The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5) (12 page)

When I eventually arrived home, I found Lizzie awaiting me eagerly, demanding to know what I’d learned at Putney. Biddle had told them where I’d gone. It wasn’t all he’d done.

‘I’m afraid,’ said Lizzie, ‘that Constable Biddle has eaten your pork chops.’

‘What?’ All the way home the image of a plate of fried chops had filled my head. I had dwelled on it to disguise the memory of Croft’s certainty that there had been no mystery regarding Sheldon’s death.

‘He looked hungry,’ explained my wife, ‘and we didn’t know when you’d return. There is a portion of cold steak pie and plenty of cheese. Or, if you’d prefer something hot, I can cook you bacon and eggs.’

‘The steak pie will do very well,’ I said, sinking into a chair. ‘But Biddle is becoming altogether too familiar a sight here!’

‘You sent him with a message,’ she pointed out.

‘Next time I’ll send someone else!’

Lizzie waited impatiently while I ate the pie. ‘What did you learn?’ she asked, as I set down my knife and fork.

I recounted all the conversation. ‘He was more helpful than I’d anticipated; and I must say his recall was excellent. He even remembered the storm. Or perhaps it was because of the storm he remembered the day so well. So far everything has supported Mills’s tale to a remarkable degree. I believed him at the time and, if possible, I believe him even more now.’ I paused to sigh and shake my head.

‘I have to confess that the optimism I felt when talking to Croft faded on my journey home. The good doctor was satisfied as to the cause of death. After sixteen years he won’t change his mind and it would do no good if he did. If he’d had doubts at the time, well, things might have been different.’

‘But why did they move the body?’ demanded Lizzie obstinately. ‘Why all that piece of theatre with a mustard plaster? It is grotesque and can only have been in an attempt to fudge the circumstances of his death.’

‘Croft didn’t find it grotesque. He believed they were only unwilling to accept Sheldon had died. He’s known “dead men” sit up. So have I. Dr Carmichael, who has carried out so many postmortems at police request, told me that he has twice in a long career begun an incision only for the “corpse” to let out a groan. Sheldon’s household were trying to bring about resuscitation. No, no, it won’t do. I am afraid, Lizzie, we have reached the end of our investigations. Even if the assistant commissioner agreed to my delving further into things, I don’t know where I could now turn my attention. I don’t think even your informant, Mrs Hogget, could help. Mills would be satisfied at the efforts we’ve made.’

‘Well, something else may turn up,’ said Lizzie, refusing to accept defeat. ‘One door closes and another opens, don’t they say?’

‘Not in police investigations, my dear, or not often.’

‘Pah!’ said my wife robustly. ‘You are only tired. Look how many doors have been slammed in your face – metaphorically speaking – since you first heard Mills’s story. You haven’t given up and I know you won’t now. Something will turn up, you’ll see. Keep your fingers crossed!’

There is a saying that one should be careful what one wishes for.

Chapter Nine

THE NEXT two days, although busy from the point of view of the Yard, found me concerned with matters of deception, burglary and other ways of theft, including demanding money with menaces. I also had reports of rape, bigamy and child abandonment: all the things that go on in great cities and small villages up and down the land, to a greater or lesser degree, and serve to erode any confidence a police officer ever had in his fellow man. I was forced to put Fox House out of my mind. But not the disappearance of Jane Canning and her daughter, Charlotte.

Mr Hubert Canning could not be considered a matter of routine, but his appearance had become almost as regular a feature in my life as any of the others.

I was expecting to see him, after reading the letter from my colleague in Southampton. I anticipated that Miss Stephens, following Hughes’s visit, would have contacted Canning about his wife’s disappearance, demanding to know what had happened to her great-niece. Sure enough, Canning erupted into my office in his usual manner, with that mix of outrage and pomposity I’d come to associate with him.

‘This is disgraceful!’ he announced, glaring at me.

‘Do sit down, Mr Canning,’ I invited him. ‘Tell me, what is disgraceful?’

Canning plumped himself down on a chair pushed forward by the obliging Constable Biddle. He shook a forefinger at me. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know to what I refer!’

‘Mr Canning,’ I told him as calmly as I could, ‘I am a very busy man. The whole of Scotland Yard is a busy place and the police force, as a body, is constantly being called upon for all manner of urgent matters. We are continuing to search for your wife and daughter. I do hope that we shall soon have some news of them. When we do, I’ll contact you at once.’ Canning opened his mouth but before he could speak, I continued, ‘You will understand, therefore, that your continual appearance here does nothing to help and a certain amount to hinder.’

Canning’s mouth opened and closed several times. His complexion darkened to an unhealthy purple and I was about to send Biddle for a glass of water when the visitor spoke.

‘How dare you, Inspector Ross? How dare you?’ he asked in a croak. ‘I shall complain about your attitude. I shall make formal written complaint to the highest level! May I remind you that I am a taxpayer, a respectable citizen, of blameless reputation both in personal and in business matters. You are a public servant. I have been under considerable strain since the departure of my wife, taking our daughter. I should have thought that by now you could have found
some
trace of them! But do you go out looking for them? No. Instead, you contact another police officer, in Southampton, and he – he . . .’ Canning spluttered in rage. ‘He was so brazen as to call upon an elderly lady in poor health, my wife’s great-aunt, springing upon her, with no warning, the distressing news – that I’d hoped to keep from her – and leaving her in a state of alarm and despondency. It is a miracle she did not collapse with the shock!’

‘Inspector Hughes was surprised,’ I said, ‘that you had not already been in touch with Miss Stephens to tell her what had happened.’

‘Am I speaking to a brick wall?’ yelled Canning. ‘I did not want the lady disturbed or troubled with this matter. I made it clear to you that my wife would not have gone to Southampton. Indeed, she would have no means of getting there.’

‘The railway?’ I suggested.

He looked taken aback, then shook his head. ‘No, no, she would not have had sufficient money on her.’

Aha! I thought. ‘The housekeeping fund?’ I inquired mildly.

‘Mrs Bell takes care of the housekeeping,’ he snapped.

‘Mrs Canning’s personal allowance?’

‘Mrs Canning’s necessary expenses – her dresses and so forth – are taken care of by me. All bills are sent to me. I settle them.’

‘Well, then, her – what is commonly called “pin money” – her day to day small expenditure, what of that?’

‘Oh, well,’ said Canning, beginning to look uncomfortable, ‘she would have had a little petty cash for trifles – little treats for the child, that sort of thing. But
you
claim to have seen Jane two days after she left the house. You tell me she was living under a railway arch! If so, it is clear she had no money or had spent all she had on her.’

So now it seemed Canning accepted it had been his wife I’d encountered that night. But I’d learned an important thing. Jane Canning had been allowed only the smallest sums of actual cash. Why? Not because Canning was mean, in the usual sense. No, because he had feared something of this sort – that she might leave – and he meant to ensure she could not.

‘I think you have not been entirely frank with us, Mr Canning,’ I said. ‘I believe your wife has run away from your home of her own volition and you have known this from the beginning. It is not our job here at Scotland Yard to solve domestic disputes. However, it is our concern to find your daughter. To do that, we must find the mother. I’ll continue to do everything possible, but I do not expect, Mr Canning, to have you here in my office haranguing me and failing to cooperate by not volunteering all the facts! I would remind you that if you had come to us at once and not waited two days, there is a strong possibility we would have found Mrs Canning by now. Certainly, when I encountered a well-spoken woman with a young child sleeping beneath the arches, I would have suspected at once it might be your wife. You see? It is not the fault of Scotland Yard that the trail has grown cold.’

Canning stood up. ‘And I do not expect to be spoken to in this manner by you, Inspector Ross! Be assured, I shall make a formal complaint.’

‘You are free to do so, Mr Canning.’

Canning huffed at me, but found no more words. He turned and strode out.

‘I thought the gentleman was going to have a fit, sir,’ said Biddle.

‘Not if it didn’t suit his purpose!’ I said crisply. ‘Mr Canning is something of an actor, I fancy. His position is weak and he knows it. Off you go, Constable, I think you must have work to do.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Biddle, hurrying out.

It was three days after my visit to Putney, and the day following Canning’s visit, that I was summoned to Superintendent Dunn’s office at mid-morning. Canning has made the formal complaint he threatened, I thought, as I made my way there. He has probably written to the commissioner. I braced myself and mentally marshalled my defence.

But Dunn was not alone when I arrived. He had a police sergeant with him, one totally unknown to me. He was a stocky fellow with a ginger moustache who stood rigidly to attention by Dunn’s desk, his helmet tucked under his arm.

‘Good,’ said Dunn, as I came in. ‘There you are. This is Sergeant Hepple from Wandsworth Division. He has been sent by Inspector Morgan there to request our help. They have a murder investigation on their hands, it seems.’ Dunn gestured to Hepple to take up the tale.

Hepple turned to me and saluted with his free hand. ‘A woman’s body has been found by the river on the mud, sir—’ he began.

‘Jane Canning?’ I interrupted in dismay, looking at Dunn.

‘What? No, not her.’ Dunn waved away my interruption irritably. ‘That has been established. The sergeant will explain how and why.’

‘The body was found at around half past eight this morning, sir, at low water just below Putney Bridge,’ resumed Hepple. ‘It was discovered by a bit of luck. The tide had turned and was coming back in. Low water last night was shortly before three. That meant high water this morning would be around a little before nine. You’ll understand, sir, that the body had to be removed from the location where it was discovered because the water would soon have covered it. It is at present in temporary housing; not a proper mortuary but a nearby shed of some sort.’

‘This is not an accident or suicide, some poor wretch leaping from the bridge?’ I asked. ‘The body could have been deposited there when the tide went out.’ (Maria Tompkins had sprung to my mind.) ‘Are we sure this is a murder?’ I looked at Hepple.

‘The outer clothing is muddied and damp. But her petticoat and, er, stays and so on, they are all dry and clean, sir,’ said Hepple confidently. ‘She has not been in the water. A doctor has attended and, in advance of a proper postmortem, has suggested she has been strangled.’

A murder, then, almost certainly. ‘Is there any indication as to her identity?’

‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed Hepple. ‘She is well known in the area, having lived there many years. Her name is Rachel Sawyer and she was employed as a housekeeper to Mr and Mrs Lamont at Fox House in Putney.’

I could not repress a gasp and turned to Dunn.

He was watching me with a gleam in his eye. ‘I thought you’d be interested in this one and that you would be the best person to investigate it, since you already know something about that household! So take Morris and get over there. Sergeant Hepple here will conduct you.’

I turned to Hepple. ‘The body is in a shed, you say? Who is guarding it?’

‘One of our constables, sir. He won’t let anyone near, other than the doctor, of course. He’s a local man, a Dr Croft.’

‘Dr Croft! I understood Dr Croft had retired from practice!’ I exclaimed unwisely. From the corner of my eye I saw Dunn twitch an eyebrow at me in warning.

‘Oh,’ said Hepple, surprised, ‘you know the doctor, do you? Yes, he’s getting on a bit and doesn’t see patients on a regular basis. But he’s been of help to us a few times, acting as a police surgeon when needed.’

‘I will sign off the cost of a cab as necessary expense,’ said Dunn.

So it was that very soon after, I, together with Morris and Sergeant Hepple, found ourselves crammed into a four-wheeler, of the sort nicknamed a growler from the rumble of its wheels, and similar to that driven by Wally Slater. I wished it had been Slater’s cab. That would at least have been clean. There was a strong smell of wine dregs coming from these squabs suggesting that the previous night some gentlemen had been conveyed home in it, after spending the evening carousing. Some women of the town had accompanied them – and it was not hard to detect that. The overpowering scent of cheap perfume mingling with the wine told me. Our discomfort was increased by our cramped conditions. None of the three of us could be described as of small build. Hepple sat facing Morris and myself, his helmet on his knees and pearls of sweat running down his face and collecting in his ginger moustache, which acted as a sort of sponge. From time to time he mopped it with a large red-checked handkerchief.

‘Let us not waste the time,’ I said to him. ‘Tell us everything from the beginning. Leave nothing out.’

‘Well, sir,’ began Hepple, ‘there’s not a great deal as I can tell you that I didn’t mention already, upstairs in the superintendent’s office – at the Yard.’ Hepple spoke the word ‘Yard’ with deep reverence. ‘Around half past eight, some youngsters down on the mudflats came upon a woman’s body. They were what they call “mudlarks”, sir, hunting for anything left by the river as the level dropped. They went running up from the river towards the High Street to seek help and ran straight into the parish clerk of that church, who was on his way to open up the building for the day. He went with them to where the dead woman lay. The tide had already turned, as I explained, and he knew that it would not be long before that stretch of riverbed would be completely under water again. So he told the three boys – that’s how many of them there were, sir – to stand guard and promised them a shilling apiece if they let no one near. The clerk made it clear they mustn’t touch the body or the clothing or take anything away. He was worried they might search the pockets, you see, sir. Then he went to find someone in authority.’

The growler lurched and stopped. We heard our driver roundly cursing the coachman of a private carriage that had insisted on taking precedence, as it was entitled to do, over a hackney carriage. After a few moments we rumbled onward again.

‘Because of the urgency – the body being at risk of being covered by water – he went to the house of a magistrate, who is a member of that congregation, and was the nearest person available.’ Hepple coughed into his hand. ‘That’s Mr Harrington, sir. Mr Harrington sent one of his servants to Wandsworth police station for us. Then he went with the parish clerk back to the shore and organised the removal of the body – and in the nick of time, for the water was only inches from it by then. They carried her to a shed in the grounds of a house nearby. It’s by way of a potting shed, sir. There is a workbench in there and it was cleared and the woman laid out on that. The parish clerk had recognised her by then and declared her to be Miss Rachel Sawyer. She is the housekeeper at Fox House – or was.’ There was a pause and then Hepple added, ‘I gather she was a woman of a sour disposition.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Not from personal acquaintance with her,’ Hepple said hastily. ‘But I heard the parish clerk say it to Inspector Morgan, when we got there.’

There seemed to have been quite a crowd gathering around the temporary mortuary. ‘Was Mr Harrington, the magistrate, still there when you arrived, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir, he’d left, having business to attend to elsewhere. When we received the news at Wandsworth Inspector Morgan set out at once, ordering myself and Constable Beck to accompany him. When we arrived we found the parish clerk waiting very anxiously, as he had paid off the boys with the promised shillings, and sent them about their business. He was all alone with the body.’

‘It is a great pity,’ I said, ‘that he sent away the boys who actually discovered the body and are important witnesses. We shall have to try and find them again.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hepple, looking embarrassed. ‘I fancy Mr Morgan was very put out that they had gone. But the parish clerk was in a bit of a state and not thinking straight. We’ll find the young scamps again, never fear. They will go telling everyone they know about it and word will get back to us. Like as not they will be setting up regular guided tours, getting people to pay them a penny to show where the body was and describe it.’ Hepple cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Mr Ross, we took a look at the deceased and the parish clerk offered to go and fetch Dr Croft. I think the clerk was glad of the excuse to leave the body. He was still looking very queasy. So, Dr Croft turned up. He was alone, the clerk having made some excuse about work to do in his vestry. You will be able to speak to the doctor yourself, sir, as I think he is waiting until you arrive. Constable Beck was put on guard over the shed, I was sent to the Yard, and the gardener sent home.’