by G. M. Best
4
ANOTHER MURDER
It was about an hour after breakfast on the following morning that Inspector Blake returned. Mrs Winthrop showed him into the warden’s study. There Dr Grantly received him but without any sign of welcome. Standing with his back to the empty fireplace, the archdeacon immediately began lecturing him on the importance of making sure that the case was handled with the utmost discretion. ‘My father-in-law is a shy and retiring man, Mr Blake. He takes comfort in the quiet obscurity of this place. I must therefore ask you to take great care in whatever statements you make to the press. There are too many journalists who think it’s their role to criticize anything to do with the Church and you know as well as I do that they’ll seize on this murder and will milk it for all it’s worth. They’ll sensationalize the manner of Thomas Rider’s death and then accuse Mr Harding of failing to protect the residents here.’
‘I understand your concern, sir, but controlling what the press says is not within my power.’
The archdeacon threw up his arms in disgust. ‘No, but you can seek to ensure that silly speculation is suppressed by not listening to the nonsense that has been spouted by men like Abel Handy. If he thinks for one moment that he has your ear, he’ll be spewing his venom to any reporter prepared to listen to him.’
‘I’m aware that Mr Handy’s comments have already caused Mr Harding distress, but it’s my role to leave no stone unturned. A man has been murdered and his blood cries out for justice. I’ll not rest till the murderer is brought to trial.’
‘But that doesn’t mean having to treat everyone as a suspect. What Abel Handy told you yesterday was a damned impertinence!’ He glowered at Blake. ‘I trust you’ll not follow up his malicious nonsense.’
The inspector’s eyes widened at this challenge to his authority. ‘I’ll have to pursue every line of enquiry until the identity of the murderer is uncovered,’ he replied firmly.
‘I didn’t take you for a fool, sir, but I tell you only a fool would consider for a moment that any member of this family would stoop so low as to become involved in a murder. The very idea is preposterous! I think I speak for the bishop when I say that we’ll not have you treat the members of this family like suspects.’
‘Is that a threat, Dr Grantly?’
The archdeacon stared at him, his face twisted with temper. ‘You can call it whatever you wish, sir. I simply say it would be unwise for you to offend those who have access to your superiors. I hope you agree with me.’
Blake’s face reddened and he clenched hold of the top of the chair that stood in front of him. ‘With all due respect, sir, you can’t expect me not to ask questions of the family. That process doesn’t mean that I believe one of you may be guilty. I simply think that one of you might be able to shed light on a possible motive for the murder. If we know the motive we’ll know the killer.’
These words failed to satisfy the archdeacon. ‘If we knew anything, sir, we would speak without having to be questioned. I want your word that you’ll leave us entirely out of your interrogations!’
‘Reflect on what you say, Dr Grantly. I think the newspapers wouldn’t take kindly to any hint that simple police enquiries are being prevented.’ These words visibly shook the archdeacon, who recognized the threat implicit in them. Blake would use the press against them if pushed too far. Fortunately for Dr Grantly, the inspector chose not to pursue his newfound advantage because he lacked any evidence to support Abel Handy’s accusation. ‘Please don’t press me too hard, sir,’ he continued. ‘Rest assured that I’ll do nothing lightly in this matter. At present I’ve not even made the press aware of the murder. I’ll give you and the bishop suitable notice of whatever I intend to do in my investigation.’
Dr Grantly saw an olive leaf was being proffered and responded accordingly. ‘That’s all I ask, Inspector,’ he said with as much charm as he could muster in the circumstances. ‘Perhaps you would share with me your current thinking on who might be the murderer?’
‘At first I thought it might have been Mr Trollope but I’m almost certain now that he’s just an innocent bystander. I’ve yet to have his identity verified by the Post Office in London but I’ve no reason to believe he is lying to us. What information I’ve gleaned from his groom confirms that he’s been undertaking surveying work in the area and that he arrived in Barchester only yesterday. I can see no reason why he would kill an old man whom he had never met before.’
‘I agree. My wife has ascertained he comes from a respectable family. He’s the son of the novelist Fanny Trollope.’
The inspector almost said that respectability was no guarantee of innocence but fortunately stopped himself in time. It would only have rekindled the archdeacon’s anger. Instead he switched the conversation to safer ground. ‘One of the bedesmen must be our killer, but I confess, Dr Grantly, I’ve no clues yet as to which of them it is or the motive for the crime.’
‘If I were a betting man my money would be on Abel Handy,’ replied the archdeacon. ‘The man should never have been made a bedesman in the first place. He’s a known troublemaker!’
‘I’ve no time for the man but he’s far too crippled to be our murderer,’ Blake countered. ‘Let us hope that we can persuade Jeremiah Smith and John Gaunt to reveal what they know.’
‘If I’d been present at your questioning I wouldn’t have permitted Smith to leave the study without telling you everything he knew. Nor would I have let John Gaunt stay in his room. Mr Harding is too soft in his dealings with the bedesmen. In my experience such men see kindness as mere weakness.’
Blake declined to comment. Though he had been cross the previous day, he knew which of the two clergymen he preferred and he was confident that it would be Smith’s respect for Mr Harding that would lead him to speak rather than fear of the archdeacon. Whether he was right in this assessment was not tested because at that moment the warden burst into the study. His face was as white as a newly laundered sheet. ‘Jeremiah has been murdered!’ he exclaimed. ‘I went to visit him in his room in order to make sure that he would tell us whatever he knew, but when I knocked at his door there was no answer. When I entered—’ He stopped speaking and struggled to control his emotion. His hand wavered as if about to seek his imaginary violincello, but then he mastered himself and resumed his account. ‘I found him lying dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He’s been stabbed in the chest like poor Thomas.’
Blake was the first to recover from the shock. ‘Was there any sign of a struggle?’
‘None.’ He shuddered as the image of what he had seen flashed forcefully across his mind, and added in a low whisper, ‘I felt his lifeless eyes accuse me for having failed to protect him. If only I’d persuaded him to tell us what he knew last night he might still be alive.’
‘Take us to the body,’ said Dr Grantly.
The warden immediately led the way. En route they met Anthony Trollope emerging from the drawing room and they informed him of what had happened. He joined them in going to Smith’s room. The warden could not bring himself to re-enter the scene of the crime and when the three other men saw the body they could understand why. It was sprawled across the floor and there was a wide circle of blood all around it. The inspector shook his head from side to side. ‘The murderer realized that he needed to silence this man. Do you agree, Dr Grantly?’
‘That would seem the logical conclusion to draw.’
‘In which case, it proves our killer is not some stranger but a person who knows exactly what is going on within the hospital.’
‘You’re right, Inspector,’ interjected Trollope. ‘And the location of this second murder points to the same conclusion. I don’t believe that any stranger could have found his way into this dead man’s room unnoticed. Not with all the bedesmen aware of what had just happened to Thomas Rider. I think Smith knew his killer and had no suspicions in letting him enter his home. That’s why there’s no sign of any conflict. He may even have invited him here in order to clari
fy whether he had behaved rightly or wrongly in holding back information from you.’
‘Then he paid dearly for his naivety!’ muttered the inspector. He turned towards Dr Grantly, who had remained silent throughout this exchange. ‘Sir, I want you to inform the housekeeper what’s happened and tell her to ensure that this room is kept locked until Mr Bold is brought here. I want him to undertake a medical examination of the body as soon as possible.’
Dr Grantly’s brow instantly furrowed. ‘Surely Mr Bold is not the right choice of doctor?’ he queried.
‘I disagree, sir. Mr Bold was the doctor who examined Thomas Rider and therefore I judge he is the doctor best placed to compare whether the hand that killed him is also the hand that has slain Jeremiah Smith.’ The tone with which he said this showed he was not prepared to change his mind. ‘Mr Harding will have more than enough to do informing the ladies about what’s happened and fetching Mr Bold, so I suggest, Dr Grantly, that you and I begin the process of interviewing the bedesmen. I got nowhere yesterday but I’m convinced some of them must know what lies behind these murders. I assume, Mr Trollope, that you are willing to assist Mrs Winthrop in bringing the old men one by one to Mr Harding’s study so we can again interview them? ’
‘Certainly but what do you wish us to say to each man before we bring them into your presence? Do we inform them about this second murder?’
‘Yes, you should,’ replied Blake. ‘But don’t dwell on the details of how he was killed. If one of them is the killer then we can perhaps trick him into revealing that by showing some knowledge of the means of murder.’
‘Do you want to see John Gaunt first?’
‘Yes. He’s now our best hope. It’s just possible that he may know what is going on here. And, if he doesn’t, he may yet say things that will help guide my questions to the others. As far as the rest are concerned, they can come in any order. You don’t need to stick to yesterday’s pattern.’
Over the next hour or so the second round of questioning of Gaunt and the others proved as abortive as the first. All found it incomprehensible that two murders should have taken place within the sanctity of their home at Hiram’s Hospital. It was as if all the certainty of their existence had been lost and not just two of their number. The last to be seen was Jonathan Crumple and Mrs Winthrop asked Trollope to help the bedesman back to his room. He was doing this when John Bold arrived at the almshouse. Crumple recoiled from the doctor as if he were avoiding a snake and hurried to get into the safety of his room. Trollope followed him and shut the door. He could see the old man was deeply troubled about something. In as kind a voice as he could muster, he tried to tease out the reason.
‘It’s nothing, sir. I’m just grieving over what ’as ’appened ’ere,’ mumbled the bedesman and he wiped his mouth nervously with the back of his gnarled hand.
‘That’s perfectly understandable. Both Mr Rider and Mr Smith were your friends.’
A flush of embarrassment spread across Crumble’s withered cheeks. ‘Aye, they were, and what’s bothering me is what I saw,’ he whispered, anxious not to be overheard.
‘What you saw? Then tell me about it, Mr Crumple.’
The bedesman shook his head. ‘I don’t think that would be right, sir. That’s why I said nothing to the inspector or the archdeacon just now.’
‘ Why not?’
‘I’ve nothing against ’em or you, Mr Trollope. It’s just I’m not sure that I want what I saw to be known by all. It would cause pain to Mr Harding and I may be wrong in thinking it ’as anything to do with the murders. Indeed, I ’ope I am.’
Trollope’s mind raced. Could it be that Crumble had the evidence to identify the murderer? And why should the murderer’s identity cause pain to Mr Harding unless it was a member of his family? Or perhaps John Bold? He knew that he had somehow to persuade the bedesman to speak out. ‘Surely you must see that you owe it to your dead friends to tell us what you saw?’
Tears filled the old man’s eyes and he bowed his head. His whole body began to shake as he sobbed. ‘I can’t. I can’t. Mr Harding would nivver forgive me.’
‘Tell me, Mr Crumple, what you saw,’ said Trollope in a firm but kind voice. ‘Let me judge its importance. I promise you I’ll repeat nothing to anyone else without your permission.’ He sat down next to the bedesman and, stretching out his left arm, placed it around the old man’s shoulder. ‘Come now, a trouble shared is a trouble halved. Tell me what you know. It may be that you are worrying yourself needlessly.’
This last comment seemed to strike home and, after a show of reluctance, Crumple whispered what he had seen into Trollope’s ear. ‘I ’appened to look out of my window on the morning that Thomas Rider was killed and I saw Mr Bold ’iding in the bushes that grow near to the warden’s house. Miss Harding came out and spoke with ’im. I’ve no idea what they said but she seemed very agitated and he appeared to be trying to calm her down. I was curious so I left my room and made my way towards ’em. As I drew nearer, I ’eard Miss Harding say, “I’ll not stand for this! Something must be done to stop ’im!” I didn’t catch Mr Bold’s reply but she muttered something about ’ow it would be difficult to see ’im again that evening. At that moment she ran off and I saw there were tears in ’er eyes. I walked on but by the time I reached the place where they’d met Mr Bold wasn’t there. I think ’e must have gone in the opposite direction.’
‘Why did you not tell this to the inspector yesterday?’ enquired Trollope.
‘I didn’t connect what I’d seen with Thomas’s death.’
‘But now you think that’s possible, so why have you still not told the inspector?’
‘It’s not for me to tell Miss Harding’s business to the police. It’s up to ’er if she wants to tell ’em about what she were doing with Mr Bold.’
‘You know very well that she’s not going to do that if she and John Bold were plotting Thomas Rider’s death. And, if they are innocent, there’s no reason for you to fear anyone investigating the matter. I think you should’ve told the inspector and archdeacon what you’ve told me.’ The old man’s face was pitiable in its agony. He looked deeply miserable. Trollope sensed that he had not yet told him everything. ‘What made you change your mind about the significance of their meeting?’ he asked.
Crumple looked nervously all around him, his hunched shoulders and clenched hands indicating how tense he was. ‘I ’ad a very unsettled night last night and I woke just after dawn,’ he said, nervously licking his dry lips. ‘When I looked out of my window I again saw Miss Harding out early. This time she were walking outside the almshouse in her nightclothes. She could easily have come from seeing Jeremiah.’
Trollope was rendered speechless by this second revelation. Could it really be the case that Eleanor Harding was the murderer? If she was not, then what possessed her to be out walking undressed in the early hours of the morning? It was an unlikely hour for her to be keeping a second assignation with Bold.
Now that he had admitted what he had seen, Crumple babbled on. ‘What if I’m wrong, sir, in thinking there’s something bad in ’er actions? By saying what I saw I’d have ruined ’er reputation. Just imagine what the gossips of Barchester would make of it!’
Trollope knew the bedesman was right. Eleanor Harding would be crucified if such information leaked out. The scandal of a young woman meeting a man in the bushes and wandering about undressed in the early hours of the morning would destroy not only her reputation but that of the entire Harding family. The clerical careers of both Mr Harding and Dr Grantly would be instantly shattered. Yet what Crumple had seen could not be simply swept under the carpet. What if she and Bold were behind the murders? He struggled to know what to say and then came up with the one way forward that might enable an investigation whilst still protecting her.
He put a hand under Crumple’s chin and firmly lifted his head so that he could look him fully in the face. ‘I think you may have been right not to speak to the inspector or Dr Grantly, but you shou
ld tell Mr Harding,’ he said in as authoritative a voice as he could manage. ‘He’s her father and he has a right to know and to decide what to do with the information.’
A look of panic flashed across the bedesman’s face. ‘But he might think that I’ve been spying on ’is daughter. Then he’d be very displeased with me, sir.’
‘A father would want to know what you saw. Let Mr Harding decide what he does with the information.’
‘I can’t tell ’im, sir. I can’t. I wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the pain in ’is eyes.’
‘Then let me tell him what you saw,’ Trollope commanded. He saw from the expression on Crumple’s face that the man was wavering and added, ‘I need not tell him that the source of the information was you. I’ll say that a bedesman told me in the strictest confidence and asked not to be named. Does that not satisfy your concerns?’
The old man still trembled but he weakly nodded his assent and Trollope immediately left to fulfil his new task. He knew that both the inspector and Dr Grantly were intending to join John Bold in the latest victim’s room. As a consequence he had every chance of catching Mr Harding alone in his study. As he walked towards the warden’s house, he wished that he were not the bearer of such bad news. The evidence against Eleanor Harding and John Bold was circumstantial but it looked damning. What if Mr Harding could offer no evidence to show their innocence? Trollope did not feel he would then be able to keep his promise of confidentiality. He would have to inform the inspector so a full investigation could take place rather than risk letting a murderer escape justice. How would the warden view such a betrayal from a man to whom he had offered hospitality? He was so lost in his thoughts that it was not until he reached the house that he realized Eleanor Harding was blocking his entrance to it.