The Corpse at the Crystal Palace

by Carola Dunn

  “I’ve told you all I know, honest.”

  “I’m sure you think you have, but you will probably remember more details when you’ve had time to think. If so, I’d like you to get in touch with me. Ring me up at Scotland Yard and I’ll see that you’re reimbursed for the call. In any case, I’ll come and see you again, or send one of my men. I’ll make sure it’s someone who won’t give you a ‘terrible experience.’”

  For the first time, she looked vulnerable. “I can’t stop you, can I.”

  “No. A man has been killed. He may not have been a good man or a pleasant man, but it’s my job to find whoever murdered him and bring that person to justice.”

  What a pompous ass he sounded, he thought as he took his leave. Yet people often had to be reminded that he wasn’t harassing them because he enjoyed it.

  SIXTEEN

  Back at the Yard, Alec dictated a brief report of his interview with Florence Phipps. He hadn’t learnt much, but he’d satisfied himself that the young woman was an unlikely murderer. She appeared to have her head screwed on far too firmly.

  DS Piper was battling a towering heap of reports. A myriad constables had trudged all over the city tracking down visitors to the Crystal Palace on that fatal morning. They were a small proportion of those who had bought tickets, as many had left before Mackinnon’s men arrived to take names and addresses.

  “So far there’s a dozen or so that ought to be called on again, Chief. Fourteen, to be precise. Households, that is, not individuals. It’s mostly family parties go there. Each of these includes someone who thinks they saw an overabundance of nursery nurses.” Ernie looked moderately pleased with himself. He had taken Tom Tring’s advice and studied to improve his vocabulary. “I’m about halfway through what I’ve got,” he continued, “but there’s more coming all the time.”

  Even as he spoke, a runner came in with a bulging folder and dropped it on his desk.

  “So I see,” said Alec. “Any that I or Mr. Mackinnon ought to see?”

  “Not at this stage.”

  “Who’s available?”

  Ernie handed him a list of detective constables not specifically assigned to other cases. “I’ve heard that Angela Devenish, sister of the deceased, is arriving this afternoon and intends to stay at her brother’s flat.”

  “Now I wonder how you heard that? Could it possibly be from my wife?”

  “Er, as a matter of fact, yes, Chief. Mrs. Fletcher rang up just after you left this morning.”

  Alec groaned. “What’s up?”

  “Mrs. Fletcher wanted to know if it was all right for Miss Devenish to stay at the flat. I told her we’d finished there but Miss Devenish ought to get in touch with the solicitor.”

  “Damn!”

  “Should I have—”

  “No, no. It’s just that I’m afraid she’ll encourage Daisy to meddle. Perhaps she can tell us who his friends were. She was inexplicably fond of her brother, I seem to recall.”

  “That was my impression, too. And he of her, looks like. I talked Mr. Cranford, the solicitor, into disgorging the will. Deceased left everything, lock, stock, and barrel, to Miss Angela.”

  “Did he, now! I’ll have to see her. Did Daisy say what time she’s arriving in London?”

  “She didn’t know. I’ve looked up trains from Yorkshire but there are several, and I don’t know what town she’ll have started from. We’ve got her address, of course, but it’s a tiny village in the depths of the country, about equidistant from Leeds, York, and Harrogate. We’ve got the telephone number of the flat, though, so we can ring up and find out if she’s there before you go.”

  “That’s something. Have someone ring every half hour or so from noon onwards. If possible, I want to speak to her before Daisy gets hold of her.”

  “Right, Chief.” Piper was too used to Daisy’s interference to blink.

  “No word from Mr. Mackinnon?”

  “Just that he’s following up a couple of names Kerston suggested. The least likely, he said, but they may have further suggestions. He’ll talk with you before the rest.”

  Alec nodded. Studying the first list Ernie had given him, he saw that his invaluable sergeant had grouped them by areas of London and provided a brief note of why he considered each worth a second visit. Checking the list of available constables, he chose three and sent for them.

  Ernie was already deep in his reports again. No sound in the room would break his concentration unless his name was spoken.

  The men came in, received Alec’s instructions, and left. More reports landed on Ernie’s desk. Alec turned reluctantly to the accumulation of papers on his own desk. It was a sobering thought that if he was promoted to superintendent he’d spend more time dealing with paper and less out on the job.

  Then Mackinnon’s sergeant telephoned from the Crystal Palace. “We found a handbag, sir. In one of the lakes close to the path we were told they took.”

  “Excellent. Anything useful in it? Keys, cheque book, letters, even a monogrammed handkerchief?”

  “Nothing at all, sir. Not a sausage.”

  “Damnation! We’ll hope for fingerprints. Your men haven’t handled it, have they?”

  “Just with gloves, sir, and carefully. I’ve wrapped it up. Should I send it straight up to the Yard?”

  “Straight here, please, Sergeant. I’m expecting Mr. Mackinnon any minute. We’ll get it to the dabs experts at once.”

  These days, only the stupidest of criminals made no effort to avoid leaving fingerprints. However, the circumstances surrounding the death of Devenish were so bizarre that Alec would have been astonished if the murderer’s dabs were on file. The handbag might be smothered in prints for all the good it would do them until they had already nabbed the culprit.

  And at present they had all too many leads to follow up with no solid suspects.

  As Alec sent off the last two DCs presently under his command, Mackinnon arrived. He brought yet more names to add to the list.

  “Toffs,” he said. “Landed gentry, mostly, not peerage. I called at two houses and spoke to the ladies as neither husband was at home. Both elderly, with no young people in the household. We’re agreed the murderer is probably under thirty or so, aren’t we, sir? I can’t see anyone much older going in for such a prank.”

  “Yes, with reservations. Go on.”

  “Both couples are friends of Sir James and Lady Devenish. That is, the ladies are friends, at least. That’s the only reason they invited the deceased to their houses, or so they claim. They had heard rumours that he ‘wasn’t quite the thing,’ but hadn’t personally witnessed any behaviour that would make them ostracise the son of friends, not to mention a personable and usefully unattached man.”

  “Did you get anything of interest from them?” Alec asked impatiently.

  “The names of hostesses at whose houses they recalled meeting him, and which have young people. And a fair bit of gossip, some of it possibly helpful.”

  “Let’s have a look before you write it up.”

  Piper joined in as they discussed their results to date. Mackinnon took an even gloomier view of the usefulness of the handbag.

  “Even if they find the fingerprints of a villain all over it, chances are it’ll turn out to be a well-known sneak thief,” he pointed out. “The light-fingered mob swarm to the Crystal Palace, especially on race and game days. They’re good at lifting stuff but mostly not bright enough to remember fingerprints. I bet the bag was nicked, emptied, and dumped.”

  “They wouldn’t remove every scrap of paper,” Piper argued. “Women always—” The telephone bell cut him off. He lifted the receiver and listened. “Right … Right. D’you want to speak to him?… OK, mate.” He hung up and turned to Mackinnon. “Your man at the Palace, Inspector. They’ve found the nurse’s get-up, right down to the shoes and a wig, hidden under a bush near a gate—exit-only type, so no attendant—at the bottom of the park. Gives on to a busy street, the Penge Road, close to a three-way junction.
Chief, he’d never have gone out to the street in his skivvies!”

  After a blank moment, Alec proposed, “Athletic gear under his frock?”

  “Ah,” said Ernie, sounding exactly like Tom Tring as he uttered the ex-Sergeant’s favourite monosyllable. “Shoes?”

  “He could tie a pair of plimsolls round his waist under the cloak,” Mackinnon proposed. “They probably have athletes training in the park all the time. Nice place to run. No one would take a second look.”

  “Leaving a car parked nearby,” suggested Alec. “Near any of the gates, it wouldn’t matter if he could run back through the park.”

  “He, or they?” Mackinnon queried. “Was the victim also in running garb?”

  “No,” said Ernie, the answer to any question of fact at his fingertips as usual, like his invariably well-sharpened pencils. “Which means…” He hesitated.

  “Premeditation,” Mackinnon said grimly. “The victim expected to walk out in the nurse’s uniform and the murderer didn’t.”

  Alec raised his hand. “Hold on. Maybe Devenish simply had more faith in his ability to depart in a dignified fashion. We can be almost certain his was the moving spirit, after all, judging by what we’ve heard of his character. But, strictly speaking, premeditation is a question for the courts, not us, except as character impinges on our hunt for the murderer. Besides, I only speculated that he might have changed into athletic clothing. She could have been wearing a second frock under the uniform.”

  “Or maybe,” Ernie speculated in his turn, “they stashed a change of clothes in the park and the murderer took the victim’s with him. Or her.”

  “Probably him. A woman could have worn a light frock under the uniform. Let’s stick to ‘him’ unless to make a point. And let’s get away from the subject of the clothes until they’ve been properly examined. They should tell us the size of the wearer, if nothing more. Mr. Mackinnon, you’d better write up your report and decide on priorities for interviewing the people on your list. Let Piper know where the top few are to be found. He’ll work out the most efficient way for the three of us to get round to as many as possible this afternoon. Or … Is your sergeant as good at interviewing as he is at finding shoes and handbags?”

  “He’d be all right with Sergeant Piper’s lot. I wouldn’t set him on to this uppercrust lot.” He waved his notebook.

  “Good enough. I’m going to try to clear my desk so that I can concentrate on this case. Ernie, if any of the reports coming in from the DCs seem urgent, tell me at once. Otherwise, no interruptions.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  The paperwork, a mixture of reports from recent investigations and administrative bumf, went faster than Alec had expected. Finishing well before lunchtime, he decided to escape, before the next flood arrived, and have lunch out.

  “I’ll ring up between interviews to find out if Miss Devenish has arrived yet,” he told Piper. “She has first priority. Make sure whoever makes the calls assures her I’ll be there very shortly and asks her to wait.”

  He had a frustrating afternoon. Many of those he wanted to see were not at home. Of those who were, none admitted to a close acquaintance with Teddy Devenish, far less friendship. Alec received a general impression that no one had much liked him or even approved of him, though it seemed he had saved his nastier tricks for those who couldn’t fight back. He hadn’t wanted to be banned from the society of his peers.

  Two or three people—all ladies—made glancing references to a Russian scandal, but when pressed they were vague about details. It was just gossip, a rumour. Not one of them admitted to recalling who had told her.

  He finished a particularly trying interview shortly before four o’clock. The butler of the house kindly allowed him to use the telephone to ring up the Yard, and the duty sergeant at last told him Miss Devenish had arrived at her brother’s flat. Checking the address, he found that the ever efficient Piper’s suggested route had kept him within easy reach.

  Leaving his car, he walked there in a few minutes. The modern block of service flats was six storeys high and Devenish lived on the top floor. He would, Alec thought, then entered the marble-floored lobby and spotted a lift. His relief was tempered by dismay: Not so long ago, he would have taken all those stairs in his stride. Was it an argument for accepting the superintendent position, if offered, or ought he to try to get more exercise?

  The approach of a uniformed porter put an end to the internal debate not a moment too soon. His inspection of Alec’s credentials was blasé.

  “We’ve ’ad a lot of you gentlemen from Scotland Yard the last couple of days. And the press, my word! But there’s a lady just took up residence, the deceased gentleman’s sister, so I better ring up.” He retreated to his cubby, where he could be seen through the glass taking up his telephone.

  Half a minute later, he reemerged, thumbs up. “Miss’ll be happy to see you, sir.”

  “Happy” to see him? Making for the lift, one of the new automatic kind, Alec wondered whether the word came from Angela Devenish or was a gloss added by the porter.

  At the top, a narrow but carpeted passage gave access to four flats, two each way. Devenish’s was the second to the right. Alec rang the bell.

  Daisy opened the door.

  “Darling, that was quick. We didn’t expect you for at least twenty minutes.”

  “What the deuce are you doing here, Daisy?”

  “Angela is a friend of mine, the only one she has in town, really. She rang me the moment she arrived, before she even took off her … Down, Mr. Fisher!”

  The scruffy dog thus admonished stopped jumping at Alec’s knees but continued to bark.

  “Mr. Fisher?”

  “Doesn’t he look sort of like a frog? His face, I mean. Anyway, Angela thinks so. She’s making tea—the kettle just boiled. You’re not going to try to make me leave, are you? Because she wants me to stay and I want my tea. Come in here.”

  Alec wasn’t going to try to make her leave because he had strong doubts as to his success. He followed her into a spacious sitting room, Mr. Fisher sniffing suspiciously—but silently at last—at his trouser turn ups. A large, south-facing window provided plenty of light, even on this grey day. It revealed an expansive view over the lower buildings of Knightsbridge and Chelsea and even, between taller buildings, a glimpse of the river and Battersea beyond. Teddy had obviously done well from his great-aunt’s will.

  The furnishings were modern, with a good deal of chrome. Alec was surprised, until he remembered this was not Angela’s environment but her brother’s, though presumably the lease would belong to her once the will was proved. Avant-garde paintings on the walls, several small bronze sculptures, and a couple of African-looking wood carvings testified to his artistic tastes.

  Angela came in carrying a tray. A lean woman in her late thirties, she bore its laden weight with ease. Her hair was tousled, her face weatherbeaten; she wore country tweeds and heavy walking shoes. Mr. Fisher rushed to her with delighted yips and danced round her. “Down, Mr. Fisher, or you may get a teapot on your head. Down! Hello, Mr. Fletcher. Or should I call you Chief Inspector?” She set down the tray and shook hands, her clasp firm and dry.

  “Mister will do very well, Miss Devenish.”

  “Do sit down. These awful chairs are slightly more comfortable than they look. How can I help you?” she asked bluntly.

  “Tell me about your brother.”

  Angela took a deep breath and blurted out, “I didn’t like him. I loved him, of course. Sort of. One has to love family, doesn’t one? Or at least stand by them. But I couldn’t be fond of him after he kicked Mrs. Tiggywinkle.”

  “A hedgehog? No, one of your dogs, I take it.”

  “She was in whelp. All the pups were born dead and she was in pain for months.”

  “Oh no!” Daisy breathed in sympathy. Alec gave her a look, but Angela didn’t seem to have heard her.

  “I haven’t seen Teddy since.”

  “I’m sorry. How long a
go was that, Miss Devenish?”

  “A year ago,” she said vaguely. “Two years? I remember it was November, because we had the first snow just a few days later.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t last November?”

  “It might— No, it couldn’t have been because then Mrs. T would have only just recovered. She’s been all right for ages. In fact, I thought she was going to have another litter, but she didn’t, thank goodness. There are too many unwanted dogs already. We try to keep the bitches confined when they’re on heat. Some of them are real Houdinis, though. We had one—”

  “‘We’?” Alec interrupted. “You’re not running it alone?”

  “Gosh no, I couldn’t manage it on my own. I couldn’t have left them to come to London, could I! I’ve got a hired man, whose wife keeps house for me, and people in the village help out when they can. This week’s the Easter hols so the kids from the manor come every day. The dogs adore them.”

  “They were there every day this week? You’re sure?”

  Angela seemed surprised at his insistence. “Absolutely. They’d come before breakfast if their parents would let them, and they often bring a picnic lunch. The dogs usually get quite a bit of it,” she admitted gruffly.

  “How old are they?”

  “Nine and eleven. Or is it twelve? Sorry, I’m not awfully good at that sort of thing.” Mr. Fisher laid a consoling head in her lap and she fondled his ears. “Does it matter?”

  “Close enough.” Alec glanced at Daisy. She was obviously pleased that Angela had provided herself with an alibi that could easily be checked, even if Angela herself was oblivious. Angela was equally oblivious of the tea tray, so Daisy took it upon herself to pour and hand round cups.

  Alec took down the children’s parents’ names and address, and the hired man’s for good measure. “Did your brother ever talk about his friends and acquaintances?” he asked next.

  “That was pretty much his only interest,” she said dryly. “I let it flow past my ears. Any names I heard, I’ve forgotten long since.”