A Better Quality of Murder: (Inspector Ben Ross 3) Page 4

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘As to Bessie being helpful, that’s all well and good, but there’s the matter of some pamphlets -’

  But Mrs Scott was no longer listening to me. She was looking at someone behind me and a faint pink stained her pale cheeks. I felt a breath on my cheek and the scent of violet cachous wafted past my nose. I turned.

  ‘Dear madam,’ said Mr Fawcett. ‘Am I to understand you are Bessie’s employer?’ He stretched out a hand and placed it briefly on the top of Bessie’s best bonnet.

  Bessie looked as though it were Christmas. Fawcett was smiling at me benignly in a way I thought ill befitted his youth . . . and he was young. My original guess had been about right. He wasn’t more than thirty. His skin was good, his eyes large and widely spaced and his nose slightly aquiline. He had taken time to comb back his long hair. Once again I was put in mind of some archangel in a stained-glass window.

  ‘Yes,’ I said abruptly. I didn’t know why, but my mind had gone quite blank. All the things I had rehearsed had fled. I made an effort. ‘You are a powerful speaker, Mr Fawcett.’

  He leaned forward slightly. I couldn’t look away from his eyes, which were an extraordinary colour, almost aquamarine. ‘It is a powerful subject, Mrs Ross, and one we should all be mindful of.’

  I rallied. ‘Mr Fawcett, I’ll be frank with you. I came today because of the matter of some leaflets – pamphlets.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Bessie collected them here yesterday, which made her return home very late on a foggy night and caused me and my husband some concern.’ I could hear myself gabbling but I couldn’t help it.

  Mr Fawcett shook his head sadly and gazed at Bessie in reproach. Bessie’s expression went from elation to dismay. That brought me to my senses.

  ‘It is not her fault!’ I said briskly. ‘She had been persuaded it was her duty. But I have no intention of allowing her to pass round printed leaflets, no matter what their content may be.’

  ‘Then she shall not pass them round,’ said Fawcett blandly. ‘You need not distribute the leaflets, Bessie, since your employer doesn’t wish it.You should have obtained her permission first.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bessie miserably.

  ‘Perhaps you can help collect the cups, Bessie,’ I suggested.

  Bessie sidled away, her eyes fixed on us.

  ‘I don’t blame Bessie,’ I continued to Fawcett, ‘I want to make that clear. I was impressed by your address, but I don’t agree with playing on people’s emotions and I certainly think it is inappropriate to involve children and young people.’

  I heard an intake of breath from Mrs Scott, but I was not distracted and kept my eyes on Fawcett.

  To my surprise, he gave me another of his benign smiles. Then he reached out and had the effrontery to take my hand. His own was long and slender with tapering manicured fingernails.

  ‘Dear madam,’ he said, leaning forward again so that I was once more aware of his almost hypnotic gaze. ‘You do not believe.’

  ‘I haven’t come to discuss my faith!’ I snapped, snatching away my hand.

  ‘Indeed not. I meant that you do not believe in what we are doing here. I hope you will come again and be persuaded to join our cause.’

  With that and another smile he gave a little bow and moved away to address a hovering admirer.

  I met Mrs Scott’s eyes. They were fixed on me, filled with dislike.

  There was a private carriage waiting outside when we left the hall. I wondered for whom and guessed Mrs Scott.

  ‘Ain’t he something?’ Bessie’s question took my attention.

  ‘He certainly is,’ I replied.

  ‘And a fine-looking gentleman, too,’ went on Bessie in wistful tones.

  ‘Yes. He will have to watch out he doesn’t fall into the sin of vanity!’ I said sharply.

  Bessie looked startled but fell silent.

  Just then came a clip-clop of hooves and rumble of wheels and the private carriage I’d seen waiting outside the hall passed by us. I had time to catch a glimpse of Mrs Scott and Mr Fawcett within.

  I wondered if the lady was taking him back to his lodgings, in an act of kindness, or taking him with her to her own house, perhaps to address some smaller, more select, group there. I suspected Fawcett, with his dove-grey pantaloons, flowing locks and diamond stickpin in his cravat, might be quite an attraction in a fashionable drawing room.

  Later at home I recounted everything to Ben.

  ‘Do you intend to forbid her going to the meetings?’ he asked, when he had heard me out.

  I hesitated. ‘I don’t know. No, not at once. She would be resentful and inclined to admire him all the more. I’ve spoken my mind and I think they will be more careful what they ask her to do, now they know I’m watching them.’

  Ben leaned back in his chair. ‘Come on, Lizzie, what is it troubles you about this fellow Fawcett?’

  ‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘he has it in him to be a dangerous man.’

  Ben raised his black eyebrows. ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Oh, not in the way you usually deal with,’ I went on hastily. ‘I don’t think he’s going to attack anyone. It’s just that he has such power over his audience when he speaks. Believe me, Ben, those women, and even the men there, would have done anything he asked them to. This afternoon he was asking them to abstain from strong drink. There is nothing wrong with that, I suppose, although I found his posturing on the stage rather tiresome. My father always recommended his invalids to drink a little port wine. Whisky in hot water, he once told me, is the best thing for colds in the head, better than any medicinal powders. Fawcett certainly knows how to encourage people to empty their pockets. But I suppose it is a very good cause. No, my worry is that he could make any crowd agree with him on almost any subject; and do anything he asked it to.’

  ‘Let’s hope he never takes up politics,’ said Ben.

  Chapter Three

  Inspector Benjamin Ross

  SERGEANT MORRIS was lurking in wait for me on Monday morning. His substantial form materialised as I set foot through the door and I guessed at once what he was about to say. Sure enough, he put a clenched fist to his moustache, cleared his throat delicately behind it and rumbled, ‘Superintendent Dunn would like to see you, sir. Right away.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, because Morris probably knew what was going on.

  ‘Body,’ returned Morris lugubriously. ‘Body of the quality sort.’

  ‘Found where?’ I had set off already for Dunn’s office with Morris on my heels.

  ‘Green Park,’ he informed me.

  ‘Quality scene of the crime!’ I observed, startled.

  Murder, and I supposed we were talking of that, is no joking matter. But I was right. Green Park occupies a site between the larger Hyde Park and the rather more distinguished St James’s Park. More importantly, to the east lay Buckingham Palace, its grounds and gardens. I could understand Dunn’s urgent summons. People don’t get murdered in a royal park every day, and certainly not virtually on the doorstep of Her Majesty’s residence. I quickened my own step.

  Superintendent Dunn was pacing up and down, rubbing a hand over his head and scowling. He was a burly man, in appearance more like a country squire than a police officer. He always arrived in the morning with his short wiry hair brushed ruthlessly flat. But before long it stood up on end. Dunn always reminded me of one of the larger sort of terrier. He came to a stop at my entrance, wheeled round and fixed me with his slightly bloodshot gaze.

  ‘Here’s a rum do,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ I returned.

  ‘No, it ain’t a good morning!’ snapped Dunn. ‘Here’s a well-dressed woman’s body found lying in some bushes in Green Park.’

  ‘Where is the body now?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, over at St Thomas’s,’ Dunn told me. ‘Carmichael will be doing the necessary.’

  Dr Carmichael regularly conducted any necessary postmortem examinations for us
. I respected him and was glad he was to do it. I was also pleased to hear the body had been taken to the hospital mortuary. During my time, I have been obliged to attend the proceedings or view corpses in a variety of improvised locations, on one occasion in a garden shed and on another in the back room of a third-rate hotel where the overpowering smell had been that of onions rising from the kitchen beneath. At the time, I had been grateful for it. It had masked the other smell of clotted blood.

  Dunn sat down heavily at his desk and gestured to me to take a chair.

  ‘The body was found very early on Sunday morning by one of the park constables, making his first round of the day,’ he went on. ‘He noticed broken twigs and scattered leaves in a clump of bushes and went to investigate. He thought some homeless wretch might have crawled in there to spend the night. He found the body, already stiff.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Strangulation.’

  If rigor were that far advanced when it was found, then the body had been there since Saturday evening, probably early evening. Carmichael would confirm the time. Saturday . . . the fog . . . strangled . . . An uneasy feeling rippled along my spine. Green Park was nearer to Westminster Bridge than Waterloo Bridge but no great distance. Had the River Wraith, on his prowls, got that far?

  ‘There is something I should tell you, sir,’ I said.

  ‘What now? In the middle of this?’ Dunn exclaimed. ‘This is a serious affair, Ross! Don’t keep interrupting! You can ask questions afterwards, when I’ve given you the facts.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but what I have to tell you may – or may not – have some bearing on it.’

  Dunn sat in silence while I told him of my encounter with Daisy Smith in the fog and her tale of the River Wraith. When I had finished he rubbed his hands furiously over his head and said soberly, ‘We must keep this quiet, Ross, do you understand? At least for the time being. Only you and I and those officers involved in the investigation must know of it. The last thing we want to do is to provoke a panic on the streets of London. Once the story gets about, there will be a stream of women arriving at our door declaring they have seen, or heard, or been attacked by this “Wraith”. The press will get hold of it. We won’t be able to move for reporters.’

  ‘I agree with all, sir. Can you tell me, was the body robbed?’

  Dunn rubbed his chin. ‘There was no purse or reticule but she wore a wedding ring and another diamond ring, and pearl and gold earrings. She wasn’t robbed, that doesn’t appear to have been his motive. But your River Wraith may have his own sick motives. She doesn’t appear to have been a prostitute, however.’

  ‘Certainly not, sir. Sergeant Morris described her as “a body of the quality sort”. But if this was a woman walking alone in the park, her attacker may have thought her a drab. Remember the fog. She couldn’t see him until he was upon her, but neither could he see her very clearly. He saw only an unaccompanied female form. We don’t know why she was there but we can take it she was lost. She may have hailed him to ask directions and he assumed she was about to offer herself.’

  There was a silence while Dunn thought it all over. I ventured to prompt him.

  ‘What happened next, sir, when the body was discovered?’

  Dunn roused himself. ‘Oh, yes, Let’s see . . . He, the park constable, felt that dead bodies went beyond the normal policing of the park. He ran out to find the first regular beat officer he could and by luck ran at once into PC Wootton, of C Division. He blew his whistle to call up help. Inspector Watkins at Little Vine Street was informed and went there directly. By that time an inspector of the Parks Police had also arrived and there was some dispute as to who was in charge.’

  While the body lay on the ground? I had a mental image of them all standing round it, arguing about precedence. Would they have bothered so much about whose case it was if the body had clearly been that of a prostitute?

  My mind turned back to Daisy and a thought occurred to me. ‘We ought not to jump to any conclusion about her station in life, just on the grounds that she was well dressed. The better class of prostitute might venture into the park. If she were to evade the park constables any ladybird who wished to ply her trade there would have to be fashionably turned out and show no obvious sign of her calling.’

  ‘That may be true, but there is no doubt that this unfortunate woman was as respectable as she appeared,’ rumbled Dunn. ‘We know who she is.’

  ‘Already?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, a Mr Sebastian Benedict has already claimed her to be his wife; Allegra is her name. The Benedicts live outside London, in Surrey, near to Egham. On Saturday afternoon Mrs Benedict, together with a female who lives with them in the capacity of lady’s companion, came up by train to London on some errand. They were caught by the fog and separated in Piccadilly. The companion searched as best she could for her employer, enlisting the help of a Mr Angelis who works for Mr Benedict at his London establishment. It’s nearby to where she lost touch with her employer. When they couldn’t find her, the companion made her way back to Waterloo and took the down train home to inform Mr Benedict. They waited for Mrs Benedict to also find her way home, but in vain. Only the employee, Angelis, arrived by an evening train to tell them he had not found a trace of the lady and had informed the police. He then returned to London, as there was nothing more to be done.

  ‘So on Sunday morning early Benedict came up to town himself and went straight to Little Vine Street. As he was talking to the desk sergeant, as luck would have it Inspector Watkins walked in, having just come from the scene of the murder where he’d seen the victim for himself. The descriptions seemed to tally. So naturally they all feared the worst. Benedict was taken to see the body and immediately identified it as that of his wife. He then broke down. They had to render him assistance.’

  ‘What do we know of him?’ I asked. ‘What’s his line of business? He must be doing pretty well if he keeps some sort of establishment near Piccadilly.’

  ‘Benedict shows all the signs of a very wealthy man,’ was Dunn’s rather dour response. ‘He is a dealer in fine arts, whatever that might mean, with a shop – he calls it “a gallery” – in Piccadilly itself.’

  ‘Then he’s certainly got money,’ I muttered to myself. ‘And knows a lot of other wealthy men, his clients and others.’

  ‘He probably does,’ said Dunn. ‘It has now been agreed that, although the crime took place within the precincts of the park, the remit of its constabulary ends at the park’s gates and they can hardly investigate something so serious . . . and with such possible ramifications. C division, likewise, don’t want to handle it. So the whole thing has been passed to us.’

  And Dunn was passing it to me, literally, in that he was holding out a folder of papers.

  ‘You’ll find details of Benedict, his address and so forth, in there. There is also a statement of a sort from him, confirming the body is that of his wife. He was in too much of a state to say more.You’ll also find the account of the park constable, who is anxious to point out that, but for the fog the previous evening, the body would have been found earlier, on Saturday evening. They check the park very thoroughly before nightfall when the gates are locked.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him again, sir, and to the others who were there, and I’ll have to speak to the companion, the woman who was with Mrs Benedict until they lost touch with one another in the fog. Do we know her name?’

  I was riffling through the few papers in the file as I spoke, searching, but Dunn answered.

  ‘Yes, her name is Marchwood. Isabella Marchwood.’

  ‘I can have Morris, I hope?’ I asked.

  Dunn nodded and waved a hand to dismiss me.

  ‘Nasty business, this. How do we go about it, sir?’ Morris asked as we left the building.

  ‘I’ll go over to St Thomas’s and have a word with Carmichael, if he’s available, and take a look at the victim. While I do that, you get yourself off to Little Vine Street and if Constable Wootton is th
ere, go with him to the park and seek out the constable who found the body. I’ll join you there.’

  ‘Well, well, Inspector Ross, sir, what a pleasure to see you again.’

  These words, hardly suitable in the circumstances, greeted me as I entered the mortuary. They were spoken by a pasty-faced, lank-haired individual wearing a rubber apron. His sleeves had been rolled up and he stood with his bare forearms hanging limply at his sides. He peered at me with eyes of such pale blue they almost seemed to have no iris.

  ‘Good day to you, Scully,’ I replied briskly, trying to hide my dislike of the man. He was Carmichael’s assistant and factotum and I supposed he was indispensable. I couldn’t help wishing, not for the first time, that Carmichael – for whom I had the greatest respect – would find someone else. But who would be willing to do such a grisly job as stand by while Carmichael carved up corpses?