‘It seemed the decent thing to do,’ Ursula murmured. ‘We were sure he had breathed his last.’ She forced herself to remove the bedcover.
The physician was very tall, thin and probably in his early thirties. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Medical professionals, are you?’ His tone managed to sound non-judgemental.
‘As an ex-police inspector, I have some training in the assessment of comatose individuals,’ Thomas said, closing the door behind Mrs Duggan. ‘Thomas Jackman, and this is Miss Grandison,’ he added.
‘Ex-policeman?’ said Doctor Barton, giving each of them a keen look. He placed his medical bag on the table, removed a well-worn three-quarter-length grey overcoat, slightly hitched his shabby trousers and knelt beside the body. Ursula could see a hole in the sole of one of his well-polished shoes.
She received an impression of easy competence as Dr Barton checked for a pulse, lifted up the eyelids, then inspected his bony chest.
He looked up. ‘I take it this man was not lying on his back when you entered the room?’
‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘He was on his front with his head on the fender.’
‘Why did you move him?’
‘To see if he was alive and in need of assistance.’
‘And you found …?’
‘That he was dead.’
‘And you sent for me because …?’
‘A death certificate will need signing.’
Dr Barton sighed as though disappointed in the answer but not surprised. ‘Help me remove his jacket and shirt, will you – Jackman, was it?’
Thomas nodded.
As the two men stripped the upper garments off the body, Ursula saw that the livid stains she’d noted on Albert’s chest were all over his skin. And there was a dark patch of what looked like bruising running down his front into the lower part of his body. She hoped that the trousers would not have to be removed as well.
Instead the doctor rose, looked down at the dead man and sighed again. ‘The note that you sent – via Mr Duggan? – mentioned a friend suffering a heart attack, not that the man was dead. Yet this man died some time ago.’ His tone suggested that he was only commenting on the situation; there was no sense of outrage.
‘You can tell that?’ asked Ursula curiously. Somehow the removal of Albert’s brown jacket and striped waistcoat had robbed him of his identity. She could look at the body now without thinking about the man.
‘How long has he been dead?’ asked Thomas.
Another sigh from Dr Barton. ‘Ex-inspector of police, I think you said. So you will understand why I find difficulty in accepting this story of a friend with heart trouble. Who, if Mrs Duggan is to be believed, had invited you over?’ He glanced around the room. ‘Sociable fellow, was he? Hadn’t been here long, said Mrs Duggan, so I suppose you are about to tell me he wanted to show off his new home?’ He waited politely for one of them to say something.
Ursula decided it was better she said nothing.
‘You’re a bright lad,’ said Thomas with the air of handing over some sort of award. ‘I dare say you may have been called in by some of my former colleagues from time to time.’
The doctor nodded. ‘I’ve had dealings with several officers. At the moment I have no practice of my own, I act as a locum for general practitioners who go on holiday or have other reason for not being able to fulfil their duties to their patients. Several of these practices are in areas less salubrious than Marylebone. Areas where it is difficult to make a living,’ he added, giving the bare walls of Albert’s room another cursory glance.
‘Your account for today’s visit will be settled, you have my word on that,’ Thomas said.
Dr Barton gave a slight nod in acknowledgement. ‘It is not, perhaps, my business why you are here. And I suggest that you do not need me to tell you that this man,’ he gave a slight wave of his hand towards Albert’s body, ‘did not die of a heart attack.’
He seemed very sure of himself, this Dr Barton, thought Ursula. But if he was having to deal with a vast variety of patients he had little opportunity to get to know, perhaps he had to be.
Thomas went over to Albert’s cupboard. ‘It’s good to meet a doc who knows his way around. We’ll tell you the full story but, first, since Mr Pond will not be needing this quite respectable bottle of cognac, can I offer you a glass?’
The doctor consulted a watch then returned it to his waistcoat pocket. ‘I seem to have time in hand. Why not?’ He received a charged glass. Thomas sent an enquiring glance at Ursula.
She gave him a smile and shook her head then sat down on one of the upright chairs.
‘Please,’ said Thomas, ‘can you start by giving me some idea of when Albert Pond died and what you think was the cause of death.’
Dr Barton carefully sniffed his glass then drank some of the brandy thoughtfully, looking at Thomas as though he needed to assess how far he could trust him. Then, still holding his brandy, he went and stood over the body, produced a thermometer, stuck it in one of Albert’s ears, then manipulated his arms and finally checked the thermometer reading. ‘First, time of death. Probably yesterday afternoon. I would say that rigor mortis has only just passed. The way the blood has settled down the front of his body,’ he waved towards the dark bruising Ursula had already noticed. ‘That tells me he fell face forward, not on his back, and was undisturbed until you moved him.’ He crouched down beside the body and used his brandy glass to indicate the livid spots. ‘Those look to me like cyanide poisoning. I shall have to report my conclusions to the authorities. I am unable to sign a death certificate as an autopsy will be required to ascertain cause of death. However, I shall be very surprised if tests prove anything other than death by cyanide.’ He rose, brushed off the knees of his trousers, finished his brandy and looked at both of them. ‘Do you have any idea who it could have been administered by?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He gave a small cough. ‘Would you have any idea how it was administered?’
‘I assume it was ingested; that is the usual method with poisoners.’
‘We haven’t found any food, nor medicines, apart from some aspirin tablets,’ said Ursula, indicating the bottle she’d brought through from the bedroom and placed on the windowsill. ‘Could the poison have been in something he ate outside this place?’
Dr Barton shook his head. ‘A lethal dose of cyanide will take effect within minutes. If he was poisoned elsewhere, he would not have been able to climb the stairs or let himself in before collapsing.’
‘So the poisoner must have taken any evidence away with himself,’ murmured Thomas.
‘Himself or herself – don’t they say poison is the weapon of the female of the species?’ said Dr Barton.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Thomas thoughtfully. ‘I have known cases where it has been used by men.’
‘So,’ Dr Barton seated himself in the armchair and stretched out his long legs. ‘Perhaps you will now be good enough to fill me in on why you are both here in what do not seem to be the sort of surroundings you would normally be found. Well, Mr Jackman perhaps, but Miss Grandison appears used to better things.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Ursula said with a chuckle.
Dr Barton raised an eyebrow but waited for one of them to provide the promised explanation for their presence.
Thomas recharged both the doctor’s and his glasses, set the bottle back on the cabinet, then took the free chair. ‘I’m now a private investigator and I was commissioned to look into the death of one Joshua Peters. He died of cyanide poisoning in a box of cherry liqueur chocolates that had been sent him through the post. This man,’ he waved towards Albert’s body, ‘was his servant.’ In even tones Thomas outlined the bare details of what had been discovered so far. He left out any mention of Millie but explained that Alice Peters was in prison charged with the murder of her husband.
‘So you think,’ said Dr Barton when he had finished, ‘that both master and servant have been murdered by someone they had
been blackmailing; is that about the size of it?’
Thomas nodded.
‘Well, I can see why you are here, Mr Jackman. However, you haven’t explained the presence of Miss Grandison.’
Without looking at him, Ursula knew that Thomas was at a loss.
‘I’m Mr Jackman’s assistant,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Assistant, eh?’ Dr Barton’s left eyebrow rose. ‘I didn’t realise investigation could be women’s work.’
‘Women have valuable skills,’ said Thomas negligently. ‘As a case we worked on together six months ago proved. Miss Grandison is an excellent assistant.’
‘Well,’ the doctor rose. ‘Mr Pond may not need my services but others do. I shall go directly to the police station to report a suspicious death and arrange for the coroner to be informed.’
Thomas handed him a card. ‘Send me an account and I will see that you are paid.’ He paused for a moment then added, ‘I would appreciate knowing the findings of the autopsy. Whether cyanide poisoning was confirmed.’
‘It will be.’ The doctor picked up his case and held out his hand to Ursula, who rose and took it. ‘Goodbye, Miss Grandison. I wish you and Mr Jackman luck with your investigation.’ He felt in his breast pocket and brought out a card of his own and offered it to Thomas. ‘Perhaps you will let me know the result?’
‘Of course.’
‘No need to see me out.’ The doctor closed the door behind him.
Ursula remained standing and looked at Thomas. ‘I couldn’t think of any other reason for my being here.’
He grinned. ‘Well, as I said, we worked together before – I don’t see why we can’t again, do you?’
She felt relief.
‘After our good doctor has informed the police, my old friend Inspector Drummond will almost certainly be round here. If we are to stay ahead of things, the other inhabitants of this apartment house need to be questioned now.’
A surge of excitement filled Ursula. ‘And you want me to help?’
‘That way we will take half the time. These rooms seem to be the only ones on this floor. I’ll take the next floor down and you the one below that.’
‘What shall we say?’
‘Let us stick to the story we gave Mrs Duggan: we came to visit our friend, Albert Pond, and it appears he has been poisoned.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We could also say that there are important papers missing. Papers that were the reason for our visit.’
‘And, quite naturally, we want to know if Albert had someone call on him yesterday?’
‘Exactly.’ He looked at her, ‘Not nervous, are you? I remember you handling matters in Somerset extremely well.’
Ursula remembered how unthinkingly she had taken up the case of the nurserymaid whose body she had discovered, and how deeply she had become embroiled in the investigation that had gradually gathered pace; the terrible shocks and the heartache that had followed. At least this case would not involve her so deeply. And just maybe questioning some neighbours might give Thomas Jackman a lead that would enable him to clear Alice of the murder charge.
‘Let’s to it,’ she said, putting on her gloves. Jackman gave a last look around the room as he held open the door for her, then closed it behind them. Their steps echoed on the uncarpeted stairs.
On the next landing Thomas gave Ursula a nod and knocked at the door that bore the number 6. She continued down to the floor below, suddenly conscious that up these same stairs had come a murderer. Or had there been more than one? Had Albert recognised his killer? If they were blackmail victims, though, surely he would have not have let them in, even if they had come to make a payment? But would he have been foolish enough to let someone he was blackmailing know where to find him?
Ursula reached the first floor landing and flat No. 4. The door had recently been painted, the brass figure in its centre was brightly polished, as was a knocker, and a neat label announced that it was the residence of Mrs Digby Walters. Ursula took a deep breath, called upon her creative powers, took a handkerchief from her bag and knocked on the door. Nothing happened; she banged the knocker again, a little harder this time.
After a moment the door was opened by a small woman dressed in a slightly faded dress of some printed material and holding an item of embroidery; delicate sprays of flowers decorated a piece of organza. ‘Yes?’ said the woman. ‘Do I know you?’ Bright eyes behind pince-nez looked curiously at Ursula.
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Walters.’ Ursula clutched her handkerchief. ‘I have just come from Mr Pond’s apartment on the top floor,’ she dabbed at her eyes.
‘What did you say?’ Mrs Walters leaned forward a little. ‘Can you speak up?’
Ursula repeated what she had said in a louder voice.
‘Mr Pond, did I catch the name correctly? Didn’t he move in a few weeks ago? I haven’t met him but I know Mrs Duggan cleans for him, and is grateful for the business.’
Ursula nodded.
‘And what does Mr Pond have to do with me?’ Mrs Walters asked brightly.
‘It’s terrible!’ Another dab with the handkerchief. ‘We came to visit him this morning and … oh, Mrs Walters, he has passed away.’
‘Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. How very upsetting for you and your husband.’
Ursula did not correct her.
‘But I fail to see how that sad occurrence has anything to do with me. Did he have a heart attack?’ Mrs Walters lowered her voice as though she might be in church.
Ursula gave a little gulp. ‘I fear that our friend’s demise was not natural. It would appear that, oh, it is too dreadful but the doctor we called in says he has been poisoned!’
The woman fell back a step. ‘Poisoned!’ Then leaned forward and brought her voice back to a hush, ‘Arsenic?’
‘The doctor thinks cyanide. The thing of it is, Mrs Walters, certain papers that we were to sign and take away have disappeared. We wondered, do you know if Albert, Mr Pond, had a visitor yesterday? Did you hear him take somebody upstairs?’
‘Oh, no, dear. I never know what transpires in this building. I am too busy,’ she held up the embroidery. ‘It was something of a hobby until my dear husband passed on. Now I am not ashamed to use my skills to increase my pensioner’s pittance. People commission me; I am known for the delicacy of my work.’ She offered the piece of organza for Ursula to admire. ‘This will be a nightdress case. And being a little hard of hearing, elephants could pass by my door and I’d not know.’ She blinked, her expression troubled. ‘But I am truly sorry to hear of such a dreadful event taking place here.’ She glanced around nervously.
Ursula sighed deeply. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Mrs Walters. But I am sure you have no need to worry; I fear Mr Pond must have suffered from a personal vendetta.’
‘Vendetta!’ Mrs Walters looked even more disturbed.
‘As I said, it would have been personal. Please do not allow yourself to be worried for your safety; I am sure no one else in this building is at risk.’ Ursula glanced behind her at the door across the landing. ‘I wonder, could you tell me who lives opposite you? They may have been aware of a visitor to Mr Pond.’
‘Ah, that is Mr Barnes. Such a nice man, if a trifle eccentric. I hope he may be able to enlighten you; his eyesight is weak but he has lived here forever and can tell you details of every occupant since the year dot. Well, if I can’t help you any more, dear, I must return to my work. I can only do it in the daylight, you see.’
Ursula thanked the woman and turned to flat No. 3.
While she was waiting for Mr Barnes to answer her knock, Thomas came down from the upper floor. ‘Any luck?’ he murmured as he passed her.
She shook her head and he continued to the ground floor as the door of No. 3 was opened, first a crack and then a little further and someone, surely it had to be Mr Barnes, peered at Ursula. He was a gaunt figure of medium height wearing an ancient suit that hung as a sad testament to weight loss, and he sported a pair of spectacles
with lenses that resembled nothing so much as bottle ends. Just as Ursula was about to break into the same approach as she had used for Mrs Walters, the cadaverous face broke into an excited smile. ‘Why, it’s the angel come down.’ His voice quavered with emotion.
What was it Mrs Walters had said? That her neighbour had bad eyesight and was a little eccentric?
Mr Barnes reached for her hand. ‘And you’re visiting me today! Come in, come in!’ He opened the door wide and, with surprising strength, pulled Ursula into his flat, closing the door behind her. ‘There, now I’ve got you. Come, sit you down.’ Now he pulled her into a living area furnished with two ancient armchairs sporting anti-macassars on the backs. A fire burned in the grate and a small kettle sat on an iron hob that jutted over the coals. Beside one of the chairs was a low, round table. On it stood a cage and inside the cage was a mouse. Ursula gave a little gasp of surprise.
‘Seen him, have you?’ said Mr Barnes happily. ‘My little friend, Mousie?’ He let go of her hand, felt for the latch of the cage door, opened it and took out his pet. It sat on his hand, upright, whiskers twitching, and waved two tiny paws. ‘Want a little cheese, do you, Mousie?’ On the table was a plate with small, roughly cut bits of a hard cheese. ‘Would you like to give him a piece?’
Feeding a tame mouse was a new experience for Ursula. She picked up a fragment and held it out. Tiny dark eyes inspected the offering, then the slim snout delicately took it in its sharp little teeth. Mr Barnes gently put his pet back in its cage. It put the cheese down, inspected it, then started to eat in dainty, darting movements.
‘Mr Barnes …’ she started.
‘Sit, sit,’ he urged her.
Since he clearly wasn’t going to pay any attention to what she was saying unless she did, Ursula settled herself on the edge of one of the chairs. With a little sigh of satisfaction, he sat in the other and, speaking slowly and clearly, she launched into her story.
‘Pond, Albert Pond,’ Mr Barnes said in his high-pitched, squeaky voice. ‘Up in the top flat, you say? Let me see, Mrs Duggan told me about him, how he’d taken it over from that actor chappie, been there for years; what was he called now? Jenkins, yes, that was it, Henry Jenkins. Never saw him act. Think he only ever had small parts. Bit of a ne’er do well, I’m afraid, with ideas above his station. Always behind with his rent; our good Mrs Duggan complained a lot about him. Went to live with his sister in Folkestone a couple of months ago. Now, what was it you asked me?’
A Fatal Freedom Page 30