The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5) (23 page)

There was little point in venting my exasperation at the gardener’s late decision to come forward. We all have our priorities; and for Coggins, that meant his disrupted working day and destroyed cuttings. Nor, at first, must it have appeared possible to Coggins that a local resident for many years, a gentleman and employer of other staff, could have anything to do with the death of a woman Coggins had assumed an amateur prostitute. ‘Is there anything else, Coggins? No? Then please read the account as the constable has written it down and, if you agree with it, sign it.’

Coggins, still frowning, read through it, and wrote his name in a surprisingly clear hand.

‘I lost some of my best cuttings,’ he said, ‘through you lot fooling around with dead bodies in my potting shed.’

Even then Fate had another surprise to spring on us. Late in the afternoon Sergeant Morris reappeared, having searched Fox House. He had a mysterious parcel, wrapped in newspaper, under his arm.

‘What have you there?’ I asked him.

‘Not quite sure, Mr Ross, so I thought I had better bring it in. I gave that butler a receipt for it.’ Morris set the parcel on the desk and unwrapped it. I was reminded of one of those parlour games that people play at Christmas.

Unwrapped, the object proved to be a small wooden box with highly decorated panels on both top and bottom, and all four sides. The designs were made up of flowers, birds and foliage for the most part; but on the top was a scene of a harbour with some odd-looking boats floating in it. It was brightly painted in greens, blues and pinks.

‘I can’t open it, sir,’ explained Morris. ‘There is a narrow strip along this end that moves to the side, just so far and no further, but then that’s it. You’re no more forward with opening it. Being as it’s a fancy piece, I didn’t like just to break into it. It might be a jewel casket, but it don’t rattle, if you shake it. It don’t weigh much, either. I reckon it’s foreign.’

Constable Biddle, ever curious by nature, had sidled into the room to find out what Morris had discovered. Neither the sergeant nor I had noticed him, so we were both startled when he announced loudly, ‘It’s a Chinese puzzle box!’

‘What are you doing there, my lad?’ demanded Morris. ‘Who asked you to come into Mr Ross’s office?’

Too fascinated by the box to heed the reproof, Biddle went on in awed tones, ‘It’s just like the one in
The Treasure of Kublai Khan
.’

‘You mean them rubbishy novels you read, I suppose?’ Morris snapped. ‘I told you they’ll end with turning your brain. Seems to me, they already have!’

‘No, no, Morris, wait.’ I put out a hand to stem Morris’s ire. ‘Biddle, do you know anything about these boxes, learned from your reading?’

‘You put secret things in them,’ Biddle assured us breathlessly. ‘In
The Treasure of Kublai Khan
, a box like that contains a map showing where the treasure is hidden. It’s in a pagoda.’

‘Do you know how to open it?’ Morris and I both shouted at him.

Biddle picked it up. ‘If you give me a minute or two, I might.’ He studied it, frowning.

‘That bit moves,’ said Morris impatiently, indicating the narrow strip. ‘But that’s all.’

Biddle moved the strip and then tried all the other sides, with the strip still out of position. The top of the box, with the harbour scene, moved about a quarter of an inch, as if it would slide open, but didn’t.

‘Sit down, Biddle,’ I invited.

Biddle seated himself, put the box on the desk, and began anew to try all the sides. He managed to find another narrow strip that slid aside. After that the top of the box moved a little more. After much fiddling around, Biddle gave a cry of triumph, and the lid with the harbour scene slid out altogether to reveal the interior. Morris and I leaned forward. The box was empty.

‘So much for that,’ grumbled Morris.

‘No, there will be another compartment, Sergeant,’ Biddle promised. ‘Look, the hole isn’t deep enough. There must be a drawer somewhere, underneath it.’ He pushed and pressed at the sides; and the opposite end of the box to that with the sliding strips could be raised about an inch and a half. Beneath it could be seen a small knob. Biddle pulled it and a drawer slid out with an unexpected tinkle of a tune. In it was a folded paper.

‘Well done, boy!’ said Morris and Biddle blushed furiously at the rare praise.

They both watched me as I took out the paper and unfolded it.

‘We have him, Morris,’ I said. ‘We have Dandy Jack!’

‘Who is he?’ asked the bewildered Morris.

‘Biddle will explain to you. I must take this to Superintendent Dunn at once.’

Chapter Nineteen

DUNN SPREAD the letter out flat on his desk and together we bent over it and read.

My dearest wife,

By the time you read this, I shall be far away. This is not how I would have wished our married life together to end, but it is inevitable. Clearly, the police feel they are now in a position to make an arrest and they will come to apprehend me at any moment. It is only left for me to leave the country. Once I have gone, my hope is that they will cease to pay attention to you, as you are clearly guiltless in the matter of Sawyer’s death.

I have no regret for removing Sawyer from our lives, other than that it has resulted in the present regrettable situation. She was a dreadful woman, and brought about her own demise. If she had but taken the money she must have saved over the years with us, and left, as I hoped to persuade her to do, all this could have been avoided. But I had overlooked how much she enjoyed having us in her power . . . and her greed.

She assented without any hesitation to a meeting near the river that morning. I had told her I wished to discuss the new situation without fear of being overheard by other staff. But from the first our discussion went badly. She began to demand even more money. She gloated at the hold she had on us. Had she been in any way reasonable, I swear to you I would not have killed her. But she left me no alternative. I believe you will understand because your uncle left you with no alternative, all those years ago. I know that what you did that day, you did for us both. So did I.

I know how much this letter will distress you. But I beg you to believe I have acted at all times in the way I believe best for us both. Please be sure to destroy this letter
immediately after you have read it. It must not fall into other hands. My love and regard for you remain undiminished, dear Amelia, and I beg you will not think of me with anger. I have not abandoned you, for you remain always in my heart.

Your loving husband,

Charles Lamont

Dunn and I straightened up and looked at one another.

‘But she didn’t destroy the letter,’ I said. ‘Lizzie was right. These are Lamont’s last words to her. In reading them, she heard his voice. It was just as though he breathed them in his death agony.’

‘He did,’ said Dunn grimly. ‘Because in keeping this letter, she has sent him to the gallows.’

Faced with the letter, Lamont had no choice but to admit his guilt.

‘I still deny that I went to meet her with the intention of killing her. But it was clear she had no intention of being reasonable. She became objectionable, taunting me. I lost my temper. I seized her neck, meaning only to shake her. But she just dropped down dead at my feet.’

Lamont paused. ‘It was remarkable. I was quite horrified for a moment or two. But I had to dispose of the body and any evidence; and very little time to do it in. I needed to return home quickly. The girl, Harriet, would have left hot water outside my bedroom door. She would be returning soon to fetch the empty jug and washbasin of water. If she found the jug standing still full but now cold outside my door, it would upset her routine and I couldn’t be sure what she’d do. She might knock at the door, even venture to look into the room, or go down and tell Johnson, who would come up and knock. My absence would be discovered.’ Lamont sighed. ‘But you had worked that out, hadn’t you, Ross? That is why you were so anxious to quiz Harriet.’

‘Every household has its morning routine,’ I said. ‘Oddly, it is the part of the day the most fixed in its procedure. If it varies, it is generally because of some necessity.’

Lamont nodded. ‘I don’t suppose I ever faced a more difficult necessity than I did then. To get rid of a corpse! How on earth does one do such a thing? I dragged Sawyer towards the river, but she was a strongly built woman, as you saw for yourself. Her weight and that of her clothing, and the treacherous nature of the ground under my feet, all slowed me. I could hardly move her at all. I must have lost the cufflink then. When I realised, on returning home, that it had been torn from my shirt, there was no time to return and look for it. It was such a tiny thing. I thought there was a good chance it would be overlooked.’

‘It took three men to carry her from the river bank to a nearby garden,’ I told him. ‘I am not surprised you found it difficult to move her. A dead weight is rightly called so.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Lamont resentfully. ‘I had no choice but to leave her on the mud. I hoped that the rising river would take her. It would have done, but for pure chance. It those wretched brats had not come digging in the mud . . .’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘It is like a game of cards. You have to play the hand you’re given. Sometimes fortune favours you, and other times it doesn’t.’ He leaned forward, suddenly anxious and urgent. ‘But my wife had no part in it, no part in the murder of Rachel Sawyer at all. My letter makes that clear.’

‘He is anxious to point out to us that the letter makes clear his wife had no part in the murder of Rachel Sawyer. We have no evidence to the contrary and she will not be charged with that,’ I told Lizzie that evening.

‘And the murder of her uncle?’ Lizzie asked.

‘Pelham won’t want to lose two clients to the hangman at once. It would damage his reputation! He will fight to save her from the gallows and he may succeed. Lamont wrote of what Amelia “did that day” but he does not specify in his letter exactly what it was she did. When questioned on that sentence, he said it referred to the guilt she had always felt for having panicked when she found her uncle dead before the parlour fire. Instead of calling the doctor immediately and leaving the body where it was, she ordered that Isaiah Sheldon be taken upstairs. Instead of laying him out decently, she quite lost her head and ordered the application of mustard plasters. She has always felt since, claims Lamont, that she treated the corpse with disrespect.

‘Well, I don’t think that explanation will wash! But it still leaves it unclear to what he referred in the letter.

‘At any rate, neither Rachel nor Mills can be called to the witness stand. Pelham will seek to get the charges against her reduced, if not dismissed. If convicted of anything, I fancy she will face prison, but not the rope.’

Lizzie shuddered. ‘She would not survive long in prison,’ she said simply.

‘She is a strong and resourceful woman,’ I countered.

‘She will have nothing, no future, to survive a term of imprisonment for,’ Lizzie replied.

I was not sure I agreed, but Lizzie’s mind was made up on that point so we fell silent, sitting in our tiny parlour with the tea table between us. A muffled clang in the distance told us Bessie washed up with her usual vigour.

Suddenly, Lizzie asked, ‘Did Canning come to the Yard today with his solicitor?’

‘Oh, yes, he did, I forgot to tell you,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t see him myself. I understand Dunn delivered a stern lecture to him about wasting police time, and sent him on his way.’

‘I wonder how that will end,’ said Lizzie.

Elizabeth Martin Ross

We were soon to find out. The following evening Ben returned home with a letter, delivered to him at the Yard. It was from Miss Alice Stephens and requested that, if convenient, both he and his wife would take tea with her and her niece at their hotel, the coming Sunday. They were to return to Southampton on the following Monday.

Jane Canning and her desperate situation had been a great deal on my mind. From everything Ben had told me, I found it difficult to imagine that the odious Hubert Canning would agree to anything that would please his wife. The discussions that had been taking place in the few days since her return with their daughter from Southampton could only have been acrimonious. Miss Stephens appeared to have great confidence in a certain Mr Quartermain. But I have come across the Cannings of this world in the past. Their self-esteem coats them like armour. They can seldom be brought to concede the smallest thing or admit any point of view but their own. Certainly, from Ben’s account, Canning had never done so. The only time he’d agreed to anything Jane wanted was in hiring the nursemaid, Ellen Brady.

My one hope was that Canning might have been so alarmed by being obliged to go to Scotland Yard, with his solicitor, and receive what amounted to a dressing-down by Superintendent Dunn, that he might be persuaded to offer something to bring about a speedy settlement. Dunn’s stern warning might sway him where his wife’s feelings would not.

There was something else. It was clear he wanted his child returned under his roof. But he didn’t care twopence where Jane went. My personal opinion was that Jane had not turned out the domestic mouse he’d anticipated when he married her, and he had become anxious to be rid of her. But not through divorce, which would make it a public matter. Instead he’d planned to pack her off privately to the notorious clinic. As for the child, that was a different matter. She would one day be his heiress. He would want to keep her close, to exercise the control over her, in fact, that Isaiah Sheldon had once wanted to exert over Amelia. Poor little Charlotte, she would discover, as she grew older, just what a dictator her papa was.

The hotel was small but neatly appointed, very quiet, and clearly much in use by elderly ladies. The air bore the odours of lavender water and cough drops. Miss Stephens explained to us that she had arranged with the management to have private use of the hotel’s library that afternoon. I decided, when we entered the cramped room, that the management had not made any particularly generous gesture. I couldn’t think anyone else would want to use it. The title ‘library’ was exaggerated. The reading matter on offer consisted of an assortment of magazines, some improving literature donated by various religious organisations, and the complete set, in several bound volumes, of a biography of Albert, the late Prince Consort. The chairs were hard. The carpet was worn and did not fit the floor space, suggesting it had come from elsewhere, demoted to this seldom-visited nook. The motley collection of dried flowers and foliage in an ugly urn, filling the hearth, needed to be taken out and dusted, or preferably thrown away.

We all squeezed in, the ladies’ crinolines taking up so much of the available space that Ben found himself pinned against the wall. Tea was brought by a maid nearly as old as most of the residents must be.

‘Jane and I are most obliged to you both for coming,’ Miss Stephens said. ‘We are delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Ross.’

I returned the compliment. The truth was, when Ben had told me of the invitation, nothing would have prevented my coming along. I was anxious to meet both women. Miss Stephens was much as I would have expected: a prim maiden lady of high principles but who would have little understanding of the wretchedness in a bad marriage. She had been shocked into offering her niece sanctuary. If Jane had simply written from St John’s Wood and requested that she be allowed to return to Southampton, leaving her husband, Miss Stephens would have refused outright. Jane would probably have received a letter reminding her of her ‘duty’. But the exhausted, emaciated and barefoot wretch who had appeared on her doorstep could not be refused.

Miss Stephens had once accepted that Canning would make a suitable husband for Jane. Now, perhaps predictably, she had made a complete about-face and Hubert Canning had become the enemy. Canning had let Miss Stephens down. He had presented her with an unwished dilemma. Canning had not kept his part of the bargain. He had called Miss Stephens’s powers of judgement into question. Canning had failed in his Duty.

My real interest lay in observing Jane Canning. She must look much healthier now than when she’d arrived on her aunt’s doorstep. But she was still very thin and obviously deeply unhappy. Her misery could be read in the early lines that aged her features, and in the continual twisting of her hands in her lap. I wished I had Hubert Canning before me so that I could tell him to his face what I thought of him. It surprised me, and I think Ben also, when Jane now spoke up.

‘I understand, Inspector Ross, that my husband does not wish to press any charges against me with regard to my having taken our child when I left home.’

‘It is largely a domestic matter, Mrs Canning, that is the Yard’s view,’ Ben replied. ‘We found the child reported missing by her father. You have returned your daughter. Charges would be difficult to frame, involve more public expenditure and frankly we have other fish to fry, as the saying goes. What happens now, that is between you and Mr Canning. He agrees. I think he is anxious to have the police out of his life. Perhaps you’ve reached some decision?’

Miss Stephens spoke abruptly. ‘The wretched man wants the whole business expunged, rubbed out as if written on a slate.’

Having spoken, Miss Stephens clamped her lips together lest harsher words escape them.

Jane, after a glance at her aunt, took up the conversation again. ‘My aunt has been more than kind and supportive. She engaged a lawyer to act for me, as you know, Mr Quartermain. She felt it would be better than we two women trying to deal with Hubert. Mr Quartermain explained to me that, in the eyes of the law, my husband is the aggrieved party. I have no grounds on which to divorce him.’

Miss Stephens twitched at the sound of the dreaded word ‘divorce’, but managed to keep silent.

‘He certainly has grounds to divorce me, on the other hand.’ Jane gave a rueful smile. She sounded remarkably calm and practical. I wondered how long the effort of maintaining this could last.

‘I deserted him,’ Jane continued. ‘I took his daughter without his permission and lived with Charlotte as a vagrant on the streets of London and on the open road. We begged food and drank from streams and horse troughs. Twice kind farmers allowed us to sleep in a barn. Otherwise, we crawled into the hedgerows for shelter.’ Her calm façade cracked a little and she looked down at her hands, now tightly clasped as if to stop that relentless twisting by force. ‘I cannot tell you how horrified I am now to think of my own actions, and the harm that might have befallen Charlotte. I can only say that rational judgement had deserted me, arising from my fears of being incarcerated in some asylum, or those spas to which they send women who are – difficult.’