Murder by vote, p.7
Murder by Vote, page 7
Charlie watched her go, leaving him with a brain already in knots. “I do hope Mrs Macmillan did not have to twist your arm too hard to extract such a generous offer.”
“Don’t worry about that, young Pyke. I expect you know as well as I that Anne Macmillan is an expert on getting people do her bidding, in the nicest possible way. In truth, I am looking forward to some youthful company. I have been alone since my wife died a little over two years ago, with only a dour old housekeeper and an equally ancient valet to keep me company. I would steal away the estimable Mrs Brown if I dared.”
On that, Charlie was on firmer ground. “Mrs Macmillan would never forgive you. Mrs Brown is quite the best cook and housekeeper I have come across, not that I have much experience. I first came here from police barracks, which was rather too far to the lower end of culinary and comfort standards. Since then, I have been in cheap lodgings. If I seem a glutton at the table today, you will understand why. I have not had a single decent meal since I left Wellington.”
“In that case, we must hope for many invitations to Anne’s table, as my own is nothing to excite the appetite.” Drummond paused. “You have not asked me how I have heard so much about you.”
“To be honest, Mr Drummond, my head is in a spin. I feel as if I have been away on a long journey, returning to find everything achingly familiar, yet utterly different at the same time. The young lads I once knew are now married and settled down. Even my aunt has gone to make arrangements for her own wedding. If Mrs Macmillan suddenly announced her engagement, I declare I should hardly be surprised.”
Mr Drummond glanced towards the door Anne had gone through. “I have been working on that very matter these past few months, but to what effect I am as yet unable to say. I have admired Anne Godwin for half a century, but I made the fatal mistake of introducing her to my friend, Doctor Gordon Macmillan.”
He paused, catching Charlie’s furtive glance towards the window. “Dare I suggest it is not the marital state of Mrs Macmillan that you are most concerned with?”
Heat crept across Charlie’s cheeks. “I have arrived back unexpectedly. The nature of my assignment meant I could not forewarn anyone of my presence in Dunedin. I feel as out of place as a cuckoo in a warbler’s nest.”
Charlie’s gaze flicked back to the cheerful trio. The man was telling another story, complete with extravagant gestures, which had Molly and Grace doubled over with laughter. “Is the man by the window an acquaintance of Miss Sugden’s? I haven’t seen him before.”
“He’s the new doctor at Lavender House,” Drummond replied. “A genial fellow, as you can see.”
Far too genial, in Charlie’s view.
“He’s set more than a few local hearts aflutter,” Drummond continued. “But he is a fine doctor, according to Miss Penrose, and dedicated to the work. The community is fortunate to have him. I know Anne is most relieved to be sharing the burden of work at Lavender House.”
Before Charlie could decide whether it would be unpardonably rude to leave Mr Drummond in order to rescue Grace from this paragon of virtue, Anne appeared at the door.
“Ladies and gentlemen, luncheon is served.”
Mr Drummond stepped forward to claim Anne’s arm to escort her to the dining room. Charlie stood back until Molly and the new doctor disappeared through the doorway.
A familiar arm slipped through his. “Not like you to stand back when Mrs Brown has laid out a feast, Mr Potts.”
He resisted her pull towards the dining room. “I wasn’t expecting to have to fight for my place at the table, Miss Penrose.”
“You know my great-aunt loves a diverse company at her table. Although even she might have drawn the line at the Mr Potts of last night.”
“Was it only last night? I fear I am losing my grip on reality. How is Mrs Vance?”
“I took her to a safe house this morning. She seems to be a remarkably resilient young woman. You did a good deed to get her away, Charlie. I hope DI Wallace was not too upset?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. Kelly thought he would be relieved to have me out of harm’s way.” Charlie lifted her chin, so his glare wouldn’t go unnoticed. “It seems that there has been a rash of violent behaviour lately – far more than I was aware of.”
“Don’t give me that look, Charlie. Neither Molly nor I was hurt, which is more than I can say for the three ruffians who tried to stop us going about our lawful business. I was only trying to spare you the worry.”
“It’s my job to worry about violent criminals. And their victims.”
“Before you arrest me for assaulting those charming young men, might I suggest we make haste to the table, as you are the guest of honour.”
Grace seated him at the far end of the table and took the seat beside him, with the doctor on her other side. “Charlie, you wouldn’t have met Doctor Rory Ravenwood, the new doctor at Lavender House. His sister, Isla, is the new nurse. Rory, this is Charlie Pyke.”
“Detective Constable Pyke, pleased to meet you. I am only the temporary doctor, but I must say everyone has been most welcoming.”
“I hope you will make it permanent, Rory. Now that you are here, I cannot imagine how we coped without you.” Grace turned back to Charlie to explain. “Anne is feeling her age, I’m afraid, and struggles to cope with long hours delivering medical care. And with Lily about to be married, we had rather a crisis on our hands at Lavender House.”
“The good fortune is all on our side. Isla and I came out to New Zealand as nurse and surgeon on an immigrant ship, DC Pyke, driven by the lure of adventure, with no firm prospects in hand. Grace’s father took us under his wing in Wellington and suggested that we might find a ready welcome here.”
Grace returned the doctor’s smile. “My father loves to help ship’s surgeons establish themselves in New Zealand. As you know, my grandfather came over on a sailing ship as a doctor. We are most fortunate to get two experts with such experience. Isla Ravenwood nursed in a workhouse infirmary, where Rory also volunteered his services.”
“Marvellous luck,” Charlie mumbled, as a loaded plate of roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes and peas appeared over his shoulder.
Doctor Ravenwood turned to answer a question from Molly, across the table. They were soon engrossed in a conversation about workers’ rights.
“Molly seems to have regained her old sparkle since Rory arrived,” Grace whispered. “I have every hope he will help her to come to terms with the loss of her fiancé two years ago.”
“Now that would be marvellous,” Charlie replied, with genuine enthusiasm. “It does appear to be a perfect solution on all counts. I know Aunt Lily was worried about how she would cope with her work at Lavender House, given her imminent marriage to Alistair Stewart.”
“Do not tell Lily,” Grace whispered over the gravy boat, “but her fiancé is secretly funding the new arrangement. Alistair does not want to look as if he is undermining her position, which of course she will retain for an many hours as she wishes. Goodness knows there is plenty of work for all.”
The luncheon proceeded with all the ingredients for a successful gathering. Excellent food, lively company and a suspicious avoidance of any subject likely to cause upset. Charlie had the distinct impression that police matters came into the latter category, but he was enjoying himself too much to wonder why.
Union Strike
On Monday morning, Grace decided to call on Harriet Morison, to see if she too had been the target of an attack by the followers of the poisonous letter writer, Outraged Gent.
Alice Shorten arrived at the door from the other direction at the same time. “Grace, how lovely to see you again. My arm is much better, as you can see.”
Grace could see nothing of the sort, as the arm was hidden by long, billowing sleeves, which suggested significant swelling. She held Alice’s wrist gently and slid the sleeve up, revealing a livid horseshoe-shaped bruise. “Are you sure it’s not too sore to be at work? Miss Morison would not wish you to be in pain.”
Alice slid her sleeve down again. “I admit it aches, but it is not my writing hand. If I keep to light duties, it will be fine.”
As they walked up the steps into the building, a delivery boy arrived with a parcel.
“Excuse me ladies, would you know where the Tailoresses’ Union premises are? I have an urgent delivery for Miss Morison.”
“I’ll take it up. I work there.” Alice tipped the boy and reached for the parcel, grimacing as a sharp edge caught on her forearm.
They were halfway up the stairs, with Alice carefully holding the parcel out in front of her, when a gentleman came rampaging down, pushing past them. Alice shrieked as his elbow made contact with her arm. The parcel spiralled out of her hands, crashing onto the steps below. Grace registered a flash and boom, before she was knocked backwards by the blast.
Faces appeared above them in the drifting smoke. The steps vibrated with running feet, but all Grace could hear was thunder reverberating in her ears. Somebody lifted her off Alice’s legs. She could see the woman’s mouth move and the shock in her eyes, but Grace couldn’t seem to take her words in.
The woman looked down the steps and screamed, so loudly it penetrated Grace’s battered eardrums. She snapped out of her daze and turned to Alice, who was sitting on a higher step, shocked but uninjured. The gentleman who had pushed past them was not so lucky. He sprawled on a lower step, staring at his scorched trousers and blistered, bleeding lower legs.
“Get a large basin or two pails of water and bandages, as quick as you can,” Grace shouted to the women gathered at the upper-level balustrade. “And send for the police.”
She turned her attention to the gentleman, who looked up at her with stunned incomprehension. Carefully avoiding the debris of the bomb – even the word sent a shiver down her spine – she crouched on the next step down to examine his legs. To her relief, the damage was relatively minor.
“The steps blocked us from the worst of it,” she said to him, keeping her voice calm and professional. “Superficial burns and cuts, although I imagine it is painful.”
Faces began to appear in the doorway to the street, drawn, as people always are, to the scene of a disaster. “Stay outside,” she ordered. “Nobody comes in except the police.”
Two pails of water appeared beside her. Grace took off the gentleman’s shoes, ignoring his protests, and submerged his lower legs, to his obvious relief. Three fine splinters of wood jutted out from his tibialis anterior muscle, which she removed with only a moderate welling of blood. In the dim light of the stairwell, still swirling with smoke and dust, she could see no further damage. A few days of discomfit and minor scarring, but no real harm done. An extraordinarily lucky escape.
The gentleman finally recovered his wits, then his tongue, and a sharp one it proved to be. “Take your hands off me, girl. I need to see a doctor.”
“As you wish,” Grace replied, “but you would be better off keeping your legs in cool water for a few more minutes to stop the burns causing any more damage.”
“What would you know of it?” the man growled.
“I’d advise you to do as Doctor Penrose says. The lass might be young, but she knows what she is doing.”
The deep voice came from behind Grace, but she recognised the Scottish accent immediately. She glanced over her shoulder. The police had arrived in force.
“Detective Inspector Wallace. You arrived with commendable speed. Good day to you too, DC Kelly, and to you, sir.”
The latter greeting was for Charlie, as she wasn’t sure of his status or what name he might be using today. He looked up from his notebook, in which he was scribbling with a ferocity detrimental to pencil lead, and nodded to her. His emerald eyes surveyed the damage with the same intensity that had reminded her of a large predator the first time they had met. He didn’t look pleased to see her in the thick of it, although it was hardly her fault. Or only marginally her fault, given that her insatiable curiosity had brought her here.
“Haste seemed in order. I was told there was a bomb,” Wallace replied. “Are there any other injuries?”
“Only this gentleman. Thanks to a stroke of divine intervention, the parcel was knocked to the bottom of the stairs, blocking us from the worst of it. It caused more noise and smoke than actual damage.”
Wallace was already bending, inspecting the scene as he talked. “Judging from the state of the steps, you had a lucky escape. Pyke, bag the evidence. Constable Fletcher, make sure nobody enters or exits. Constable Evans, take statements from the onlookers. Kelly, come with me.”
The gentleman was still sitting with his legs in the water. “I didn’t see anything. These girls bumped into me as I was coming down the stairs. Next thing I knew, there was a flash and my legs were hurting like the devil. Must be anarchists, come over from the Continent to spread their evil. If you ask me, the government shouldn’t let them in the country.”
“This is not the work of anarchists, sir. Most probably a foolish prank.” Wallace spoke in his most authoritative voice, no doubt aware of the crowd behind him, eager to rush off to the newspapers with tales of mayhem and the imminent downfall of civilisation. Wallace looked up at Grace. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Come to my office.” The voice came from above. A calm, firm voice with an Irish lilt, emanating from a woman of about thirty, with a solid, no-nonsense look about her.
“And you are?”
“Miss Harriet Morison, Secretary of the Dunedin Tailoresses’ Union.”
They retreated up the stairs and into Miss Morison’s office, where Alice Shorten told Wallace what had happened.
Charlie arrived a few minutes later, bringing a chair with him into the crowded room. He squeezed in beside Grace, so close their legs touched. A frisson of endocrine activity rushed through every cell of her body, unlike anything documented in her physiology textbook. Charlie’s eyes slid sideways, the skin at the edges crinkling, as if he had read her mind. She dragged her attention back to DI Wallace, who was asking questions.
“Can you describe the messenger boy to me, Mrs Shorten?”
“I can’t say I noticed, as I was looking at the address on the parcel. Just a boy. Brown cap, lots of freckles.”
Grace cut in. “He was a delivery boy, rather than a messenger boy. Age about ten to twelve, ginger hair, well-fed, no sign of disease, but he was puffing, as if he had rushed to get here. Perhaps he had been offered a good reward for diverting from his normal duties. He was probably a baker’s boy, by the name of Mitchell or Mitchener or something similar.”
Kelly’s pencil stopped its feverish scribbling as he gawped at her. “You know him? That’s a lucky break, so it is.”
“I’ve never seen him before, but he propped his bicycle against a nearby lamppost. I could see the first few letters of the shop’s name on the delivery basket. From his healthy appearance, but slight dusting of flour, I’m guessing he is the son of a baker.”
Wallace rose from his chair and opened the door to the work area. “Excuse me, ladies. Does anyone know of a baker called Mitchell or Mitchener or something similar.”
“There’s Mitchem’s bakery, near the intersection of the tram lines at South Road,” a woman answered. “I often stop there on my way home to Caversham.”
Wallace resumed his seat, his normally impassive face alight with the hunt. “Excellent. I did not expect to make such rapid progress. I do wish all witnesses could have your observation skills, Miss Penrose.”
“It’s the company I keep,” Grace replied, as warm fingers brushed against her hand under the table.
Wallace’s eyelids flickered, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I expect your work with the police surgeon is all about noticing details.”
“Grace was the one who told everyone to keep away from the remains of the parcel,” Alice Shorten added.
“I’m grateful for that, Miss Penrose,” DI Wallace replied. “It’s hard enough to stop my own men from trampling through the evidence, let alone the public. Can you describe the package, Mrs Shorten?”
“It was about the size and weight of a cigar box,” Alice replied, holding her hands about ten inches apart, “Wrapped in brown paper with a typewritten address pasted on top. It was addressed to Miss H Morison, Secretary of the Dunedin Tailoresses’ Union, with the street address, marked urgent.”
“Would you have opened it yourself, Miss Morison?”
“One of the ladies usually opens the mail, unless it is marked as personal. But if it was marked urgent, it might have been brought straight to me.” Miss Morison’s brow wrinkled as she considered the question. “In the circumstances, I believe I would have taken it and opened it with caution. I understand, Detective Inspector Wallace, that you are aware that there have been several nasty incidents lately, targeting suffragists. I was expecting some unpleasantness, but nothing of this magnitude. It is most disturbing.”
“I can only agree, Miss Morison. The severity of the incidents is escalating. We’ll have to get an expert in to assess what caused the explosion. We’ve never had such a situation to deal with before.”
“It was black powder, sir.” Charlie opened a newspaper-wrapped bundle on the desk, pointing to a small amount of unburnt powder. “Based on the size of the box Mrs Shorten has described and the blast radius indicated on the stairs, it was a never intended to be a lethal device.”
Grace added the three shards of wood to the evidence. “I extracted these three splinters from the victim. You’ll note from the blood on the tips that they have not penetrated the tissue more than about quarter of an inch, confirming DC Pyke’s assessment of a relatively small explosion.” She held one up to Charlie’s nose.
He leaned forward to smell the splinter, bumping heads with her. “A hint of tobacco? Is that what you’re thinking, Grace?”
“Alice may well be correct with the cigar box comparison.”
