else in the organs? Any other poison?’
‘No. The standard tests that I carried out yielded the reactions characteristic of mercuric salts, and of chlorides – what on earth is that noise?’
‘That noise, Doctor, is being made by a little knot of reporters clamouring at the mortuary gates. As you might expect, word’s got out already.’
&nbs
p; ‘I shan’t tell them a damned thing, the scoundrels!’
‘Neither shall I. But we’ll need to concoct a statement of some sort for release later today. It will only affirm what they’ve already guessed.’
When Antrobus left the mortuary, he found his way barred by six or seven reporters, including one from Jackson’s, the local Oxford newspaper. Others, he judged to be from much further afield: from among the clamouring voices he discerned a Birmingham whine, and a cockney accent.
He was about to speak to them when they were shouldered aside by a thickset little man in a bowler hat and a drab overcoat. In a voice so loud and commanding that all the reporters to a man stopped speaking, the newcomer bellowed:
‘Inspector Antrobus has nothing to say at this juncture, but a statement will be issued later. No, there’s nothing to say, so disperse, if you please. At once.’
Muttering disconsolately, the little throng melted away into the streets of St Ebbe’s.
‘As always, Sergeant Maxwell,’ said Antrobus, ‘you turn up in the nick of time to rescue me. Let’s walk back into town. Those fellows won’t dare come near me, now.’
He gazed fondly at his sergeant. He looked like a bookie’s runner, or like one of those dangerous ruffians employed by clubs and theatres to eject unruly members. Five years ago, he had been invalided out of the army, where he had been a corporal drill instructor in the Oxfordshire Light Infantry. He had joined the county constabulary as a uniformed constable, and had soon progressed to the detective branch. He had transferred to the City of Oxford Police in ’92, and had proved an invaluable help to Antrobus.
‘I’m thinking of last Saturday, sir,’ said Sergeant Maxwell, ‘when I met you at the end of Occam’s Lane. You’d been to visit Miss Frances Fowler, at her school for young ladies. I was eager to tell you all about how I arrested Twister Thompson in the market that morning, so I’d no time to ask you how you got on with the young lady.’
‘I found her an interesting and sympathetic person, Sergeant, frank and fearless, you know. We’ll investigate her, of course, but I left that school almost – almost – convinced of her innocence.’
‘Well you would, wouldn’t you? You always fall for the wiles and deceits of young women. They flutter their eyelashes at you, or pretend to faint, and then you go all soft. In the army, we used to call that “the tender trap”. You watch her, sir. She may be out to pull the wool over your eyes.’
‘You have a delicate, respectful air, Sergeant, that I find very endearing. But the time has now come for you to button your lip. When we get back to the office, we’ll start drafting a release for the gentlemen of the press.’
‘Are you free tomorrow night, sir?’
‘I may be,’ said Antrobus cautiously. ‘What have you in mind?’
‘Mildred and I would like you to come to dinner again. We’ve got a very nice leg of mutton, and she’s made one of those ginger puddings that you like. She’s also allowed me to have a bottle of whisky on show – normally, she won’t allow it, because it “lowers the tone”. That’s what she says. The wife’s very partial to a glass of milk stout, sir, when the occasion offers, but she don’t like spirits.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you both, Sergeant, and much appreciated, but… .’
‘A friend of mine, Mr Henry Ballard, will be there, too.’
‘Ballard? The man who was secretary to the late Sir Montague Fowler? How come that he’s a friend of yours?’
‘Why shouldn’t he be, sir? I’ve known him for years. I can vouch for him, Inspector. He’s not violent or demented, you know. Besides, I know that he wants to talk to you private-like, but is too proud to be seen stepping into our premises in the High Street.’
‘Ah! Then I accept. It’s very kind of you. So I’ll look forward to meeting your wife again, and your friend Mr Ballard, tomorrow night. Now, let’s get back to the office and draft that statement.’
9
Louis de Neville’s Story
‘All this gossip’s not very nice for you, is it, Mr Ballard, now that it’s murder? You having been Sir Montague’s secretary, and very well thought of by the family. It’s in all the newspapers, now, all kinds of speculations. Mr Antrobus, will you have another couple of slices of mutton?’
Inspector Antrobus accepted Mrs Maxwell’s offer. It was very cosy and relaxing in the back parlour of his sergeant’s neat house in Cowley Road. The Maxwells evidently believed in comfortable chairs and yielding sofas, and they contrived to keep a good table. The back parlour doubled as their dining room. He looked at Henry Ballard, the secretary who had come into money. A handsome, well-dressed man, who carried with him the diffidence born of years of service. This man has something that he wants to tell me, he thought. Maybe after we’ve finished dinner, he’ll contrive to let me know what it is.
‘Well, of course, Mrs Maxwell,’ said Ballard, ‘it’s not at all nice for any of us, particularly the family.’ He turned his gaze upon Antrobus, who could see the mute pleading in his eyes. Ballard was desperate to talk to him alone.
‘Sergeant Maxwell tells me that you are looking into the case, Mr Antrobus,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s right, Mr Ballard. It’s early days yet, of course, but Sergeant Maxwell and I are already making progress. Ginger pudding? Thanks very much, Mrs Maxwell. And plenty of custard, please.’
When dinner was over, Sergeant Maxwell helped his wife to clear the table, and then retired with her to the little scullery behind the kitchen, leaving Inspector Antrobus and Henry Ballard alone together.
‘Now, Mr Ballard,’ he said, ‘I can see that you have something of a confidential nature to discuss with me. We are quite alone here at the moment, and no one can overhear us. So let me hear your story.’
‘It’s something that I observed on that fatal Sunday, 3 June,’ Ballard began. ‘Soon after Sir Montague died, Mr John sought me out, and said that I could pay my respects to the body. I did so, turning down the sheet so that I could take a last farewell of my employer.’
His tones are those of an educated gentleman, thought Antrobus, but he speaks of Sir Montague’s elder son as ‘Mr John.’ Many folk would call him a gentleman, but the Fellows of St Michael’s probably wouldn’t.
‘The family had said their brief farewells,’ Ballard continued, ‘and had retired to the downstairs parlour. I didn’t stay long, but as I was leaving, Mr Timothy – the Reverend Timothy Fowler – came into the room. “Ballard”, he said, “Mr John wishes to see you downstairs.” Then he added: “I have come to say some prayers over Father’s body, as there was no clergyman present when he died.” ’
Ballard stopped speaking, and glanced speculatively at the inspector.
‘I wondered …’ he began, but Antrobus replied before he could frame a sentence.
‘You wondered why Mr Timothy felt it necessary to excuse himself. He had no need to explain his actions to you.’
‘Exactly, Mr Antrobus. And that’s why I lingered in the passage after I’d left the room. I’m not the kind of man who sneaks on others, but I was much moved by Sir Montague’s death, and not really myself. I looked back into the room, having left the door open just a crack.’
‘And what did you see? Come now, Mr Ballard, you must tell me!’
‘I saw Mr Timothy kneel down for a moment, and search with his hand under the bed. He retrieved a blue paper packet, the type of packet one receives from pharmacists, with white gummed wafers at either end, and slipped it into his pocket.’
‘And what did you think it was?’
‘I – I thought at first that it might have been bicarbonate of soda, or some such preparation, but then I asked myself the question: What concern of Mr Timothy’s was the nursing of Sir Montague? No, it was something that he had hidden there, and was now retrieving. I was very disturbed. There had already been rumours of poison going the rounds during the thirteen days of Sir Montague’s illness. Dons, you know, excel at gossip, much of it ill-natured.’
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�And did Mr Timothy Fowler actually say any prayers?’
‘He did. He knelt beside the bed, and I could hear him reading parts of the burial service from The Book of Common Prayer. After that, he pulled the sheet back over Sir Montague’s face. It was the right moment for me to make a judicious retreat.’
Inspector Antrobus sat in silence for a while, thinking over what the secretary had told him. Ballard was a decent, faithful man; it was unlikely that he held any kind of grudge against his late employer’s younger son. Nevertheless, one or two questions would not be out of order.
‘Where were you educated, Mr Ballard? And when did you come into the employment of Sir Montague Fowler? There’s no need to look so startled: I need to know something of your background for purposes of elimination.’
‘Elimination?’ cried Ballard, his normally placid face flushing with anger. ‘Are you suggesting… .’
‘I’m suggesting nothing, Mr Ballard. Please answer my questions.’ He contrived to add a steely edge to his voice, which had the desired effect. Ballard relapsed into his habitual air of deference and respect. He seemed to atone for his outburst by giving the inspector a complete résumé of his life and career.
‘I was born in 1860, and orphaned as a small child,’ he began. ‘I was adopted by a very respectable couple, a well-to-do but childless market gardener and his wife. Their name was Winterbourne, but I retained my own surname of Ballard. We lived in a little village a few miles out from Cheltenham. I went to the dame school there as a little boy, but when I was ten, I was sent as a boarder to Cheltenham Boys’ Academy, where I received an excellent education. It was a wonderful place to be.
‘I left the Academy in ’78, and worked as an elementary school teacher for a couple of years. Then, in 1881, when I reached my majority, I received the offer of the post as secretary to Sir Montague Fowler. It came out of the blue, and I was astounded to be chosen in this way. I believe that it was secured for me by the headmaster of Cheltenham Boys’ Academy, though I never enquired into the matter.’
Ballard’s eyes filled with tears.
An Oxford Tragedy Page 10