by Tessa Dale
“An old woman that we have in custody,” Dan Jones told her. “She’s as addled as they come, but kept these papers for years.”
“How old was she when she started to pick them up?”
“Mid twenties, I’d say.” Richard Clever saw a gleam in Sam Hurst’s eye that betokened an idea coming to fruition.
“Pretty?”
“Very, back then,” Stanton said.
“But not rich?”
“Hardly.”
“How did she live?” Sam Hurst asked the question, but already suspected the answer. The woman worked for an upper class family, almost certainly.
“She started out working below stairs for the Earl of Castleburgh. Then she became her Ladyship’s personal maid, whilst she was up from London,” Clever confirmed. “I see that you perceive something we don’t, Miss Hurst. I sometimes wish I could tap into that amazing thing that we call ‘female intuition’.”
“We women call it common sense,” Sam said, smiling at his discomfort. “Imagine it, if you can. A poor girl, suddenly working in a stately home, surrounded by opulence on all sides. Then she becomes a rich woman’s maid. She would have been in attendance at all the best get togethers, and seen some wonderful sights.”
“It would certainly turn any girl’s head,” Clever conceded, “but how does that help us?”
“I think she was collecting regular articles,” Sam said, uncannily mirroring their own idea. “These papers are from before the Great War, and this particular one was put together for the benefit of the middle classes. Women who aspired to improving their lot would always turn to page six.”
“Page six?”
“The Society Page,” Sam confirmed. “Your lady’s maid wanted to be part of the social world she served. My bet is she was following the exploits of some famous person or other.”
“That is an excellent deduction, my dear Miss Hurst.” DCI Clever studied the nearest hanging sheet, then moved to the next in line. “Here we are. Page six is, as you say, devoted to the high society of the day. I believe you might have stumbled on what we were searching for.”
“Why, thank you, Detective Chief Inspector,” Sam replied. “As a reward, might I whisk Stan away from you? It is rather late, and I was hoping to see him tonight. It is our official third date.”
“I fail to see the significance of that,” Clever said, and Dan Jones had to stifle a laugh.
“First date finishes with a walk home and a peck on the cheek. Date two progresses to holding hands in the cinema, and date three ends with a nice goodnight kiss,” Sam explained.
“It is getting rather late,” Richard Clever said, blushing at the girl’s bluntness. “Perhaps we should all get some sleep, and start over again tomorrow morning. Eight o’ clock then, chaps. Off you go, Stanton. I shudder to think what date number four entails. No, Miss Hurst, please don’t enlighten me. Good evening.”
The door closed and the DCI listened to their footsteps receding into the distance. He checked the pot of coffee and found it to be half full, and still warm. Pouring himself another cupful, he turned and began to study each page number six on display.
After a few minutes it became clear to Richard that the hallowed halls of pre-war high society were peopled by a very select group of individuals. To be a socialite, one had to be rich and readily able to appear at all the correct functions. Coming out balls, country weekends and candid news about nightlife amongst the social high fliers, populated most of the column inches, and the rest of the page was filled with posed photographs of that week’s most eligible bachelor, usually on the arm of a bright young thing, or some wealthy businessman whose vast fortune qualified him as lesser gentry.
On his third page six, the DCI spotted a photograph of a familiar face. Charles Vancleur, the third Earl of Castleburgh was posed, arm in arm, with a stunningly attractive woman. The caption stated that the Earl and his wife, Lady Vancleur were attending a charity ball, in aid of distressed coal miners. The Lord of the High Fells and his wife stared out, with a half dozen other people milling around in the middle distance.
Richard Clever made a small note, for his team’s benefit, rather than his own. His remarkable memory had already taken a mental snap of the posed picture. He moved on, pausing at each page six, finding several more pictures of either the couple, or just Lady Vancleur, at various functions. Most items were nothing more than a short paragraph to the effect that they were in London, and had attended one ball or another, but there were three more pictures.
In each picture, the Earl and his wife were posed identically, with the only difference being their attire. Whilst the Earl was always dressed in the Edwardian era’s conventional tails and top hat, his wife never seemed to wear the same dress twice. Richard studied each picture closely, committing the fine detail to memory, from the style of dress, to the magnificent jewellery adorning her throat and ears.
By the time he had absorbed every page six, and committed them to memory, even Richard was getting a little tired. He would grab a few hours sleep, allowing his intricate mind to digest all of the recently acquired information, and start over afresh in the morning. He would leave Dan Jones and Stan Stanton to continue the hunt for some clue within the pages of Ginnie’s old newspapers, and see if Neil McFarland had made any progress with the reinvestigation of the evidence in Fornell’s murder case.
It was, he knew, a long shot, but anything the forensic pathologist could find would be better than nothing. The DCIs case was still little more than a seemingly random set of events, waiting for some tiny fact to help draw them all together. If McFarland had a straw to offer, Richard Clever would clutch at it willingly.
Chapter Nineteen
Neil McFarland studied the impressive new sign that had appeared, as if by magic, the previous day. The white painted board was screwed to the outside wall of the relatively new facility and declared, in neat black lettering that you were about to enter ‘The Castleburgh Forensic Laboratory’. He smiled and pushed open the front door.
His new assistant, Eddy Butterworth, who had been until recently, an orderly at the cottage hospital, met him as he entered, and spoke to him in a stage whisper.
“There’s a policeman here,” he hissed, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “He arrived at half past eight. I asked him to come back later, but he said he’d wait.”
“Well, we are a forensic facility, funded by the local constabulary, Eddy,” the professor replied. “Most of our customers will be police officers.”
“I know that, sir,” Eddy replied, peevishly. “But we haven’t got his body.”
“Whose body?”
“The one this policeman wants, sir. I checked all three of our fridges, twice, and there is no P J Fornell currently residing on these here premises!”
“Ah, the intrepid DCI Clever,” McFarland said.
“What… that’s Clever Dick?” Eddy’s opinion of the big, bespectacled man who had commandeered the only office in the building suddenly soared. “He’s supposed to be like some Sherlock Holmes, isn’t he?”
“Sort of,” McFarland replied. “I rather think he’s looking for a Watson.”
“No, sir. He’s definitely after someone called Fornell!”
Neil McFarland took a deep breath, then pushed open his office door. Richard Clever rose from behind the desk and nodded a curt greeting to the forensic scientist.
“Early bird, Richard,” McFarland said. “I can only apologise for my lateness, but I didn’t get to my bed until three in the morning. Can I offer you anything? Tea… coffee?”
“I’ve already had some breakfast, about two hours ago,” the DCI responded. “What have you got for me on the Fornell case, professor. Sorry, I mean Neil. I’m afraid I can’t get used to all this over familiarity. It’s a damned nuisance to my mind. I had Stanton’s young lady getting very familiar last night.”
“Does Stanton know, Richard?”
“Damn it. There, you see what I mean?” Richard Clever to
ok off his glasses and began to clean them with a pocket handkerchief to cover his embarrassment. “She popped into my office, gave us the benefit of her female wisdom, and stole my constable away during an investigation. That is what I call getting over familiar. Now, how have you progressed?”
“The material evidence was rather sparse,” McFarland started. It was always best, in his opinion, to get the bad news out of the way right from the start. “I had to discount anything to do with blood stains, as they were far too degraded. It would be hard, almost impossible, to establish if the stains dried on the knife and clothing were even human blood.”
“I think we can assume that the murder weapon would have dried blood on it,” Clever replied. “The same applies to the stains around the rips in the victim’s clothing.”
“I agree. The murder weapon would have a great deal of dried blood on it, but I can only speculate on that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that the knife in the evidence box was not the murder weapon,” McFarland said, enjoying the look of surprise on the DCIs face. “Although, I can state, with some degree of confidence, that the victim was stabbed with it.”
“Can you cut the riddles,” Clever asked. “How can you say such a thing when Charles Vancleur was found with it sticking in his back?”
“You asked me to re-examine the evidence,” the forensic scientist said. “Part of that re-examination must be the study of any and all available reports. I dug out the original medical examiner’s report. It was, to say the least, a poor thing. The autopsy was not well documented, and the doctor had never received any formal training in the field of forensics. Not surprising then that he made a glaring error.”
“Concerning the knife?” Richard Clever could scarcely conceal his excitement. “May I see it?”
Neil McFarland took him through to the small, but well equipped laboratory. He took a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket and, selecting one, opened a locker. The knife was lying, alone, on the top shelf. The professor removed it, and placed it on the nearby autopsy slab, then took out a thin manila folder and put it alongside the weapon.
“I think you will see what I mean, almost at once,” he said, and stepped to one side. Richard Clever picked up the knife. It had a yellowing, ivory handle, and had a short, wide blade. The late Charles Vancleur, Earl of Castleburgh had bought it in a London antiques shop in 1905, and had used it as a letter opener.
“Wasn’t the handle covered with Fornell’s fingerprints?” he asked McFarland.
“Hardly covered,” McFarland replied. “Fornell’s prints were the only one’s on the knife. Read the report. Page three mentions the cause of death.”
“Page three, you say? Ah, here we are. It says ‘death was caused by a single stab wound in the back which penetrated the heart.’ Then concludes, stating the wound was ‘made by a long, tapering blade, approximately two inches wide at the hilt, tapering to a point.’ Depth of wound is put at seven inches.” Richard Clever digested the stark paragraph, and came to the same conclusion as McFarland had reached late the night before.
“You see what I mean?” McFarland asked.
“Yes, I do. Charles Vancleur was stabbed to death, but not with this blade. The killer struck with a long, tapering blade, something like an army bayonet, then pulled it out, and pushed the, much shorter, letter opener into the wound.”
“Correct,” the forensic expert said. “The second knife was meant to incriminate Peter Fornell. Any half decent forensic boffin would have seen that, but back then, things were taken at face value.”
“That’s why there was only one set of prints on the fake murder weapon,” Clever continued. “The killer must have wiped the hilt clean and, prior to the murder, let Fornell use it.”
“Otherwise, Charles Vancleur’s prints would have been under Fornell’s,” said McFarland. “Then there was the placing of the prints. See here, I’ve marked another knife’s handle to show where Fornell’s finger tips were. Try it out.”
Richard Clever picked up the knife and placed his fingers in position. With four fingers on one side, and the thumb print on the other the conclusion could be clearly inferred.
“Fornell held the knife underhand. Like you would when slitting an envelope open,” the DCI said. “If he delivered a downward blow, his prints would be the other way around.”
“That’s about it,” McFarland replied. “I doubt it’s enough to obtain a free pardon for Fornell, even posthumously, but I am willing to swear in a court of law that he did not kill his father.”
“I’m more concerned with my ongoing investigation right now,” Clever told him. “I have a baby killer in custody who has the mind of a child, and three more murders to solve. Apart from Peter Kerr, I now know for certain that Peter Fornell was murdered too. Oh, not directly perhaps, but whomsoever helped put that rope about his neck also killed Charles Vancleur.”
“Have you a suspect?”
“A few, but that’s where it gets complicated,” the DCI replied. “The Earl’s old business partner might have been top of my list, but he has a cast iron alibi. Then I considered the Earl’s wife, but she was down in London, surrounded by two hundred social butterflies.”
“Most murders are committed by a close relative,” the professor suggested. “Apart from Fornell, the business partner and the dead man’s wife, who else was close?”
“Not a soul. The Earl had no other children, and there were no living siblings. The original report mentioned a couple of cousins, but one was in Australia and the other was confined to a wheelchair in a Sussex nursing home.” Clever paused as, like the previous night, a half formed idea came swimming into his head. He tried to grasp at it, but the notion slipped away again. “Damn, but I’m missing something obvious.”
“What about servants?” McFarland asked. “The butler would have easy access… or a maid?”
“No, the lady of the house sacked them all a few weeks before.”
“Perhaps you are trying to over complicate the case, Richard,” McFarland offered. “What if all three murders are completely unattached?”
“How can that be?” Clever snapped.
“What if someone, a cat burglar, for instance, slipped into Castleburgh House to rob it. He comes on Vancleur in his study, and stabs him. Then, to cover his tracks, they stab him with another weapon, and make off into the night. Then Peter Fornell is arrested in error, and those people close to the murdered man conspire to let him hang, convinced of his guilt. Then, years later, Peter Kerr comes along, looking to dig up proof of his father’s innocence. He stumbles on something that was best left undisturbed, and is killed for his trouble. Will that hold up?”
“I think that’s a decent enough set of ideas,” the DCI admitted, “but there are a few points against them. Why would Vancleur remain seated at his desk as a total stranger enters his study, pulls a knife and stabs him? Letting Fornell hang because he was guilty only holds up if the first hypothesis stands. The Earl was killed by someone he knew, and trusted, who then had to frame Fornell and get him hanged.”
“Very well, I concede those points, but as for the third murder…”
“I often tell my men that you must mistrust coincidence when investigating a crime,” Clever said, interrupting the forensic pathologist. “Peter Kerr finds out who his father was, and comes to Castleburgh to look into his hanging. He is attacked, and pushed off a cliff edge. Having survived, he becomes deranged from a head injury, and assumes his father’s persona. A second attempt is successful, and is disguised as a suicide. All Kerr was interested in was his father’s death, and that is why he had to die.”
“Fair enough, but I don’t understand why the first attempt was so badly botched. Pushing a man off a cliff is a desperate thing to attempt. What if he fought back, or took his attacker with him?”
“I don’t think the first attempt was planned at all,” the DCI replied. He recalled what Ginnie had said about the likeness between the two men, and anoth
er small piece of the puzzle fell into place in his mind. “I think he went to meet someone, and that person saw something which was truly terrifying to them. They approached Kerr from behind, he turned, and they saw the perfect incarnation of Peter Fornell… the man they had condemned to hang years before. They lunged forward, mad with fright, sending him over the edge.”
“I see. Then, when they heard he still lived, they arranged the second attempt on his life.” McFarland was pleased at his ability to thread his way through the morass of what appeared to be a multiple murder.
“A more considered attempt. He was lured to the barn, strangled from behind, and hanged… just as his father was.” The detective sighed. Despite Neil McFarland’s welcome news, they were still not much farther on. He silently cursed Ginnie Thrower, wishing she was sane enough to stand up to some hard questioning.
“What now?” the forensic specialist asked. Richard Clever glanced at his watch and saw that it was just twenty five minutes past eleven.
“How about an early lunch?” Clever suggested, forcing himself to be affable. “We could have that game of chess you keep threatening me with.”
“Why not?” McFarland replied. “I’ll get my set from the office. I hope you know what you are up against, Richard. I won the South East Lanarkshire Amateur Chess Tournament in 1931.”
“Let’s hope you haven’t rusted since then,” Clever responded. Small talk annoyed him, but he realised its worth when trying to respond to overt acts of friendship. “I have never lost.”
“Really? Out of how many games?” The DCI closed his eyes and recalled the information from his prodigious memory.
“One thousand eight hundred and ninety nine,” he informed his white faced opponent. Neil McFarland considered the statistic, and revised his opinion of his own powers.
“You have won that many games?”
“Goodness me, no!” Richard said, smiling maliciously. “Seventeen ended in a draw, and one was unfinished because I had to arrest my opponent.”