Ghosts of Mayfield Court (18 page)

Inspector Blade left the office, and Bottomley could hear him shouting for someone as he stood in the corridor. Somebody else shouted back, and in a moment Blade returned with a burly uniformed sergeant, a man in his late fifties, who was carrying a bloodstained cricket bat.

‘If you'd given me another minute, Mr Blade,' he grumbled, ‘I'd have had this offensive weapon properly docketed. Now I've got to carry it around with me until you've done with me—'

‘I'll do with you all right, you cheeky man,' said Blade, half laughing. ‘Docketing? I'll dock you a day's wages if you don't button your lip. Now, what I want you to do, Sergeant Humphries, is tell me all you know about Dr Zhdanov of Chatham Court. You tangled with him once, didn't you?'

‘I did, sir. It was a couple of years ago, when he lived in Grace Street, just by the Monument. He was a vet – what they call a veterinary surgeon – and he made a living by putting down poor old dogs and cats who'd reached the end of the road.'

Sergeant Humphries glanced questioningly at the recovering drunk slumped against the filing cabinet.

‘Sergeant Humphries, meet Sergeant Bottomley, of the
Warwickshire Constabulary. So he was a vet? What did he do, besides putting down people's pets?'

‘Somebody called at his premises after hours to collect his deceased terrier, sir, in order to give it a Christian burial. This man found the back door unlocked, and went in. There was a smell of chloroform in the air, and he – this man – saw a young woman lying unconscious on a trolley, while this Dr Zhdanov was bending over her with some kind of instrument in his hand.'

‘I see. And this man who called for his dog reported the
incident
?'

‘He did, sir. But when we went round to his premises, which we did straight away, the young woman was still there. She was drinking a cup of tea, and Dr Zhdanov was standing beside her, smirking behind his great black beard. The young woman, he said, had called to collect her kitten, but had suddenly been seized with a choking fit. Realizing that she would die if he didn't take action, he had laid her on the trolley, and with the aid of one of his instruments had removed a brazil nut from her throat. He actually showed us the nut in question. The young lady was ever so grateful, she said, and we left. But we knew, sir, what he was doing, and what she'd asked for. Both were criminals, and each covered for the other. A man who will do that, Inspector, will do anything. Now, as to this offensive weapon—'

‘Take it away, Sergeant Humphries, and take yourself off with it. Then detail two constables, and have them standing ready. Find PC Roberts, and tell him to run round to Mr Beak in Swallow Street, and get him to sign a warrant of search and arrest.'

‘Sergeant Bottomley,' said Inspector Blade, ‘we'll cook this Dr Zhdanov's goose by making his co-conspirator, Dr Morrison, confess all. It won't be difficult, if we leave him to conclude that all is known. We'll have to wait a bit for PC Roberts to return from the magistrate's. Meanwhile, you'd better go out to the ablutions, and smarten yourself up. If you're working with me, you have to be a credit to “C” Division.'

Blade dropped his half-bantering tone, and looked at Bottomley gravely.

‘Today, Sergeant,' he said, ‘we should be able to wrap up this murder of poor Mr Walter Hindle. I have the results of the
post
mortem
here. He died from drowning, right enough, but traces of chloral hydrate were found both in the stomach and around the lips. He had been rendered semi-conscious, and then deliberately drowned.'

‘That landlord, sir,' said Bottomley, rising to his feet, ‘he saw Zhdanov and an accomplice dragging Mr Hindle out to a cab, but his evidence is uncorroborated. And our theory as to how the body came to be in the water is just that – a theory. We can't link the drowning definitely to Zhdanov.'

‘I know, Sergeant, and that's why we must employ a certain amount of bluff. The genial but shifty-eyed Dr Morrison is the weak link in this chain of deceit and murder. Leave him to me. I'll use Morrison to bring Zhdanov to the gallows.'

Inspector Blade had planned a frontal assault, and proceeded to carry it out. The portly Dr Morrison's ready smile did not survive for more than a few seconds.

‘Edward Morrison, I have here a warrant for your arrest, which I intend to execute immediately. The house is surrounded, and it would be fruitless to attempt an escape. I charge you that you did, on Friday, 31 August, 1894, conspire with another unknown to drug and render senseless the Reverend Walter Hindle, and that you did put him into that body of water called the Long Water, in the parish of Kensington; and that you did murder him. Sergeant Bottomley, secure him, and take him out to the van.'

‘It's not true!' Dr Morrison, wringing his hands in anguish. ‘I told you when you came here: Mr Hindle wandered off, through a door left open by the carelessness of an attendant—'

‘It won't do! Your guilt is known. You conveyed your victim
away from these premises to number 11, Chatham Court, assumed to be another of your properties, and there you drugged him prior to taking him to Kensington, where you drowned him. Sergeant, take him away.'

‘I tell you it wasn't me! I tried to stop it, but I could not. Yes, I lied to you when you came here: but I did not murder Mr Hindle. He was taken away by his nephew, who delivered him into the hands of Dr Zhdanov, a criminal poisoner.'

‘Place your hands behind your back,' said Bottomley, and when the wretched man had done so, he slipped a pair of
handcuffs
over his wrists and locked them.

‘We've never heard of any Dr Zhdanov,' said Inspector Blade dismissively. ‘You'd better say nothing more until you appear at your trial for murder.'

Dr Morrison cried out in anguish and pulled himself away from Bottomley.

‘It's true, I tell you! I'll tell you everything you want to know. What is that shrieking? What is happening?'

‘One of my sergeants has just arrested your nurse as an
accessory
. She's up for murder, too. Come on, Sergeant. Let's get this business over and done with. Take him out.'

‘Dr Zhdanov is the killer, not I. Why don't you go and secure him before he bolts? He's the killer, and he lives in Chatham Court. It was Mr Hindle's nephew who came here, and took him away. I knew he was going to entrust him to the tender mercies of Zhdanov, but I was too weak to make a protest.'

‘And I suppose this Dr Zhdanov was acting off his own bat, was he? Maybe he just liked drowning aged clergyman? You'll need a better defence, Morrison, than all this bluster.'

‘This whole business was brought about by a woman called Lady Carteret. See, look in my desk, the third drawer down: you'll find all the relevant documents there. It was she who committed Mr Hindle to my care. She, and her husband, Sir Leopold Carteret.'

At a nod from Blade, Sergeant Bottomley unlocked the handcuffs, and withdrew them.

‘You will be a material witness against this Dr Zhdanov,' said Blade. ‘You can remain at liberty for a while, but I warn you that you will be under constant surveillance. You will appear before the magistrates next Monday, where bail and recognisances will be set. Meanwhile, you had better arrange for competent medical supervision of this establishment. That's all.'

‘We'll bring in Dr Zhdanov this afternoon, Sergeant Bottomley,' said Blade, when they left the house. ‘This Morrison may escape with a short custodial sentence. He's a shady customer, but I don't really think he's a murderer.'

‘I'd like to thank you, sir,' said Bottomley, ‘for everything you've done to help me over this case. It's very much appreciated, if I may say so. It's time I returned to Warwick – there's work for me to do there. I'll catch the eight o'clock evening train from Paddington. It's time for us – the county police, I mean – to bring that woman's depredations to an end.'

Bottomley raised his hat, Inspector Blade saluted, and the two men parted.

Later that afternoon, Inspector Jackson, working on a report in the back room at Warwick Police Office, was handed a telegraph message that had just been received from Charing Cross Telegraph Office in London.

15

Catherine's Narrative: An After-Dinner Interlude

T
he following day, which was a Friday, we spent the morning touring the estate, and its outlying farms. We made the tour partly on foot, and partly in a smart pony and trap, driven by Sir Leopold Carteret himself. Providence Hall stood in extensive grounds, including the deer park, and once again I was impressed by how well tended everything was. The farms were clean and prosperous, and considerable deference was shown to Sir Leopold by the various labourers we encountered.

When Michael and I came down to breakfast that morning, we heard that Lady Carteret had passed a disturbed night, and was breakfasting in her room. So it was Sir Leopold, Michael and myself who ventured out to view the estate, on what proved to be a lovely September morning.

‘My wife is often troubled by restless dreams,' Sir Leopold told us. ‘They can leave her quite debilitated, you know; but we get by. Yes, we get by.'

Sir Leopold Carteret was a quietly spoken self-effacing gentleman, with an air of courteous enquiry that I found rather endearing. Everything one told him seemed to hold his entire interest. For instance, I happened to mention that I had been educated at Holbrook Girls' Academy in Hampstead.

‘Holbrook Girls' Academy?' he had said. ‘Really? How very
remarkable. And at Hampstead, you say? Well, I find that most interesting. And it was a school solely for girls?'

He had continued his questioning until the subject was exhausted, and yet, on mature consideration, I realized that he had asked no real, pertinent questions at all. All that he had
gathered
was the name and location of the school; evidently that was enough to satisfy him.

Lady Carteret appeared at luncheon, looking a little pale, but in every other respect her old self. She liked me well enough, I felt, but she had taken a particular liking to Michael. She sat beside him at table, and conversed with him in low tones, while I listened to Sir Leopold telling me about his ancient family, and the part that some of his ancestors had played in great affairs of state.

When lunch was over, I asked whether I could wander through the extensive conservatory that was reached from an elegant Regency music room at the back of the house, and my hostess readily agreed. Sir Leopold declared that he was going to his study to smoke a cigar and read
The Times
. I half expected Michael to accompany me, but he left the dining room deep in conversation with Lady Carteret. It was ridiculous, of course – she was old enough to be Michael's mother – but I felt a twinge of jealous resentment as I watched them walk away together.

It was hot in the conservatory, and the air was perfumed by the many exotic plants growing in brass and china tubs. There was, too, a profusion of ferns, and a number of woven cane basket chairs placed in their shade. I sat down, and within minutes I had fallen fast asleep.

I woke with a start, and rose to my feet. I consulted the watch that I wore about my neck on a silver chain, and realized that I had been asleep for no more than twenty minutes. I could hear voices quite near to me, and, venturing further along the
conservatory
, I saw that it had another exit into the library of Providence House. It was here that Lady Carteret and Michael
had gone, for I could see them standing together at an open desk placed beside one of the tall, carved sets of bookshelves filled with old, calf-bound books and annuals.

‘There it is,' said Lady Carteret, holding up a document for Michael to see. ‘It was a Deed of Release, right enough, but its contents are more baleful than I could have imagined. True to his honour, he never opened it.'

‘Why has it not been destroyed?' asked Michael. ‘And what was so baleful about it?'

‘What would have been the point of destroying it? A document of that nature will have been copied. I'd not thought of that possibility, but Sir Leopold made enquiries, and it's true enough. And it's baleful, because it makes open provision for descendants of either line – people who were not born when the deed was drafted. It is not a closed deed.'

Evidently Lady Carteret was regaling Michael with some passage in the family's history. I turned to retrace my steps to the dining-room passage, but something that Lady Carteret was saying caused me to linger near the door, still hidden by the forest of ferns.

‘And so, dear boy,' she was saying, ‘the great enterprise will have to be abandoned. It would have been a most desirable consummation, but there: it cannot be. So, it will have to be the other way.'

Their voices suddenly dropped, and there was something so easy and intimate about their manner that I felt myself blush with vexation. I didn't like that ‘My dear boy'. Must Michael concern himself so deeply in his hostess's family history?

I was moving away into the conservatory when I was conscious once again of that mysterious, unheard voice addressing me, desperately trying to pierce the veil between this world and what lay beyond it…. Whose was that soundless voice, and what was it trying to tell me? And then, as always, it stopped, as though giving up in despair. These things never
frightened 
me – I have always had some psychic awareness – but it was unsettling, nonetheless.

In the afternoon I lay down for an hour, and once more woke abruptly, this time because a certain expression had suddenly obtruded itself on my consciousness. ‘Deed of Release.' Surely Uncle Max had mentioned such a document in the anguished letter that he had left for me to read after his death? It was the very document for which he had been searching at Mayfield Court, a document drawn up by Gabriel Forshaw's solicitor all those decades ago. I wondered then whether Uncle Max had obtruded those words into my sleeping mind….

I remained very uneasy for the rest of the afternoon, but when Michael reappeared at tea time, I felt reassured. As on the previous day, afternoon tea was served by the little maid in the drawing room. Michael lavished attention upon me, and began to talk about what we would both do after we were married. I thought that he was a little embarrassed at the attention that he had been showing to Lady Carteret, for he virtually ignored her. She, for her part, seemed to be fully engaged with her husband and his affairs. The two of them talked in low tones for a while, and then Lady Carteret turned to speak to Michael and me.

‘It's a great nuisance,' she said, ‘but Sir Leopold must leave for London immediately after tea. There's some business there that cannot be left to others, as his signature is required on certain documents lodged with our London solicitors.'

‘I'm so sorry, Miss Paget, and – er – Dr Danvers,' said Sir Leopold, ‘it has been most interesting to have you here as our guests, but I can assure you that Lady Carteret will see that the remaining part of your stay is interesting and enjoyable. Goodbye, Miss Paget. It has been delightful to make your acquaintance. And it was a school for girls, you say? Most
interesting
.'

Sir Leopold left soon after five, and with his departure a certain stability and normality appeared to have gone with him.
Lady Carteret seemed preoccupied, scarcely replying to any
questions
put to her. She would glance sharply into dim corners of the room, and occasionally shudder. I remembered that she had passed a bad night, and wondered whether she was afflicted, too, in the daylight hours.

Michael, too, seemed to be holding some nebulous but strong emotion in check. I saw him glance at our hostess with something approaching dislike, not unmixed with fear. After the tea things were removed, the three of us sat on in the drawing room,
seemingly
unable, or unwilling, to get up and pursue some useful occupation.

The fine weather of the morning had given way to a sultry dullness, with a promise of summer thunder in the air. By six o'clock it had darkened perceptibly, and the first great
thunderspots
began to fall. I felt a sudden yearning for my own town house in Saxony Square.

We threw off our lethargy when the footmen came in to light the candles. One drew down the great crystal chandelier, and lit the candles nestling among their brilliants before gently pushing it back upward on its pulleys. The other attended to the candle sconces on the panelled walls. The room was flooded with welcome light, and my own personal gloom was dissipated.

That evening, we were joined by the rector, the Reverend Mr Bold, and his wife, and a cheerful young couple called Rivington, and we enjoyed a very appetizing dinner of pea soup, a delicate sole, and roast rack of lamb, followed by lemon water ices. Michael seemed to be his old self, though at times I saw him glance at Lady Carteret with that look of distaste mingled with fear that I had noticed earlier. I wondered what it meant.

I slept well, and Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. Lady Carteret had come down to breakfast, though I thought she looked quite ill, and a certain redness about her eyes convinced me that she had been weeping. Michael seemed not to notice.

‘My dears,' said Lady Carteret, ‘I propose that we go on a
picnic today to Bodley Castle ruins. We'll take the small phaeton, and Andrews will drive. Had my husband been here, he would have driven himself. What do you think?'

I thought it sounded a very good idea. It would be a relief to get away from the confines of Providence Hall and out into the fresh air. By ten o'clock, all was ready, and a substantial wicker hamper was put into the carriage before we set off at a brisk pace along the road that wound through the deer park and out on to the village street. We travelled for an hour through pleasant countryside, passing through a number of small hamlets and one substantial village with its own lichen-covered church. ‘This is a pretty place,' I observed. ‘What is it called?'

‘This is Walton Carteret.

There are several villages in this part of the county named after my husband's family.'

I heard the pride in Lady Carteret's voice as she said these words.

Eventually we entered a small wood, and in a few minutes emerged into a clearing where we could see the ruins of Bodley Castle rising above us. It was a very pleasant spot, and Andrews the coachman busied himself with setting out the picnic. From the box behind the carriage he produced a set of folding chairs and a table to match. Lady Carteret herself set out the contents of the hamper. There was a great pie, ham and chicken
sandwiches
, and a selection of pastries. To complement these good things, there were two bottles of white wine, secured in a small ice-box.

While Andrews stood guard, we explored the ruins of the old castle. Lady Carteret told us that it had been slighted during the Civil War, and had subsequently fallen into ruin. It was a romantic spot, conjuring up all kinds of dramatic scenes in my mind, but as I walked through the various rooms, all roofless and with springy turf for flooring, I was jealously conscious of the fact that Michael, my fiancé, walked with Lady Carteret, and not with me.

It was midday when we sat down to enjoy the picnic, and I must confess that, despite my uneasiness of the past day, I
thoroughly
enjoyed the repast. Eating in this way,
al fresco
, seemed to enhance my appetite, and I sampled a little of everything that was set before me. The coachman had led his vehicle a little apart, and we could see him sitting on an ivy-clad bank, lighting his clay pipe.

The wine was a delicate hock, still well chilled, and I finished my meal with two glasses in succession. I began to feel very
charitable
to my neighbours, and remembered a warning that my old uncle had once given me: ‘If you must drink wine, Catherine, drink it slowly – sip your way to sobriety.' I contemplated a third glass, but a questioning look from Michael restrained me.

It was when we were halfway home that I began to feel strange. I was not inebriated, and I was not feeling sick; but I seemed to be inhabiting a kind of trance-world. Sounds, even the voices of my companions, appeared to be coming from afar, and colours were brighter than I had remembered them. I said nothing, because I was not ill, but it was disquieting, to say the least.

When we returned to Providence Hall, I excused myself, and retired to my room. I lay on the bed, wondering what could have caused this altered state of consciousness. I closed my eyes, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamed of Uncle Max, alive, and frantically searching through the masses of ancient paper at Mayfield Court; I saw the forlorn little ghost again, dumbly pointing to the bed, and
experienced
the same frozen fear that I had felt when I had first seen her; curiously, I did not identify her with the little gypsy girl who had shown me how my belief in ghosts had been foolishness. And I dreamed of Sergeant Bottomley, the man who had, I believed, appointed himself my protector.

I had no idea how long I had slept, but at one stage I imagined that the door had quietly opened, and a shadowy figure had
crossed the room, temporarily blocking out the light. It may have been so; but when I forced open my eyes for a second, I saw that there was nobody there.