The Architect of Murder

by Rafe McGregor

  “I’m sorry, I’ve over-stepped the bounds,” said Miss Paterson.

  “No, no you haven’t. The solicitors wouldn’t see me until Wednesday, so I didn’t know. Thank you for telling me. And thank you again for meeting me here. I dined with Carey last night and heard his account of the incident. You may be pleased to know that after reading the coroner’s report this morning, I’m inclined to agree with your assessment.”

  “You agree Ellen was murdered!” She started, nearly spilling her tea.

  “I think there are inconsistencies between Carey’s account and the evidence, but that’s all I’m going to say for now.”

  “Mr Marshall, I’m so pleased you’re back in England! I know you’ll bring this dreadful business to its proper conclusion.”

  After our refreshments, Miss Paterson took me on a tour of the house. She’d very kindly kept an eye on the place since Ellen’s death, and had been a regular guest prior to that. We finished in Ellen’s study, where Miss Paterson had arranged her private papers in neat order for me.

  “I know Ellen was a great correspondent, but did she keep a diary?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. She loved writing. If she hadn’t been so interested in medicine, I’ve no doubt she’d have made a much better journalist than me.”

  “Do you have her most recent diary?”

  “I’ve arranged them all chronologically for you.”

  “Thank you, but for the moment I just want the last one. The last letter I received from her was dated Wednesday the fourteenth of May. I want to have a look and see if there was anything out of the ordinary — or anything to do with Carey — mentioned from the fourteenth to the twenty-second.”

  Miss Paterson took a leather-bound journal from one of the bookcases and handed it to me. “That’s the last one. Would you like me to leave you a while?”

  “I’m not sure how long I’m going to be. I don’t want to keep you.”

  “You won’t be. Maggie and I are going to finish packing Ellen’s clothes, unless you’d like me to leave it for you?”

  “No, that’s most kind. I’d appreciate your doing that.”

  As soon as Miss Paterson left I sat at the desk and opened the journal.

  The first entry was dated the first of February. I felt as if I was intruding, reading Ellen’s private thoughts, thoughts which were never intended to be seen by anyone else. My discomfort soon changed to intrigue, however, for Ellen had been such an interesting woman. I found her feelings and ideas perceptive and fascinating, even as I was moved by a sweeping sadness. How little of her I had really ever known, and now never would. When she mentioned me, as she frequently did, my eyes watered, and sometimes overflowed. I tried to put my emotions aside, but it was difficult. I must steel myself to the task and try to read the journal as if it were evidence in a crime, which was exactly what I hoped it would be. Not only did I need to scour her diary for mention of anything that might point to a motive for murder, but also to build up a picture of her day-to-day life, of which I regrettably knew so little.

  I would not fail Ellen again.

  Many of her entries concerned the zoo superintendent, Mr Clarence Bartlett, and how he was continually trying to reduce his expenditure. Ellen had worked as a volunteer at the zoo when she’d returned from Africa, spending all of her university holidays working gratis. When Bartlett realised he could employ her at an assistant’s wage after her graduation, he’d jumped at the chance. Ellen was concerned about her finances, for although she would’ve been comfortable for another eighteen months, there was little prospect of her remuneration improving thereafter. She remained at the zoo purely for the benefit of the animals, knowing how much they would suffer if left to Gibbs’ care. It appeared that Carey’s description of the resident veterinary surgeon had been accurate. He was an alcoholic, often did more harm than good to the animals, and frequently failed to attend at all. This seemed to suit Bartlett, who paid him a poor wage as well.

  I left the journal and went through some of the other letters and accounts Miss Paterson had placed in order for me, to see what Ellen’s exact situation had been. Her wages were indeed execrable at one pound, five shillings a week. Sixty-five pounds a year. She had just under eight hundred and seventy pounds left in savings, which would have been unlikely to last longer than eighteen months when she wasn’t earning much over the salary she was paying her butler. I felt particularly wretched when I saw that the last withdrawals from her bank had been by her solicitors, following her instructions to pay for her own funeral and burial.

  After a while, I replaced the letters and returned to the journal.

  In January, after Gibbs had crippled a zebra, Ellen asked Bartlett to replace him and told the superintendent she couldn’t cope with all the work on her own. His response had been to remind her how grateful she should be for the job he’d given her. After more butchery by Gibbs in February, Ellen had attempted to enlist the support of Mr Phillip Sclater, secretary of the Zoological Gardens, and Herbrand Russell, the eleventh Duke of Bedford and President of the Royal Zoological Society. Both of these entreaties had fallen upon deaf ears, and Bartlett had reprimanded her for all the trouble she was causing. She knew he wouldn’t dismiss her, however, because of the combination of the poor wages she accepted, and the celebrity which had been attached to her sex since she began working there.

  I read of Ellen’s increased frustration and her decision, just after she’d written her last letter to me, to involve the Humanitarian League. Miss Paterson had agreed to introduce her to a Mr Henry Salt, of the League, who had already voiced concerns as to the conditions in which the animals were kept on several occasions. She was due to meet Mr Salt on Friday the twenty-third of May.

  The day after her death in what I now regarded as suspicious circumstances.

  I glanced at the weekend of the seventeenth and eighteenth of May, but found nothing of relevance. Frustrated, I skipped through the Monday — which had begun with a visit to our father — and Tuesday. On Wednesday Ellen had made an entry to the effect that Carey had requested to join her on her ride in the park the next evening. She was curious as to why he wanted to meet her, and appeared to know about his proposed expedition to the Karakoram Mountains. She concluded with the words: ‘Regardless, he will be sorely disappointed if he expects the ZSL to sponsor him.’

  Those were the last words of the last entry. The diary and Ellen’s life both ended there. I rose from the desk and walked out onto the small balcony. It presented a truly magnificent view of the park, and I thought about how happy Ellen must have been living here. I was so deep in my thoughts that I didn’t hear Miss Paterson enter, and was startled when she appeared suddenly at my elbow.

  “I’m sorry, I did knock, but you didn’t answer. It’s six o’clock already.”

  “Is it? You’re quite right. I was… elsewhere.”

  “Did you find anything useful in her papers?”

  “Perhaps, I can’t be sure yet. Have you had a look at them?”

  “No, I haven’t,” she replied. “I didn’t realise that they might throw any light on her death at first. By the time I appreciated their use, you were on your way back. I didn’t think it would be right for me to intrude. Ellen was your sister; I was only her friend.”

  “There’s no only about it, and you seem to have set a great deal of store by my abilities. Far too much, I fear. I wonder why a woman of your obvious intelligence would do that?”

  “Because Ellen always expressed such faith in you, and I’d come to trust her judgement implicitly. Having met you, I now know that you won’t disappoint either of us.” She leant forward on the iron railing and looked across to the park.

  I followed Miss Paterson’s gaze. “It’s a lovely view, isn’t it? You — ”

  “It most certainly is not!” She drew up and glared at me.

  “Er… sorry, why… ”

  “Because we’re looking at the place where Lieutenant Carey murdered Ellen. There,” she pointed,
“across the lake, behind the row of trees. The house beyond is The Holme. They were riding between the house and the lake. That’s where it happened.”

  “If you could spare me a little more of your time, I’d like to go and have a look.”

  “It’s on private property.”

  “That is the least of my concerns at the moment.”

  “Well, come on, let’s go!”

  15. The Holme

  I’d noticed a telephone in Ellen’s house, and I used it to check if any messages had been left for me at the Windsor. There was nothing from Truegood, but Dr Maycock had very kindly left details of his plans for the rest of the day, which involved a brief return home followed by the Alhambra and the Cavour. I left Ellen’s number with the attendant in case anyone else tried to contact me. Miss Paterson reappeared in a fashionable broad-brimmed hat — a cravat, gloves, and parasol completed her ensemble. I was dressed rather casually by comparison, but she didn’t seem to mind as she took my arm. She directed us across Sussex Place, and then left along Hanover Terrace, a sombre Doric block adorned with pediments and statues.

  “Are we going to Hanover Gate?” I asked.

  “Yes. I assume you don’t know the park very well?”

  “No, but I’ve a rough idea from what Carey told me. I imagine that he and Ellen trotted down from the zoo, crossed the Long Bridge, and then broke into a gallop through The Holme’s grounds. Is that right?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. If we enter at Hanover Gate we can cross the Long Bridge and follow their route — if that’s what you’d like to do.”

  “I would. Do you know exactly where she fell?”

  “I think so. As I said, it’s private property, but I made as many inquiries as I could after, so I’ve a good idea. Are you going to examine the ground for clues, like the detectives in the periodicals?”

  “Not three months after the crime, no.”

  “Oh… how foolish of me.”

  “Who owns The Holme?” I asked as we passed under the leafy arch of Hanover Gate.

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s still the Burton family.”

  “As in Decimus Burton, the architect?”

  “Yes, but I know it’s being leased by Lord Francis Hope. He’s the second son of the Duke of Newcastle and quite a colourful character. He’s been bankrupt since he divorced his wife, an American actress who ran off with a wealthy gentleman from New York. There’s even talk that he’s going to sell the famous Hope Diamond.” Miss Paterson looked at me expectantly. I raised my eyebrows to show my lack of comprehension. “It’s supposed to be worth over twenty-five thousand pounds,” she said.

  “Is it?” I wasn’t thinking about Hope, I was thinking about another colourful character: Carey.

  “Yes, and that’s a conservative estimate.”

  We walked along the road towards the lake, lined with weeping willows, with Hertford Villa on our left. There were scores of people about, and I wondered again if London was always this full, and how many were tourists, here for the coronation. I was also considering how I could use the ceremony, which would bring the metropolis to a standstill on another bank holiday, to my advantage. We crossed the bridge on to Hanover Island, where there was a boathouse for renting rowboats. A line of trees on the far bank of the lake marked the boundary of The Holme, with Holme Green further down, to our right.

  “What are you thinking — if you don’t mind my asking?” queried Miss Paterson.

  “I heard some more rumours about Carey today. What do you actually know about him? I mean know for a fact, as opposed to hearsay or rumour.”

  “That’s just the problem, isn’t it? There is so much gossip about Lieutenant Carey, one never knows quite what to believe. Nobody seems to know anything about his early life, before he joined the West India Regiment. That was in 1890, if I remember correctly. He left after two years and travelled all over Africa and India, hunting and capturing animals. When he was in India he was supposed to have had an — ”

  “Just the facts, please,” I interrupted.

  She sighed. “In that case I’ve probably told you all I know already.”

  “I know he has a reputation as a ladies’ man — or rake — or whatever you wish to call it. I’ve heard he’s been involved with Lord Curzon’s wife, the Empress of Russia, and most recently some countess or other.”

  “The Russian empress! Surely not — that is quite scurrilous. As for Lady Curzon, Lieutenant Carey was certainly acquainted with her in one capacity or another. She’s American, and lived in Washington before marrying Lord Curzon, and Carey is supposed to have travelled to America in his youth. I told you the rumours that he’d worked on an illegal slaver, but that’s hearsay as well, of course.”

  “And how do you know that Lady Curzon knows him?”

  “Rumour again, but some of it must be true! I heard from several of my journalist friends that Lieutenant Carey was on most intimate terms with Lady Curzon, and that this displeased the viceroy greatly.”

  “So much that he accused Carey of spying for the Russians in Afghanistan?”

  “You mean he didn’t betray his country?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “When you refer to ‘some countess or other’ I expect you mean Baron de Staal’s daughter, the Countess Thécla Orloff Davidoff?”

  “If Baron de Staal is the Russian ambassador.”

  “He is. Lieutenant Carey was a guest at the embassy on several occasions this year. A couple of months ago he was seen accompanying the countess to the opera and theatre. I seem to recall she was also seen with him in his automobile, but I didn’t pay much attention at the time. Then suddenly he wasn’t welcome at the embassy anymore. That’s from one of my colleagues who runs a society column, so I don’t know what you’ll make of it. It appears that Baron de Staal has forbidden his daughter any further contact with Lieutenant Carey.”

  “Or perhaps Carey was using Miss de Staal as cover to pass on information because he really is a Russian spy; or perhaps the Russians don’t like him because he really did seduce the Empress. Half-truths, bloody nonsense more like!”

  “Mr Marshall!”

  “Er, my apologies, please excuse my language. I forgot myself.” She was frowning very severely. “I find your company so stimulating that for a moment I thought I was talking to another detective.” She warmed at this, as I’d intended.

  “Well, that’s quite understandable, although I’d rather you didn’t do it again.”

  “I won’t.” There was one matter which Miss Paterson, with her apparently comprehensive knowledge of society, seemed eminently qualified to resolve. I chose my words carefully, however, so as not to influence her answer. “I’ve a question which may seem rather strange, but the answer to it could prove significant later. Is there any particular style or article of clothing associated with Carey?”

  “Do you mean something you could use to identify him?”

  Miss Paterson was rather more perceptive than I’d thought. “Yes.”

  “His hat. He wears a tatty old wideawake hat to all but the most formal of occasions.”

  We crossed the island and the other side of the bridge, bringing us to a convergence of roads, paths and people. Miss Paterson and social graces faded from my mind. I shook myself free from her hand, ignored her protest, and quickened my step until I was looking directly south, across a small sward leading to the copse that marked the boundary of The Holme. This was it: the very place where Ellen had galloped to her death. As I approached the trees I saw a sturdy wooden fence, about four feet high. There was a gate, but — measuring the distances in my mind — I imagined Ellen and Carey had probably started their race from the bridge. They would only have had to weave through one or two trees before jumping the fence.

  I vaulted the fence myself and saw a strip of open ground running between the line of birch and willow trees that marked the edge of the lake and another copse shielding The Holme’s gardens and villa. I turned back to open the gate f
or Miss Paterson, ignored whatever she said, and picked up my pace along the stretch of grass. At the far end, about a hundred and forty yards away, was yet another copse, between the private grounds and Holme Green, a public area. I reached the middle, where the trees from The Holme formed a slight bend, and could see exactly what Carey had been talking of. I stopped, turned all the way around, and closed my eyes, thinking of how secluded the place would be at dusk and after.

  “Mr Marshall! What on earth are you doing?” Miss Paterson was marching towards me.

  “Look.” I pointed behind her, and then ahead of us. “This open stretch, from the first copse to the second, look at it!”

  “Well, what about it?” she said, slightly out of breath.

  “It’s no more than a hundred and forty yards.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. So?”

  “Carey’s evidence doesn’t make sense. Either Ellen jumped the wall where I did, or Carey must’ve dismounted to open the gate for her. If they walked through the gate then they had an even shorter distance to gallop!”

  Miss Paterson tried to follow me, failed, and shook her head. “I’m sure I’m being most dense, but I’m afraid you’ll have to explain.”

  “Have you ridden before?”

  “Yes, occasionally.”

  “A man is faster than a horse over a hundred yards — the first hundred, anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I first heard it from an old Boer in Stellaland and tested it many times on myself and others. So, if Ellen only galloped this distance, she couldn’t have been going very fast because she’d have had to rein in for the next copse — there’s another fence and gate amongst the trees there. But I think they both jumped the first fence—”

  “If she was weakened by her wound, she would have fallen there, not here.”

  “Miss Paterson, you are not only exceptionally pleasing to the eye, but also most astute — that is exactly what I mean!” She coloured, and I realised that in my excitement I’d probably overstepped the mark of propriety. “Look at the lie of the ground here. Except for boaters who stray close to the bank, no one can see us. No one! At dusk, even the boaters wouldn’t be able to see between the willows. I’m not saying it makes this the scene of an offence, but it is a perfect place to commit murder.”