The Dead Woman of Deptford: Inspector Ben Ross mystery 6

by Granger, Ann

  ‘I done that,’ he replied sullenly.

  ‘All right!’ I told him briskly. ‘Let us look at it a different way. If you do have information regarding a murder, and you do not confide in me – or any other officer – then that knowledge you are anxious to keep secret is a dangerous thing to carry around in your head. I suspect you know more than you are telling me; and the guilty party may suspect that also.’

  Fear leaped into his eyes. But he remained obstinate. ‘That’s it, all I told you is all I know.’

  I tried to sound encouraging. ‘I can protect you, Parker, if you confide in me.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t!’ he muttered.

  ‘Ah! So there is something else, something you’ve not told me.’

  ‘No, there ain’t!’ he shouted. ‘I only meant, how could any policeman protect me unless he walked round with me all day? If there was anything else to tell you, which there isn’t. You’re getting me confused. I’m all in a muddle now.’

  ‘Think it over, Parker,’ I advised him. ‘Your silence may not protect you. All right!’ I held up a hand to prevent a further outburst of denial. ‘Let us say, something may have slipped your mind. You may remember it later. Whatever it is, however trivial it seems, come at once to me, Inspector Ross. You understand?’

  ‘Yes!’ he said promptly, obviously deciding that agreement was the best way to end our conversation.

  There was no point in continuing it now. I had to let him go, after I’d impressed on him he must leave an address where he could be found, and that he was not to go missing again. He scuttled away, relief in every move.

  Inspector Phipps now decided to put in an appearance. ‘Anything new?’ he asked.

  ‘Not from Parker, or not yet. I’m not giving up, There is something he’s hiding. He’s scared out of his wits. The unfortunate thing is that, at the moment, he is more afraid of someone else than he is of me.’

  I prepared to take my leave. ‘I have impressed on him that the best protection he can have is that of the police. Sadly, he has no confidence in my word.’

  ‘He’s afraid of being labelled an informer,’ said Phipps. ‘I can’t hold him in the cells here. Much as I’d like to oblige you, of course.’

  ‘Of course not, I quite understand. Tell Barrett well done for bringing him in.’

  Elizabeth Martin Ross

  As I had agreed to accompany Patience and Frank to Dorset Square that afternoon, Patience asked me to stay and lunch with the family. As soon as I accepted, she led me off to meet her aunt. Mrs Pickford was a small, pale-skinned, fair-haired woman. She welcomed me with the air of a startled fawn; and whispered something I didn’t quite catch and did not like to ask her to repeat.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Matilda,’ said Patience, answering for me. ‘Mrs Ross is married to the police inspector who is investigating the case.’

  ‘Mr Pickford,’ whispered Mrs Pickford, ‘has gone to Scotland Yard this morning.’

  ‘Please don’t be alarmed, Mrs Pickford,’ I told her. ‘My husband will be very tactful.’

  ‘Mine won’t!’ said Mrs Pickford simply. She made a gesture indicating Patience and then me, probably meant to indicate Patience would have to carry any conversation. ‘I have to tell the kitchen we shall be one more at table, please excuse me.’ She hurried from the room.

  Luncheon was promising to be a difficult experience. Fortunately Frank had been invited too. He arrived some twenty minutes later, chattering in his usual cheerful way and filling the silence. Mrs Pickford had also rejoined us. In Frank’s presence she brightened. Shortly after that, Pickford himself came home; and the animation that had briefly flickered in his wife’s face when talking with Frank faded.

  I admit I had been longing to see Patience’s uncle. His arrival caused some commotion in the hall, much scurrying about of the maids and his voice booming out some criticism. But no one appeared to find this unusual. With all the recent drama in the house, Mrs Pickford had prudently supplied herself with a small vial of sal volatile, and remained in her chair, gripping the little flask like an amulet to ward off harm. I realised we were all waiting with bated breath to hear how her husband had fared at the Yard. Frank met my eye and grimaced. Then the door burst open and a short, very plump gentleman, with a somewhat pop-eyed stare, appeared framed in the doorway. I was unfortunately reminded of one of those toy theatre sets on which the paper characters, attached to thin sticks, are pushed on and off stage by hidden hands.

  ‘My Uncle Pickford!’ Patience informed me. ‘This is Mrs Ross, Uncle.’

  Pickford fixed his bulging gaze on me and exclaimed, ‘Ross, eh? So you are the wife of that Scotland Yard inspector! I have just been speaking with your husband, madam.’

  Mrs Pickford broke in nervously to suggest we talk over luncheon, as the kitchen was ready to send up the soup, so we trooped into the dining room and took our places round the table. We three ladies modestly declined the wine, contenting ourselves with water. Mr Pickford poured out generous glasses for himself and Frank. My earlier impression of a toy theatre was enhanced when the door was flung open by a maid to admit a stout youth wearing a black waistcoat with brass buttons and carrying a large soup tureen. He deposited this on the sideboard with some ceremony. The maid had followed behind. The waistcoated boy ladled out the soup into bowls and the maid bore them to the table. It proved to be a thick soup made from dried peas in a ham stock, and was very filling.

  Following the soup and the clearing away of the dishes and tureen, there was a few minutes’ wait during which Uncle Pickford tapped his knife handle on the table impatiently and breathed heavily through his nostrils like a heavy-laden horse. Still no one spoke.

  The curtain then went up on Act II (as I could not help but see it). The door flew open again to admit the stout youth and a pair of maids. All three staggered beneath trays, between them bearing a boiled ham and a raised game pie, together with a dish of potatoes mashed with swede, another of buttered carrots, one of Brussels sprouts and all accompanied by a gravy-boat of white sauce and a bowl of stewed apple. Pickford cheered up at the sight of the main course and ceased snorting and tapping the table. He even broke the silence.

  ‘We keep a plain table, Mrs Ross,’ he boomed. ‘I can’t be doing with fancy dishes. I like proper food.’

  Mrs Pickford gave me an apologetic smile, whether for the simplicity of the menu or for her husband, it wasn’t certain.

  It was obviously not the habit in the Pickford household to make conversation over the table while eating. Mr Pickford tucked his napkin into his collar and set about his plate with gusto. His wife and niece followed suit. Oh my, I thought, if Patience is to be hostess at Frank’s dinner table, she will have to learn the art of making conversation and eating at the same time! But we worked our way through the ham, game pie and vegetables in silence, broken only when Mr Pickford demanded testily, ‘Are there no more carrots?’

  Mrs Pickford signalled to the maid, who scurried away. She returned with the carrots and, as a precaution, more Brussels sprouts.

  Eventually, Mr Pickford set down his knife and fork and announced: ‘That was a fair piece of gammon, Matilda.’

  Matilda Pickford looked relieved and rang for the dessert to be brought. The soup, ham, game pie, potatoes and other vegetables had left me wanting nothing more, but I suspected to refuse the next course would be regarded as an insult. Now that the serious part of the meal had been eaten, conversation was allowed.

  ‘Now then, Mrs Ross,’ said Pickford, as we waited. He mopped his mouth with his napkin and settled back in his chair to survey me.

  ‘Your husband appears a sensible fellow,’ he continued. ‘I am pleased he is in charge of this sorry business. Very glad, too, that he hasn’t locked Edgar up. That will be some consolation to his afflicted parents. I had intended writing a letter this afternoon, once I had verified the details of the business with your husband. But I begin to think I shall send a message by the telegraph system. Then I won’t have to exp
lain it in detail, only to have to chew it all over again when they get here. Marvellous invention, the telegraph, Mrs Ross.’

  ‘The police force finds it very useful,’ I said.

  ‘Quite so, we must all move with the times!’ Pickford nodded. ‘It’s of great value in business. Why, we can contact a customer in minutes – minutes, mark you! Or we can receive an order and set it in hand the same day. If you are in business, Mrs Ross, you have to keep up with the latest inventions. I am pleased to hear the police have not lagged behind.’

  ‘If you send a message by the telegraph, my dear,’ ventured his wife, ‘Dorothy will think someone has died or is dying.’

  ‘Well, someone has died: that wretched woman in Deptford!’ snapped Pickford.

  ‘But Dorothy – and Walter – won’t know about the woman in Deptford,’ argued Mrs Pickford, ‘because you won’t have told them. So they will think one of us is lying ill.’

  Alarmingly red in the face, Pickford declared, ‘I shall put in the telegram that we are all well, but an urgent situation has arisen requiring family consultation. There!’ concluded Pickford. ‘I trust that will satisfy you, Matilda. Now then, don’t fuss about it and leave it all to me.’

  At that moment the door opened again and the trio of servants reappeared, carrying more laden trays. I had hoped we might be served something light, some jellies, perhaps, or a blancmange. But Mr Pickford’s wish for ‘proper food’ clearly extended to this course, as to the previous one. Displayed for our approval were a large fruit tart, a splendid tower of a steamed sponge pudding (with dates in it) and a baked custard. These were all set out on a sideboard. Lastly a pitcher of cream was set down with a flourish. The maids retired and the boy with the brass buttons remained by the sideboard, with a large serving spoon grasped in his hand.

  ‘Which would you like first, Mrs Ross?’ asked Mrs Pickford.

  I asked for a small portion of fruit tart and was presented with a substantial slice by the boy. I met Frank’s eye and he grinned at me. Frank had lunched chez Pickford before.

  Frank now took advantage of the interruption caused by this arrival of the third course to tell Pickford he intended to pay a call on his aunt that afternoon. ‘In company with Patience and my cousin Elizabeth.’

  I guessed Frank was anxious to underline that Edgar’s misdemeanours were being treated as ‘a family matter’, even if I was married to the investigating officer.

  ‘You are going to tell her all about this, I presume?’ growled Pickford over the date pudding.

  ‘I cannot leave my Aunt Julia in ignorance, sir. I dare say she will hear about it, anyway.’ Frank hesitated and glanced at Mrs Pickford. ‘I am afraid it may make an article in the evening papers. The reading public does like a murder. We can’t hope the press will ignore it.’

  Mrs Pickford gave a little cry and fell back in her chair. Directly in my line of sight was the sideboard with the boy in brass buttons waiting by it. He was listening with interest. This news would go back to the kitchen with the cleared dishes.

  ‘Don’t alarm yourself, madam, I beg,’ urged Frank. ‘The same readership so avid for a lurid story will forget about it if a new scandal or anything dramatic appears in the following day’s papers.’

  ‘Well, I suppose Mrs Parry’s got to know,’ grumbled Pickford. ‘Yes, yes, of course she must.’

  At this point Matilda Pickford met my eye across the table and I could not mistake the entreaty in her expression.

  Sure enough, when the gentlemen were returning to the parlour, Mrs Pickford hung back in the dining-room doorway.

  ‘Let us just go upstairs and tidy ourselves,’ she said, nodding at Patience. Patience began to climb the stairs but Mrs Pickford made no move. When her husband’s stout form and Frank’s tall lean one had disappeared, and Patience was too high above us to hear, she spoke to me in a furtive whisper.

  ‘My dear Mrs Ross, forgive the question, but this won’t affect Patience’s prospects, will it? Mrs Parry is Mr Carterton’s nearest surviving relative, as I understand it. Patience has told me that Mrs Parry is very fond of her nephew. She has been very supportive in his political ambitions. I suppose, all being well, one day . . .’

  Mrs Pickford obviously recollected that it would be unseemly to speak of Aunt Parry’s will. But I understood her. Everyone, myself included, supposed that Frank was named as her heir.

  ‘I mean,’ resumed Mrs Pickford, ‘Mrs Parry won’t object to the wedding going ahead, now that Edgar has behaved so foolishly and caused such a scandal? It will be the almost the first thing my sister, Dorothy, will ask when she arrives. After she’s inquired about Edgar, of course.’

  ‘Frank is determined to stand by Patience and I believe that Mrs Parry will pay great attention to that,’ I said tactfully.

  Mrs Pickford did not look very happy at this reply, but Patience was leaning over the banister above, curious to know what we were whispering about. So we went upstairs to join her.

  The respite was brief. Mrs Pickford was determined to continue her quizzing of me. To do this, she had to remove Patience from the scene.

  ‘Goodness, my love, your hair is all awry. Lucy! Go with Miss Patience to her room and put up her hair afresh.’

  So a reluctant Patience was sent away; but not before she had given us a sharp look. Mrs Pickford chose to ignore the look and concentrate on me. ‘I know you will be as concerned about this wretched business, Mrs Ross, as are we in Edgar’s family,’ she began.

  ‘I understand you are worried, ma’am,’ I assured her. ‘But please don’t make yourself ill fretting about it. My husband will make sure the investigation into the— the matter will be carried out very discreetly and efficiently. As for Mrs Parry, as I told you earlier, she will be guided by Frank.’

  ‘But she does not know Edgar!’ protested his Aunt Pickford. ‘Frank believes we must expect there will be a story in the newspapers this evening. Worse, suppose nothing more interesting happens for a week and the press is full of nothing else but the Deptford murder? They may print some of those dreadful illustrations the artists work up for newspaper stories, so vulgar and bloodthirsty. Mrs Parry would come to quite the wrong conclusion, thinking Edgar is a rascal of the worst sort! Yet he is the dearest boy. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, murder anyone and the thought that he might be cast into prison—’

  ‘He hasn’t been!’ I interrupted briskly. ‘He quite free and engaged in his duties at Bart’s Hospital; too busy, I dare say, to worry about it.’

  ‘Well, he should worry about it,’ argued Mrs Pickford. ‘You have met Edgar, I understand, Mrs Ross?’

  ‘Yes, in this house. Besides, I was there in Deptford with them when— when we discovered what had taken place.’

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Pickford firmly, ‘I can tell my sisters, when they arrive, that you will speak up for the boy with Mrs Parry?’

  ‘I will do my best,’ I said. ‘But I can’t interfere . . .’

  ‘My dear Mrs Ross, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to interfere. But I have to say something to reassure Dorothy – the boy’s mother – when she arrives. She will be distraught. Amelia and Caroline, my sisters, won’t be much better.’ Mrs Pickford sighed. ‘It is too much to hope that Amelia and Caroline won’t come to London with my sister and her husband. You may put money on it, as my husband would say.’

  A look of dismay crossed her face. ‘I do not mean, by those words, to indicate Herbert is a gambler. No one in our family is so profligate. Not to date, anyway. I cannot imagine, Mrs Ross, where Edgar learned such bad behaviour. I do so hope that Mrs Parry does not imagine we are all wastrels! Oh, dear, what can she think of us?’

  She leaned forward and grasped my hand. ‘Dear Mrs Ross, I am so depending on you to correct any false impression Mrs Parry may have had.’ She beamed. ‘Now let us go down and join the gentlemen.’

  Later, Frank, Patience and I set off for Dorset Square by cab. Frank was, as usual, incurably optimistic.

  ‘Well, that wen
t pretty well,’ he said, referring to our luncheon. ‘Your uncle has calmed down considerably, my dear. And Lizzie, I do declare the crusty old fellow took a liking to Ross. That’s an unexpected stroke of luck! Now then, all we have to do is present our case to Aunt Julia.’

  Patience gripped my arm. ‘You will say you’ve met Edgar and he is really harmless, won’t you, Lizzie? Isn’t that what my Aunt Pickford was urging you to do? Do tell Mrs Parry what a really kind, generous and helpful person my brother is.’

  ‘You’ll watch out my Aunt Julia doesn’t have some sort of nervous attack?’ added Frank. ‘You’re very good at calming her down.’

  Everyone, it seemed, was depending on me.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘THE BEST-LAID schemes o’ mice an’ men,’ as the poet described them, are apt to go wrong. We should have borne that in mind, for our sanguine plans for dealing with Mrs Parry were soon dashed. Frank had been right to warn us all about reports of the whole affair in the popular press. When Simms, the butler, admitted us to the house in Dorset Square, he had an unusually conspiratorial air.

  ‘Mr Carterton, sir,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The early editions of the evening newspapers have just been delivered. But I have not yet taken them up to Mrs Parry. She is expecting you and I thought perhaps it best you speak with her first, sir.’

  ‘Well done, Simms,’ said Frank, ‘quite right. Did Mrs Parry send out for the newspapers?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That is to say, she sent a message to the nearest newsagent’s shop. She asked that they should send a boy round with the early editions, as soon as they had them.’

  ‘So,’ said Frank thoughtfully. ‘She’s got wind of what’s happened already, has she? The cat’s out of the bag.’

  ‘I fear so, sir,’ said Simms sorrowfully.

  ‘Who told her?’