Had I imagined it, or did he sound, just for a second, uneasy?
‘A broken neck.’
‘Not an accident? A fall downstairs, that sort of thing?’ he persisted. ‘Sure about it, are you?’
He was not the first person to whom I’d given unpleasant news, only to be met with a blank refusal to accept it.
‘Quite sure, Mr Carroway. There was also a blow to the head, and the body was moved and abandoned in an attempt to interfere with our inquiries.’
Carroway still hesitated, puffing to himself and fidgeting in his chair. He rubbed his hands together, as if they were cold, although a good fire burned, in the grate.
Then he leaned forward, his small sharp eyes fixed on me, and challenged, ‘Has the body been identified beyond any doubt?’
I was forced to admit it had not yet been identified officially as that of Emily.
Carroway leaned back and relaxed. ‘Let us hope, then, you are mistaken,’ he said. He did not appear disposed to add to that.
If he thought that was it, and there would be no more questions, he was mistaken. I produced the photograph. ‘Is this, in your opinion, Miss Devray?’
Carroway took it between finger and thumb with marked distaste and held it away from him. I wondered if he was far-sighted.
‘It is somewhat like her,’ he said at last with reluctance. ‘But I could not swear to it. I had little to do with her directly, as I told you. I cannot make a reliable identification, if that is what you want.’
I was not going to let him fob me off.
‘I understand Miss Devray to have spent her entire life from early infancy with Mrs Waterfield,’ I said. ‘I am wondering if Mrs Waterfield made any provision for her in her will.’
‘I am not prepared to discuss the details of my late client’s testamentary dispositions,’ intoned Carroway. Then, perhaps seeing a combative look in my eye, he added grumpily, ‘But I can certainly confirm that she left only a very small amount to Miss Devray.’
‘That surprises me,’ I remarked. ‘Surely Mrs Waterfield might have looked on Miss Devray almost as a daughter.’
‘Well, she wasn’t, and Mrs Waterfield didn’t!’ Carroway fairly snarled at me. As I made no reply and Colby seemed intent on studying the law books on a shelf nearby, Carroway grudgingly added, ‘There was no cause for her to do so. Had the Waterfields not taken her in as a baby, she would probably have been placed in some charitable orphanage.’
‘Do you mean the workhouse?’ I asked.
Carroway’s florid complexion grew even darker. ‘That is what the workhouse is for, to take in the destitute and the unwanted. This child was both.’
Suddenly, he seemed to come a decision. He wanted me out of his offices, but had realised I wouldn’t go away unless I gained some information from my visit.
‘See here, Inspector Ross,’ he went on. ‘I will be frank. Miss Devray’s father was a man of very poor judgement. I must stress that he was never my client, but I knew of him. When he died, he left nothing but debts. The Waterfields fed, clothed, educated, and provided his orphaned daughter with every necessity for seventeen years. That was more than enough, surely? What Mrs Waterfield was not prepared to do was provide the girl with a marriage portion, or take on the expense and responsibility of “bringing her out”. She was a charity case. When she had almost reached eighteen, it was time for Emily to support herself. Besides, Mrs Waterfield was now elderly, a widow, and her health failing. She decided to find a situation for Miss Devray, as a governess or some such thing.’
‘Was that at your suggestion, by any chance?’ I asked.
Carroway adopted an air of dignity and replied, ‘She consulted me, certainly, as to the good sense of such an arrangement. I told her it made perfect sense. So Mrs Waterfield found Emily a position in London, through an acquaintance of hers. I must stress, I was not involved in making this arrangement. I do not know the name of the acquaintance, nor of the family to whom Miss Devray went. As it happened, no sooner was the arrangement made than Mrs Waterfield collapsed and died at home. Miss Devray had not yet left to take up the post in London. She remained some few months in the house with the agreement of the heir, and with Mrs Waterfield’s cook as a companion, so that the property should not be left unoccupied while the details of the estate were settled.’
‘Who then was this heir?’ I asked.
Carroway frowned. ‘The main beneficiary was a nephew of Mrs Waterfield’s, a gentleman living in Yorkshire. He had no wish to move south. Thus, the property was sold up and Miss Devray left.’
There was a silence. Colby at last removed his gaze from the spines of the books of law, and said casually, ‘The cook you speak of, formerly employed by Mrs Waterfield, is now employed by Dr Bastable, the new owner of the house.’
‘Indeed?’ returned Carroway frostily. ‘Then the cook is very fortunate to have kept her place. It is most likely that decision would have been taken by Miss Bastable, Dr Bastable’s sister, who runs his household.’
‘We did not meet Miss Bastable,’ I told him. I wondered if that was a missed opportunity but quickly decided it was not. If Miss Bastable were anything like her reverend brother, she wouldn’t have told us a thing. She might even have prevented us from talking to the cook as a matter of principle.
Colby was worrying at the point like a terrier. ‘The cook seems to think Miss Devray went to take up a post as a sort of nurse-companion to an invalid lady in London.’
‘Servants’ gossip is seldom reliable,’ said Carroway. ‘I do not think I can be of any further service to you, officers.’
When we were outside the premises and walking down the street, Colby remarked, ‘I really can’t say I took to that fellow.’
‘I didn’t like him at all,’ I agreed. ‘And I believe he was less than frank. He didn’t like it when you mentioned the cook’s gossip. He’s like Bastable. He wants to keep his distance and for us to keep ours.’
‘Oh, well, there is murder involved,’ said Colby wisely. ‘I had my eye on him when you passed across that likeness of her. He knew her, all right! I would wager you, any amount you care to name, that the idea to pack the girl off to London came from him. Similarly, the decision to leave only a small legacy to Emily was probably made by Mrs Waterfield on Carroway’s advice. Now the girl is dead and Carroway is covering his tracks.’
‘Why would he do that, do you think? Advise against Emily Devray’s interest?’ I wanted to know Colby’s theory. I was sure he already had one. He had a creative mind, I had discovered.
‘Plain as the nose on your face!’ declared Colby. ‘It’s this fellow in Yorkshire, the one who inherited everything except for a couple of trifling bequests like the one to Emily. His aunt was old and she was in poor health.’ Colby tapped his forehead. ‘Getting a bit muddled up top, perhaps? She was worth a pretty penny. He stood in line, as the natural heir, to inherit a tidy sum and a desirable property. But, wait! There is a fly in the ointment.
‘Well,’ Colby added apologetically, ‘I don’t like to describe Emily Devray so unflatteringly, but from the point of view of the nephew in Yorkshire, she was a cause of some concern. A cuckoo in the nest! Suppose his aunt took it into her head to make a substantial bequest to a young woman she had brought up, after all, pretty well as a daughter? He would still come in for the larger amount of the inheritance, I dare say. But he wants the lot. Being rich doesn’t mean people aren’t still greedy. Well, what would you do?’
‘I might sound out my aunt’s lawyer,’ I said. ‘A man on whose advice she had come to depend, and whose opinion she respected.’
‘And that’s what he did, mark my words!’ Colby slapped his hands together in triumph. ‘And Carroway, whether to oblige the nephew or for some other reason of his own, artfully suggests to the old lady that it was time Miss Devray was out of the house and financially no longer a burden.’ Colby paused. ‘I wonder if Carroway really doesn’t know where Emily Devray went after she left Salisbury?’
I considered this. ‘If you ask me,’ I told him, ‘he doesn’t.’ Colby looked at me in surprise. ‘The reason I suspect he doesn’t,’ I explained, ‘is because he didn’t want to be told any of the details. It was a shabby business and he knew it might turn out badly, so he wanted no part in the responsibility for it. After all, if things did go wrong, it might be embarrassing for him. As it is, he can’t be accused of playing any part in a disastrous decision, or of concealing what he never knew.’
‘You are probably right,’ agreed Colby reluctantly. ‘But I wager Carroway knows more than he lets on. You noticed he said that Miss Devray left the house once the sale was settled, but did not mention the cook leaving? That’s because he knows she’s still there, knew it before we told him, and he didn’t like it when I reminded him. Downy fellow, that Carroway!’
The darkness was already closing in as I set off back to London. The open countryside through which we passed as the train set off was veiled in a violet dusk. As we neared London this grew ever darker and more sombre, until I felt the train and all its passengers were wrapped in purple velvet, like the cherubs in the window of Protheroe’s funeral parlour.
Chapter Nine
Elizabeth Martin Ross
Bessie and I had travelled by cab to the Queen Catherine. The rain had been unrelenting and was still rattling at the windowpanes at two in the afternoon. It was already dark enough for evening and an oil lamp had burned all day in our small parlour. I wondered what it was like in Salisbury and hoped Ben would not be soaked to the skin. Bessie, almost invisible under a large black umbrella, had gone in search of a suitable conveyance and returned to the house in triumph in a familiar-looking four-wheeled ‘growler’.
She bounced through the front door, exclaiming, ‘Look what I found! It’s Mr Slater!’
But I had already recognised Wally Slater. You couldn’t mistake him. He hove into view, his former pugilist’s battered features contorted into a fearsome grimace that I knew to be his smile.
‘Miss Bessie here tells me you’re off chasing after mysteries again!’ he greeted me.
‘Well, it might or might not be a mystery. I am very pleased to see you, Mr Slater. I trust Mrs Slater is well?’
‘Right as ninepence!’ Wally assured me.
‘The fog must be bad for your business.’
‘Terrible,’ growled the cabman. ‘Fares can’t see me and hail the cab. I can’t see anyone waiting, nor what else is on the road. When I do pick up a fare, you can be sure he’ll grumble at the cost and how long it takes us to get where we’re going. But you can’t hurry the journey in these conditions, ice underfoot and all. Most of the time, we’re going at the pace of a hearse. But I’ll get you to where you’re going all right, which, she tells me—’ he indicated Bessie – ‘is a pub by the name of the Queen Catherine, not far off Piccadilly. Old place, with not a right-angle to it, ain’t it?’
‘You know it, then, Mr Slater?’
‘I know where it is,’ Wally told me. ‘It’s my business to know where everything is. But I can’t say I know the establishment on the inside, as you might say. I never took a drink in it. What’s your interest in it, then?’ he added with his usual familiarity. ‘Not in your line of places to visit, I wouldn’t have thought.’
‘I am paying a call on an elderly lady who has taken rooms on the top floor.’
‘Is she deaf?’
‘No, she’s not deaf!’ I exclaimed, startled.
‘Living above a tavern, it might be useful to be a bit on the deaf side,’ explained Wally. ‘Well, let’s be on our way. Give me your hand, Mrs Ross, and I’ll help you up.’
This time when, safely delivered by Wally, we entered the tavern, Mr Tompkins spotted us as we came in. He broke off his conversation with a customer to hail us. ‘You’ve chosen a nice day for it!’ he roared in a jocular tone. ‘I’ll fetch Louisa.’ He moved away from the bar to put his head through a hatch. ‘Lou! Mrs Ross is back to see Ruby.’
The customer he had been talking to at the bar turned and favoured us with a stare. He quickly dismissed Bessie, and didn’t take much longer looking at me. I was probably not quite young enough, nor handsome enough, to be of interest to him. He, on the other hand, was a very handsome young man, with fair hair and a fresh complexion, very well dressed, and carrying an air of confidence. I realised at the same time that there were other young men of similar type in the snug beyond the bar. I remembered Bessie telling me that she had learned, from Mrs Tompkins, that there were some young fellows about town who used the snug of the Queen Catherine to gather and drink. They were already making quite a lot of noise. Perhaps Wally had been right: to be a little deaf might not be a disadvantage if one lived here.
Mr Tompkins had returned to say Lou would be out directly, and go up to announce us.
‘Come on, George!’ shouted one of the young men in the snug, directing his words towards the fair-haired young swell at the bar.
‘Yes, Tompkins, what about that champagne?’ demanded the customer impatiently.
‘Be with you directly, sir!’ promised Tompkins. The young man strode back to his companions.
Louisa Tompkins had appeared, encased today in a tartan gown of alarmingly bright colours, fashionably falling smoothly from the waist in front but gathered behind into a generous bunch of material. As she entered the taproom like a ship of the line under full sail, I wondered if this obviously new and probably ‘best’ gown had been donned in anticipation of my return. I was beginning to admire Louisa. She was neither young nor slender but she had tremendous ‘style’ and clearly kept an eye on the latest fashions. It was an expensive interest. With that, and their generosity towards Miss Eldon, it suddenly occurred to me that possibly the Tompkinses had no children.
‘Ruby will be pleased to see you again, Mrs Ross,’ she said as we climbed the creaking stair. ‘Did you come in a cab? You look dry.’
I told her, yes, we’d taken a cab.
‘Well, when you’re ready to go home, just put your head round the taproom door and let my husband know. He’ll send the pot man out to find you a cab to take you back. I suppose this rain is better than snow but, if you ask me, we shall see more snow again before the month is out. I do believe it’s turning to sleet out there already.’
I replied I was much afraid she was right.
‘Put your money on it, dear!’ said Louisa cheerfully. She opened the door at the head of the stairs. ‘Mrs Ross to see you again, Ruby!’
I found Miss Eldon, as I had on my previous visit, sitting in the chair by the fire. The kettle was coming to the boil on the trivet and emitting little gusts of steam.
‘It is very kind of you to return so soon,’ Miss Eldon greeted me graciously. ‘I hope you are able to bring me some positive response from the police?’
My heart sank because that was just what I had not brought. The moment of confession was however delayed. We reversed the procedure of the day before. Miss Eldon decreeing that we should take tea first. ‘Because, my dear Mrs Ross, you have had the goodness to come in such dreadful rain, and should be restored with a hot drink.’
At last, when we had drunk our dish of tea and eaten our ratafia biscuits, I was obliged to break the bad news.
‘I am very sorry, Miss Eldon, but I cannot bring you quite the reply you were hoping for. I explained it all in detail to my husband. But, ultimately, he is bound by the rules of evidence, you see, as much as a judge would be. He must have some solid reason to believe a crime is being committed before he demands entry into the house of a respectable citizen against whom nothing is known. The situation in the house opposite certainly sounds very odd and undesirable. But you have not actually witnessed any act of violence against the young lady—’
‘Being kept locked up is not an act of violence?’ interrupted Miss Eldon.
‘Well, yes, if she were being kept against her will. But we don’t know she is being forcibly prevented from leaving the house. Nor has she tried, from anything you t
old me before, to communicate with the outside world. If you can see her, then probably she can see you, especially if you stand at that very large window overlooking the street. Has she never made any kind of signal?’
Miss Eldon was reluctantly obliged to confess the girl had not signalled in any way.
‘But,’ she said firmly, ‘I shall find a way to communicate with her. It is obvious that is what I must do, since Inspector Ross is so unwilling to act in the absence of what he considers evidence.’
I was sorry Ben had so badly ‘blotted his copybook’, as the saying goes. I felt I must do something to make amends.
‘Believe me, Miss Eldon,’ I told her earnestly. ‘I shall not give up. Inspector Ross cannot act, but I can. I shall do my very best to discover exactly the nature of the situation across the road. I have my maid making discreet inquiries, too.’
Miss Eldon considered my reply. ‘I suppose I ought not to encourage servants’ gossip. But it’s true servants are very quick in finding out things. She really is discreet, this maid of yours?’
I assured her Bessie was discretion itself and half expected a bolt of lightning to strike me on the spot. I should have to impress on Bessie that all our inquiries must be shrouded in secrecy.
Miss Eldon moved to a new subject. ‘I dare say,’ she said graciously, ‘that Mr Ross is much occupied in discovering who left that poor child in the bin behind the dining rooms?’
‘Well, yes, he is, Miss Eldon.’
‘Tell him from me, if you would, that I perfectly comprehend he has such a pressing matter to attend to. However, perhaps, when he has discovered who killed her and left her in such an inappropriate place, he will have some time to investigate the house across the road.’
I had only gained Ben a respite, after all. He was still expected find out what Miss Eldon wanted to know, despite my best efforts to make her understand he could not walk into a respectable citizen’s house at will.
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