Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  “Thank you, Nigel. Have you seen Inspector Sutherland?”

  “Not recently, madam. Anything else?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  With him gone, I returned to the coroner’s report and began to read.

  Coroner’s Report: Postmortem Examination,

  Flavia June Beckwith

  The body was not examined in situ. The body was delivered to the coroner’s office in a white signature-sealed body bag. The body is that of a Caucasian woman appearing the stated age.

  Clothing:

  The body was dressed in a purple wool shirt dress, nylon stockings, and brown leather shoes. The apparel and shoes showed signs of water staining.

  No bloodstains on clothing. Evidence of water staining on the back and left side of the dress. Dirt contamination within the water-stained area, on the left shoulder and upper sleeve.

  External Examination of the Body

  Female. Thin build. Hair, blond of medium length; weight 55 kg; height 167.64 cm.

  On the left parietal scalp, at a point 8 cm above the ear, superficial abrasion of 2.5 cm x 2.5 cm in, consistent with bruise sustained in fall.

  An area of reddish discolouration on the left shoulder, upper arm, elbow, and hip, consistent with fall.

  Red stains were observed on the right distal phalanx of the index, long, ring, and little fingers. Samples sent for microscopic and chemical analysis. Evidence of bruising on the distal and proximal interphalangeal joints of index, long, and ring fingers. Also, reddish discolouration on the palmer side of the hand at the thenar and hypothenar region.

  Two vaccination scars over left upper arm

  Vertical surgical scar on abdomen

  No tattoos

  Clothing as described

  No signs of sharp force injury. No signs of blunt force injury.

  At crease of the left wrist, old scar approx. 2.5 cm long with parallel multiple stitch marks extending from one end of the wound to the other.

  No other contusions or injuries observed.

  Internal Examination of the Body

  No evidence of cranial injury or fracture of the skull

  Heart:

  There was no aneurysm. The major noncoronary branches were patent. The great veins were unremarkable. Congenital floppy mitral valve observed. Ventricular septal defect.

  Tissue samples taken from the heart and other internal organs sent for toxicological analysis.

  Exhibits List:

  See page 2 for list of tissue samples sent for microscopy and toxicological analysis together with other exhibits (hair, saliva, blood, and other organ samples, stomach contents).

  Conclusion:

  Interim conclusion pending pathological and toxicological reports: myocardial infarction caused by falling left ventricular oxygen uptake due to negative inotropic effect of hypothermia.

  Fifteen minutes later I finished reading the final page, laid the report on the table, and wished for the time to pass quickly until I saw George. Based upon what I’d read in the report, we needed to have a serious discussion—and soon.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  George and I had just finished dinner and were sipping our tea when Nigel announced that Detective Sergeant Dudley Mardling was asking to see us.

  * * *

  We had been the only two at the table. The family had dined privately, we were told. Nigel had escorted us to an area called the “morning room,” in one of the towers. It was a square space with a large round table. The room, usually reserved for the family’s breakfast, had an old-fashioned dumbwaiter with ropes and pulleys for food to be sent up from the kitchen below.

  I was relieved that we were not sitting in the state dining room. Occupying two chairs at a table that accommodated thirty or more would have made for an awkward meal. The morning room was decorated in shades of yellow and green, and probably provided a cheerful atmosphere on even the dullest of days. On this night, with the yellow silk drapes drawn over the windows, thus blocking a view of the snowstorm outside, it was an especially welcome atmosphere in which to dine.

  Clover had served us chestnut soup, followed by potted shrimp, and then a mixed grill with glazed carrots and roasted brussels sprouts. The dumbwaiter saved her from having to carry our food up on heavy trays. I wondered how she managed with food for the family, and if there was another dumbwaiter wherever they had taken their evening meal.

  “Do you think they’ll be letting my boy go any time soon?” she’d asked George.

  “If it were up to me, Mrs. Estwich, Archer never would have been arrested in the first place. But I promise to raise the question with the superintendent tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, sir. I’ll get his room ready as soon as I get home. He’ll likely be exhausted from the experience. He usually is. Of course, he’s never been arrested for murder before.”

  “Now, I can’t guarantee his release, you understand.”

  “I know, but your being Scotland Yard and all, I’m sure the local bobbies will be guided by your greater experience.” She’d carried our dinner plates to the dumbwaiter, whistling, and soon placed in front of us two pieces of chocolate cake with spun sugar curlicues left over from Chef Bergère’s New Year’s Eve dessert table.

  * * *

  Nigel brought in Detective Sergeant Mardling, and George stood to greet him.

  “Sorry to interrupt your dinner, Chief Inspector, but we’ve had a bit of news, and I thought you might not want to wait for tomorrow’s meeting to hear it.”

  “There’s no interruption at all,” George said, settling in his chair again. “We’ve finished our meal. Would you like to join us? Have you eaten?”

  “Kind of you, but I’ve had my supper.”

  “I’d be happy to ask the cook for another cup of tea for you,” George said as Mardling pulled out a chair. “She may even have another piece of this lovely dessert.”

  “You’re welcome to have mine,” I said. “I’m sure it’s delicious, but I’m quite content as I am.”

  Mardling’s eyes widened as I pushed my untouched plate over to him.

  “Is Constable Willoughby with you?” I asked. “Perhaps she’d like a slice of cake as well.”

  “Willoughby went to the kitchen to talk with Mrs. Estwich. We’re releasing her son tonight.”

  “That’s good to hear,” George said. “Thank you for coming to let us know.”

  We heard a whoop echoing up the dumbwaiter.

  I smiled. “I take it that Constable Willoughby has just delivered the news.”

  A beaming Clover entered the room shortly, followed by Willoughby who was holding a plate with a different one of Bergère’s creations. Clover set a second portion in front of Mardling. “I apologize for all the things I said about you, Detective Sergeant.”

  Mardling looked surprised. “No negative comments have reached my ears, Mrs. Estwich.”

  “Nevertheless, I didn’t speak kindly of you, and it would soothe my conscience if you would accept my apology.”

  “Apology noted and accepted,” Mardling said, “but it would go a lot better with a cuppa. Do you think you could accommodate us?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Over tea and dessert, Mardling explained that the ingredients listed on the package of rat poison found in Archer’s room could not have caused the symptoms that preceded the earl’s death. “We determined that lack of more authoritative evidence required that we release the prisoner.”

  “A sound decision,” George said.

  “We took under advisement that several of the lads on the force vouched for Estwich, even though they’d arrested him before, and the judge who knew him quite well questioned the need to detain him further. We are, nevertheless”—he looked around to be certain Clover wasn’t listening in—“keeping a weather eye on the fellow. I told him, the next time he was brought up on charges, he’d find himself in less comfortable quarters. I painted rather a severe picture.”

  “Oh!” I
said.

  “He’s been a pest, if a charming one. But he has assured me of his intent to adhere to the letter of the law.” Mardling pushed his empty cake plate forward and drew his teacup in front of him. He sipped delicately at the brew and smiled in satisfaction.

  Nigel came in to clear the table. “I’ve given Mrs. Estwich the rest of the evening off,” he explained. “She was eager to go home and cook a celebratory dinner for her son.”

  “Wonderful baker,” Willoughby said, indicating her empty plate. “She made those, right?”

  “If I am not mistaken, the recipe came from the French chef who was in charge of last night’s meal,” Nigel said. “But I believe Mrs. Estwich had a hand in turning them out.”

  Mardling waited for Nigel to leave the room before stating, “There was one more thing I meant to mention.” He reached into his breast pocket for an envelope. “We got back an analysis of what caused the discoloration on the fingers of the deceased—Flavia Beckwith that is—of the deceased’s right hand, and it was . . .” He unfolded a piece of paper.

  “Oil paint,” I said.

  Mardling’s mouth dropped open, and he scanned the paper in his hand. “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “Yes, Jessica,” George echoed. “How did you know?”

  I looked around at the three surprised faces and shrugged. “Really, I just thought of it now.” I addressed Mardling. “You just said you ‘painted a rather severe picture’ for Archer, and I remembered that Elmore Jackcliff is painting the countess’s portrait in oils.”

  “But how did you make the connection?” George asked.

  “I visited Jackcliff’s studio the other day. It’s just down the hall from our rooms. I saw four white stripes painted over a red area on the canvas. I figured he was correcting an error he’d made himself. But now that I think about it, four fingers could have made that mark. I can’t say for certain, but I doubt if Mrs. Beckwith made the marks on purpose. Perhaps she was in the studio and tripped. If she put her hand out to regain her balance and it made contact with the painting, it would have left the marks we saw on her fingers. It would be interesting to know if any of her clothing has paint on it as well.”

  “I’d like to see this painting you’re talking about,” Mardling said. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “If the room is unlocked, I assume we can go in,” I said. “I know where it is.”

  “I’d like to see it, too,” George said. “Why don’t you lead us there?”

  * * *

  At the top of the grand staircase, we turned left instead of right, toward our rooms, and walked down the deserted corridor. Before the ball, there had been other guests staying on this floor. I’d greeted a few when I happened to pass them as I went back and forth to my room. But I could feel the emptiness of the building now that they’d departed. The hall sconces still provided illumination, but the lights over each of the paintings on the walls had been extinguished, presumably to save on the cost of electricity.

  I had no difficulty locating Elmore Jackcliff’s makeshift studio. It was right next door to an arresting painting, a still life of a hare and two pheasants draped on a wooden table and surrounded by platters of raw vegetables. I suppose it represented the ingredients of a meal some centuries back.

  I tried the knob, and the door opened into the darkened room. George walked in and fumbled around the wall until he found the light switch. The room appeared to be exactly as I’d seen it last: the chair under the window, the chaise in the corner with its throw pillow left on the floor, the drop cloth under the easel, and the battered table holding the artist’s materials. I led our small group around to the front of the canvas. It, too, had not been altered. I must have come upon Jackcliff when he’d stopped working for the day. Or perhaps he preferred to have his model in front of him before adding strokes to the portrait.

  “Quite skilled, isn’t he?” Mardling commented.

  “She looks a bit younger in the picture, don’t you think?” Willoughby said.

  “All in the eye of the beholder,” her supervisor replied. “What are these things?” he asked, waving at the photograph and sketches of the countess’s shoes, necklace, and ring that were pinned to the side of the canvas.

  “The photo shows the position of the countess in the portrait,” I said. “I assume it helps him position her correctly when she poses for him live, and lets him work on the painting when she’s not here. Artists often sketch details of a painting they are working on. In fact, many museums display the artist’s preliminary drawings—if they have them—along with the final work of art.”

  “And where do you see the marks you were telling us about?” George asked.

  “Right here,” I said, pointing to four narrow bands of white paint. “It’s easier to see in the daylight. But look how he’s outlined her figure in red, and here is a break where it appears as if the paint were smeared and then covered up in white.” I put my fingers over the white bands, and they lined up perfectly.

  Willoughby reached out and lifted the top of Jackcliff’s metal paint box. “What does he keep in here?”

  “Paints and brushes, I believe,” I said.

  “May I ask to what occasion I owe the honor of this visit?” Elmore Jackcliff leaned on the door frame and eyed us lazily. “I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to provide studio tours to visiting policemen.”

  “Our apologies for barging in unannounced, Jackcliff,” George said.

  “And uninvited, I might add,” the artist replied. He pushed himself off the door frame and entered the room, walking around and looking left and right as if he expected something to be disturbed. He picked up the fallen pillow and threw it on the chaise. Then he came around to where we stood and slapped closed the cover of his paint box. “And how may I help you? Am I correct in assuming that you are not here to determine my qualifications to paint your portraits?”

  “Quite correct,” Mardling said. “Would you mind telling us how these particular marks were made on your painting?”

  “What marks?” Jackcliff asked. “The entire painting is full of marks.”

  “These, here,” I said, fitting my fingers over the white paint as I’d done earlier.

  “The constabulary has determined that red staining found on the fingers of the late Flavia Beckwith was actually oil paint,” George said.

  “And you believe she got those stains here in my studio?”

  “We do,” I said. “Did you ever invite Flavia here to your studio?”

  “No, I can’t say that I ever did.”

  “Did she ever come up here uninvited?” George asked.

  “Well, now, I cannot be responsible for knowing the whereabouts of all the people wandering about the castle, can I, Chief Inspector?”

  “Quit playing games, Jackcliff,” George said. “Had Mrs. Beckwith ever come to your studio?”

  “Not to my knowledge. No,” the artist replied.

  “Not to your knowledge, but perhaps without your knowledge?” George said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we take a sample of the red paint on your canvas, will you?” Mardling said. He reached in his pants pocket, drew out a jackknife, and opened it. “Do you have any cellophane on you, Willoughby?”

  “I think so,” the constable said.

  “You’re not planning to take a knife to my painting, are you?”

  “We only need to scrape off a little bit of the paint,” Mardling said. “I hope my hand is steady enough not to cut into the canvas.”

  “Wait!” Jackcliff said, moving to block Mardling from approaching his artwork. “It is possible Flavia may have been up here. I do seem to remember a time she came to see Lady Norrance when Her Ladyship was sitting for me. Or standing, as it were.”

  “Ah, and do you remember what occurred on that occasion?” Mardling asked.

  “The ladies were having a discussion—I cannot recall what the topic was—and Flavia turned to leave.
She tripped on a drop cloth and fell against my painting. I was concerned for her person, of course, and wiped the paint from her fingers, but it tends to leave a stain.”

  No concern for your painting? I thought, but didn’t say.

  “And then?” Mardling prompted.

  “And then she left. Afterward, I noticed that the outline of the figure had been smudged, and I covered up the mess with some white gesso. I was concerned that she might have ruined the painting, but, I’m relieved to say, her carelessness will not spoil the final work, thank goodness.”

  “Remarkable the detail you can recall when, only a moment ago, you didn’t even remember if the lady in question had ever been up here,” Mardling said.

  “Yes. Well, you jogged my memory,” Jackcliff said.

  “He’s good at that,” Willoughby put in.

  “I think we can take our leave, ladies and gentleman, don’t you?” George said. “Thank you, Jackcliff. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Not at all. Always happy to assist the authorities in whatever way I can.”

  The four of us vacated the room, and Jackcliff closed the door behind us. I heard the sound of a lock being engaged.

  “I don’t know that this information sheds any light on the demise of Mrs. Beckwith,” Mardling said as we walked down the hall, “particularly in view of the coroner’s conclusions. But it’s always good to add pieces to the puzzle.”

  “True,” George said. “Was there any other matter you wanted to go over tonight?”

  “No,” Mardling replied. “I believe we’ve accomplished what we came for. Willoughby and I will see you at the case meeting tomorrow morning?”

  “Of course,” George said, shaking his hand. “Allow me to walk you out.” He turned to me. “Jessica, up for a stroll?”

  I stifled a yawn. “If it weren’t so dark and cold outside, I’d opt for a brisk walk to wake me up, but I’ve already had my fill of the elements for today. If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go to my room, read a bit, and maybe doze off.”

  “Feeling all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I feel fine—just tired. It’s been a long day.” A long day, indeed, I thought, cataloguing the events of the past twenty-four hours: a late night on New Year’s Eve, my morning conversation with Clover, Archer’s arrest, my social call with Hazel and Emmie, lunch at the Muddy Badger, our meeting with Fitzwalter, the excitement over the birth of a new foal, and the confrontation at gunpoint in the orchard with Angus. And then there had been the arrival of the officers and the visit to Jackcliff’s studio to cap it all off.