‘Sergeant Maxwell, ma’am, is waiting in another room, where he’s been examining the clothes and other effects of the late unfortunate Mrs Jardine. Ah! Here’s Dr Grossmith now. He told me that the post mortem would last from two to three hours. Meanwhile, Sergeant Maxwell and I will go to interview this unfortunate woman’s husband, Mr Anthony Jardine.’
‘Perhaps if you came back after luncheon, about two o’clock,’ said Grossmith, ‘Dr Jex-Blake and I will be able to tell you fully the results of our autopsy, including any chemical tests that we make.’
Sergeant Maxwell, carrying a valise, appeared in the corridor, and moments later the two detectives made their way out of the gloomy mortuary into Floyd’s Row.
*
Anthony Jardine looked at his reflection in the chipped mirror above the brownstone sink. He was pleased and relieved with what he saw. He had been released from the cell in Cowley Road, and conveyed in a closed prison van to the headquarters of the Oxford City Police in High Street. Merely finding himself back in the familiar streets of the old university city had raised his spirits, but the treatment he had then received from Inspector Antrobus had brought an enormous surge of relief. He had been taken to a sort of waiting room in the back premises of the police station, and was told that he must wait there until later in the morning.
‘Mr Jardine,’ the detective had said, ‘I am now going to release you from arrest, but place you under police supervision until further notice. Your behaviour last night was very suspicious, and you must not leave the environs of the city without informing me personally. I have to go now to arrange certain matters at the mortuary; I hope to be no more than an hour. Meanwhile’ – and he had treated Jardine to a slight smile – ‘I think the time has come for you to smarten yourself up. PC Morton here will escort you to the ablutions, where you will find a razor and a sliver of soap. After you’ve washed and shaved, and when I have returned from St Ebbe’s, you and I will determine what your future course of action should be.’
His image in the mirror showed him as he usually looked, smart, handsome – why not admit it? and respectable. But he was shocked at the dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the uncontrollable tremor at the temples. What would happen to him now? He left the ablutions, and returned to the waiting room, which appeared to be deserted.
As he sat in the quiet room, with little to distract him, he lapsed into a reverie, in which he re-lived the major incidents in his life with Dora. Theirs had been a romantic attachment from the first moment of meeting, and the romance had continued when they had married and set up house together in Iffley. Their children had been born there, and Dora, who had a delicate constitution, had mercifully been blessed with uncomplicated births. They had gone on to live a pleasant, ordered life at 7 Culpeper Gardens. The children had grown up and moved away, and it was from that time that Dora’s moral character had undergone a worrying change. From that time, too, he had begun to seek intellectual companionship elsewhere.
He would mourn for his murdered wife, and cooperate in any way that he could to help the police find her killer – all, that is, except betray Rachel to ruin and disgrace. He would never forget Dora; but he was honest enough to admit to himself that Rachel Noble had long ago become the central preoccupation of his life.
*
At just after one fifteen, Hugh Grossmith and Sophia Jex-Blake discarded their bloodstained rubber aprons, washed their hands in chlorinated water, and retired to the mortuary office. Here, Dr Grossmith poured them each a measure of brandy.
‘When Inspector Antrobus arrives,’ said Grossmith, ‘we’ll confirm for him the cause of death. You’ll agree, won’t you, that the fatal blow was delivered by a long, sharp instrument – what lay folk like to call a “dagger” – the blade of which passed between the fifth and sixth ribs, and pierced the left atrium and left ventricle of the heart. Death would have been instantaneous.’
‘Yes,’ Sophia agreed, ‘and considering it was done quite openly, as it were, in the saloon of a horse-tram, it must have been the act of a man who was either very bold or very frightened – desperate, you know.’
Dr Grossmith laughed.
‘There, now, Doctor, you’re playing the detective! It’s not our business to speculate. I’m sure Mr Antrobus will be quite vexed!’
‘I stand corrected; but I have been known to whisper various theories into the good detective’s ear! There was chloral hydrate in the stomach, and some traces of it still in the mouth. If I may play detective again, I would suggest that Mrs Jardine had been drugged into a semi-stupor before she and her assailant got on to the tram.’
‘Yes, I think that’s more than likely,’ said Grossmith.
‘What did you think about that scarring on the spine?’ asked Sophia. ‘Whatever caused it, I’d say it was very long ago – some time in the seventies.’
‘I’d say it was showing the site of an excoriation of a tumour. It would have been succeeded by intense pain for a long time, poor woman.’
‘Intense pain… Yes, you’re right. Now, then. We both worked more or less silently, so I want to ask you to tell me your thoughts on some of our other findings. Did you notice her pupils? They were dilated, which suggests that she had at some time before her death ingested some narcotic drug. Chloral hydrate, of course, would not have produced optical dilation. Mr Antrobus must have noticed the dilated pupils as well, because he hinted that I should look out for signs of narcosis.’
‘Do you think she had taken morphine?’ asked Grossmith. ‘I detected no trace of its presence in the stomach contents, but then, morphine can be notoriously fugitive, especially in a system that has been conditioned to absorb it.’
‘Her stomach had been recently inflamed very severely,’ said Sophia, ‘but there was no sign of an ulcer developing. And we both saw some infection of the heart valves – difficult to spot, of course, because of the trauma resulting from the knife wound – but it was there. And there was incipient tuberculosis observable in the right lung—’
‘I think I see where all this is leading, Dr Jex-Blake,’ said Grossmith. ‘We both saw the collapsed veins in the right leg – most unusual in a woman of her age – and I could see some early signs of arthritis in the right hip. Like you, I suspected something sinister and invasive.’
‘Her gums were inflamed,’ said Sophia, ‘and there were pustules below the jaw-line. And all over her body there were signs of hypodermic syringe punctures. Will you pronounce the verdict, or shall I?’
‘It’d better be me,’ said Grossmith. ‘The late unfortunate Mrs Dora Jardine was an advanced morphine addict.’
*
As Inspector Antrobus came into the waiting room Anthony Jardine sprang to his feet. The long wait for the inspector’s return had been almost physically painful. Dora had been taken from him, and apart from the appalling glimpse of her dead face outside the tramway depot in the pouring rain, he had not been able to mourn over her body. Surely he would be called upon to identify her? He was her husband, but she had been claimed by strangers.
‘Mr Jardine,’ said Antrobus, ‘there is some unfinished business between you and me that I will address later. But first I must tell you the results of the post mortem examination on the body of the late Mrs Jardine. A formal inquest will be opened and adjourned tomorrow.
‘Mrs Jardine died as the result of a single thrust from a blade into her left side, rupturing the heart, and causing immediate death. There – try not to take on so, sir! These are distressing things, but it is only right that, as her husband, you should be the first to know the result of the autopsy. When we have finished here, I will take you down to the mortuary in St Ebbe’s, where you will be asked to identify your wife’s body.’ Antrobus saw Jardine turn pale, and added: ‘There is nothing to fear, sir. Mrs Jardine will look as though she has fallen into a calm sleep.’
‘I am devastated, Inspector
. I can scarcely take all this in. I need to go home, and write to my children.’
‘You will be home later this afternoon, Mr Jardine,’ said Antrobus. ‘But there is something else that I have to ask you. Did you know that Mrs Jardine was an advanced morphine addict?’
‘What?’ The tone of incredulity behind Jardine’s response told Antrobus that Dora Jardine had contrived to keep her addiction secret.
‘It’s quite true, sir, I’m afraid. Did your physician never hint at it? These addictions are often treated with a certain delicacy.’
‘Dr Maitland has never mentioned anything of the sort. A morphine addict! Perhaps that’s why Dora’s moods were so unpredictable… A hidden craving. Oh, Dora, why didn’t you confide in me?’
‘Addicts are secretive about their vice, Mr Jardine. But they always manage to find someone who will supply them with the large quantities of the drug that they need to assuage their craving. There will be such a person in your wife’s case. Do you recall the young constable who brought your wife home from the Trap Grounds? His name is PC Morton, and he told me about a conversation between your wife and a man called Bruce—’
‘I questioned her about that man, Inspector, and she gave me no answer at all. She simply blushed. I thought that she was seeing a lover…’
Jardine’s voice trailed off into an appalled whisper. All this was his fault. He had neglected her, and let her go her own way, provided that she did not interfere with his own selfish preoccupations, licit and illicit. What was Antrobus saying?
‘In this notebook, sir, I have a record of that conversation. PC Morton did not think it prudent to tell you about it, which was a decision that he was fully entitled to make. Let me read to you what he recorded in his report.
I heard the man say: ‘This must be our last meeting, Dora. The risk has become too great.’ The woman cried out, ‘Oh, Bruce! I can’t manage without you, you know that. And if we are careful, Anthony will never know.’ It was then that the man turned away abruptly, and said, ‘No, it’s no good, I tell you! I am done with you. You must look for your gratification elsewhere.’
‘Not a lover, sir, but a supplier of drugs. He speaks of the risk becoming too great, and says that he had done with her. When he says that she must seek gratification elsewhere, he is telling her to look for another supplier. He had become afraid of her dependence on him.’
‘Were the doctors able to say how long she had been addicted?’
‘Both doctors who performed the post mortem agreed that the addiction must have been of very long standing, possibly as long as twenty years. It would have been fairly mild in the earlier years, but at the time of her death it was far advanced. It is not my custom to speak ill of the dead, sir, but I have to say that these cravings for drugs lower the moral fibre. Mrs Jardine would have contrived to conceal her condition from you in particular. Vice leads inevitably to deceit.’
Both men were silent for a while. They could hear the low murmur of conversation from the front office. It was Anthony who broke the silence.
‘My wife had a confidante, Inspector, an old friend of many years’ standing. It’s possible that Dora may have confided in her. Perhaps you will interview her?’
‘I will. In Venice they do let God see the pranks they dare not show their husbands. What is the name of this confidante?’
Anthony told the inspector about Jean Hillier, and gave him her address in Walton Street. Inspector Antrobus closed his notebook.
‘Mr Jardine,’ he said, ‘your present ordeal will seem to have lasted a lifetime, but for all practical purposes you have been out of circulation in the daylight hours for one morning and part of an afternoon. After we have been to the mortuary, I suggest that you go home immediately. Despite your great sorrow, sir, you will find it easier than you think to get back into the routine of things.’
‘I dread the thought of going home, Inspector. By now, my servants will be frantic.’
‘You must face them, sir, and your neighbours, and seek to enlist from them what support you can. Later today, a lady will call upon you, a lady called Miss Sophia Jex-Blake. She will want to talk to your servants. I will seek out this Miss Hillier, and talk to her.’
‘This Miss Jex-Blake – is she a police matron?’
James Antrobus managed to suppress a smile.
‘No, sir, she is a physician and surgeon. She was one of the two doctors who performed the post mortem today.’
‘And I am free to go about my lawful business?’
For answer, Inspector Antrobus removed a document from his pocket.
‘That depends, sir, on your answer to one simple question. It’s the “unfinished business” I mentioned earlier. What were you doing in Cowley on the night of your wife’s murder? Why not tell me now? For I can assure you that, whatever the reason, I will find it out.’
Anthony Jardine said nothing.
‘Very well. This document will release you on police bail. You are free to go about your business, but must not leave the confines of the city. And you can be recalled at any time, day or night. Until you tell us – the police, I mean – what you were doing in Cowley on the night of 13 November, you will be regarded as a potential suspect in the murder of your wife.’
Anthony Jardine knew that he could not in conscience object to what Antrobus had said. In spite of himself, he found that he was warming to this slight, stooping man with the close-cropped beard and moustache. He looked far from well, but he seemed possessed of a great reserve of energy. He spoke well and clearly, and his whole demeanour was almost that of a gentleman.
‘Inspector,’ said Jardine, ‘you quoted from Othello just now. I take it that you received a liberal education?’
James Antrobus gave a rueful smile.
‘I attended a grammar school until I was fourteen, sir, and absorbed everything that they could teach me, 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. I set great store by education, sir, for people of all classes.’
Anthony Jardine stood up. Without fully knowing why, he held out his hand, which Antrobus took. It was a sign that the two men had established some kind of rapport. Moments later they stepped out into the High Street, where a police vehicle was already waiting to take them to Floyd’s Row Mortuary.
*
The cab that brought Jardine home from St Ebbe’s stopped at the ornamental gates near the Monument, and Jardine walked through the open space that gave Culpeper Gardens its name. The grass had long ceased to grow, and the flower beds were free of weeds, but innocent of any flower. The clumps of speckled laurel bushes alone defied the onset of winter. It was after three o’clock, and the skies over Oxford were already darkening.
As Antrobus had assured him, Dora had looked as though she were asleep. Nothing about the sheeted figure had suggested the cruel violence which had accompanied her end. Some words of Shakespeare came into his mind: She’s good, being gone; The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.
He glanced across the gardens at his own house, and marvelled that it looked exactly as he had last seen it. The black front door, with its polished brasses, was closed. For some reason, he had expected to see it open, with Mrs Green and Betty standing on the steps, ready to accuse him of culpable neglect.
He had left home on the previous evening at just after seven o’clock. Dora had taken a light dinner earlier in her boudoir, and he had called in to bid her good night. ‘It may be that I shall have to stay the night in college,’ he had said, and Dora had seemed quite happy to accept this lie. He had walked up into Woodstock Road, and taken a cab out to Cowley, where he had been set down some distance from Rose Hill Lane. He wa
s always discreet when planning an assignation with Rachel.
They had spent an enchanting evening together in the house where they lived as Mr and Mrs Charles Jordan. Of necessity they employed no servants, and dinner had been supplied by a local cook-shop. They had reminisced about their attendance at the opening night of Mr Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest at the St James’s Theatre on Valentine’s Day last. Mr Wilde himself had been present, wearing a very peculiar suit that had put Anthony in mind of that arch-poseur Count Raphael Savident. Rachel had played some pieces by Schumann, and he had marvelled at her skill as a pianist. He enjoyed music, but had never been able to master any instrument.
And then, at ten o’clock, he had reluctantly decided that he would have to go home. His lie about staying in college had somehow appalled him. It had been a mean, cringing, caddish thing to do. He had walked through the driving rain as far as the tramway terminus, where his secure and settled way of life had suddenly ended when he had fallen into the hands of the police.
He reached the far side of the gardens, stepped out on to the pavement, and felt in his pocket for his latch key.
6
Mrs Green Talks
James Antrobus sat on an upright chair in the little parlour of Jean Hillier’s house in Walton Street, and looked at the woman who had been Dora Jardine’s intimate friend. Jean Hillier was sitting on a sofa, making an heroic effort to stifle the sobs that were racking her body. She was a woman in her late thirties or early forties, sensibly dressed in a grey jacket and matching skirt; her dark hair was well cut, but in a style that suggested an impatience with the frivolities of current fashion.
He had met women of this type before, independent, content to live alone, but capable of deep and loyal friendships. Jean Hillier seemed to be a pleasant woman with regular features, marred at present by the contortions of grief and the redness of tear-ravaged eyes. He was content to wait for her to regain her composure, which she did after a few minutes. Antrobus prepared to speak to her, but she anticipated him.
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