by Carol Hedges
“If you could sit here, I shall fetch the sewing articles,” he says.
She sinks onto the hard seat, burying her face in her hands. Cully exchanges a quick meaningful look with the constable on desk duty, and hurries away.
****
Detective Inspector Stride stands in the police mortuary, a cold basement room smelling of chemicals, and damp, and unhappiness. The body of Violet Manning has been brought in. Now that the preliminary examination has taken place, it lies covered in a black cloth on the table.
Once again Stride marvels at the cool detachment with which his medical colleague can deal with the bruised battered remnants of humanity that wash up here on a daily basis without a flicker of emotion crossing his face. It is all Stride can do not to throw up his breakfast.
“Very interesting,” murmurs the surgeon, nodding thoughtfully.
“So, what can you tell me?”
“The young lady has been the victim of a particularly violent attack,” the surgeon says, consulting his notes. “The wounds of the upper part of the throat, dividing the carotid artery, are the most probable cause of death. Given the position and depth of the wound, I am prepared to say that this death was homicidal, not suicidal.”
Stride restrains his natural impulse to tell the police surgeon that he is making a statement of the bleeding obvious. Instead, he merely nods a couple of times.
“A few other notable features,” the surgeon continues, “there are severe cranial injuries resulting from blows struck to that part of the body. There is haemorrhaging from the fracture of the meningeal artery and the subsequent effusion between the dura mater and the skull. I conjecture these blows were made by a hammer of some sort. Again, great force has been used. It is almost as if she has been attacked by a wild beast – if such an animal could perform the actions I see before me.”
Stride folds his arms.
“Who knows what actions the human mind is capable of,” he says bleakly.
“Yes indeed,” the police surgeon agrees. “And have we not witnessed many prime examples of it in our time, Detective Inspector?”
“Well, thank you for your information.”
Stride turns to leave.
“Not so fast, Detective Inspector.”
Stride halts.
“Also extremely unusual, are the marks upon the upper thorax.”
Stride waits. They were all the same, police surgeons. Liked to take their time, keep you waiting, let you know that they were in charge.
“I noticed when the body was first brought in that the dress had been cut about across the bodice. Examining the area more closely, I discovered a particular set of incised wounds just above the left breast. I may be wrong, but it looks very much as though the murderer has made a clumsy attempt to extract the victim’s heart.”
Stride stares at him in disbelief.
“I can show you, if you don’t believe me,” the police surgeon prepares to lift the cloth.
“No, I believe you,” Stride interjects quickly.
“And there is one other most unfortunate aspect of this poor girl’s murder.” The police surgeon beckons Stride over and whispers a few words in his ear.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, absolutely sure. There can be no doubt about it whatsoever.”
Stride nods curtly.
“Well, well. That is as you say, very unfortunate. Let me have your full written report when you’ve finished. The sooner we catch this bastard, the better.”
Jack Cully is waiting in the office.
“I’ve just seen the young woman’s body, Jack,” Stride tells him. “Bad business.”
“Her name was Violet Manning,” Cully says. “There’s a friend of hers in the outer office.”
He relates what Emily Benet has told him. Stride listens intently, making the odd note.
“Can we give her the sewing?” Cully asks. “It’s not as if it is part of the enquiry.”
Stride waves a hand towards a small wrapped bundle on the desk. “Go ahead Jack.”
Cully picks it up.
“One other thing,” Stride says, glancing up from his notes. “You mentioned a floor manager in a department store where the young woman previously worked?”
“Miss Benet said he was responsible for her friend Miss Manning getting the sack.”
“He might have been responsible for something else as well.”
Stride tells Cully what the police surgeon told him.
“Miss Benet never mentioned it,” Cully says, raising shocked eyebrows.
“No, maybe not. Probably didn’t know. Not the sort of thing you’d necessarily share – in the circumstances. Might explain why she was sacked though.”
“Should I tell her?” Cully’s brain throws up a picture of the white-faced woebegone woman waiting in the outer office.
Stride strokes his chin with thumb and forefinger.
“I think discretion might be the way to go. After all, if she didn’t know, maybe she wasn’t meant to know. And once the cat is out of the bag, as it were, there will be no prospect of her arranging a decent Christian funeral, will there? Ask Miss Benet if she knows the man’s name, though. Then let’s jog along and see what he has to say.”
His face a study, Cully picks up the bundle of sewing and goes to find the young dressmaker who is still sitting exactly where he left her, hands folded in her lap, eyes on the floor. She looks up as he approaches, her expression warily hopeful.
Cully gives her the sewing.
“What happens now?”
“Now I shall put you in a cab back to your place of work.”
She pinches her lips together.
“I mean about Violet’s body. About the funeral arrangements.”
“The surgeon who is examining her will make a report. Then the body will be released. I can arrange for it – for her,” he corrects himself, cursing inwardly at his clumsiness, “to be taken to an undertaker’s, if you let me know the address.”
She stands up, holding herself erect.
“Then I shall send word where she is to be taken. Thank you, Mr Cully; you have been very kind to me, but I do not need a cab. Indeed, I prefer to walk. It will give me time to think things out. Good day to you.”
And clutching the small bundle of sewing to her as if it were a precious child, Emily Benet straightens her slender shoulders and pushes open the street door. Cully watches her walk out. She does not look back.
****
Three o’clock finds Hyacinth and Lobelia Clout sitting uprightly side by side on an overstuffed sofa in the darkly-wallpapered drawing room. Dressed in unbecoming mauve and surrounded by portraits of deceased male Clout family members, many in military uniforms, they are ready for the arrival of their visitors.
Refreshments are laid out on a side table, awaiting Hyacinth’s ministrations. There is a plate of ginger biscuits and a large freshly-baked seed cake cut in slices. Hyacinth has done all the cooking since the last servant walked out, after declaring that she was not going to work her fingers to the bone for a rude selfish tyrant like Mrs Clout even if she was dying. (The Clout household has, over time, gone through a lot of servants on this basis.)
After the departure of the latest one, Mama had decided not to allow any more sinful and Godless girls over the threshold on account of the ‘insolence and corruption’ they might bring with them. Since the maternal decree was issued, Hyacinth had been forced to assume the role of unpaid cook, maid and skivvy.
Occasionally Lobelia had helped out, though her proper place, as she stated, was by Mama’s suffering side. She always rolled her eyes upwards as she declared this, as if addressing unseen angels gathered around the invalid’s bed, although technically, her sentiments would reach the chamber pot under the bed first.
Why is it always called a morning call when it takes place in the afternoon, Hyacinth wonders, staring down at her ragged cuticles. She is supposed to be focusing on the afternoon, but she cannot help speculating on the pr
ogress of her letter. She is about to suggest that, as older sister, Lobelia might care to let in the guests for a change, when there is a knock at the front door. Lobelia folds her lips over her rather protuberant teeth and sits even more upright. Hyacinth does not move.
“Door, Hyacinth. Our guests arrive. Let us not keep them waiting.”
Gritting her teeth and promising herself that as soon she is married to whomever, whenever, there will be servants to answer the door, Hyacinth rises and goes out into the narrow hallway. She opens the door with slightly more force than intended, causing it to bang against the inside wall.
On the step stands the black-clad, beak-nosed, gimlet-eyed pillar that is Reverend Ezra Bittersplit, accompanied by his sharp-faced, skimpy daughter Bethica. Hyacinth curses inwardly. Bethica smirks.
“Good afternoon Hyacinth,” the Reverend says, regarding her sternly. “A little more Leviticus 4:16, I think. Yes?”
Hyacinth pastes on a polite smile and ushers them into the hallway, relieving them of their outer garments. She used to be in awe of Reverend Bittersplit. Now she merely regards him as an interfering nuisance, thanks to his regular presence in the house while Mama was dying. And his endless Bible verses, which she is beginning – oh, irreverent thought – to wonder whether he just makes up on the spot to aggravate her.
Lobelia rises and steps forward to greet the guests, extending the requisite three fingers. All are seated. Polite conversation is embarked upon. More guests arrive: Mrs Gadgett and Mrs Taylor (two of Mama’s charity committee women), followed closely by Miss Phyllis Larkin. The latter has not brought Mother Larkin, she announces in hushed tones, as she has ‘one of her heads’.
Lobelia talks and smiles and nods. She seems enervated by the company, though it is all Hyacinth can do to sit still and feign interest. Apart from Bethica, who is eyeing the seed cake speculatively, not a single visitor is anywhere near her age. And Bethica doesn’t count – Hyacinth has hated her since Bethica tattled tales to Mama about her behaviour in Sunday School when they were younger.
Eventually, Lobelia sends her sister the signal that it is time to serve the refreshments. Hyacinth pours hot water from the kettle into the teapot, then fills the bone china cups that were never used during Mama’s lifetime. To her embarrassment, she manages to slop tea in the Reverend Bittersplit’s saucer, eliciting a shake of the stern clerical head and a murmured reminder of James 4: 24.
She hopes Lobelia hasn’t seen, or there will be ‘words’ when the guests have gone. Hyacinth then hands round the cream, the sugar, the plate of biscuits and the cake, noting that Bethica takes the biggest piece.
When all are served, Reverend Bittersplit raises a clerical hand.
“Let us pray,” he intones.
The guests bow their heads. His voice rising and falling, Reverend Bittersplit embarks upon a long prayer invoking the spirit of the deceased, pausing at her invaluable contribution made to Good Works, before passing on to the Sinfulness of Mankind and the Heathen Nature of the World in General.
Hyacinth thinks: The tea will be getting cold.
Finally, the long prayer draws to an end. Everybody falls upon the refreshments as if they are manna in the wilderness. Hyacinth ends up sitting next to Phyllis Larkin, who speaks to her in hushed tones about the problems associated with some knitting pattern she is following.
Hyacinth smiles and nods. She does not knit, but it has been drummed into her from an early age that is part of her duty to care, to be interested, no matter what her feelings may be. Her main feelings towards Phyllis are pity. Mother Larkin is known to be an even more exacting martinet in her requirements than Mama was.
Were this not enough, Phyllis’ two brothers have left home and started families of their own, so the entire duties of care fall upon their sister. She has never married, and now, judging by the worn-out, cowed look of her, she never will.
The clock ticks very slowly.
By the time the last guest departs, Hyacinth is so exhausted from being polite that she could lie down on the Turkey carpet and fall asleep. There is not a scrap of food left, and she has been so busy attending to the guests’ needs that she has not eaten a thing.
“A very successful afternoon. Mama would have been pleased, I think,” Lobelia declares. She glances round the room. “There is a great deal of clearing up to be done,” she observes. “I think you had better make a start at once. I am going upstairs to lie down for a while. The afternoon has really taken it out of me, I fear.”
“Why is it always my job to clear up?” Hyacinth asks mutinously. “Why can’t you help me? Why must I do everything?”
Lobelia breathes in sharply. Her expression changes in an instant from limpid exhaustion to ice-cold fury. She strides quickly across the room, bringing her face to within an inch or so of her sister’s.
“Because,” she hisses fiercely, “I did not let go of the perambulator handle. I did not break Mama’s heart.”
She glares at Hyacinth, then, after allowing a few seconds for her words to hit home, she flounces out of the room, banging the door behind her.
****
Meanwhile Stride and Cully have arrived outside Peter Robinson’s department store, its plate glass windows elaborately arranged with an assortment of brightly-coloured Spring shawls. A row of feathered straw bonnets perch temptingly on wooden stands.
Stride eyes them balefully.
“Fripperies and fal-de-lals,” he says scornfully.
“Seems to be popular enough,” Cully indicates the number of coaches outside the store, awaiting their owners’ return. There is also a group of big-calved footmen loitering by the entrance. They are smoking, and passing the time of day by eyeing up the women walking by.
“Some people nowadays have more money than sense,” Stride mutters.
He elbows his way through, and approaches the gilded doors.
“And now to find the gentleman in question. If he is a gentleman. Either way, we have some questions.”
If Mr Francis Frye is surprised to be unexpectedly accosted on the shop floor in the middle of a busy afternoon by two plain-clothes detectives from the metropolitan police, he shows no sign of it. A big man in his early forties, he exudes confidence, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his well-cut black suit, his hair and moustache well oiled.
He regards Stride and Cully’s approach with an air of detached curiosity. His stance says: I am master of all I survey. Behind the long wooden counter, a couple of pretty shop girls steal curious glances and whisper to each other. He cuts them a quick glance. Master of them also, the glance suggests. Yes, indeed.
“Gentlemen – how may I be of assistance?” he asks, after Stride has introduced them.
His speech has the careful intonation of somebody who has risen from a slightly lower class and is working hard not to slide back down.
“We’d like to ask you some questions, if we may,” Stride says.
“Oh? What sort of questions?”
Stride glances round.
“Perhaps we might go somewhere more private?” he suggests.
“Naow gentlemen, I’m sure my conscience is as pure and clean as them girls’ pretty faces,” the man says, smirking at his female audience, who colour up and titter.
“As you please, sir.” Stride shrugs indifferently.
Pauses.
“Violet Manning,” he says.
He studies Frye’s face without appearing to do so.
“What about her?”
“Ah. You knew the young lady?”
“She used to work in the sewing-room. Got chucked out for stealing cloth.”
“Stealing, eh?” Stride says slowly, never taking his eyes of Frye’s face. “Oh dear. Oh dear. From what I gather, she didn’t seem like the sort of girl to steal.”
“Well, she must’ve been. Mrs Locuster found some cloth in her bag.”
“I see. Doesn’t mean she stole it though,” Stride says, his gaze now transferred to a point just beyond th
e big man’s left shoulder. “Somebody could easily have put it there. Somebody who wanted her out of a job and out of their lives. For whatever reason.”
Concern leaks into Frye’s face.
“Listen,” he says, lowering his voice, “whatever the little bitch told you, it ain’t true.”
“No, sir? And what do you think ’the little bitch’ told us that isn’t true?” Stride’s expression is a perfect study in unreadability.
“I’ll have you know she threw herself at me. I never gave her any encouragement. I’m a happily married man. She knew that perfickly well.”
“Did she, sir?”
Frye frowns. “Look, I don’t see what this is all about, inspector. I haven’t clapped eyes on the girl since she left.”
“And you’re not likely to now,” Stride cuts in. “Violet Manning is dead. Brutally murdered sometime last Wednesday night. Just a stone’s throw from this shop.”
The colour drains from Frye’s face.
“Now you look here, officer,” he blusters. “You can’t pin this on me. I was at ‘ome. Ask the wife. Never stirred from my own fireside all night.”
“Alright, we shall ask her. Make a note of that, Detective Sergeant Cully, if you would.”
Cully makes an elaborate play of getting out a notebook. He writes down: “I was at home all night ... ask the wife,” deliberately repeating the words out loud as he writes.
Several passing customers pause and regard the trio curiously.
“Look, I don’t know what your game is,” Frye hisses in a furious undertone, “but I’m telling you fair and square, as God is my witness, I never laid a finger on that girl from the moment she walked out of the shop.”
“No?” Stride’s words crack like a whip. “But you laid more than a finger on her before, didn’t you? According to our police surgeon, Miss Manning was two months gone with child when she died. And her best friend says she wasn’t keeping company with anybody. So it doesn’t take a mathematical genius to work it out. Does it? Sir?”
“Maybe we should ask the gentleman’s wife?” Cully suggests innocently.