The Barchester Murders

by G. M. Best

  Mrs Winthrop did not hesitate. If remnants of the poison were found in his bedtime drink it would help convince the inspector that his death was a suicide. ‘Of course you can,’ she said, meeting his eyes with a look of kindness.

  It was only as Mrs Winthrop closed the door to Gaunt’s room that she realized how much her hands were trembling. Trying to compose herself, she headed off to see the remaining two bedesmen, glad that she had chosen the two easiest for her final visits. Matthew Spriggs hardly asked her anything and spent all his time expressing his fear that he might become the next victim. Gregory Moody preferred to make the focus of their meeting how life had treated him unfairly. Having finished with him, she made her way back to the warden’s house. Mr Harding made no attempt to question her. He had promised the inspector that he would not do so.

  Looking at his wan and troubled face, Mrs Winthrop had not the heart to leave him entirely in the dark. ‘I can’t say what I’ve found out, sir, because I promised the inspector I would say nothing until after I’ve reported to him tomorrow. However, I want you to know that I’ve obtained enough information to know who the murderer is. Moreover, I think he’ll confess to the inspector tomorrow morning. He’s also given me a letter to give to you. Rest assured, sir. All the members of your family are innocent. So too is Mr Bold.’

  Mr Harding could hardly believe what she had told him. ‘Bless you, bless you, Mrs Winthrop. You don’t know what this means to me! I feel as if I’ve been released from the depths of hell.’ He turned away so as to hide his emotion. Despite all his love, he had begun to wonder whether Eleanor or Susan or John Bold had committed the murders and he had hated himself for doing so. His housekeeper’s words restored a peace that he thought he had lost forever.

  ‘No, don’t you go fretting yourself any more, sir. We’ll all be happy again.’

  He turned to face her but his joy was marred by the sadness her words evoked. ‘I don’t think, Mrs Winthrop, this place will ever be the same happy place to me again. I’m not sure I was the right choice to be made warden if such horrors as we’ve seen can occur under my watch.’

  ‘Nonsense, sir. No man is more suited to being the warden of Hiram’s Hospital.’

  ‘You’re most kind.’

  ‘I say no more than you deserve, sir, and I hope that I can serve you and your family until the day I die.’

  Mr Harding was visibly touched by her loyalty. ‘If your work this evening has brought our suffering to an end by tomorrow, then you will have earned far more than that right. You will have our undying gratitude.’

  Mrs Winthrop fought back her tears.

  12

  THE TRAGIC OUTCOME

  The next morning Mrs Winthrop reported to the inspector that her discussions with the bedesmen had confirmed that the murders stemmed from greedy squabbling. He totally accepted her version of her meetings and so hardly asked any questions. He was only taken aback when she said that the murderer was John Gaunt.

  ‘What makes you say that? I would’ve thought him one of the least likely candidates,’ he said, rubbing his chin with left hand.

  ‘I admit I wouldn’t have chosen him as the guilty person until I saw how much he was wracked with guilt. Believe me, sir, I obeyed your instructions and I did not try to interrogate him, but he more or less confessed to me. I’ve something here that he asked me to give to Mr Harding.’ She took out a small envelope from her apron pocket.

  ‘Then why have you not done so?’

  ‘Mr Gaunt made me promise I would delay handing its contents over until today. I thought I ought to report the matter to you before giving it to Mr Harding this morning.’

  ‘I see.’ He reached out his hand. ‘Give the letter to me.’

  Mrs Winthrop instinctively drew away and plunged the envelope back into her apron. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that. I gave my word that I would hand it over only to Mr Harding.’

  The inspector hid his annoyance and opened the study door. He bellowed for Mr Harding and Dr Grantly to come and join them. The warden and archdeacon at once came from the parlour, where they had been anxiously awaiting the outcome of Mrs Winthrop’s report.

  ‘Mrs Winthrop has a letter addressed to you, Mr Harding, from John Gaunt. It may contain a confession. She won’t give it to me so please tell her to give it to you. Then open it, and read what it says,’ he commanded. ‘I want to know what it contains before I see him.’

  White faced, Mr Harding took the envelope containing the letter from his housekeeper. His hands trembled as he opened it. Then he read out in a shaky voice:

  Dear Mr Harding,

  I’m sorry for all that I have done. I know that I’ve let you down and that you and your family have suffered as a result. That was not my intention. I don’t know what led me to do it. It was a moment of sinful weakness. And now Thomas and Jeremiah are dead because of me. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. My life seems worthless now. John Gaunt

  Dr Grantly grabbed the letter from the warden and quietly re-read it. He smiled. ‘It would seem we have our murderer, Inspector.’

  ‘I cannot believe it, not John,’ Mr Harding muttered. ‘What possible motive could he have?’

  ‘There’s been more dissension between the bedesmen than you know, Mr Harding,’ commented Mrs Winthrop. ‘In a small place like this disagreements can seem far more important than they are.’

  ‘Dr Grantly and Mrs Winthrop, will you go and fetch Mr Gaunt?’ asked the inspector. ‘We can then hear direct what led him to do these terrible crimes.’

  The archdeacon and housekeeper nodded and left the study to set out for the almshouse. No sooner had they left the warden’s house than they were aware something must have happened because virtually all the bedesmen were gathered around a wailing man. As they drew nearer they saw this was Jonathan Crumple and heard the cause – he had discovered the dead body of John Gaunt. Dr Grantly was genuinely shocked and no observer could have imagined anything other than that Mrs Winthrop was equally taken by surprise. Suppressing his emotion, the archdeacon quickly took command of the situation, shouting at Crumple, ‘Take control of yourself, man, and take me to Mr Gaunt’s room so I can examine the body for myself.’

  It was not long before they re-emerged. Crumple immediately began walking to the warden’s house, while the archdeacon looked around him at the fearful faces of the eight remaining bedesmen. He said quietly, ‘By the look of Mr Gaunt he’s been poisoned, but I want no panic here. I think he died by his own hand. I’ve sent Mr Crumple to collect the inspector.’

  The confirmation of Gaunt’s death and the statement that it was probably suicide led to considerable murmuring between the old men, and none noted the response of Mrs Winthrop until she fell to the ground as if she had fainted. Dr Grantly immediately moved to assist her. ‘Mr Bunce, help me with Mrs Winthrop,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s see if we can get her sat down on that garden seat. The shock has been too much for the poor woman. The rest of you get indoors now!’

  The bedesmen were too stunned by a third death to do anything but obey, even the normally obstructive Handy. All but Benjamin Bunce had returned to their rooms by the time the inspector and the warden came running to the scene. ‘Mr Gaunt is definitely dead and I’m pretty sure that he’s taken poison,’ Dr Grantly said bluntly as they drew up to where he and Bunce were reviving the housekeeper. ‘It looks to me as if our murderer has meted out his own justice!’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked a puzzled Bunce.

  ‘John Gaunt has left a note for Mr Harding confessing that he killed Thomas Rider and Jeremiah Smith,’ replied Dr Grantly curtly.

  Bunce’s face filled with horror. ‘I don’t believe it. He was a good man, a man of faith. He would not have done such a thing.’

  The warden shook his head sadly. ‘There’s no doubt about the matter, my friend. I’ve a letter in his own handwriting.’

  ‘Then I have lost all faith in my ability to judge the worth of a man,’ mumbled Bunce a
nd he appeared to visibly age before their eyes.

  Dr Grantly looked at the housekeeper, who still appeared dazed. ‘Mr Harding, I suggest you escort Mrs Winthrop back to your house with Mr Bunce’s assistance. She has had a terrible shock. Tell Susan and Eleanor what has happened and get them to tend to her.’

  ‘And then send someone for Mr Bold,’ added the inspector. ‘Dr Grantly, I suggest that you check all the bedesmen are back inside their rooms. Tell them that there will not be any more murders and that they are all safe now. I want them all to stay indoors until the doctor has been and an undertaker has removed John Gaunt’s body for further investigation. While you’re doing that I’ll take a look at the body.’

  The inspector entered the almshouse and went to the old man’s room. Gaunt’s contorted body was lying on the bed. There was a strange red rash across his face, which was set in a rictus grin of startled alarm. Blake looked around and immediately spotted there was an empty cup on the man’s table. The inspector raised it to his nose and sniffed. What had he taken?

  While these events were taking place, Anthony Trollope was already on the train from Waterloo. The line to Salisbury, which had only opened in 1847, had reduced the time required to get between the two cities to less than three hours. Nevertheless, it was not until well after midday that he arrived back at Hiram’s Hospital. Immediately he sensed something was wrong. There was not a bedesman in sight. Running up to the warden’s house, he thundered for admittance. It was Mrs Winthrop who opened the door. He stared at her, desperately trying to judge whether he could be right in his surmise that this woman was Mrs Mather. She had all the appearance of respectability. Surely he must be wrong? She did not look like a murderess. But could such a distinctive scar be a coincidence?

  ‘We didn’t expect you back so soon, Mr Trollope,’ she said, stepping aside to let him in. ‘Have your enquiries in London led to any useful information?’

  ‘That remains to be seen, Mrs Winthrop,’ he replied ambivalently, averting his eyes lest she saw his newfound suspicion of her.

  ‘You may have had a wasted journey, sir, because you’ll be pleased to hear that the murderer is uncovered. He has confessed and the family is all cleared of any involvement.’

  Trollope’s mind reeled. Then his conjecture about the housekeeper must be wrong! ‘Who was it?’ he gasped.

  ‘John Gaunt. He left a note before committing suicide.’

  ‘I can’t believe it! I talked often with the man.’

  ‘It’s come as a great shock to us all, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Harding?’

  ‘Everyone is in the parlour with the inspector.’

  ‘Please show me in to them at once.’

  The housekeeper courteously inclined her head and did as she was bid. It was only after he had entered the room and she stood alone in the corridor that she permitted her true feelings to show in her face. Her earlier euphoria at her plan’s success had all gone. Trollope was no actor and she knew beyond question that he now distrusted her because of what he had uncovered in London. He had not looked her fully in the face. Mrs Winthrop bit her lip and sought to control the mounting tide of despair that was sweeping over her. All her senses told her that he must have discovered her real identity, and if that were the case she had no doubt that the inspector would reopen his investigation. If that happened, Gaunt’s letter and subsequent death would not be accepted at their face value. What should she do? Had she time to make her escape? And if so, where could she go?

  Inside the parlour Trollope’s arrival, combined with his agitated manner, was causing equal consternation.

  ‘Why have you returned so soon?’ Blake asked.

  ‘Is it true that John Gaunt is dead?’ Trollope responded tremulously.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Mr Harding. ‘John has just been telling us the results of his medical examination of the body. He suspects Gaunt poisoned himself with belladonna.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A poison derived from deadly nightshade,’ answered Bold. ‘There’s a huge patch of it growing in the garden. The poor man would not have suffered much at first. The drug’s initial action would have been only to impair his eyesight and give him a thirst. That’s because it dilates the eyes and suppresses the saliva in your mouth. As it took hold he would have felt his pulse beginning to race and seen that he was developing a rash across his neck and body. However, I don’t envy him his last hours. He would have had terrible hallucinations until he fell into a stupor. Death results from respiratory paralysis.’

  ‘It appears he could no longer live with his crimes,’ interrupted the inspector and he proceeded to briefly outline all that happened since Trollope’s departure the previous afternoon.

  ‘May I see the letter that he wrote?’

  Blake took it out of his pocket and, as he passed it to Trollope, stated, ‘You’ll see it’s pretty conclusive.’

  Trollope read its contents as the others looked on in silence. ‘I agree it would appear so,’ he said once he had finished. Then, biting his lip with frustration, he continued, ‘But I fear we can’t take this at face value because of the reason that has brought me back here so quickly.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What evidence could possibly be stronger than a suicide note?’ said Dr Grantly.

  Trollope chose to counter this with his own question. ‘Is there any person here who would have expected John Gaunt to be capable of such crimes?’

  ‘I certainly find it very hard to think him of him as a murderer,’ replied the warden.

  ‘And I,’ said John Bold.

  ‘That’s just your inexperience showing,’ grumbled the inspector. ‘I’ve dealt with enough crimes to know that in certain circumstances men can behave totally out of character.’

  ‘Yes, if their mind is affected, but I’ll vouch for the fact that John Gaunt’s mind was as sharp as ever. He was genuinely fearful that he might become the next victim. All my dealings with him convince me he’s innocent. I think this letter must be open to another explanation.’

  ‘How can that be?’ uttered Mrs Grantly. ‘I hope, sir, that you’re not going to plunge this family into further agonies by giving out that the letter is a forgery.’

  ‘No, it’s no forgery but under what circumstances was it written? How did it come into your possession?’

  ‘Mrs Winthrop brought it,’ Blake replied. ‘She visited all the bedesmen last night and Gaunt more or less admitted his guilt to her and gave her the letter to give to Mr Harding this morning.’

  ‘And would it affect your judgement if I told you that I’m almost certain that Mrs Winthrop is Mrs Mather?’ There was a deep intake of breath from his audience. ‘That’s what my visit to Newgate uncovered. That’s why I have returned so quickly.’ Before any of them could speak he began recounting all that Tom Paterson had told him and what conclusion he had drawn from it.

  ‘Are you daring to say that either I or my sister has our housekeeper as our mother?’ raged Mrs Grantly once he had finished. ‘How dare you! You’ve not a shred of evidence. This is mere supposition. There are plenty of women in this world with scars on their faces. I’d rather put my faith in the letter. That’s what I call evidence!’

  ‘Let me see it again,’ said Blake, reaching out his hand. He slowly re-read the note and then thrust it into the warden’s hand. ‘I think we’ve been naïve, Mr Harding. Look again at it. All this letter says is that Gaunt wants your forgiveness for letting you down and telling your secret. It does not say that he killed Rider and Smith. It simply says that they would still be alive if he’d kept his mouth shut.’

  ‘No! I refuse to believe it!’ Mrs Grantly stormed. ‘Summon Mrs Winthrop! I’m sure that she’ll be able to prove that she’s not Mrs Mather. She’ll put pay to such nonsense. Gaunt more or less confessed to her!’

  ‘So she said, but I’m not so sure,’ ventured Eleanor. ‘I’m sorry to say it, sister, but I think Mr Trollope and the inspector are likely to be right a
nd that poor Mr Gaunt was simply her third victim. Think back, Susan. For years we’ve been shown nothing but love by Mrs Winthrop. Far more love than we sometimes deserved. Perhaps it was a mother’s love that we experienced, not that of a mere housekeeper. She loved one of us – the one who is her daughter – enough to kill three men rather than let their loose tongues envelop this family in scandal.’

  Her words moved all the men but not Mrs Grantly, who glowered angrily at them all. ‘For months I thought I might be the child of a murderer and I feared that information might destroy our family. Have you any idea how much I’ve suffered? There’s not been a day when I’ve not looked at my husband and wondered whether the news of my ancestry would somehow come to light and destroy his reputation and his career. There’s not been a day when I’ve not looked at our children and feared what mockery they would face from others. And yet you ask me now to believe that I might be the child of a woman who has killed not once but thrice! You ask me to accept what I know would tarnish the name of Harding and Grantly beyond any redemption. No, I’ll not believe it!’

  ‘I suggest, Mr Trollope, that you and Mr Bold go fetch Mrs Winthrop,’ ordered Blake, breaking the uneasy silence that followed Mrs Grantly’s impassioned speech. ‘I suggest that the rest of us say no more until I’ve questioned her. The one thing I guarantee is that no one will be leaving this room until these crimes are finally solved!’

  For the next few minutes each person pursued his or her own thoughts and the only movement in the room was provided by Mr Harding’s silent playing of his imaginary violincello. Such was their own agonized suspense that for once neither of the warden’s daughters moved to comfort their father in his distress. All eyes were focused entirely on the door. However, when it opened, only Trollope entered. His face was ashen white and in his hand he clutched a red-stained note. He stared at their anxious faces and then grimly announced, ‘I regret to say that Mrs Winthrop has slit her wrists. We found her dead body in her room. Mr Bold is attending to matters.’ He paused and his lips trembled. ‘I suggest that none of you go there yet. There’s blood everywhere.’ Mr Harding ceased his playing as his daughter Eleanor flung herself into his arms in her horror at the news. ‘She left this note,’ Trollope concluded, looking at Mrs Grantly. ‘It’s addressed to you.’