Murder by vote, p.24
Murder by Vote, page 24
“Does the housekeeper need my assistance?” Grace asked. “She must have had a dreadful shock.”
“She’s tougher than she looks. After a momentary dizzy turn, the housekeeper answered our questions, asked us if we wanted coffee, then went back to bed. No love lost for her master, that’s for sure.”
“Coffee, not tea?”
“Yes. Why do you ask, Grace?”
“The tea tin used in the bombing was an unusual and expensive variety. Mrs Patterson uses that tea, after being given it by her brother. An odd gift to choose if this household drinks coffee.”
“Perhaps he knew she enjoyed fancy tea,” Kelly suggested.
“Probably. Shall I take a look at the corpse?”
“I’m not sure that is a good idea, Grace. He shot himself in the head. It’s not a sight for the faint of heart.”
“Just as well I am no shrinking violet, isn’t it? Lead on, Declan.”
Kelly knocked on the library door. “DC Kelly, sir, with company.”
Wallace opened the door a crack, so no unfortunate visitor might catch a glimpse of what lay inside. “Pyke, what are you doing here?”
“We have information, sir. Mrs Patterson, Lennox’s sister, is Grace’s neighbour. We found her in a state of distress. She believed her brother was so disturbed by the allegations being made against him that he might do something reckless. When she added that he had a gun, we came to warn you of the danger. Too late, I gather.”
“We? You didn’t bring Miss Penrose, I hope?” Wallace slipped out into the hall and closed the library door firmly behind him. “Mrs Patterson was right about his state of mind. Suicide is always tough on the family.”
“I hope Lennox left a note admitting guilt and telling us whom he paid to plant the bomb,” Charlie said.
“Unfortunately, his guilt was expressed in such a loose way, it doesn’t really help us,” Wallace replied.
“May DC Pyke and I examine the scene, DI Wallace?” Grace asked.
“Not a good idea, Miss Penrose. I have sent a message to the police surgeon.”
“Doctor Cranston-Hartfield may take a while to get here. He is at a wedding out of town this afternoon.”
Judging by the careful way in which she failed to meet his eye, Charlie felt sure the police surgeon had invited Grace to the wedding. Did she decline the invitation or was it only due to the bombing that she was not sipping champagne under chandeliers right now?
“The duty surgeon lives miles away,” Grace continued. “If you want a quick medical opinion, I am willing to oblige, unless you have anyone else to hand with medical experience.”
Wallace remained in the doorway, but he was wavering. “There is a great deal of blood and gore.”
“Detective Inspector Wallace, you don’t know what gore is until you have attended a post-partum haemorrhage involving a ruptured placenta.”
Wallace hastened to open the door for her in order to hide the sickly shade his face had gone.
Charlie followed her in, close enough behind her to whisper in her ear. “And you accuse me of being a charmer.”
Grace stopped so abruptly, he bumped into her. At first Charlie though the sight of the body had shocked her, but he should have known better. Like all good investigators, she paused to survey the scene in detail, rather than jumping to conclusions and stomping through the evidence. Charlie was fairly sure that Grace had never attended the scene of a suicide by firearm, but she didn’t flinch.
Lennox MacDonald’s body was near the French doors, which were latched open. The impact of the bullet had knocked him backwards, leaving him lying on his back with his legs to the open doors. Although the rear of his head was lying on a Turkish carpet, the reds and blues of the pattern could not disguise the mess of hair, blood, brain tissue and shattered bone from the exit wound. An arc of spatter was visible as far away as the desk, which stood close to the French doors.
Charlie kept a tight grip on his stomach contents, as he glanced at Grace to see how she was coping. She had her head forward and nostrils flared, a hunting dog on a scent. His pulse quickened every time he saw her, but never more so than watching her work her medical magic.
Wallace pointed to the firearm, which had dropped to Lennox’s right side under his outflung hand. “Webley .455, standard issue service revolver. Six-shot, auto-eject, one shot taken, one spent cartridge. Shot himself under the chin. Remains of the bullet lodged in the ceiling on the far side of the room. Powder and burns around the entry wound, indicating a close-range shot, as you would expect with a suicide. No sign of struggle or forced entry. Traces of mud at the French doors, matching his boots, suggesting the deceased must have entered the house that way. The key is still in the door.”
“A last view of nature’s beauty before he shot himself,” Kelly murmured.
Outside, the afternoon was particularly balmy for autumn, with a blaze of red and orange leaves in the garden against a backdrop of blue sky. No houses in view, a thick hedge, no one to see or hear the shot. What splendid isolation the rich enjoy, Charlie thought, yet still they find life too much to bear.
Grace prowled around the edge of the room, from the bullet hole to the desk, where she paused before continuing to the French doors. Seconds turned to minutes as she stood there, gazing at the floor, fiddling with the drapes, standing with her head on one side as if listening for clues.
Finally, she bent to examine the body. Wallace released a low grunt of pent-up impatience. But, rather than touch the body, Grace opened her medical bag and extracted a small brush, working her way across the muddy footprints in the doorway. She brushed her way up to Lennox’s foot, taking a measuring tape to his boots and the muddy print, before running her hand over his calf. At last, she leaned over his body to examine the fatal wound.
Wallace, who was shuffling from foot to foot by the inner door, could take no more. “Care to hazard a time of death, Miss Penrose?”
“Rigor mortis hasn’t set in and there is minimal lividity, so not more than a few hours. More than an hour though, as the blood is clotted and starting to separate. That is consistent with Mrs Patterson’s statement that he left before luncheon.”
“What else did Mrs Patterson say?”
“Lennox MacDonald was called to his father’s house last night,” Charlie explained. “According to his sister, Lennox was given a stern lecture by his father for bringing the family name into disrepute, with the threat of cutting him off if he was involved in the bombing. To make matters worse, Mr Patterson found the safe empty the next morning and accused Lennox of stealing the payroll. Lennox was so angry and upset, he stormed out. It must have been a furious argument, as Mrs Patterson was extremely distressed when we saw her. She will be devasted to hear her brother has committed suicide.”
Grace looked up from the corpse. “It wasn’t suicide. Lennox MacDonald was murdered.”
Wallace and Kelly stared at her, unconsciously imitating each other, with jaws thrust forward and eyes narrowed.
Wallace recovered first. “You’re telling me that MacDonald allowed his murderer to stroll in here with a revolver and shoot him under the chin, without a single sign of a struggle?”
“Without doubt it was somebody he knew and trusted. He didn’t shoot himself. There is no powder residue or back spatter from the entry wound on his right hand, nor as much as you would expect on the floor in front of him.”
“Are you sure that wasn’t due to the angle of the shot?” Wallace countered. “His neck and chest are covered in gore.”
Grace shook her head. “The murderer cannot have gotten so close without himself becoming sprayed with blood, thus protecting an area of the floor. It is difficult to discern, due to the pattern of the carpet, but a clean area is visible if you look closely.”
Wallace thrust a finger in the direction of the typewriter on the desk. “Care to explain the suicide note?”
“It is the suicide note that proves beyond doubt that this is murder not suicide.”
Charlie went over to the typewriter, being careful not to touch anything. The suicide note had a blurred ‘e’ and an angled ‘t’. “It’s the same typewriter that was used for the bomber’s note to Harriet Morison. It’s certainly odd for a suicidal person to type a suicide note and not sign it.”
“Odd, but not conclusive,” Grace agreed. “In fact, I was more surprised by the competency of the typist. A person learning to type, as Lennox was, finds it difficult to maintain an even pressure and avoid mistakes. However, it is the state of the note and typewriter that confirms it is murder.”
Charlie looked closer. “I see what you mean. The suicide note and the typewriter are completely clean, yet there is a faint spatter of blood around it, so fine it’s nearly invisible.” He levered the typewriter up. “There are even tiny droplets of blood underneath it, both on the desk and smeared on the bottom surface of the machine.”
Grace nodded. “There can be no doubt about it. The typewriter was not on the desk when Lennox died. It was placed there after his death, while the blood was still wet. The bomber or one of his associates has committed his second murder and forged a suicide note to implicate Lennox. Does the note give any clue as to the writer?”
“All it says is: ‘It is my deepest regret that I did not put a stop to this madness. The guilt has become intolerable. Would that God had granted me the grace to be a better man. The world is better off without me.’ Other than the obvious – that the writer is literate and knows how to use a typewriter – there is not much to go on. The language strikes me as too florid and apologetic for a man like Lennox.”
Kelly came over to the desk to read the note again. “It must be Bertram, trying to make it appear as if MacDonald is to blame. By God, he’s a wily one. To kill his own brother-in-law, he must be evil to the core.”
Wallace was still standing in the same spot, staring out the open doors as if the few puffs of cloud drifting across the sky might hold the answer. Charlie knew him well enough by now to recognise that he was running through the facts of the case in his head, adjusting his thoughts to the new evidence. A lesser man might have been cross at missing the miniscule droplets of blood on the typewriter, but not Wallace.
A full minute passed before he spoke. “I’m convinced Bertram was behind the campaign to disrupt the Women’s Franchise League, but I’m not so sure about the bombings. Bertram had no motive to kill Mrs Creswell and he must have realised that the bombs would only generate more sympathy for the suffrage cause.”
“Mrs Patterson was rather incoherent towards the end of our discussion,” Charlie said, “but she did say that Lennox suspected Bertram was having an inappropriate relationship with Mrs Creswell. I can’t say I think it likely, as she was a pretty, delicate women, whereas Bertram is unattractive to the point of being repulsive. If I found him creepy, surely it would be worse for a woman. Although, come to think of it, Mrs Vance said he was the only one of the four not to touch her.”
“Maybe there is another explanation,” Grace said. “Molly Sugden thought Mrs Creswell was about to come into some money. We assumed the money was from Lennox, a private settlement to pre-empt her compensation claim, but it’s possible the money was from Bertram. If so, perhaps the connection between Mrs Creswell and Bertram wasn’t a physical relationship, but a payment for services rendered.”
“You’re thinking Bertram paid her to put the tea tin in the kitchen?” Wallace had lost the faraway stare and was all but pawing the ground. “Destroy the franchise petition, kill his accomplice and implicate Lennox MacDonald all in one go. Now that is the type of plan a man like Bertram would relish. Time to have another word with him. Kelly, you come with me. Pyke, I know you are not supposed to be working, but I’d be grateful if you would stay here until we can send a constable to stand guard. See what you can find while you are waiting.”
“Remember to search Bertram’s house for blood-stained clothes,” Grace called after them as they raced out the door. “And tea, check for tins of Darjeeling tea.”
Kelly saluted her as their carriage rattled along the drive.
Charlie leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Alone at last. How I wish that we might have one moment together without the distracting presence of a jailor, rival, nurse, criminal or corpse.”
“Where would the fun be in that?” Grace replied. “Perhaps we ought to concentrate on the search. I’ll not rest easy until we get the fiend who enjoys bombing suffragists. Shall I talk to the housekeeper, while you search the house?”
Doubts
Grace curled up on the cushioned comfort of the veranda seat. Her thoughts were far from the pretty garden view. Too many pieces that didn’t fit, that was the problem. One or two were to be expected, but the inconsistencies had mounted until a vague itch had become an irritating rash.
Charlie slouched around the corner, kicking a stone. “There you are, Grace. Are you having a nap or is your body resting while your brain is churning?”
“Come, sit. Tell me this all makes sense to you.”
He dropped down beside her, draping his arm along the top of the seat as if they were courting, rather than dissecting another murder. “I wish I could. It feels wrong. Let’s talk it through. Facts only, no assumptions. What have you found, Grace?”
“It’s only a minor point, but I’ve asked the housekeeper and checked in the pantry. There is no sign of the type of tea tin used in the bombing. If Lennox or his wife gave it as a present to Mrs Patterson, it was not because it was their tea of choice. In fact, they both drink coffee and kept tea only for visitors. A nice tea, but nothing special, from Ceylon not Darjeeling.”
“I found the missing cartridges of dynamite. It should be conclusive evidence as to his guilt, but I can’t help thinking Lennox would have been a fool to keep them in such an obvious place. Dangerous, as well as incriminating.”
“The housekeeper says she has never seen a typewriter here before. However, she also said the locked cabinets in the library were not to be touched by anyone but Lennox, so he might have concealed the typewriter. Did you search them, Charlie?”
“I found a space in one of the cabinets about the size of a typewriter, along with some paper of the same type used for the suicide note. Yet none of Lennox’s correspondence is typed. Nor is the handwritten correspondence on that type of paper.”
“He hadn’t had the typewriter long,” Grace reminded him, “and he has been rather too busy to use it.”
Charlie shook his head. “His letters prove he is an atrocious speller who rarely uses punctuation. Totally inconsistent with the typewritten notes, which are also neatly typed, suggesting an experienced typist. All the more reason to think he is not the bomber.”
“I agree. An action as shocking as a bombing would risk hostility towards their anti-suffrage, pro-liquor cause, even without the death, while providing only a temporary setback for women’s franchise. And Lennox didn’t have much to lose from Mrs Creswell’s official compensation bid either.”
“How so?”
“An action taken by a union would be against the company rather than Lennox personally, despite what Mrs Patterson said. Lennox might have been shamed into promising a private settlement, to save his father’s business reputation, but would the amount have been so much that he preferred to kill rather than pay?”
“I can’t see it, especially as it seems Lennox was a wealthy man, despite his extravagant tastes. I had a quick look through his accounts. The brewery was far more lucrative than the roading business. He could have paid off Mrs Creswell without losing a wink of sleep.”
Grace curled up against Charlie’s shoulder, comforted by the steady beat of his heart and the weight of his arm around her. “If that’s the case, don’t you find it odd that Lennox should stoop to stealing cash from MacDonald Roading?”
“I’m inclined to agree, except that some men never feel they have enough, no matter how well off they are. While others are blissfully content sitting on a sunny seat next to a beautiful woman with an unusual proclivity for solving crimes.”
Grace leaned into his warmth. “Don’t you ever think it would be nice to live a normal life?”
“Never. You?”
“Absolutely not. That’s another oddity of this case. I struggle to believe that a sweet, sensible woman like Violet Creswell could be in league with a man like Harry Bertram, unless she was truly desperate for money.”
They sat in silence, content to listen to each other’s breathing and the occasional bird call.
“Whatever you have to say, Charlie, just say it. You’re thinking so loud, it’s like sitting next to a ticking bomb.”
He sat forward, avoiding her scrutiny. “It’s a bomb I am reluctant to set off.”
“I suspect you are thinking the same as I am – that everything odd or misleading seems to come back to the evidence of either Mr Patterson or his wife.”
“Grace, you read my mind.” Charlie rose from the seat and began to pace. “I liked Mr Patterson. More than that, I believed him. What he said rang true, unless he was a consummate actor. He seems a solid kind of man, with no pretence or subterfuge about him – quite happy living on a moderate salary and grateful for whatever bones the miserly old MacDonald threw his way. Quite the opposite of the prodigal son, who was forever taking and never lifting a finger to work for it.”
“And yet, we are taking a great deal on Mr Patterson’s word. Do you have any independent evidence that Lennox was stealing from the roading business? Or that he took the old typewriter? Or indeed that he took the explosives?”
The pacing paused, as he considered her questions. “I think Lennox did take black powder for the firecrackers and Patterson knew it.”
Grace joined him at the veranda railing, where they watched in silence as a small flock of silvereyes flitted around an apple tree. Too tranquil a scene for dark thoughts.
“It comes back to the crucial question of any investigation,” Charlie said. “Who had the most to gain by killing Lennox MacDonald and Violet Creswell?”
