‘Sir,’ said the desk sergeant, coming in from the front office, ‘there’s a lady to see you. I told her you were very busy this morning, but she said she’ll wait.’
James Antrobus sighed. Thursday mornings were usually uneventful, letting him deal with routine matters. Why could he not be left alone?
‘What kind of a lady, Sergeant? It’s not Mrs Moulton again, is it? We can’t go in pursuit of her maid: she left of her own accord, and hadn’t stolen anything. Why can I not be left in peace, just for one morning? Can’t you deal with this lady yourself?’
‘Sir, she knows you by name, and won’t see anyone else. She’s a regular real London lady, not the type to brook any evasive action from the likes of me. She gave me this calling-card. It says she’s a doctor, but I don’t see how that can be the case, her being a woman and all.’
Inspector Antrobus looked at the card that the sergeant had given him.
Dr Sophia Jex-Blake, MD ChB
The Edinburgh School of Medicine for Women
‘Show the lady in,’ he said.
‘Inspector,’ said Sophia Jex-Blake, after a few initial courtesies had taken place, ‘I have no right whatsoever to bother you with my importuning, and I am here simply because I am sorry for a very distressed young lady whom I have only just met, and desire to help. I am relying on your good-will and forbearance to help me in my quest, or at least to hear me out.’
‘This young lady, ma’am,’ said Antrobus, smiling, ‘is she to remain anonymous?’
‘By no means. Her name is Miss Frances Fowler, and she is the headmistress of Makin House School.’
‘I know the young lady well, Dr Jex-Blake. She and I have a certain rapport. How can I help you?’
‘I am concerned, Inspector, about her brother, the Reverend Timothy Fowler. I gather that he is suspected of his father’s murder?’
‘I’m sure you’ll understand, ma’am, that I can’t comment on investigations in progress—’
‘I take that to mean that Timothy Fowler is suspected of murder. From what his sister has told me – and she has told me all – I can quite understand that you fear he is guilty. But can you at least admit the possibility that he may be innocent?’
‘I can admit the possibility, ma’am, but I must deal in probability. I cannot discuss the case, but I can assure you that I act solely on evidence, and on sifting through facts. If you think him innocent, then you must set out to prove your case. Have you come to me with fresh evidence?’
‘I have come with a suggestion of a new line of investigation. Have you thought of finding out where Sir Montague Fowler had been staying before he returned, already fatally ill, to Oxford? Would it not be a good idea to find out?’
‘Yes, it would be a good idea, Miss Jex-Blake, but you see, nobody seems to know where Sir Montague went. He never told anybody, you know, and nobody at St Michael’s College ever thought of asking him. It would, at least, have been a faux pas to do so, and at the most, an unwelcome impertinence.’
‘You say that nobody knows where Sir Montague went, Inspector. Well, I do. He went to visit someone at a place called Elm Ridge, in Berkshire, about twenty-five miles away from Oxford. And when he got there, Mr Antrobus, he stayed at a house called Grange Farm.’
‘How … how on earth did you find that out?’
‘I have my methods, Inspector.’
Antrobus treated his visitor to a good-humoured laugh. He relaxed in his chair, and surveyed Miss Jex-Blake with a look that betokened a growing regard.
‘And do you propose to visit Elm Ridge?’ he asked. ‘What do you expect to find there?’
‘I don’t know, Inspector. But we should be able to find out why Sir Montague went there. There may be a family relationship involved, or this Grange Farm may be tenanted by old friends of his who may be able to tell us things about him that we don’t yet know.’
‘Hmm… . You have a theory, haven’t you? Something has made you question what I would call the physical evidence in this case.’
‘Yes, Inspector, I have a theory. But I’d rather not tell you what it is just now, because you would dismiss it as absurd.’
‘Elm Ridge… . Miss Jex-Blake, I am taking a chance with you, and am going to suggest that you and I should work in tandem over this business. I’m intrigued with this line of enquiry that you have suggested, but I cannot allow you to investigate this matter alone. We shall go together to Elm Ridge, and see what we can unearth. I realize that you will be disappointed that I cannot give you a free hand, but…’
‘Say no more, Mr Antrobus,’ said Sophia Jex-Blake. ‘I came here today prepared for such a possibility.’ She opened her reticule, and produced two railway tickets, which she held up for Antrobus’s inspection. Before the astonished inspector could say anything, Sophia pressed home her advantage.
‘Will you show me that packet of poison that Timothy is supposed to have retrieved from under his father’s bed?’
Her tone suggested that she had staked all on his replying in the affirmative, that the whole interview had climaxed in this bold request.
Antrobus rose and opened a safe, which stood in the corner of the office, and took from it the fatal packet of mercuric chloride.
‘This is most irregular, ma’am,’ he said placing the packet before her on his desk, ‘but I feel impelled to do as you ask.’
She threw him a swift glance of gratitude, and examined the packet carefully. Then she uttered a little sigh of satisfaction.
‘The chemist’s name is printed on the label. Have you been to see him?’
‘I sent a constable down to Kingston-upon-Thames to interview the chemist, William Hart, at his premises in Winery Lane. He remembered supplying the poison to a customer, a young man wearing a slouch hat and with a muffler wound around his neck. He was not a regular customer. He signed the poisons register as George Thomas, and gave an address in Kingston. My constable made enquiries and found that no man of that name lived at the address given.’
‘Hm… . Decidedly sinister. The odd thing about this package is that I don’t think its contents were ever used. It’s full of powder, right to the edges. I suppose it really is mercuric chloride?’
‘Oh, yes, it is, ma’am. It has been submitted to chemical analysis by a forensic specialist. Somebody went to great lengths to obtain it, and then, apparently, never used it.’
Dr Jex-Blake stood up.
‘Will Friday be too early for us to embark on our investigation, Inspector?’ she asked.
‘Friday will do very nicely, Miss Jex-Blake.’
Sophia turned at the door, and submitted the inspector to a searching glance.
‘I can see, Mr Antrobus,’ she said, ‘that you are suffering from a confirmed phthisis. The stuffy air of this office will do you no good. Try to get out into the fresh air as much as possible. I would also recommend judicious use of the carbolic and menthol inhalers. Goodbye, Inspector. We shall meet again on Friday morning.’
When Sophia Jex-Blake and Inspector Antrobus alighted from the single-carriage train at Elm Ridge Halt, they found that they were the sole passengers to do so. They watched the little smoky engine clatter along the line until it passed out of sight behind a line of stately elms. Sophia looked about her. Their only companions were a few incurious cows standing in a field bordering the line. Facing her was a sunken road running beside the single track, a road that could only be reached by crossing the line on a series of wooden planks, rather like stepping-stones, place between the rails.
She had come equipped with a generous reticule, and a small leather suitcase, both of which she put down beside her on the wooden platform. She had carefully planned her visit to Elm Ridge, and knew that they would not long be alone.
Presently, she heard the sound of approaching hooves, and within a couple of minutes a horse and trap appeared on the road that ran beside the track. The driver, a young man in a plaid overcoat, and sporting a rakish bowler hat, ran across the track and retrieved the
ir luggage, bidding them follow him on the ‘stepping-stones’ and so down to the road.
‘Miss Jessie Blake?’ said the young man. ‘And this’ll be the gentleman that you said might be coming with you. Good day, Master. I’m Joe Foster, from the White Lion. Let me help you up into the trap, ma’am. It’s only half a mile to Elm Ridge, so we’ll be there in no time.’
The village of Elm Ridge was just as the porter at Oxford Station had described it. There was a church, very old by the look of it, and partly fallen into ruin. As they passed the churchyard, Sophia told the porter to stop.
‘Joe,’ she said, ‘take Mr Antrobus and the luggage to the White Lion. I want to look in the churchyard. I’ll join you in a few minutes.’
Sophia opened the gate into the churchyard. Something had caught her attention as they had passed, a mass of fresh flowers lying on an area of disturbed earth. She felt a little surge of excitement, as she had half expected to see something of the sort.
She picked her way through the long grass growing up around the ancient gravestones, until she came to the patch of colour, which proved to be the cut flowers placed as tributes on three fresh graves. One of the graves possessed a headstone, with an earlier inscription all but effaced by lichen. But a second inscription had evidently been carved quite recently.
Also Marian, wife of the above, died 25 May 1894, aged 60 years.
The other graves were marked by wooden boards fastened into the loose earth with pegs. One commemorated Victoria Bolt, aged 21, and the other Alison Jacobs, aged 16. Both had died on the same date: 21 May, 1894.
‘So, Sophia,’ said Sophia Jex-Blake aloud, ‘it would seem that my hypothesis was correct. It’s time to make my way back to Mr Antrobus.’
Poor woman! Poor girls! What a desolate place this churchyard was!
A string of thatched cottages bordered the single road of beaten earth on the same side as the church, while opposite these stood the White Lion, a single-storey whitewashed building set in what appeared to be a market garden. The landlord, who was Joe Foster’s father, was engrossed in conversation with Antrobus, who held a tankard of beer in his hand.
‘Welcome, Miss Jessie Blake,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’ll find your luggage in room 3, along the passage there. Joe, show the lady to her room.’
‘I’ll be here for two days, I expect. Were you able to accommodate Mr Antrobus?’
‘Oh, yes, miss. The gentleman’s got a very snug room above the stables across the yard. Will you excuse me a moment? I must just look into the tap room.’
‘So, madam,’ said Antrobus sternly, putting down his empty tankard on the bar, ‘you gambled on my agreeing with your madcap scheme, and booked a room for me in advance. It was a bold move, ma’am!’
‘I expect it was,’ Sophia replied, ‘but you’re not really angry – I can see that from the twinkle in your eye. In any case, a couple of days in the country will be good for you. Now, will you be content to leave the landlord to me? I’ll make him tell us what we want to know.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of interfering with you,’ said Antrobus. ‘What did you see in the churchyard?’
‘Graves. Ah! Here’s Mr Foster back. Landlord, my friend and I are hoping to visit the family of a lady who died here not so long ago. She lived at a place called Grange Farm… .’
‘Oh! So you knew poor Marian Hughes? What a tragedy! Poor Marian… . Her gentleman friend from Oxford had come to visit, too, which seems to make it even worse. It was gastric stomach, on account of tainted meat. I never serve curry here at the White Lion. Curry covers a multitude of sins in hot weather.’
Mr Forster was a stout, genial man in shirtsleeves, a man with a healthy red face and a shining bald head. He seemed content to stand on the threshold, talking of the village tragedy.
‘But there’s no family for you to visit, Miss Jessie, ’ he said. ‘Her husband died what seems a lifetime ago, and she never had no children. No; Grange Farm lies closed and empty, though I hear that her husband had kin living in Northamptonshire, so maybe one of them will come to live in it.’
‘Poor dear Marian,’ said Sophia. ‘I first heard tell of her from that very gentleman who was staying with her at the time – Sir Montague Fowler. He’d known her for a very long time, I believe, and he once told me her maiden name – dear me! I’ve forgotten it. As I get older, my memory plays me tricks. Can you remember it, Mr Antrobus?’
‘Just for the moment I can’t recall… .’
‘Ballard, Miss,’ said the landlord, ‘that was her name. Marian Ballard. She was a real beauty when she was a girl, and there was many a lad after her, if you take my meaning. But Arthur Hughes was the lucky one. He was quite well-to-do, and Grange Farm was his own property. He died of a cut from a scythe, which turned to septic – septo… .’
‘Septicaemia.’
‘Yes, that’s right. And so she was left alone. But she managed very well, and became a farmer in her own right. Well, I must go about my business. If there’s anything you want, ma’am, just call me, and if I’m not here, young Joe will see to you.’
‘I don’t suppose there was a doctor in the village, was there? I expect they had to send for one from the nearest town.’
‘Oh, no, ma’am, we’ve got our own doctor here, Dr Folliott, he’s called. He’s always been here – in fact, he delivered me, when I was born, and that’s over forty years ago. He lives in that little stone house opposite the church.’
‘That was a brilliant interrogation, Miss Jex-Blake,’ whispered Antrobus as the landlord left the room. ‘So her name was Ballard… . Did you think that would be so?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not a seer, you know. I just wanted to know her maiden name because no doubt it was the name by which Sir Montague Fowler would have known her at first. Or so I assume. But Ballard … are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Very likely,’ said Antrobus. ‘But my training forbids me to make conclusions ahead of the facts.’
‘Very commendable. Now, I suggest that we have some luncheon here, and afterwards go and pay a visit to the doctor. What was his name? Folliott.’
They were admitted to Dr Folliott’s house by an elderly housekeeper, a woman with a pretty, unlined face, and shrewd grey eyes. She took Sophia’s calling-card – Antrobus was content to trail behind her – and led them into a comfortable room at the back of the house, a room that overlooked the ancient, overgrown churchyard. A well-polished grandfather clock ticked away soothingly in a corner.
Dr Folliott rose from a chair to greet them. He was clearly very old, with a stooping gait and a shock of white hair. He still held Sophia’s card in his hand.
‘Please sit down, Dr – er – Jex-Blake,’ he said. ‘And you, Mr – er –’
‘Antrobus, sir. James Antrobus.’
‘Antrobus. Very good. That settee is rather comfortable. Bertha, would you bring us some tea?’
The old doctor lowered himself carefully into his chair, sat back, and surveyed his visitor. His eyes, she noticed, were bright and keen.
‘So you are the celebrated Sophia Jex-Blake,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard of your struggles, and your triumphs. As a young man, I would probably have fought against you. But not now. Old age brings a certain amount of perspective to issues of that sort. You qualified in Ireland, didn’t you? Have you actually practised medicine?’
‘Indeed I have. Medicine, and surgery too.’
‘And why have you come to see me? I don’t believe we are acquainted.’
‘It’s because of poor Marian Ballard – Hughes, I should say. I heard of her passing, and naturally wanted to talk to the doctor who attended her.’
‘Yes, I see. Well, Miss Jex-Blake, it was one of the most virulent cases of food poisoning that I’d ever encountered. I thought it was miraculous that she lasted so long. It was tainted mutton, you know, that had been made up into a curry – people often do that with meat that’s on the turn. They were all taken ill in the night – Mrs Hughes, Sir Montague, wh
o, as you know, was staying with her, and the two maids, who shared the same food.’
‘Tainted meat?’
‘Well, it was more than that. It was botulism – a very severe strain. I did everything possible, and sent for a colleague in Saxon Meadow, two miles from here. We used the pumps, applied white of eggs, and washed out their stomachs with bicarbonate of soda – well, you know all that kind of thing.
‘Marian – Mrs Hughes, you know – urged Sir Montague to go back to Oxford at once, which he did. I wanted him to stay here, but he insisted on leaving. He was still extremely sick, and very agitated. It was a Monday, as I recall, the 21 May. Both the maids died just after dawn. A terrible tragedy. One was sixteen, and the other twenty-one. Marian lingered on for several days, but died on the morning of the twenty-fifth. It was not long afterwards that we heard that Sir Montague, too, had died, but that in his case it was murder! Corrosive sublimate, I was told. It’s a wicked world, Dr Jex-Blake. A very wicked world. Ah! Here’s Bertha with the tea.’
The elderly housekeeper had entered the room carrying a tray upon which reposed a large china teapot, cups and saucers, a tall jug of milk, and a bowl of lump sugar. She put the tray down carefully on a table, and as she left the room she gave Sophia a look which only another woman, perhaps, could have interpreted. It said: When you’ve finished with the doctor, come and talk to me in the kitchen. Without waiting to be asked, Sophia poured out the tea, and handed a cup to the old doctor.
She glanced quickly at Inspector Antrobus, who saw her lips form the words ‘your turn!’ Evidently she had no thought of using him merely as an audience. They were part of a joint venture.
‘Mrs Hughes was comfortably off, I gather?’ Antrobus asked.
‘She was. She’d been a widow for many years, but still ran the Grange Farm. She had four farmhands who’d been with her for years, and she paid them good wages. She never lacked for money, I’m glad to say.’
An Oxford Tragedy Page 15