Ann Granger (17 page)

‘We were lucky in persuading a few to join us from St Thomas’s hospital in London. But we are setting up our own training programme,’ confided Frazer without slackening his pace. ‘We are modelling it on the system introduced at St Thomas’s by Miss Nightingale in ’60. She’s given us much valuable advice.’

I felt I had to ask some intelligent question. He was so obviously and rightly proud of the hospital. ‘How many patients could you treat here at any one time?’

‘Up to a thousand, at least. Could squeeze in a few more if we had to, I dare say, but Miss Nightingale’s very keen on not overcrowding. We have one hundred and thirty-eight wards. The Queen, God bless her, laid the foundation stone back in ’56. Ah, here we are.’

‘Some of the patients show no sign of injury,’ I remarked.

Frazer looked back and exchanged a glance with Dr Lefebre. ‘Not all injuries are physical, Inspector. Some are of the mind.’

So I was put in my place for a second time.

I fancied, however, it explained how Brennan came to be lodged here. Lefebre, a specialist in mental disorders, was known to the hospital and had been able to request a favour. I wasn’t altogether sure I liked this but the local Hampshire constabulary had presumably approved it. Once again I was made aware that I was a stranger here in more ways than one. I was far from my home ‘patch’ with its familiar ways and familiar villains. The professional and respectable classes of this place were connected by threads spun over many years. Their first loyalty would not necessarily be to the truth, but rather to maintaining the status quo. Certainly, the death of an itinerant rat-catcher wouldn’t be allowed to shake it. This was why I, an outsider, had been sent here. On the one hand, I’d be free from influence brought to bear by anyone local. On the other hand, I’d be excluded from their club. Not since I’d arrived in London from Derbyshire at the age of eighteen had I felt myself in such an alien world. Perhaps in this new place I’d be able to trust only Lizzie.

We had arrived.

I have been in a few morgues and dissecting rooms in my time but nothing like this one. Some of the places where I’ve viewed a corpse have been little better than sheds, dirty and stinking of blood and decomposing flesh. Here the late Jed Brennan lay on a table, covered by a white sheet, in finer surroundings than he had ever tenanted in life. All blood and other signs of the mutilation of the body had been washed away. The surfaces here were as polished as any others in the hospital. The army required both the living and the dead to keep things neat. There was not even the usual miasma in the air. However there was a smell, and I sniffed.

‘Carbolic!’ I said.

‘They believe here,’ Lefebre murmured to me, ‘that, as Dr Lister has found in Glasgow, a carbolic spray does much to reduce infections.’

‘Orderly!’ called Frazer.

The sheet was whipped from the corpse and it lay before us.

I’ve seen a few dead bodies, too. They never fail to move me to pity, even when the deceased is a rogue or murderer. No doubt Brennan had been a fine strong fellow but here he lay, as naked as the day he was born and, like all dead things, pitiful. The thing that struck me first was that he had corns on his toes. Tramping miles around the south of the country, it wasn’t surprising but I found myself thinking:
Poor fellow, every step must have hurt.

‘We had a good look,’ said Frazer happily. ‘Tidied him up for you, as you see.’ He indicated with some pride a line of stitches down the centre of the torso that would have done credit to a seamstress. ‘We do a good job of suturing here. No cobbling together. Death was due to severing of the carotid artery. The stomach contained elements of his last meal, which I suggest was rabbit. Otherwise the internal organs were in poor condition, almost certainly due to imbibing rotgut liquor. Men of his sort are invariably heavy drinkers. If he hadn’t died violently, organ failure would have killed him in the end.’

‘He bought cheap from backstreet distilleries, I expect,’ said Morris unexpectedly in a lugubrious voice.

‘Quite so,’ agreed the surgeon. ‘The army warns the troops against that sort of thing.’

The orderly had temporarily vanished but now returned holding two large brown paper envelopes.

‘Here we are!’ declared the ever-cheerful Frazer. ‘This ’un is my report, all the details there. This one…’ He shook it and it rattled. ‘Murder weapon.’

‘The knife!’ I exclaimed.

‘Malay workmanship,’ said Frazer growing, if possible, even more enthusiastic, ‘what they call a
kris.
Got a similar couple of ’em myself. Good quality. You find them all over the Straits Settlements, Dutch East Indies, other places in the Far East.’

He opened the packet and shook it. The knife fell out and by chance landed by Brennan’s ear, pretty much by the wound. It was an extraordinary-looking thing with a very elaborate enamelled handle and a blade unlike any I’d seen before, not straight on either side but wavy.

I picked it up. ‘You own two of these, do you, Dr Frazer? Does that mean they come in pairs?’

He shook his head. ‘No two
kris
are the same. Each is special to the man for whom it was originally made: fashioned according to his height and build, his social standing. As a result they vary considerably in length of blade and the value of the materials in the handle. But all have the wavy blade and intricate workmanship. Beautiful, ain’t it?’ He sounded unexpectedly wistful. ‘I have a collection of oriental swords and daggers. Wouldn’t mind adding that one to it.’

‘It’s certainly got a sharp enough point.’ I touched it gingerly.

‘I’ve seen before what a
kris
can do,’ said our buoyant host. ‘First-class killing weapon. Slip in like a knife in butter.’

I suppose if you’re accustomed to carve up dead human bodies you acquire a certain detachment; but I still disliked his cavalier tone and returned the knife to the bag.

‘We’re obliged to you,’ I told Frazer.

‘My dear fellow,’ he replied warmly, shaking me by the hand, ‘it’s been most interesting. No trouble at all. By the way, when this is all over and you have your murderer…’ He cleared his throat and for the first time showed some embarrassment. ‘Thing is, I don’t know what you do with evidence like that knife. If it’s returned to its original owner, and they don’t require it, or if the police don’t require it, well, I wouldn’t mind having it in my collection.’

‘Alistair Frazer is a very fine pathologist,’ said Lefebre to me as we left, sounding a little apologetic.

So he might be but I thought him something of a ghoul. Still, it takes all sorts.

*   *   *

‘I thought the knife was Indian,’ added Lefebre as we drove away. ‘But I’m no authority, obviously.’

‘Is there much oriental knick-knackery about the house?’ I asked him.

‘Not a great deal, for a family with such strong trade links with that part of the world.’

I thought this over. Lizzie had apparently identified the knife as the one previously on the hall table, now missing. But she had only seen the handle protruding from Brennan’s neck. I’d have to show her the thing again, not a pleasant task. It would also have to be shown to the Roche ladies who, according to Lefebre, were as yet unaware of the missing knife. At least I now knew there would not be another identical
kris
anywhere. Yet the knowledge was of limited value since to a layman one
kris
would look much like another without Dr Frazer’s collector’s eye. Lizzie might declare it the same one and still be wrong. The same thing went for the Roche sisters even though they owned the weapon. The housekeeper and the maids must also be shown the
kris.
The person who dusts an object regularly knows it better than anyone.

But could there be such knives in other houses in the neighbourhood? It was not impossible. Oriental artefacts flooded into the country by one route or another, often brought in by returning soldiers or sailors. Frazer had a whole collection of them. While unusual, they were not exactly rare. It seemed very likely this was the missing hall-table knife, but I shouldn’t assume anything.

It was vital to settle the identification. It could point to the murderer having been in the house that morning. If the knife had come from elsewhere, so might the murderer.

‘The dead man’s wife,’ I said, ‘Mrs Brennan. Where is she? What did she have to say?’

‘I have no idea,’ Lefebre said. ‘You’ll have to speak to Constable Gosling about that. He took the bad news to her, I understand.’

Constable Gosling. A lot might be learned from the local man. I looked forward to meeting him.

Chapter Eleven

Inspector Benjamin Ross

WE SET down Dr Lefebre at Shore House. It was now getting late; daylight was fading, and in the dusk the house appeared a gloomy building. On the ground floor the curtains weren’t yet drawn but there was lighting in the rooms. Not bright enough for gas, however. This was a more muted glow; I guessed at oil lamps. They wouldn’t have gas out here. I hoped that perhaps Lizzie might have heard the rumble of wheels and would show herself at one of the windows, but nobody had the curiosity to look out, or possibly our arrival hadn’t been heard within. Perhaps, in the morning, the setting – no doubt beautiful but at the moment hardly discernible – would improve its general appearance. And I’d see Lizzie.

We were all of us tired. Even Dr Lefebre looked a little weary. But he’d travelled up to London from Southampton by the earliest train, and to catch that he must have risen soon after dawn. It wasn’t surprising that he was showing some sign of strain. We arranged that Morris and I should call the following day at eleven. I would be presented to the Misses Roche and interview them. Morris would interview the servants. We’d also be able to observe the scene of the crime in good light.

The fly then carried us on to The Acorn where we were to be lodged. It set us down with our bags at the door where a reception committee awaited us; brought outside in some haste, it seemed, by the rumble of the wheels. Lined up before us were a stalwart member of the Hampshire constabulary with well-polished boots who was almost bursting his buttons with anticipation; a plump female in a blue and yellow print gown hastily tying the strings of a clean apron behind her back; and a potboy with red face, spiky hair and a grin from ear to ear.

As the fly rattled away the constable saluted, the female in the print gown dropped a curtsy and the potboy, probably feeling he ought to do something but not sure what, put two fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. It was as if we were being piped aboard one of Her Majesty’s ships of the line.

‘Lord love us!’ murmured Morris behind me, ‘do they think we’re royalty?’

‘Constable Gosling, sir!’ declared that worthy, stepping forward. ‘Welcome to the New Forest, Inspector Ross. This is Mrs Garvey, the landlady.’ He indicated the female in the print gown.

‘Honoured to have you under my roof,’ said Mrs Garvey. ‘Here, you, William! Take the gentlemen’s bags up to their room.’

Room? Only one? I hoped at least that I was not expected to share a bed with Morris, who was of substantial build.

The potboy darted forward, grabbed our bags and disappeared inside with them. Mrs Garvey, with smiles and gestures, urged us after him.

The inn was a very old building with low ceilings and walls bulging out of true. We were in the main taproom where there was as yet no company but two old men ensconced on settles against the far wall and smoking clay pipes. They stared at us solemnly. I nodded to them in greeting. One of them took out his pipe and waved the stem at me in return salutation. The other just continued smoking. Gosling took off his helmet, placed it under his arm, and stood to attention by the door.

‘You’ll take some refreshment, sirs, after your journey?’ urged Mrs Garvey.

I looked round. I needed to hear Gosling’s report. That could not wait until morning. But I didn’t need an audience.

‘Is there somewhere private?’ I asked.

‘Bless you, sir, of course. You can have the snug.’ Mrs Garvey flung open the door to a room about the size of a generous broom cupboard. ‘Make yourselves at home and I’ll bring something directly. What will you take?’

‘Tea,’ I said firmly. ‘If you would be so kind.’ In truth I could have done with something stronger and I dare say so could Morris, but we needed clear heads.

In due course the tea arrived together with an oil lamp threatening us with its blue smoke and smell. When the door had closed behind our hostess and we were seated cosily (there was no other way) round the table in the snug, I began. ‘Well, Constable, let’s hear what you have to tell us.’

‘It’s a bad business,’ said Gosling lugubriously. He’d set his helmet on the floor by his feet and his head was revealed to be perfectly round. ‘We don’t have murder in these parts, not in the normal way of things. Brennan, of course, wasn’t from these parts. He came down from London.’

It occurred to the constable that we too had come down from London. He turned scarlet with embarrassment and his head glowed like a Christmas lantern. The reflection from the flame of the oil lamp encouraged the fancy. I asked him to tell us everything he had observed from the moment he was called to the house.

Gosling delivered his report capably enough but there wasn’t much to it. The groom, Greenaway, had fetched him. He told him that Brennan was lying dead in the garden. There had followed a small delay because Gosling didn’t live in this village but in the next one. It had been a quiet day and the constable had employed it digging over his garden. Thus when the groom arrived, he’d been obliged to go into his house, wash the dirt from his hands and change into his uniform. On arrival at Shore House he’d gone straight to the garden. The body lay by some rhododendron bushes and he could show us the spot. The gardener and the stable lad had removed Brennan’s dog and Gosling, kneeling by the body, observed that the handle of a knife protruded from the dead man’s neck. He had returned to the house and spoken with the housekeeper who explained that Brennan had been in the house earlier, but then gone into the garden. She had not seen any strangers about that morning other than a gypsy woman who had come selling pegs. But they hadn’t needed any pegs and the woman was sent on her way.