The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne (23 page)

OUR MR SEMPILL took quite some days to return to Broughty Ferry, stopping off, as he did, on the way to interview Warner’s landlady in Seacombe and an unfortunate young woman Warner appeared to have cruelly deceived in a place called New Brighton. Both of these places are near Liverpool, I believe, and the people living there probably know as little of our lives in the Ferry as we do of theirs.

However, while Mr Sempill was away there was an interesting event, in the form of an unusual envelope of very good quality which arrived for his notice, bearing striking stamps from the colony of Bermuda and with the postmark of Hamilton. I consulted the almanac and learned that Hamilton is the capital of Bermuda.

Almost all the mail was opened and dealt with in the usual way, but this was marked as “strictly private and personal. If undelivered, return to Chief Constable and Provost Marshal General, Hamilton, Bermuda.” Naturally I did not open the letter, but when I went into Mr Sempill’s office – which Mr Trench was still using as his own – I made a great show of laying the envelope down in the middle of Mr Sempill’s desk and I gave it a meaningful tap with my finger before I left again.

It was not long after that before Mr Trench came into the main office and made a telephone call. Naturally, I overheard nothing, but it was not many minutes later before the telephone rang again. Mr Trench hurried to answer it, and when he had finished his conversation he beckoned me over.

He leaned in close and muttered: “It’s right enough. They are looking for a Chief of Police in Bermuda. Bermuda! That’s quite a step up for the old boy.”

I took the view – and it is a view I maintain – that Broughty Ferry could hold its head up with any part of His Majesty’s dominions and that Bermuda would be more like an exile than a promotion, but I did not disagree with Mr Trench, although something of my opinion must have shown in my face.

He said: “Well, what I mean is you might have thought he would have tried his wings in someplace a little less exotic. Edinburgh, maybe, rather than taking on an entire colony. It is a very small colony.”

We speculated together throughout the day as to why Mr Sempill should have carried out his correspondence with Bermuda through the police office and not from his home address in the park. There were only two possible reasons: either he did not wish Mrs Sempill to know of his plans for some reason, or it was because he wished the letter to be seen so that we would all realise what an important individual he was and how much in demand from police forces throughout the Empire. We decided it was the latter.

The envelope gathered dust on Mr Sempill’s desk for another day and a half before the Chief Constable finally returned to Broughty Ferry.

This time he did not bring souvenirs for us because, as he explained, Antwerp has no places of interest and, in any event, it is foreign. I think the truth is that Mr Sempill had become a little jaded by travel.

He was very jolly when he arrived, praising himself for his detective work on the Continent and full of stories about “that daft old maid in New Brighton” and how completely Warner had taken her in. “Were I not a respectable and upstanding member of society, that would be my hobby – whispering sweet nothings to on-the-shelf spinsters and picking their pockets as I went. Still, life has taken me down another path,” and he rubbed his hands together and went off, laughing. “See me when you have a moment, please, Trench. We need to prepare for our visit from the Fiscal.”

I have to say, I am strongly of the view that Mr Sempill would have made a better policeman if he had been blessed with a little more kindness. He gave no thought at all to what that lady had suffered and it is a source of amazement to me that men who have no understanding of human failings and care nothing for mortal weakness, the loves and hates and fears and hopes that drive us all, can make a career in the police, where such things are the mainspring of every crime. How much more easily might crime be detected by men with a little more kindness and a broader understanding of human nature?

Still, I must acknowledge that when Mr Procurator Fiscal Mackintosh arrived for his appointment that afternoon, the Chief Constable was good enough to invite me to join the meeting.

Such was the success of his mission to Flanders that he, no doubt, wished as many as possible to see it and applaud, and it was, undoubtedly, a thorough piece of work. He did not read through every witness statement, but even to rehearse the burden of their evidence took the better part of half an hour, and when he turned the last page in the file, Mr Sempill looked up in expectation of well-deserved congratulations. “I think that proves it,” he said. “I need hardly point out that the prisoner’s second statement differs very materially from the statement made at Maidstone jail. It will also be noted that in this second statement Warner gave us a very comprehensive narrative of his movements,” Mr Sempill looked at his notes, “dating from 10th August till 4th November. Very comprehensive. Almost encyclopaedic.

“It will be noted too, that he was able to give the exact day of the month, with the corresponding day of that week, on which he said he was at all the different places he said he visited. He dictated all this from memory, and it is an impossible feat for any man to do unless he had purposely, with the object in view, mentally noted the different dates in his mind on which he was at all the different places he mentions.

“On his own account and on that of the witnesses which I took in Antwerp, Brussels and London, he was living a most irregular life, at times drinking heavily and living by his wits, flitting between Antwerp and London, London and Liverpool, Liverpool and London, London and Southampton, Liverpool and Seacombe, Seacombe and Antwerp, Antwerp and Rotterdam, Rotterdam and Antwerp, Antwerp and Brussels, Brussels and Antwerp, and Antwerp back to London.”

Mr Mackintosh the Fiscal clasped his hands carefully over his waistcoat together before he spoke. “Oh yes, you’ve proved it all right. You’ve followed him all round Europe, back and fore, England to Holland, across to Belgium, back to England, and every place you went you found things exactly as Warner described, met people exactly as he said and they all testify to the truth of what he says. So, congratulations, Chief Constable, you have proven beyond all shadow of a doubt that he could not have been even in the same country when Miss Milne was murdered, far less the same street.”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand.” Mr Sempill was licking his thumb and rifling through his piles of papers. “You see there’s a gap. Here, look, here.”

I looked to Mr Trench, but he was looking down at the floor.

“Look, we know that Warner obtained a travel warrant from the authorities in Antwerp on October 17 and by his own account – out of his own mouth, mind you – he says he got to London on, here, here it is, on the 18th, when he wasted the day hanging round the docks. The next day, he obtained money under false pretences at the Canadian High Commission and they told him to come back again on the 21st. The 21st. Don’t you see, that’s a two-day gap. That’s more than enough time to get to Broughty Ferry, do the deed and return to London, where he could be seen by a respectable figure like the Canadian High Commissioner.”

“But how could he pay for the ticket? He was strapped. That’s why he asked the Canadians for money.”

“I’ve already through of that,” said Mr Sempill. “That was part of his plan. If he could establish that he had no money for the rail fare, that would rule him out as a suspect. But he
did
have money. Or perhaps he swindled somebody out of the fare, or begged assistance. He has very strong Masonic connections.”

“That’s true,” said Mr Trench. “A couple of constables in London helped him out on the strength of it.” He was trying to be helpful.

Mr Mackintosh flicked through Warner’s statement. “According to this he stayed in cheap lodgings for those two nights.”

Mr Trench said: “Nobody remembers him and there are no records. We did look.”

“So, according to you, he swindled the Canadian High Commission out of cash he did not require, or stole some money, or begged some money, and came to the Ferry to murder a woman he had never met and fled again. In the name of God, why?”

Mr Sempill was becoming exasperated, and he spoke to the Fiscal as he would to a stupid child struggling over his multiplication tables. “Because it’s the perfect crime of course. If I murder somebody I know, I will be caught because there’s a connection – there’s a reason. If I murder somebody at random, somebody totally unconnected, there’s no reason to trace the killing back to me.”

“But why? You still haven’t told me why.”

“Miss Milne was well known in London, splashing her money about the place like a drunken sailor. Obviously he heard of her or met her – at the Bonnington Hotel, for example—”

“Nobody there recognised him.”

“There was some dubiety, but set that aside. He knew she had money, he got on the train, dashed her brains out, ransacked the place, got back on the train and sealed his alibi with a visit to the Canadian High Commission. The perfect crime.”

The Fiscal went back to his notes again. “And you say that he murdered her on the night of the 19th or the 20th?”

“Precisely!” Mr Sempill was triumphant.

“But the evening paper lying on the table tells us she died on . . .” Another flurry of notes.

Mr Trench cleared his throat and said: “The 14th, sir.”

“Well that’s obviously wrong. Clearly. We’ve got that wrong. The paper was left lying about for a few days. Maybe she set it aside to light the fire. Maybe he sat down to read it, after the killing. Maybe he ate that pie. We don’t know. But we do know this: he’s a foreigner. He is definitely a foreigner. Trench will bear me out on this, won’t you, Trench? Foreign, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.” That was all Mr Trench said.

But Mr Mackintosh would not bend. “I know the law, Sempill, believe me. There is no part of Scots law which makes it an offence to be foreign. Nothing. Anyway, I’ve had that journalist in my office today, that Norval Scrymgeour, demanding to make a statement insisting that he saw Miss Milne alive and well in Dundee on the 21st.”

“Surely you don’t believe him?”

“Of course I don’t believe him. She was dead on the 14th, that’s why I don’t believe him. He is confused. But he has offered himself as a witness for the defence. Sempill, I want this wrapped up. You’ve made a mess of it. Just get it finished with. I’m signing the papers to have Warner released in the morning.”

I thought Mr Sempill was going to have a stroke. He turned grey where he sat, then he stood up from his chair and his face turned purple and he bellowed across the desk like a bull. “No! You won’t land me with this midden! I have a name and a reputation. My name is in print across the Empire because of this case. Do you think you’re going to ruin me and keep me here in Broughty bloody Ferry for the rest of my days? I’ll have you know I have considerably bigger fish to fry. I’ll have you know—”

“Bermuda,” said Mr Mackintosh, calmly. “Everybody knows. Everybody in Dundee, anyway. Everybody who is anybody. We all know. We all know how you’ve worked your way into the papers. We all know you’ve been leaking information, making yourself out to be a dogged detective, hounding your man across the globe. Sempill, all you’ve done is piss God knows how much of the ratepayers’ money up the wall to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’ve got the wrong man and your only suspect is as innocent as a babe. But don’t worry, you can expect a glowing reference from me. You can write it yourself, if you like, and I’ll sign it. Anything. Whatever it takes to get you out of town.”

The Fiscal turned to Mr Trench. “I expect you to clean this up,” he said. “You are not blameless in this.”

“No, Trench. Not blameless at all.” Mr Sempill’s voice had risen to a squeak. “It was him. He told me it was a foreigner.” And then the Chief Constable collapsed in his chair with his head in his hands.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence before the Fiscal continued. “We need a version. I’m relying on you to come up with some sort of explanation for this disaster. Something that will let us get out of this with a bit of dignity. Do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Fiscal Mackintosh stood up and took his hat from the hook on the wall, so we all stood up, except for Mr Sempill, who sat where he was with the look of a felled ox. Mr Mackintosh straightened his hat in the mirror. “Well, have a good trip, Sempill. I think you’ll like Hamilton. Barely three thousand souls in the whole town and not half of them white men. You’ll look back on Broughty Ferry as the very pinnacle of your policing career.”

We left Mr Sempill then and he never emerged from his room for the rest of the day. Not that it mattered, for Mr Trench had me sit with him at a desk in the front office and I typed while he dictated his story. It took quite a time and he smoked a remarkable number of cigarettes, but we got it done.

“I am inclined to believe,” said Mr Trench, “that robbery was the motive of the crime and that the person who committed the crime probably got a considerable sum of money in the deceased lady’s handbag.

“I have investigated numerous clues; an enormous mass of correspondence has been received from all over the country from all sorts and conditions of people; letters containing ideas, suggestions and theories have all had close attention, but all have come to nothing. I have personally interviewed the numerous witnesses who speak to having seen various men in the grounds or leaving the grounds surrounding Elmgrove and whose statements have been supplied to the Procurator Fiscal. In conjunction with Deputy Chief Constable Davidson of the Dundee Police, I have made many inquiries in Dundee, but all without definite result.”

Here Mr Trench rehearsed the long catalogue of injuries inflicted upon Miss Milne’s body, paying particular attention to the discovery of the wounds caused by the carving fork and the many times and different locations where she was stabbed. I prefer not to record that here, as it is too distressing.

“Keeping an open mind on the murder, I incline strongly to the theory that robbery was the motive of the crime, and that probably the person who committed it had slipped into the house by the front door while Miss Milne was in the grounds collecting roses and pieces of holly to decorate the dining room table, as numerous dishes on the table contained roses and other flowers, and that probably Miss Milne, on coming into the house, discovered the person in the dining room and threatened to telephone for the police, when her assailant seized the carving fork, which may have been lying or the drawer may have been open a little, showing the weapon. He drove it repeatedly into her back and as she spun round drove it into her body, as shown by the various punctures in her clothing, finishing his ghastly work by battering her head with the poker.