‘It would give me a lead,’ I said firmly. ‘And we are sorely in need of a lead, sir. I want to trace the body every step of the way from the house to the refuse bin at the rear of the Imperial Dining Rooms.’
‘Oh, very well, then!’ snapped Dunn. ‘But, I beg of you, Dr Mackay, take the greatest care. Don’t say anything, anything at all, before the butler. Above all, don’t suggest to him you are a police officer. You are not – and it is an offence to pass yourself off as one. I repeat, just say nothing at all!’
When we were outside Dunn’s office, I urged Mackay, ‘Go at once, if you can. I’ll call Morris. Don’t delay. Mr Dunn may change his mind.’
* * *
Morris returned later in the day. ‘Well?’ I asked of him with some apprehension.
‘It went a good deal easier than I was fearing, sir,’ Morris admitted with obvious relief. ‘I think that butler is getting used to the idea of the police coming and going. He didn’t ask who Dr Mackay was. He was just pleased to see the tools returned. He let me have the keys again without a peep! Dr Mackay crawled all over the shed, as happy as a sandboy, and has taken away some scrapings.’
‘From the internal walls?’ I asked.
‘From all over the place, sir.’ Morris shook his head in awe. ‘Even from that lawnmower. I never saw a man take so much enjoyment in his work!’
* * *
On Thursday morning, however, two things happened. First I received a letter from Colby in reply to that which I had written to him the previous week and also to report on the situation in Salisbury.
Second, we were also notified, in a message from Pelham’s clerk, that Emily’s funeral would take place on the following day, Friday, at noon. After a short service in the Anglican chapel at Brookwood Necropolis cemetery, the interment would follow nearby.
I attended to Colby’s letter first.
Report from Inspector John Colby
I had hoped to have some new evidence to present to you. But if I cannot do that, alas, I can add a little to what is already known.
The sad fate of Emily Devray remains the talk of Salisbury. It inspires sermons and feeds the gossip at ladies’ tea parties. Of the sermons I have personal knowledge because I sat through one myself this past Sunday at the cathedral. I had anticipated that some members of the congregation would be eager to speak to me afterwards, or so I hoped. I had a helping hand, as it were, from the preacher that day. Seeing me in the audience and recognising me, he told everyone who I was and asked them all to pray for my success, and that of Scotland Yard, in discovering who was responsible for this dreadful crime.
I was surrounded afterwards by worshippers. All were anxious to know more, and to tell me that they had personally known Mrs Waterfield and Emily Devray, as both had attended morning service regularly at the cathedral.
I can now tell you that the suspicions you and I both have concerning Carroway’s role in the decision to send Emily Devray away, and sever the link between her and her benefactor, Mrs Waterfield, are shared by others. It seems that Mr Anderson, the nephew who was Mrs Waterfield’s heir, came down from Yorkshire to pay a week’s visit to his aunt some four months before the lady died. Thus he had ample time to take stock of the situation and become alarmed at the affection his aunt clearly had for Emily Devray. (Several ladies assured me of that affection.)
Anderson is known to have visited the lawyer, Carroway, during that time. I should add that there is nothing that can be secret for long in a place the size of Salisbury.
All the ladies assured me they had been astonished that Mrs Waterfield had made so little provision for Emily in her will. They strongly disapproved of the plan to send her off to London. All believe this was done at Carroway’s instigation to bolster Anderson’s prospects. The matter is the cause of much outrage here, because of what subsequently happened to Emily. Carroway is well aware that blame is being placed at his door. No wonder he was so displeased to see us when we called on him.
He is not the only one out of sorts. Dr Bastable was in the congregation accompanied by his sister, who looks exactly like him: tall, thin and eagle-eyed. He was also anxious to corner me after the service, but in his case in order to complain. It seems that since our visit to him, and the news of Miss Devray’s murder being generally known, sightseers line up outside his house and eagerly watch anyone going in or coming out. This notoriety is not to his taste, nor to that of Miss Bastable. It seems her friends are now unwilling to call on her or even leave cards because of the public excitement occasioned by their appearance.
Miss Bastable has a habit of repeating a key word in her brother’s speech in order to associate herself with the sentiments expressed. For example:
‘This is all highly improper!’ thunders Dr Bastable.
‘Improper!’ snaps Miss Bastable.
‘If this is how our police force investigates crime, then it is a disgrace!’ says Bastable.
‘Disgrace!’ agrees Miss B with a look that, had it been the blade of a stiletto, would have gone straight through me.
Dr Bastable concluded his tirade by informing me that if this interference in the lives of respectable citizens is the result of the late Sir Robert Peel’s setting up of the police force, then it is a pity Peel had not left well alone.
I promised I would ensure that a constable patrolled the area for a few days, paying particular care to move on dawdlers outside his residence. Unfortunately, that has made matters worse. The constable has confirmed the increased interest.
By Tuesday Bastable was back, this time in my office, to complain that, far from being dispersed, the sightseers seem to believe he is now about to be arrested. But he never even met the late owner nor this young woman who has been murdered. If this continues, he informs me, he will have no choice but to consult his lawyer regarding the intrusion and harassment. His lawyer, it turns out, is Mr Carroway. You will perhaps not be surprised to learn that.
Not only does Miss Devray inspire sermons from the cathedral pulpit, she is the subject of some terrific ranting in local chapels, particularly the one favoured by Fitchett’s lad, Ezra Jennings. I ran into him in the street that same Sunday afternoon, He was buttoned into a black coat and, with his pale face, looked like an undertaker. He was eager to know what progress had been made in the investigation; and disappointed I had no news for him.
But I did learn that the sort of public curiosity shown towards the Bastables is also shown towards Fitchett’s bootmakers. In contrast to the Bastables, however, Mr Fitchett is not at all displeased. The shop is busier than ever with customers. They come in on a variety of excuses, from vague inquiries as to the cost of new boots to bringing in used boots for repair, even if it’s not required. Some, however, have actually ordered new boots in order, in Ezra’s opinion, to talk to Tobias himself, because he measured the poor girl’s foot and the idea of this personal contact with the victim inspires horror and fascination.
Fitchett has shown himself an astute businessman and the wooden lasts made for poor Emily’s feet, and which he showed us, are now displayed in the shop window, labelled Recently made for a young lady. Nothing so vulgar as to mention her name, but everyone in Salisbury knows that those are the murder victim’s feet.
As a result, says Ezra, two ladies have ordered boots to be made to the exact same pattern as those made for the murdered girl. I tell you, Ross, there seems to be a ghoulish streak in the nature of respectable females that can never cease to puzzle and horrify me. It’s bad enough in men, but in the gentle sex?
At any rate, Tobias Fitchett is the only person in Salisbury to whom Emily Devray’s murder has brought a measure of good fortune, and he is making the most of it.
* * *
I went to see Dunn to show him Colby’s report and to let him know about the funeral the following day.
‘You’ll attend, of course,’ said Dunn, ‘both the funeral service and the burial at Brookwood. Keep your eyes open.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. I did
not need him to tell me that. ‘I propose to send a telegraph message to Inspector Colby, to let him know, in case he wants to come up for it. He should be able to arrive in time for the interment at Brookwood, at least.’
‘Yes, yes, if you think so, Ross.’ Dunn was already fidgeting with other papers on his desk. He did not even complain about the cost of a telegram.
Passing by the open door of the superintendent’s office some twenty minutes later, I was surprised to see that, despite his ordering me to keep my eyes open, Dunn had apparently dozed off at his desk. This was an unknown occurrence. It wouldn’t do if anyone else saw him. I went in, closing the door behind me, and tactfully cleared my throat. When this didn’t waken him, I cleared it again more loudly.
Dunn opened his eyes and stared at me blankly for a second or two. Then he rallied and asked testily, ‘Yes, what is it, Ross?’
‘I wondered, sir, if you would be attending the funeral with me?’
‘Oh,’ said Dunn. ‘Yes, I might do that.’
* * *
I had not expected a great gathering at Emily’s funeral service. Mr Dunn had taken up my suggestion and come with me. I felt a little guilty, as he was just off his sickbed, and the weather remained very cold and damp; and the fog still lurked, trapped in nooks and alleys. But I guessed he wanted to demonstrate he was quite fit again. John Colby at Salisbury had telegraphed a reply to say he would certainly be there. He’d heard that several people from Salisbury were also planning to make the journey, despite the early start it would require. They had first to travel to London by train to Waterloo Bridge Station; and then transfer themselves to the Necropolis’s own private railway station nearby. From there they would travel in one of the Necropolis railway’s own trains to the cemetery. The coffin and bearers would travel on the same train but accommodated in a separate carriage.
In the event, Dunn and I had quite a surprise. Gathered at the Necropolis Station was a large mourning party of about twenty people, garbed in the required black weeds. I thought at first it must be for some other funeral that day. However, it struck me that they all looked fairly cheery for a funeral party.
It was explained when John Colby emerged from the throng and made his way towards us. He had exchanged his tweeds and bowler hat for a formal frock coat and a top hat. I wondered whether the hat belonged to him; it seemed a little large. The others trooped at his heels and took up positions where they had a good view of Dunn and myself. Our arrival had livened up things even more. Even those who had been doing their best to look tragic were now not quite managing it. Their eager excitement kept breaking through. They fidgeted, whispered and nudged each other. John Colby’s face wore the despairing expression of a harassed schoolmaster as he came forward to greet us and be introduced to Superintendent Dunn.
‘It’s not my fault, I assure you,’ hissed Colby, under cover of taking off his borrowed top hat. I was now sure it was borrowed because the inner rim was packed with tissue paper to make it fit. ‘I’m not in charge of them!’ He clasped Dunn’s hand. ‘I must apologise, sir, but it’s really not my doing. This whole business has created such a stir in Salisbury and when word got out somehow that the funeral was to be today, well, frankly, anyone who could come along, wanted to be there.’
As he spoke, the crowd watched our every move. We could overhear them whispering to one another that Dunn and I were ‘very important people from Scotland Yard’.
‘You’ve noticed him?’ Colby whispered to me, with a nod of his head towards the crowd.
There was no mistaking the pale, expressionless face and the tall, spindly figure he indicated: Ezra Jennings, no less, in a long black overcoat and a bowler hat. He made an excellent mourner, quite the professional, standing aloof from the general excitement. However, seeing my eye on him, Fitchett’s assistant raised his hat and bowed slightly. I returned him a curt nod of acknowledgement. This caused another ripple of interest in the crowd and for several minutes Ezra was the subject of intense scrutiny. He appeared oblivious of this.
Neither Dr Bastable nor Mr Carroway had come, and that didn’t surprise me. I was more surprised to see no one from Lady Temple’s household. But I did mark the presence of a fellow in a crumpled tweed suit who appeared to be conducting a head count of mourners and scribbling the result in a notebook. The information would be conveyed to the London public in one or more of the evening papers.
The visitors fell silent in respect when Emily’s coffin arrived, borne by sombre bearers under the direction of Mr Protheroe himself. All the bearers and Protheroe wore silk top hats with mourning veils tied around them. I thought unkindly, but probably accurately, that this was all providing an excellent advertisement for his funeral parlour. Emily’s coffin was loaded aboard with quick professionalism. Then there was a scramble to board the train themselves ahead of another funeral party, which would also be travelling with their coffin, on the same train. Dunn and I, together with Colby, managed to secure a first-class compartment with no other occupant but a reverend gentleman of advanced age, with a small valise, nearly as old as he, on the seat beside him. He studied us for two minutes and then addressed us.
‘You gentlemen are from Scotland Yard?’
We told him that was indeed the case.
‘My name is Spencer,’ he told us. ‘I am to conduct the funeral service for Miss Devray.’
After that he spent the twenty-five-mile journey reading his prayer book.
‘How many of those people from Salisbury actually knew Miss Devray, Inspector Colby?’ inquired Dunn, as we rocked out of London. ‘It’s an – um – impressive turnout.’
‘As many can claim a personal acquaintance with her as you could count on the fingers of just one hand, is my guess,’ admitted Colby in some embarrassment. ‘I truly had no idea they were all coming. I went to the station to catch the London train and there they all were, awaiting me. There was quite a festive atmosphere. I wasn’t quite sure if I was setting off for a funeral or for the races.’
The Reverend Spencer glanced reproachfully at Colby over the top of his prayer book, and then returned his gaze to the printed page.
‘Extraordinary!’ said Dunn.
‘The whole business has caused some excitement in our city, sir,’ Colby explained to him.
‘Evidently! Who is the fellow with the pasty complexion and the bowler hat? He bowed to you, Ross, as if he knew you.’
‘That is Ezra Jennings, from the bootmaker’s shop. The owner, Fitchett, isn’t here, however. I wouldn’t have been so surprised to see him. I understand he has been doing a brisk business in making boots similar to those Miss Devray wore. He, if anyone, ought to pay his respects!’
‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Dunn again. He made a few of the tock-tock sounds with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
‘Jennings came to tell me, before we left Salisbury, that Fitchett has sent him to represent him and the business. Fitchett doesn’t like travelling on trains, it seems. The speed of them upsets him,’ Colby explained.
Dunn was looking as though he was regretting his decision to accompany me.
The fog thinned as we moved further away from London. I was glad of it. It was not always the case. A London Particular, when it strikes, reaches its clammy fingers out well into the suburbs and beyond. We were at least spared that.
We descended at one of the Necropolis platforms, the one reserved for funeral obsequies of the Church of England. We had lost the newspaper reporter in the tweed suit, who had amassed enough copy back at the station in London.
Shortly before our arrival, the Reverend Spencer rose and walked out of our compartment with his suitcase, so that he was ready to leave the train as soon as it stopped. He now reappeared fully robed and without his valise. I wasn’t quite sure where he’d deposited that, unless there was some clerical left-luggage office here. I couldn’t see one.
After some milling about we formed up in a respectable procession. The Reverend Spencer led the way, holding his
prayer book. The coffin followed. Mr Protheroe paced behind that. We found ourselves next in the procession, Dunn, Colby and myself. Without warning, Pelham the lawyer joined us. To be precise, he materialised from behind a funeral monument. I must have looked startled. If he had been on the train he’d been hiding away in another compartment. I guessed he must have travelled on an earlier train and waited for us to arrive.
‘I am here to represent the family,’ he said blandly.
I gathered my wits and introduced Superintendent Dunn and Colby. They exchanged handshakes and Pelham moved away, carefully distancing himself from us.
Colby looked curiously after Pelham, but said nothing.
The Salisbury visitors arranged themselves as best suited them, and managed to subdue their chatter. We progressed in orderly fashion to the Anglican chapel. After a short service, we exited it to form up again, and proceed to the burial site where the empty grave was waiting. The gravediggers stood a short distance away, resting on their spades.
I was glad of the Salisbury presence now. Otherwise poor Emily would have been placed in the earth with no one in attendance other than the funeral parlour crew plus myself, Dunn, Colby and Pelham. As it was, I found the ceremony brief, dignified and touching. Even Pelham stepping forward to throw a token handful of soil into the open grave on behalf of the family did not strike a false note.
It was done. We all turned away. The gravediggers straightened up from leaning on their implements and made ready to be about their business as soon as we were out of sight. The Salisbury mourners were more subdued now, but this was partly because some of them were taking the opportunity to examine other burial monuments and headstones along the route back. When we reached the platform again, however, I saw a figure peel away from the small crowd and approach us. I was not surprised.
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