Death at the Jesus Hospital (4 page)

‘I was indeed,’ said the attendant, casting a quick glance at the corpse.

‘I was wondering,’ said Powerscourt, ‘not that it’s any use for the investigation, but I was wondering if the mark above the heart was put there before or after he was killed. Was it knife first? Or the other way round?’

‘The shirt wasn’t buttoned up, my lord. Not when they brought him here, anyway. Dr Ragg noticed that, I remember. I’m not sure what the order was, my lord. It would be easier to kill him first, pull back the shirt and then put the mark on him. He couldn’t put up a fight if he was dead.’

Powerscourt started work on a drawing of the mark in his notebook.

‘Hold on, my lord, this might be helpful. One of our young doctors is going to send an article to the medical journals to see if anybody can identify the mark. He was very good with his pencil, so he was.’ The old man opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a bundle of three or four drawings of the strange marks. ‘Perhaps you would like to have one or two of these, my lord. It might be useful.’

‘That’s so much better than my effort, I’m more than grateful to you.’ Powerscourt gave the old man half a crown and hurried on his way.

Inspector Fletcher was looking forward to Powerscourt’s return. As he continued his interviews with the old men of the Jesus Hospital, he had encountered a pair who were so confused they left his head spinning. Numbers Nine and Ten insisted on being interviewed together. Otherwise, they said, they would get in a muddle. They brought a whole new line of evidence into the investigation. Johnny Johnston, Number Nine, had spent his working life in the post office. Peter Baker, Number Ten, had been a clerk in the City.

‘Of course it must have to do with the Silkworkers Company, the death,’ said Number Nine.

‘Stands to reason,’ said Number Ten.

‘Improved terms and conditions of residence, that’s what they said. They’d paint my place from top to bottom and it hasn’t had a lick of paint in years. You’ve got to look behind the picture to see all the walls were white to start with. Everything else is dirty grey now.’

‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Peter Baker, Number Ten. ‘The other people say there won’t be any money left
to keep up the hospital. We’ll be thrown out and the place will be sold for rich people’s houses.’ He paused and peered out of the window. ‘Thrown out,’ he repeated, ‘thrown out. Where would we go?’

‘But there’s them that say they can’t do that. Throw us out, I mean. The statues – no, they’re not statues, are they? What’s the word?’

‘Statutes?’ offered Numbered Ten.

‘Statutes, that sounds right,’ Johnny Johnston, Number Nine, went on. ‘They say they can’t throw us out. If they sell this place they have to build us another, that’s what that man in the grey suit told us.’

‘Hold on a moment,’ said the Inspector. ‘Could we just take this from the beginning. You’re not saying that the hospital is going to be closed, are you? It’s been going for nearly four hundred years.’

‘Sold,’ said Number Ten. ‘Turned into luxury houses. People like living in luxury houses in Marlow, people with plenty of money, I mean. We’re not meant to talk about this, Inspector, we’ve all been sworn to secrecy. But it’s a great worry and that’s a fact.’

‘It only gets sold if one lot of Silkworkers have their way.’ Johnny Johnston, Number Nine was scowling at the very idea that the hospital might be sold. ‘That man with the big moustache didn’t think it could happen.’

‘But the other fellow, the thin lawyer man with the long face and the monocle from Chancery Lane, he said it was going to happen anyway.’

‘Didn’t moustache man say there had to be a vote? The vote that Warden Monk is so keen on?’

‘Gentlemen, please.’ Inspector Fletcher put down his notebook. ‘Am I right in saying that there is a discussion going on in the Silkworkers Company about the future of the Jesus Hospital? And that one group wants to sell it and the other doesn’t? And somehow or other there is to be a vote on the matter, here in the hospital?’

‘Not just in the hospital, Inspector,’ said Peter Baker, Number Ten, who felt that his experience working in the City gave him more authority than most on this subject. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. All the members of the Silkworkers Company are to have a vote. We’re all members. We wouldn’t be admitted to the almshouse if we weren’t, you see.’

Inspector Fletcher sighed. He couldn’t see how these transactions could lead to Abel Meredith having his throat cut. He returned to the more prosaic details of the murder. Had either Number Nine or Number Ten heard or seen anything unusual on the night of the death? No, they had not. Did Abel Meredith have any enemies, as far as they knew? There was a pause.

‘Yes,’ said Johnny Johnston, Number Nine, ‘yes, he did.’

‘He cheated,’ said Number Ten, ‘he cheated at cards and he cheated at shove ha’penny over at the Rose and Crown.’

Inspector Fletcher did not have the strength to ask how a man could cheat at shove ha’penny.

‘He was very unpopular,’ Peter Baker, Number Ten, added, ‘probably the most unpopular man in the hospital.’

‘Come, come now, ah, hm,’ said Johnny Johnston, Number Nine, ‘you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. Somebody or something is meant to come and strike you down if you do.’

This may have been the Inspector’s first murder investigation but he did not lack imagination. His horizons had been broadened by regular readings of the many novels of E. Phillips Oppenheim. They kept the latest volume for him in the Maidenhead Public Library. He knew from experience how bitter relations could become in closed societies like police stations or almshouses. With little to occupy the inmates’ minds, cheating could be magnified out of all proportion. Could it, he wondered, be magnified enough to become a motive for murder? He wasn’t sure.

‘He was always borrowing money, that Meredith man,’ Number Nine went on.

‘And he never paid any of it back,’ added Number Ten. The corpse was beginning to assume pariah status in Inspector Fletcher’s mind. He paused for a moment.

‘Maybe he simply forgot,’ he said, ‘forgot to pay it back, I mean.’

‘Don’t think so,’ said Number Ten. ‘And there’s another thing. I don’t think he ever took a bath.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said his friend, ‘he wasn’t the only one in this place who never takes a bath.’

The Inspector had had enough. For once he managed not to pause, even for a second.

‘Thank you very much for your assistance, gentlemen. If you remember anything else that you think may be useful, please get in touch.’

He walked back to Monk’s office, thinking of a man with stinking clothes making his way to the Rose and Crown to cheat with borrowed money at the shove ha’penny table. But he couldn’t connect that figure with the corpse with its throat cut and a strange mark on its chest stretched out in the morgue at the Maidenhead Hospital.

Among his many responsibilities at the almshouse, Thomas Monk, still wearing his black cravat, was the custodian of the old gentlemen’s wills. They were stored in a little safe in the corner of his office. This practice was not included in the ordinances of the Silkworkers Company for the inhabitants of the Jesus Hospital. The custom had begun with Thomas’s reign as Warden and he had not bothered to tell any of his masters from the Silkworkers Hall in London about it. If the old men had not made a will – and Thomas was sure to discover this if they failed to hand it over on arrival – then he was prepared to help them for a small fee. He had, he assured the intestate newcomers, a draft will prepared by
the finest solicitors in the capital which he could make available for them. Indeed he would help them fill it in. It just happened that the draft will ran to two pages. The second page merely repeated that this was the last will of the testator and left room for the signatures.

Since the murder Thomas had not had the time, or been alone in his office long enough, to check what the status of Abel Meredith’s will was. He suspected Meredith had had his will already prepared on arrival. He didn’t like to check in case Powerscourt or one of the policemen should barge into his office at the wrong time and start making inquiries.

The Inspector took Powerscourt for a walk down to the river on his return from the Maidenhead morgue. He felt there was a network of old men trying to listen in to any of his conversations in the hospital. He told Powerscourt about the possible changes at the almshouse and the unpopularity of the victim.

‘I’ll speak to my brother-in-law about the Silkworkers Company,’ Powerscourt said to the Inspector as they neared the bottom of Ferry Lane. ‘He knows about these things, or if he doesn’t, he knows people who do. What did you think of all the rest of it, the cheating at shove ha’penny and so on? I know these are old men and that feelings can run high in places like this, but they’re not going to lead to murder, are they?’

Inspector Fletcher agreed. ‘Damn it,’ he said, staring at a pair of swans making a regal progress down the Thames, ‘I knew there was something I forgot to ask the doctor. I’ll have to find him this evening.’

‘What was it that you forgot to ask?’

‘Well, it’s this, my lord. You just have to look at the old men walking out of the hall. Do any of them have the strength to commit the crime? It’s hard to imagine any of them being able to summon up enough force to draw a knife across the dead man’s throat like that.’

‘You could well be right,’ said Powerscourt thoughtfully.
‘I wonder if you could devise some sort of test to work out who would have had the strength to do it, like drawing the bow at the end of the
Odyssey
.’

There was a pause. A small flock of black river birds flew past, close to the water’s edge.

‘The killer, if the killer comes from inside, would surely fail any test to deflect suspicion,’ said the Inspector gloomily.

Half an hour later Powerscourt went to look at Abel Meredith’s room before the police took the contents away. He remembered suddenly the instructions given to new entrants to the Royal Hospital Chelsea, that men could bring precious little with them for there was precious little room in their quarters, and that earthly possessions were not needed whether they were going on to heaven or to hell. Here Powerscourt found the clothes, the few books Abel Meredith had brought with him to what he must have thought would be his last resting place on earth. The inhabitants of these almshouses came here to live out their last days and their hosts would not welcome the prospect of wading through a mountain of personal belongings when the residents went to the cemetery and the grave. One thing did strike him. Most people, he thought, would have brought some mementoes of their past life with them, family photographs if they had any, letters from relatives or from a workplace, some keepsake left them in a relative’s will. There was none of that. Abel Meredith had arrived with a few spare shirts and trousers and a jacket and a few books and personal knick-knacks, but nothing else. It was as if he had deliberately obliterated most of his sixty-four years on earth. Had he something to hide? There were no official documents of any kind. There was, he noticed, no will to be found among his few papers. He wondered again about the strange marks on the dead man’s chest. One of the doctors in the hospital had talked of witchcraft, of strange African practices come to an unsuspecting Buckinghamshire. Powerscourt didn’t think that could be true, Africa was too
far away. But if they weren’t African, where in God’s name had they come from? The mountains of Peru? The Gobi desert? The high passes of the Hindu Kush? He was lost.

Inspector Fletcher came to join him, clutching a telegram. It was another missive from Sir Peregrine and told him of another murder at a property linked to the Silkworkers Company, in Norfolk this time, another murder marked by the mysterious imprint of the thistle deeply embossed on the dead man’s chest. Powerscourt was ordered to go to the scene as soon as possible.

Allison’s School in Fakenham had been founded in the sixteenth century by Sir George Allison to replace a priory that had been abolished in the dissolution of the monasteries. Sir George endowed the school handsomely with a number of parishes in Norfolk and further properties in the City of London. The entire endowment was placed in the hands of the Silkworkers Company of London where it has remained to this day. There were over a hundred and fifty boys in the school, with the normal range of teaching and ancillary staff. The victim was the bursar. He was found in his office – pen in hand over a set of accounts on his table, strangled, with great purple weals on his neck – shortly after ten o’clock in the morning when he was due to attend a meeting with the headmaster concerning action against those parents who were late with their fees. His shirt had been ripped open to receive the imprint of the thistle that had disfigured the body of Abel Meredith at the Jesus Hospital in Marlow.

Roderick Gill, the bursar, was nearing retirement in his fifty-fifth year, with fifteen years’ service at the school. His office was on a long corridor that everybody in the school used, from the teachers to the most junior boy to the cleaning staff.

Powerscourt reflected on his train to Norfolk that the killer must have travelled this line yesterday, on his way to
his second murder. Surely someone would have seen him. Or had the killer access to a large and powerful motor car which could have taken him to East Anglia with less chance of being spotted? He wondered if these two dates at the end of January carried any particular significance.

Another murder, another Inspector of police. Not for the first time Powerscourt wondered about the wisdom of having so many different police forces in the country. Surely these two cases must be linked. Yet two separate forces would conduct their own investigations, with the possibility of much information falling into the cracks between the two inquiries.

Allison’s School was in a state close to chaos. The porter at the front gate blamed the telephone. Mothers from near and far had heard of the murder and had come in person to seek assurances from the headmaster that their child was safe and should not be taken home immediately. Only a timely directive from the policeman on the case, Inspector William Grime, that all the boys were to remain in school until they had been questioned by members of his force, prevented a mass exodus. The queue to speak to the headmaster stretched for fifteen yards outside his office and out into the quadrangle. Powerscourt saw as his cab dropped him off that the mothers were growing more rather than less distraught. ‘There he was, that poor bursar man,’ he heard one of them say to her neighbour in the line, ‘sitting at his desk, and then, whoosh, he’s gone! Who’s to say the killer couldn’t do the same to my Georgie or any of the other boys? They still haven’t caught the murderer, you know. The brute’s still at large, waiting to kill again. He’s probably hiding in the grounds.’