Death on the House (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 2)

by Felix Bruckner

  5

  Tuesday, 10th August: “I found your name on the casualty card, Dr Scott ... Thought you'd be interested in my findings.”

  I was in the post-mortem room just before two o'clock, and Claus Horowitz was already changed and waiting for me. The day was overcast and substantially cooler than the last time I had come.

  We discussed my findings when I had seen her in casualty, and then turned our attention to the body. It came as a shock to me, seeing Shirley Jenkins naked on the metal trolley, after having known her professionally on the ward for ten weeks. True, I had examined her briefly just after death, but she had still had her clothes on then. Now, her skin was starkly white, her face remote and without expression, her breasts well-formed, her pubic hair surprisingly black.

  “You will note again, the deep line of the ligature, with distal skin pallor from loss of the arterial blood supply, and congestion and petechiae from venous obstruction and capillary disruption respectively. You recorded on the casualty card that there were petechial haemorrhages on the conjunctivae (commonly found in strangulation) and that her lips were cyanosed, which is less usual ... Now lets have a look at the hyoid bone ...”

  He incised the skin over the larynx, and dissected out the tiny bone.

  “Ah, here we are ... Observe, Dr Scott, a small fragment broken off the left anterior cornu – see the fragment here – when you compare it with the opposite side ... Quite characteristic of strangulation, both manual and by a ligature. I don't suppose you have observed this feature before ...”

  I shook my head, pleased to have seen it now, my attendance worth while.

  “Now, lets proceed to the general post-mortem ...”

  He examined the finger-nails, took scrapings from under them, opened the thoracic cavity, his technician having already prepared the rib-cage with his power-saw.

  “Hm, lungs normal; heart a bit large, lets get it out, weigh it ...” (He wielded his scalpel deftly, and the heart was lying on the palm of his hand.) Hold on, what is this?”

  He pointed with his probe at a short cord between the aortic arch and the main pulmonary artery.

  “It's a patent ductus arteriosus – a congenital anomaly, probably symptomless in this case ... But it could well account for the blue lips you recorded in casualty ... Tell me, Dr Scott, did you see her in life, did you know her, did you notice cyanosis before?”

  “Afraid not, Dr Horowitz, I did know her, but I saw her mainly at night ... She was a night nurse on one of my wards, you know; I met her once at a party, but again in subdued lighting ...”

  6

  Thursday, 12th August: Detective Chief Inspector Charles Butter was, if anything plumper and more genial than I remembered him, his bald head shinier, his double-chin more pronounced.

  “Do you still have the handcuffs I presented to you ... for your efforts in the Whitechapel murders?”

  He and DS Stebbings, who at that time had been based at Brick Lane Police Station, had received full credit for the apprehension of the notorious Whitechapel Slasher. My part in the unmasking was hardly mentioned – for which I was grateful rather than sorry.

  A secretary's office had been vacated for us in administration, and now we sat on either side of a desk, each with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits. It was mid-afternoon. In place of Stebbings, Butter was flanked by the uniformed sergeant, Tim Gately – Belinda Peach's boy-friend – who looked suitably keen, an open notebook on his lap.

  “They have pride of place in my room, Chief Inspector ...” I treated him to a reminiscent smile.

  “So here we are again, Dr Scott. If I may say so, you still seem to attract deaths like moths to a candle.” He beamed happily at us both. “After the Slasher case, I transferred to Scotland Yard with my faithful assistant, Gary Stebbings. Now I've been seconded to North Herts CID as these two murders – Mr Tupper's and Miss Jenkins' – appear to be connected ... Same modus operandi ... And so our paths cross again ... Detective Sergeant Stebbings is still in London, tying up a few loose ends for me. In the meantime, Sergeant Gately has kindly stepped into the breach. His local knowledge promises to be invaluable ...” His slow, rather ponderous delivery was in stark contrast to the shrewd grey eyes which roamed constantly around the room, focussing in turn on Gately and me, missing nothing.

  “We have made some preliminary enquiries about Horatio Tupper. Quite a complex character, it seems. Unpleasantly racist of course, but apparently comes from a good family background. Studied Classics at King's College, Cambridge; athletics blue (four-forty yards hurdles); dropped out before completing his university course ... Next turned up in the SAS ... a couple of tours of duty in the Middle East ... Made corporal – must have been quite useful, able to look after himself! Whoever killed him didn't know what he was taking on, was lucky not to have been killed himself ... Perhaps Tupper had become rusty, lost his skills or been taken unawares ... Appears he was unable to cope with civilian life after his discharge from the Army ... Went to seed again and took to living rough ... mildly alcoholic but no drugs ...

  “Meanwhile, Sergeant Gately has spoken to a friend of Miss Jenkins – Staff-Nurse Peach – who confirms that the deceased went to the Odeon Cinema on the evening of Monday, 9th August ... Saw the James Bond film, Doctor No. Apparently Dr Root, her boy-friend, had promised to take her, but he claims he was on duty, on call, couldn't get away; suggested she come to his home instead. Unfortunately for her, this didn't appeal ... they had a row, and she went to the cinema on her own. Film finished half-past ten ... She had no car, so she would have arrived back at the staff-nurses' home between eleven and eleven-thirty, provided she walked and started back straight away. She was found dead in front of the home at midnight. I understand you saw her in Casualty shortly after, pronounced her dead ...”

  7

  Sunday, 15th August: “...When I say, therefore, that Mycroft had better powers of observation than I, you may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth.”

  “Is he your junior?”

  “Seven years my senior.”

  “How comes it that he is unknown?”

  “Oh, he is well known in his own circle.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example ...”

  It was ten o'clock, and I sat on a deck-chair on the patio outside the doctors' common room; since I was on call, I had left the French windows open, so that I could hear the telephone. It was a fine morning; my shirt sleeves were rolled up and I wore sun glasses, as I basked in the sunshine. I had just started on The Greek Interpreter from Conan Doyle's Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, my concerns about Jill temporarily at bay.

  “Ah, there you are, Edwin,” came a soft voice at my shoulder. “Have you seen the Hitchin Gazette? It's all over the front page ...”

  “I never read the Hitchin Gazette, Olly ...”

  I was irritated at being interrupted in my cocoon of warmth and tranquillity.

  “But you must listen to this, Edwin: 'Hitchin Strangler Strikes Again'”, and he began reading in the precise archaic tones, which I always found rather quaint.

  “'A second body was discovered at midnight on Monday, 9th August, outside the Sisters' Home at St Peter's Hospital, Hitchin. Like the first victim, on 12th July, she had been strangled. We understand that Staff-Nurse Shirley Jenkins had been to the Hitchin Odeon on her own that evening. The film finished at 10.30 pm. The police would like to interview anyone who saw her that evening, as they would like to reconstruct her homeward journey back to the hospital. In particular they wish to know if she met another person on the way ...”

  There was a long pause, while I pondered yet again the significance of these facts.

  “Well, I will leave you to your book, Edwin ... You won't forget our tennis match, this afternoon?”

  We had changed into whites, and I had informed Ernie of our whereabouts, so that he could send a porter if either of us were called for an emergency. I followed Olly in the dappled suns
hine through the silver birches, up the narrow path behind the student nurses' home. He turned and waited wordlessly for me to catch him up: he was short and dapper, with ruffled black hair, deep dark eyes and protruding ears. The stillness was disturbed by the thrilling song of a blackbird and the plop of a tennis ball. The girls were warming up on court. They wore short white sleeveless tennis dresses with square-cut necks; Belinda's eyes were hidden behind fashionable sun-glasses.

  “You know Val, don't you Edwin? You met her at my party, and she's on nights with me on Ward Ten ...”

  “Yes, of course ...”

  Valerie Stoppard, like Belinda Peach, was a staff nurse, whom I bumped into quite regularly on nights; she was tall, angular, untidy and appeared awkward around the court. I discovered, to my surprise, that Olly and Valerie already knew each other.

  Belinda was clearly the better player of the two ladies, moving gracefully, and striking the ball crisply. She wore her long flaxen hair loose, and it fluttered behind her, as she moved effortlessly around the court. She had a trim figure and lovely legs. A pair of white knickers peeped cheekily from under her dress, as she stretched for the occasional ball at the net.

  “You'll partner me, Edwin, and Dr Kumar can have Val ...”

  “That jolly Inspector Butter came with Tim, Belinda's fiancé, to interview us all about the murders. He was very droll, but seemed a bit clueless for someone from Scotland Yard ...”

  “I've met him before, Valerie,” I intervened. “He's a lot shrewder than he looks ... Incidentally, he's actually a Detective Chief Inspector ...”

  “Well, apparently the pair of them have been interviewing all the staff nurses, sisters and doctors,” continued Nurse Stoppard. “Tim says a batch of uniforms are working their way through the student nurses, PTS nurses and the rest of the hospital staff ... The police were wondering why Shirley had gone to the pictures on her own, whether she had had a row with Brian Root, whether she had been picked up by someone at the cinema or on the way home ...”

  The match itself was a formality: we routed Olly and Valerie 6-2, 6-1. Belinda and I had hardly worked up a sweat, while the other pair appeared exhausted and demoralised. I felt guilty for not letting them take a few more points; however, I had to concede that it was my partner who had dominated the match, and not I. We collected our balls and tennis racquets. We promised the girls a return match, exchanged “goodbyes” and they left for the nurses' home.

  Olly and I returned for tea in the doctors' sitting-room, both keenly anticipating Peggy Blayne's home-made damson jam on our toast. Olly appeared pensive. Finally he voiced his thoughts.

  “Edwin ... Do you think Valerie fancies me?”

  “Who wouldn't ...”

  8

  Tuesday, 17th August: I awoke in the sitting-room with the side light on but the television switched off. I had been watching it with Olly after dinner, and must have dozed off. Now he had gone, and I was alone. Outside, it was dark, the wind howled and the rain drummed on the roof of the portacabin. I was stiff all over, having slipped into an awkward position in my armchair; had I strained my neck again? I moved around gingerly, relieved that my range of neck movement was full and pain-free.

  It's only ten o'clock. I'll have an early night for a change ...

  In the corridor, I stumbled upon a woman, fiddling with a key outside my neighbour's room. She had clearly been caught in the downpour, crossing the car park: her wet white coat clung to her body, and her hair was plastered to her head, reminding me of a bedraggled mouse.

  “Hi, I'm Edwin Scott ... house physician to Peter Middleton ... I don't think we've met before ...”

  “Virginia Lund, anaesthetic SHO ...”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Well, quite long ... Since the beginning of July actually, but I haven't yet ventured into the sitting room ...”

  She shivered extravagantly.

  “Sorry, can't stand out here gossiping ... I'm cold and soaked through ... Goodnight.”

  The key turned, and she disappeared into her room.

  Strange girl, I thought.

  9

  Thursday, 19th August: I had taken a few trips in Fred since my marathon journey up from London, over a month ago. On my evenings off, I had driven around Hitchin and the surrounding countryside, familiarising myself with the roads, as well as the workings of the little car. I discovered that the indicators tended to stick: on one occasion I had been stopped by a policeman who pointed out with a broad smile that I was driving with both raised simultaneously! I could locate without conscious effort all the levers and switches, and I had mastered clutch control. The driver's seat was rather low; I had had to wedge a couple of telephone directories under it and push it forward as far as it would go, in order to reach the pedals comfortably. My friends would remark unkindly:

  “If you see a grey Morris Minor 1000, travelling without a driver – that's Edwin!”

  I had decided I would drive to Cambridge this evening, to gain practice for my journey home on my next week-end off. My Uncle Charlie and his wife ran a boarding house near Cambridge railway station, and I had long promised them a visit. Charles Barnes was another of my mother's cousins; he and Frank were, in fact, twins. The family came from Balham in South London, and after the war he had married Linda, his childhood sweetheart. The couple remained childless, and I always sensed a sadness in the house whenever I visited them. He had studied at Cambridge, but I wasn't sure whether he had ever completed his university course, or whether the war had intervened. I had visited them for about a week, when I was thirteen; I recalled my uncle playing endless games of patience in the back parlour, and Auntie Linda, in an overall and with her hair up under a nineteen-forties style head-scarf, dusting or hoovering her domain the whole day long. Charlie took me to the Botanical Gardens; he showed me the colleges – I recalled the contrast between the tranquillity of the old courtyards and the bustle of the bicycles in the centre of the city. On one memorable occasion, he punted me lazily yet elegantly along the River Cam, under bridges thronged with summer visitors, wispy clouds floating by overhead, to picnic on the bank from a wicker hamper of smoked salmon sandwiches and lemonade. In the evenings we went to the local cinema to see old black-and-white Tarzan films; and once, he took me to Humperdink's wonderful opera Hansel und Gretel staged in the town hall – an experience that has remained with me ever since.

  After poring over my maps for over an hour, I had started off straight after supper, making the most of the daylight. I found the turn-off from the A1 to the A505 at Baldock, and was surprised how easily I navigated from Royston to Cambridge, and eventually through the bicycle-dominated town centre to the large ramshackle boarding-house in St Barnabas Road. From door to door had taken me only forty-five minutes – my driving had certainly improved.

  “Look who it is, Charlie ...” Auntie Linda's mellow South London voice reminded me pleasantly of home.

  I was ushered into the back parlour, where Charlie had his cards spread out on the small table. He beamed, when he saw me, rose from his seat and hugged me.

  “What a lovely surprise... I've heard from Francis all about your new car, Edwin. Let's have a look at it ...”

  We moved in single file along the narrow passage, and out onto the pavement, where I had found a parking space in the road directly in front of the house. My uncle walked all around the vehicle, scrutinising it critically, while his wife stood fidgeting, anxious to return inside. Finally, he expressed himself satisfied, enquired about the year, the cost, the mileage, the performance. He smiled his approval, and we were permitted to retrace our steps.

  “What brings you to this neck of the woods, Edwin – nothing wrong, is there? What will you have to drink?”

  While Linda went out in search of our whiskies, he finished his game of patience. I restricted myself to one (large) glass. Charlie had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Cambridge's history and topography; he propounded at length on the advantages of his old College – T
rinity – over all the other Cambridge colleges, indeed over the even older colleges of the rival University of Oxford. Auntie Linda sat to one side, content to let her husband monopolise the conversation in his deep, sonorous voice, content to bask in the sunshine of his erudition. I had never realized before how close in appearance Charlie was to his brother Frank. They dressed differently, had different mannerisms, different tastes and even different accents. Nevertheless, now that I had the opportunity to scrutinise him minutely, and having seen his twin only recently, I could see the resemblance: this was especially marked when he paused in his conversation and his face was in repose, when even their lines and wrinkles were identical!

  The latch clicked, conversation ceased, and my uncle and aunt seemed to hold their breath, listening intently. A soft murmur of voices drifted toward us.

  “Ah, Mr James has a new girl-friend,” whispered Linda.

  We heard stealthy footsteps ascending the stairs ... After a long pause, while this new information, was being digested, Charlie resumed in his normal tone:

  “Francis was always the one to pull the birds, though we were identical, and no-one – except for Linda – could tell us apart. Even our parents sometimes weren't quite sure. We had to wear different coloured jumpers, but sometimes we played tricks on our friends or at school: we swapped clothes, and then there was pandemonium. I was the more academic, but he was always dapper, charming, extrovert: the girls loved him. I never discovered why Linda preferred me! We both went to University – he went to Durham, while I came here – but funnily enough, he was the one to become a solicitor, while I ended up running a bed-and-breakfast home ... Why didn't you study medicine at Cambridge, Edwin? You would have had a more fulfilling life, secured a more prestigious qualification, ended up with an MA, as well as your medical degree.”