The Corpse at the Crystal Palace

by Carola Dunn

  They had been waiting a couple of minutes when the street door was flung open with a jangle and a man rushed in.

  “Zinochka—Ach! I beg your pardon. Where is Zinaïda Stepanovna?”

  “Miss Zvereva?” Daisy queried, recognising the goldsmith, though he was wearing a dark suit and white shirt, not the Russian blouse she had seen him in before. “The maid went to tell her we’re here.”

  “Now is not good time for— Zina!” He burst into Russian as Miss Zvereva came through from the rear. Daisy picked out the word “taxi,” though it might mean something quite different in Russian.

  The woman answered briefly, then turned to Daisy. Dressed for outdoors, she looked excited and anxious. “Excuse, please, Mrs. Fletcher. Here are your designs.” She handed over a large envelope. “One minute, please.” Another flood of Russian ensued.

  The goldsmith replied, shaking his head vigorously.

  Daisy was dying to examine the designs, but she hesitated to remove them from the envelope when Miss Zvereva appeared to be about to go out.

  “Let us look at them, Daisy,” said Sakari, heaving herself to her feet.

  “I think Miss Zvereva—”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, Mrs. Prasad, I ask of you now great favour. Will you come with us?”

  “Go with you? Where? Why?”

  “Is urgent.” She cast a harried glance back at the curtained door, and a pleading one at the goldsmith, who stood silent, his face grim. “Hired car waits. Is not far, will not take long. An hour, maybe little more. I will explain, but please! Come now!”

  Curiosity overcame common sense. Daisy allowed herself to be herded outside, with Sakari following close behind, protesting, “Daisy, do you think it wise to go?”

  But the car had backed in and stood right at the door. Daisy found herself inside it before she could reconsider. The goldsmith handed Sakari in beside her and Miss Zvereva joined them, while the goldsmith—Daisy didn’t think she’d ever heard his name—got in beside the driver. He spoke in Russian to the driver, who answered in the same language, and they were off.

  * * *

  After a stop for a bite to eat, Alec and Piper reached the Yard in mid afternoon. Leaving it to Piper to brief Mackinnon on their visit to Saxonfield, Alec started reading through the reports that had come in during their absence.

  “Clarke! Alaric Wrexham-Clarke—what a mouthful! And his brother is Lord Ledborough? Mac, how the devil did you get hold of this?”

  The inspector avoided his eyes and said to thin air, “Mrs. Fletcher telephoned, sir. She said she asked Lady Gerald Bincombe.”

  “I was certain Lady Gerald would know.”

  “Pity Mrs. Fletcher got there first.” Ernie sounded sympathetic but looked as if he were suppressing a grin. “What next, Chief?”

  “I suppose we still don’t know where to find him, Mac?”

  “No, sir. I was waiting for your authorisation to set enquiries in train, seeing he’s ain brother to a laird. But if he’s gone to earth in London using a false name, it’s going to be verra difficult to find him, and knowing his full name won’t help, either.”

  “Where’s the family seat?” Alec glanced back at the page in front of him. “Marsh Abbey, near Shrewsbury. He may be there, or they may know where he is. Ernie, put through a call to Lord Ledborough. Mac, get busy with those enquiries. Hotels, clubs, you know the routine.”

  “Ye’re thinking he’s oor man, sir?”

  “I’m thinking, first catch your hare. He’s the only person we’ve wanted to talk to that we haven’t been able to find. We’ll worry about whether he’s the one we want when we’ve got him.”

  At the back of his mind, insistent, was the possibility that, if Alaric Wrexham-Clarke had killed Teddy, his brother might well be in deadly peril. He knew all too well that once the taboo against murder is broken, it is never wholly restored.

  It was much too soon though to write off the rest of the names on his list. He went back to ploughing through the new reports, making occasional notes but not finding anything of much interest.

  As he turned the last but one face-down on the pile, the telephone rang.

  Ernie answered it. “DS Piper.” He listened for a moment. “Let me ask.” Handing over the mouthpiece, he announced, “Lord Ledborough is not at home, Chief. D’you want to speak to his butler?”

  “Yes!”

  “Yes, we’ll take the call. Hello?… Right, Mr. Maxwell, hold on just a minute while I transfer you to the Chief Inspector.”

  “Mr. Maxwell, Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher here. This is a matter of considerable urgency. Is his lordship unwilling to take the call, too ill, or actually away from home?”

  Through the crackling on the line came a measured voice. “His lordship is in London, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Since when?”

  “He drove up yesterday.”

  “Where is he staying?”

  “At a private nursing home. You appear to be aware that his lordship is an invalid. He finds travel extremely debilitating.”

  “Then I wonder why he has undertaken it at this moment?”

  “I am unable to enlighten you.”

  “Again I ask, unable or unwilling?”

  “His lordship did not take me into his confidence.”

  “But you can make a very good guess. Could it be something to do with his brother?”

  After a momentary silence, the butler admitted cautiously, “It could be.”

  “Which nursing home is he at?”

  “I can’t possibly tell you that, Chief Inspector.”

  “You have the address?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “I realise you would be taking a great deal upon yourself by disclosing it. While I don’t want to sound melodramatic, it could be a case of life or death.”

  “What! You can’t be serious, Mr. Fletcher.”

  Alec mentally added butlers to his list—solicitors, doctors, club secretaries—of those out of whom it was extremely difficult to extract information. “I am deadly serious, Mr. Maxwell. The police do not joke about such subjects.”

  As if reading his mind, the butler said, “I had better refer you to his lordship’s solicitor.”

  “My dear chap, I haven’t time to be hunting down solicitors!” It was going to be bad enough trying to get into the place once they had its address. Nursing sisters, if not quite as obstructive as doctors when it came to information, could be quite obstructive enough when it came to letting one see their patients. “Time is of the essence.”

  “Caller, do you want another three minutes?”

  “Yes, please.” No good ever came of swearing at telephone operators. This reminded Alec that Marsh Abbey was probably on a village exchange. Bored local operators had been known to eavesdrop … and to gossip. Whatever the butler said might be all over the district by tomorrow, another reason for his caution. “Look, Mr. Maxwell, I understand your reluctance. Suppose you give me the postal district and the name of the street.”

  Grudgingly: “I could do that. Just a minute. Right, here we are. The district is South East Twenty-three and the street is Canonbie Road.”

  “SE23,” Alec repeated. “Canonbie Road. Thank you, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “My division,” Mackinnon noted.

  “Sydenham!” said Piper. “Right back at the Crystal Palace.” He reached for a directory.

  “Canonbie Road, that’s Forest Hill, a very respectable area so I don’t know it well. I recall the street because of the Scottish name. It’s a steep hill, as far as I remember.”

  Maxwell was saying mournfully, “I don’t know if I’ve done right, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t reveal where the information came from unless it becomes absolutely necessary, which I don’t foresee.”

  “That’s poor consolation, if you don’t mind me saying so. Well, no use crying over spilt milk. Good-bye, Chief Inspector.”

  “Got it!” Ernie said triumphantly. “The Fairlawn Nursing
Home. D’you want me to get them on the phone, Chief?” he added, seeing Alec hang up.

  “No, I think we’ll arrive unannounced. If he doesn’t want to see us, I don’t want to give them time to find a doctor who’ll say we can’t see him. Get hold of an official car and a driver. Mac, I’d like a couple of your men unobtrusively on hand, possibly for the next few days. Could you set that up? I’ll brief them when we get there.”

  While they were busy, Alec skimmed through the last report and crossed another name off his list.

  Half an hour later, they crossed the river and headed southeast.

  The Fairlawn Nursing Home was a large, late Victorian detached house in a street of large detached houses. The steep hill provided views north across London and south to the Crystal Palace, though it would make exercise difficult for convalescent patients.

  Mackinnon’s men were lurking in an unmarked car a few doors away from the nursing home. Alec described the man they were after, what little he had found out about his appearance.

  “That’s not much to go on,” one muttered. “Must be hundreds—”

  “But the chances of more than one visiting this place…”

  “Oh, right, sir.”

  “His name is Wrexham-Clarke, Alaric Wrexham-Clarke, but he’s quite likely to give an alias. He’s to be held for questioning. Division HQ? No, straight to the Yard, I think. If by some improbable coincidence he should arrive while we’re here, you can let him enter, but be alert for an attempt to cut and run. Let me warn you, he’s a gymnast and an acrobat, fast and agile. Not known to carry weapons but beware of an unconventional attack. One front, one back, and stay out of sight.”

  They waited five minutes to let the man behind the house get into place. Then Alec led the way up the garden path and rang the bell. The door was opened by a young nurse in a stiffly starched apron and cap. She backed away as Alec stepped over the threshold.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher and Detective Inspector Mackinnon,” he said, leaving Piper, unannounced, to sidle in inconspicuously after them.

  “Ooh,” she breathed, round-eyed.

  “No need to be alarmed, Nurse. I just want a word with a patient, Lord Ledborough.”

  “Ooh, are you going to arrest him?”

  “Good heavens no, just talk to him.”

  “I’ll have to ask Sister.” She scurried away. By this time Ernie had made it to the stairs at the back of the hall and was to all appearance studying with great interest a portrait of Florence Nightingale.

  Sister was a formidably large woman, even more stiffly starched than her subordinate. Rustling, she stalked towards the policemen. “I am Sister Bessemer, Chief Inspector. You want to see Lord Ledborough? Out of the question, I’m afraid. Quite apart from the fact that he is a sick man, he is at present in consultation with his brother, Dr. Wrexham-Clarke.”

  THIRTY

  The hired car bore Daisy, Sakari, and the two Russians westward. Both Miss Zvereva and the goldsmith started talking urgently to the driver, a grey-bearded man who could have been the one Daisy saw at the Café Royal, or his twin. They spoke in Russian, of course.

  “Where are we going?” Daisy asked.

  “One moment, please.” Miss Zvereva plunged back into the urgent talk, which began to sound more like a vigorous dispute.

  The car slowed to a crawl. Daisy had half a mind to hop out while the hopping was good, but Sakari wasn’t capable of hopping so Daisy stayed put.

  “Where are we going?” she said again.

  “Is not far.” Miss Zvereva peered out of the rear window with an anxious look. “I explain when we are there.”

  The incomprehensible argument resumed, but the car speeded up as much as traffic allowed. The driver turned on to the Embankment. Where on earth were they bound? Charing Cross Station? No, they passed the station and continued towards Whitehall. Scotland Yard? Surely not Scotland Yard!

  “Are they going to confess to your husband?” Sakari whispered.

  “Who knows? Perhaps they have new evidence to report?”

  “Who knows! Why do they bring us?”

  “Who knows?”

  But the car drove on. At Parliament Square, a policeman on point duty held them up. Daisy considered appealing to him for help, but how on earth would she explain that while she could easily have got out, Sakari was insufficiently mobile?

  Victoria Street. Victoria Station?

  They passed the station approach and turned into Buckingham Palace Road. A moment later, the car pulled up in front of a church. Daisy and Sakari exchanged glances of mutual bafflement.

  “We are here.” Miss Zvereva’s announcement could not have been less enlightening. “Please, we get out now.”

  Daisy was more than willing. While Miss Zvereva helped Sakari and the goldsmith paid the now sullen and silent driver, she glanced at the notice board announcing the name of the church and the hours of services and was startled to find it written in both English and Russian.

  “It’s Russian Orthodox!” she exclaimed as the car drove off, watched by both the Russians.

  “Please, you will come inside now. We have tell driver you want to see Russian church, but he is suspicious. Perhaps he go to my father. We must be quick.”

  “I shall be happy to see the church,” said Sakari. “However, you have another purpose, do you not?”

  A joyful smile transformed Miss Zvereva’s face. “We marry! If you wish, will be witnesses? Will make Vasya and me happy.”

  Daisy was too surprised to speak.

  “We shall be delighted,” Sakari acquiesced. “Shall we not, Daisy?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  They went in, Vasya giving Sakari his arm up the steps with great solicitude.

  In the vestibule, Vasya said gravely, “You will wait here, please. Only baptised in orthodox faith are allowed inside. I will make doors to stay open so you can see. Wedding ceremony is short.”

  He opened the doors. Even by candlelight, the interior was dazzlingly colourful. The reredos was painted with images of saints and angels, and icons bright with gold hung on the walls and pillars.

  “It reminds me of a Hindu temple,” Sakari remarked sotto voce. “We too like colour.”

  “Where is the altar? No pews?”

  “We stand for service.”

  “Come, Zina.”

  The Russian couple went on into the nave. Daisy and Sakari watched them light candles and place them in holders before one of the icons. The central doors at the rear opened and a priest in elaborate vestments came through, allowing a glimpse of the altar before the doors closed. He advanced down what would have been the aisle had there been any pews. Miss Zvereva—Zina—and Vasya went to meet him.

  Behind Daisy, the door opened and a couple came in. The man spoke to Daisy in Russian, then noticed Sakari and blinked. “Excuse, please.”

  The woman, looking into the nave, said something in the midst of which Daisy thought she made out “Zina” and “Vasya.” The two hurried into the church.

  “Best man and bridesmaid,” Sakari suggested.

  Though Daisy didn’t understand a word the priest said, she watched in fascination as the wedding proceeded. The couple exchanged rings, apparently several times, and shared a goblet of wine (at least Daisy assumed it was wine). The best man and bridesmaid placed wreaths on their heads. The priest gave each a candle to hold and led them in a procession three times round the small table on which all the paraphernalia had awaited them.

  The wreaths were removed. The priest blessed the newlyweds and their friends wished them joy, or a long life, or, for all Daisy knew, many children. She and Sakari uttered their own good wishes in hushed voices.

  * * *

  “Doctor Wrexham-Clarke?” Alec frowned. “I’ve heard a good deal about him but not a whisper to suggest he ever qualified as a doctor. He was once a medical student, I believe. What the deu— What on earth is he up to?”

  His astonishment and alarm impressed Sist
er Bessemer. “He’s not a doctor? Oh dear! Nurse, go up to Lord Ledborough’s rooms and ask if he’ll see these … gentlemen. And hurry.” As the young nurse scampered off, she continued, “But he is his lordship’s brother?”

  “If he’s who he announced himself to be.”

  “Sir,” Mackinnon chimed in opportunely, “Sergeant Piper has followed the nurse up the stairs.”

  “He has?” Alec, having watched Ernie follow his instructions, mimicked annoyance. “We’ll have to go after him.”

  They split up to circumnavigate Sister Bessemer. Ignoring her expostulation, Alec took the stairs two at a time. Mackinnon was close behind, their rubber-soled shoes almost soundless despite the linoleum treads.

  At the top, Alec glanced right, then left, spotted Ernie, and turned left into a wide passage with several doors on each side. As he closed in on Ernie and the nurse, she stopped at one of the doors. Raising her hand to knock, she glanced round, took alarm at the sight of three large men rushing towards her, and backed away, eyes wide, hand covering her mouth.

  “You two, one each side of the door,” Alec ordered in a low voice. “I’m going in.”

  Slowly, silently, he turned the knob, opened the door a couple of inches, and kept his grip so that the latch didn’t click as it retracted. Through the gap, he saw the foot of a bed, draped with a white coverlet. He guessed the patient was not in it, nurses being apt to remove and neatly fold the bedspread of occupied beds.

  Someone spoke, his tone full of suspicion. “What is it?”

  “A very simple preparation. That’s why doctors don’t like to prescribe it: they can’t charge much for it. It’s completely harmless, and it could cure both the tremors and the irregular heartbeat.”

  “What is it? What’s it made of?”

  “Just potassium chloride and water. You could sprinkle potassium chloride on your scrambled eggs like salt, which is sodium chloride, and you wouldn’t notice a thing except a slight bitterness.”

  “Why are you so eager to improve my health? Even a complete cure wouldn’t persuade me to throw away yet more money I can’t afford on your gambling. You’ll just have to save up your allowance to pay your debts.”

  “Call me an optimist. I hope—”