‘Well, Mr Jennings,’ I said. ‘You will be able to report to Mr Fitchett that all has gone well.’
Jennings leaned towards me, his bowler in his hand and held at the level of our heads, as though to shield our conversation from others. ‘Mr Fitchett would have attended in person, Inspector Ross.’ He spoke in a hoarse whisper. ‘He asked me most particularly to explain that to you. He was sure you would be here – and Inspector Colby too. But the very thought of travelling by train terrifies him.’
‘He has never ventured to travel by rail?’ I asked.
Jennings considered this. ‘In the past, Inspector Ross, he has done so. But various unfortunate incidents have ruined his confidence. He has heard of people going mad on trains and attacking all the other travellers. And then, the final straw as you might say, came the terrible derailment at Staplehurst five years ago. Mr Dickens, the novelist, was travelling on that very train at the time, as you will recall. “If Mr Dickens can be on a train and it falls off the tracks,” said Mr Fitchett, “then it can certainly happen to any train I might be foolish enough to board.” And he never has again. Boarded a train, you understand.’
‘Please tell Mr Fitchett I quite understand,’ I told him.
Ezra bowed again and glided away.
‘Dashed odd fellow!’ commented Dunn. ‘Come along, or we’ll miss the return journey. I don’t want to hang about here. To be frank, I can’t wait to get back into London.’
‘Do you know?’ observed Colby. His eyes followed Jennings as he walked away from us with measured pace in the wake of the Salisbury contingent. ‘I do believe that is the longest speech I have ever heard from Ezra there.’
Dunn said suddenly, ‘Ross! I have seen that lawyer fellow, Pelham, somewhere before.’
‘Yes, sir, you remember the Putney murder?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Dunn nodded, satisfied. ‘Mixed up in this, then, is he?’
‘So it seems, sir.’
Dunn said no more on the subject, but from time to time on our return journey we heard ‘tock-tock…’from his direction as he stared through the window at the London suburbs, growing ever thicker like a brick forest as we rocked past.
* * *
Back in London, Dunn set out for Scotland Yard. Pelham vanished as easily and quickly as he had appeared at the cemetery. The Salisbury mourners set off chattering in search of tearooms. It was their outing and they meant to make a day of it. Ezra Jennings was not among them as far as I could see. I presumed he was making his way back directly to Salisbury by the first available train to report to Fitchett.
As I did not live very far from the station, I invited Colby to come to my house, and take some refreshment there before setting off home. We could compare notes at the same time.
I had warned Lizzie that we might come and when we arrived, sure enough, a table was ready set. Although it was gone half past three o’clock by now, Bessie carried in a splendid chicken and ham pie with a raised crust, accompanied by vegetables, and followed by a steamed sultana pudding and custard.
Really, it was quite a jolly little party, despite the sad event Colby and I had both attended. I had to describe the funeral to Lizzie, of course.
I later accompanied Colby on a leisurely walk back to Waterloo Bridge Station.
‘Well now, Ross,’ he said, ‘you believe the answer to the mystery lies in the household of Lady Temple? In other words, you think the young gentleman is the culprit.’
‘He is certainly a suspect, although I have no direct evidence on which to make a case against him. That house holds a secret, certainly. I do believe Emily died there, but I cannot prove it. My personal dislike of George Temple isn’t enough! In fact, it complicates matters because I have to keep telling myself to be objective.’
I hesitated. ‘I would like to know more about Emily’s life in Salisbury. Clearly, there are enough people willing to make the journey to attend her funeral to show there are memories of her. I recognise that perhaps some of them were just curious, but if any of them knew Mrs Waterfield, they would have known Emily. Did you have a chance to talk to them on the journey earlier, coming up to London?’
‘I couldn’t avoid talking to them!’ returned Colby. ‘Or rather, they were determined to talk to me. Several of them knew Mrs Waterfield. And, yes, they knew Emily. Rather, they knew who she was and had seen her with Mrs Waterfield. Or they had visited Mrs Waterfield and seen Emily at the house. But Emily herself seems to have been a lonely and friendless figure.’
‘No suitors, then?’ I asked.
‘None. Even though it was generally believed she had expectations, Mrs Waterfield being wealthy, and Emily being raised by her from infancy as a daughter. As it turned out, though, she received little from Mrs Waterfield’s will, as we know. When that became known, there was much surprise. The more you think about that, the odder it seems. All believe Mrs Waterfield was influenced, with the result that Emily, alone and without money to live on, had to go and live among strangers, in London, where she met her death. The blame for that is largely placed at the door of Anderson, the eventual beneficiary. That’s the fellow Carroway spoke of, the one who lives in Yorkshire. No sign of Anderson at the funeral! Well, I suppose it’s a long way from Harrogate. His property is not far from there, I understand. Perhaps he feared facing criticism. It is felt he ought to have “done something” for Emily, even if his aunt had not. General feeling is that Carroway had a hand in the matter. Carroway is pretty unpopular at the moment and I have to say that gives me a certain satisfaction. I don’t like him, either.’
Colby hesitated. ‘It was even suggested to me by one or two of the mourners that there may have been an earlier will, treating Emily more favourably, and Mrs Waterfield was persuaded to change it.’
He lowered his voice although there was no one in the crowd hurrying past us to overhear. ‘See here, Ross, this is pure speculation on my part. I have been in two minds whether to speak out about it. But I wouldn’t have done in the presence of Superintendent Dunn. He’s the sort of fellow who’d want chapter and verse, I reckon.’
‘Well, go on, then,’ I urged him. He was right about Dunn.
‘We’re agreed that Emily being cut out of the will, more or less, is a devilish odd business. I have begun to wonder if there was indeed another will, but it was made later, not earlier than the will favouring Anderson.’
‘And that it was suppressed, destroyed,’ I asked, ‘because it made more generous provision for Emily? Destroyed by whom? Anderson – or Carroway?’
‘Got to be one of them,’ said Colby. ‘If that was the case, of course. As I say, it is only speculation on my part. There’s not a scrap of evidence for it. But if that did happen, and if the person responsible panicked when there was so much gossip, after Emily was so poorly treated, because questions might start to be asked in earnest, then, well…’ His voice trailed away.
‘It could be very convenient for someone,’ I finished his sentence, ‘if Emily were to die…’
Colby spread his hands but said nothing.
‘I’d rather like to meet this fellow Anderson, who inherited the lot,’ I said.
Colby beamed. ‘I thought you might! I took the liberty of making some inquiries and I have his address here.’ Colby produced a folded slip of paper. ‘He lives in the country. He owns a rather fine estate and a house to go with it, Ridge House it is called.’
‘I’m obliged to you,’ I said, taking the piece of paper.
‘Might be a waste of time, of course,’ said Colby, suddenly cautious. ‘What would Superintendent Dunn think about you haring off to Yorkshire?’
‘He might be difficult.’
‘Thought so,’ said Colby, nodding.
We had reached the station. There was a train about to depart and so we jog-trotted down the platform and Colby scrambled aboard just before the guard waved his flag. Colby dropped the window sash and stuck out his head as the train began to move off. ‘Good luck!’ he shouted and brandished his
borrowed top hat in farewell.
* * *
‘Well,’ said Dunn, when I called by his office on my return to the Yard, ‘do you think Colby is on to something?’
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘Colby does have a vivid imagination. When I first met him in Salisbury, before we had definitely identified the victim, he suggested an elopement and a vengeful family. Now he imagines a dastardly plot involving wills. But perhaps imagination is no bad thing. It enables one to view the problem in different ways. I remain convinced that we must concentrate chiefly on the Temple household, though it would be foolish not to explore other avenues. Everyone who knew of the late Mrs Waterfield seems dismayed by the way Emily Devray was, while not cut out of her will, left very poorly provided for. I think I should follow this up.’
‘How?’ asked Dunn bluntly.
‘I should like to travel up to Yorkshire and pay a call on Mr Frederick Anderson.’
‘He is not a suspect, is he?’ Dunn asked this in a suspiciously mild way. ‘Unless you can place him in London on the date of the murder.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘Hearing what he has to say about the will is a point at which I can start,’ I argued. ‘I am not accusing the man of anything, just trying to find out more about the victim.’
Dunn beat a rapid tattoo on his desk with his fingers and added in some of those ‘tock-tock’ sounds he had taken to making of late. I wondered if I might be bold enough to warn him about that. He was in danger of sounding like one of those clockwork toy orchestras in which model animals, wound up, beat drums and clashed cymbals. No, I had better not say anything. If he had started carrying on like this at home, Mrs Dunn would tell him.
Suddenly, Dunn stopping his distracting behaviour and announced grandly, ‘I am agreed.’
‘Agreed, sir?’ I ventured.
‘Yes, yes! It is what you want, isn’t it? My permission for you to travel up to Yorkshire?’
‘Well, yes, I was hoping…’
Dunn made an expansive gesture, sweeping his arm across his desk. ‘I shall telegraph a message to the constabulary there, so that they will expect you. One doesn’t wish to tread on local toes, eh? Especially if this Frederick Anderson is a man of some property and influence. You will have to stay there overnight, I suppose. Be sure to take a room in a modest hostelry. You will not be on holiday. On your return, you may request reimbursement of your travel expenses, within reason.’
I was so taken aback by his lack of opposition, his offer to send a telegraphed message ahead of me, and even more by the offer of reimbursement, (within reason), that I was speechless for a few minutes.
‘Go along, then, Ross!’ ordered Dunn testily. ‘Better get on with it.’
‘Yes, sir, at once!’
* * *
‘Mr Dunn agreed?’ Lizzie asked, as amazed as I had been.
‘He was positively keen on the idea. To be honest, Lizzie, since Dunn has returned from his sickbed, he has been behaving a little – strangely. I am beginning to wonder with what kind of medicine Mrs Dunn has been dosing him.’
‘Goodness,’ said Lizzie. ‘Well, if you are to be away for two days, I shall take the opportunity to call again on Mr Bernard, hoping to find him at home.’
‘Listen, my dear,’ I warned her. ‘You cannot go asking the man to donate to a charity that doesn’t exist. It’s breaking the law!’
‘Oh, I won’t,’ my wife assured me. ‘As soon as I am inside the house I shall explain the real reason for my visit.’
‘And Mr Bernard will be perfectly entitled to have that manservant you described escort you briskly to the door. See here, Lizzie, I know you are trying to do what seems to you and to Miss Eldon a good deed, but you are proposing to gain access to someone’s house under false pretences.’
‘I can’t think of any other way,’ she pointed out, ‘or I should not have to do it.’
‘For pity’s sake,’ I begged her, ‘do not let him know you are married to an officer of the law. Or I may return from Yorkshire to find I am a police officer no longer!’
‘Trust me, please, Ben. I would never do anything to embarrass you,’ said my wife.
‘Just bear in mind, my dear, that I am relying on that.’
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth Martin Ross
Once Ben had departed for the North in the early morning, Bessie and I discussed our planned assault on the house of Mr Bernard, the banker, that afternoon. Bessie was full of misgivings and I have to admit I had more than a few qualms myself. Ben thought it a reckless idea and doomed to failure. He also feared it would end by involving him. Another husband might have forbidden me to go. But Ben trusted my judgement and that I wouldn’t act rashly. I did not want to let him down. But nor did I wish to disappoint Miss Eldon. She, too, counted on me.
‘Perhaps Mr Bernard won’t be at home,’ said Bessie hopefully, as we walked towards the front door.
‘It’s possible,’ I agreed. In my head a little voice was saying the same thing: perhaps Bernard won’t be at home. Perhaps he has left word with his servant that I am not to be admitted. I can go back to Ruby Eldon and tell her I have done my best.
I turned my head and looked towards the Queen Catherine tavern standing solidly across the street. It had stood there for two hundred years or more and it was no longer quite square at the corners, as Wally Slater had remarked. Its oak timbers had weathered and settled. The roof dipped. Turning my gaze upward, I saw the large dormer window behind which Miss Eldon spent her days. I half expected to see her form behind the glass, watching me. But there was neither shadowy figure nor any movement.
‘Come along, Bessie!’ I ordered. I walked up the scrubbed front steps of Bernard’s house and rang the bell.
It clanged distantly within. The die was cast. I could not now turn and flee, like a naughty urchin amusing himself with disturbing respectable householders. I couldn’t hear Bessie breathing at all. I fancied she was holding her breath. For two pins, as the saying goes, she would certainly have fled.
The following couple of minutes seemed endless. I became acutely aware of my surroundings: the black-painted panelled door, the bricks weathered to a dull shade of a tortoiseshell brown from the original red, the white-painted window frames. Someone must daily wipe them clean of the sooty deposit from the air. Probably that was the task of the little skivvy Miss Eldon had seen. Bessie, behind me, had begun to breathe again. I sensed her growing panic.
There was movement behind the door. It opened and the swarthy manservant stood there again. He recognised me; that was certain. He scowled. But he also reached for the silver tray and held it out silently for my card. I placed the little white rectangle on it.
‘Mr Bernard is at home?’ I asked as I did so.
‘He is at home. Wait, please.’ This was the stern reply, following which the door was shut in my face.
‘What do we do now, missus?’ hissed Bessie behind me.
‘We wait,’ I said simply.
After some minutes the butler, or at any rate he appeared to hold that office, returned and opened the door to us again.
‘Mr Bernard will see you. Come, please!’ He stood aside for us to enter.
I took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. Bessie trailed in after me. The door was shut. We were trapped.
‘Follow, please!’ The butler ordered this gruffly, and set off down the hall at a smart pace, not waiting to see if we did follow as bid.
Behind me, I heard Bessie’s whispered, ‘Oh, blimey!’ I gestured at her to be silent.
The hall through which we passed so hurriedly appeared expensively papered in a maroon shade with an elaborate damask design. The wide staircase to the left had a similar maroon carpet. The paintwork was cream. I had little time to observe much else because of the butler’s brisk step. But we had arrived. The man threw open a door which must lead into a back parlour.
‘The lady, Mrs Ross,’ he announced into the room. Then he stood aside and gestured
me to enter.
I walked steadily past him, Bessie scurrying at my heels. The door closed. We were alone with Bluebeard in his castle.
It was a comfortable room. A fire crackled in the hearth. Above it, a mantelshelf supported a fine porcelain garniture of vases and candlesticks, set on either side of an ormolu clock. A chandelier hung from the ceiling festooned with glittering crystal droplets. It was the room of a wealthy house owner and there was something un-English about it. The clock was French, I was sure of that. The chandelier too, I suspected, was French. The porcelain vases might be from a Dresden factory. They closely resembled a set belonging to my Aunt Parry.
Bernard was on his feet already. He had been standing with his back to the door, looking out into a courtyard at the back of the house. It appeared largely a paved area, with classical urns, and a fountain, now silent. He was a tall, solidly built figure in a frock coat and stood with his hands clasped behind him. He wheeled to face me quite suddenly, still keeping his hands clasped behind his back. I noticed he wore a diamond pin in his silk cravat.
‘Well, now, Mrs Ross,’ he said. ‘You wish to speak to me.’ His voice was deep and resonant. He did not challenge me, nor did he pitch his words as a question. I wished to speak to him; I had told the butler so. It was fact. As a banker, he dealt in facts. He received me now as he would a client of his bank.
Somehow I found my voice. ‘It is good of you to agree to see me,’ I said, hoping my voice had not wavered. I added more firmly, just to make sure, ‘Thank you.’
He gestured towards a chair near the fire. ‘Please, sit down,’ he invited.
He ignored Bessie, rightly assuming her to be a maid. Bessie, for her part, scuttled further away and stood by the wall. I took the chair indicated and Bernard seated himself opposite to me. I could now see that he was a handsome man, with thick dark hair and strongly marked eyebrows. He had large, brown, striking eyes and the expression in them was quizzical. I suddenly had the horrid feeling he could read my mind. He was a man with whom it would pay to be honest. He would know at once if I were anything other than frank. He would also know if I was not genuine, as surely as he would have spotted a faked bank note.
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