The Testimony of the Hanged Man (Lizzie Martin 5) (19 page)

Now Fate – or Chance – took a hand again. As I had been taking my time to look about me, I couldn’t help but notice how many of the people were heading in the same direction as us, and all seemed to be carrying baggage in one form or another. Teams of sweating horses hauled trams crowded with passengers and their belongings. I mentioned the busy state of the area to Hughes.

‘Well, such coming and going is normal,’ he replied. ‘There is the railway terminus close by here, of course, but also just ahead of us is the Victoria Pier. A regular paddle steamer service crosses from there to Le Havre, and to the Channel Islands as well.’

I think it was the mention of the Channel Islands that put Charles Lamont into my mind and, as it were, focused my eye as well as if I’d had a telescope. I have often wondered since if but for Hughes’s words I would have noticed him among so many hurrying figures all carrying bags and bundles. But it was as if Hughes were a conjuror, for there was Lamont striding out some forty to fifty feet ahead of us, bag in hand. Even so, it was hard to believe I was not imagining him.

‘Morris!’ I called out. ‘Isn’t that Charles Lamont up ahead? Tell me I’m not mistaken.’

‘Bless my soul!’ exclaimed Morris. ‘That’s the fellow well enough.’

‘We must stop that man and arrest him!’ I urged the astonished Hughes. ‘See him? That smart-looking fellow marching along!’

As I spoke Lamont, perhaps alerted by some sixth sense that he had become an object of interest, turned his head and we saw his fine moustache. That dispelled all doubt. His expression, as he registered my presence, was quite comical at first in its disbelief. Then it turned to horror. He flung away the portmanteau he carried, and ran.

‘He is a suspect in a murder case in London. He’s trying to flee the country!’ I called to Hughes. ‘Come on, Morris!’

If Hughes had been going to object, the sight of a fleeing man took care of his qualms. A man running from officers is a man who must be stopped.

We all pounded forward, abandoning the astonished ladies. I raced past the bag Lamont had flung down; noticing as I did that some opportunist was already grabbing hold of it. The same had happened to Lamont’s hat. It had fallen off and, caught by the wind, bowled through the air to drop neatly into the arms of a dockside idler. But we could not stop for any of that. Lamont ducked and weaved through the throng, taking full advantage of the fact that the same crowd impeded us in our pursuit.

In any other packed location some public-minded persons might have joined the chase. Someone did raise a cry of ‘Stop, thief!’ But no one else was prepared to abandon their bags as Lamont had done. This was a gathering of respectable pillars of society: the sort that leave tangling with the criminal classes to others. Only a few ragamuffin children, there to offer to carry bags or show people the way to the boat (both offers best refused), ran alongside Lamont – and they were cheering him on.

I do believe the fellow might even have escaped us, but to his misfortune and our good luck he came up against an unexpected obstacle. A pair of weather-beaten seafaring fellows, crew of the paddle steamer perhaps, came rolling out of a public house just as he reached the doorway. Lamont had chosen that moment to glance back and, not having his eye on the way ahead, cannoned into them. We saw how he swore at them and tried to push them aside. But they objected to such impoliteness and caught at his arms. He struggled furiously, kicking out at them.

We arrived just in time to prevent Lamont being on the receiving end of some rough treatment and to take him into custody.

As we came face to face, his first words were, ‘My wife knows nothing of this!’

Chapter Fifteen

WE RETURNED to London not as a party of four including the child, as anticipated, but as a party of six. Lamont was handcuffed to Morris and simmered in a sullen rage. Both women regarded him with some alarm. The shackled man was also causing much whispered comment all around, so Morris removed himself and his prisoner to a different carriage while I travelled with the ladies. I had telegraphed ahead to Superintendent Dunn to let him know of developments. Thus when we arrived at Waterloo Station in the early evening I was not surprised to find him waiting for us at the barrier.

Dunn raised his hat politely to the ladies and introduced himself. Then he turned to Morris.

‘There is a prison van waiting outside. Take your prisoner over to Bow Street and lock him in a cell there, Sergeant,’ he ordered. ‘We can deal with him in the morning.’

When Morris and the scowling Lamont had left us, Dunn turned briskly to the business in hand.

‘I shall accompany you, Ross, to St John’s Wood, with the ladies. I have a growler waiting for us outside.’

We stepped out into the area before the station just in time to see the ‘Black Maria’ with Lamont inside it being driven away. Dunn was pointing in the opposite direction. Why was I not surprised to see Wally Slater’s ex-prizefighter’s features crumpled in what was supposed to be a smile? He was waiting beside his cab. It was drawn up away from the regular cab rank and bore a hand-printed notice reading ‘reserved’.

Wally whisked the notice out of sight into the pocket of his coat. ‘Good evening, gentlemen and ladies.’

‘To St John’s Wood, cabbie,’ ordered Dunn. ‘Tell him the exact address, Ross.’

For a moment I feared Slater – who must have seen Lamont loaded into the Black Maria – was about to deliver some observation on our apparent success. But he merely replied, ‘Right-o, gents, leave it to me and Victor.’

The early evening traffic was busy and it took us a while to reach our destination. Charlotte, exhausted by the long day and the train journey, had fallen asleep cradled in her mother’s arms. Jane looked down at her sleeping child, her expression sadly resigned.

Miss Stephens, observing the chaos that was normal for central London at that hour of the day, observed, ‘This is very disorganised. Cannot it be better arranged?’ Apart from that, no one spoke until we were almost at our destination. Then Miss Stephens addressed Dunn.

‘Is Mr Canning expecting to see my niece and his daughter tonight?’

‘He has been informed, ma’am,’ replied Dunn.

‘Well, we must face up to that. There is perhaps some modest but well-appointed hotel in the area? I do not think Mr Canning will wish to have me under his roof tonight. As for Jane . . .’ She glanced at the mother and sleeping child. ‘I do not think my niece will wish to spend the night in the same house as Mr Canning, or that he will want her there. But I suppose we shall be obliged to leave the child with him?’

‘Certainly for the moment, ma’am,’ said Dunn politely.

Jane said very quietly, ‘If Hubert will allow it, I would like to stay with Charlotte.’

The door was opened to us by Mrs Bell, who must have been waiting impatiently for our arrival. There was no sign of either of the housemaids. Mrs Bell stared at us stonily before inviting us to enter the house. We trooped into the hall. Then, at one and the same time, Hubert Canning came out of the parlour into the hall, and the nursemaid, Ellen Brady, running down the stairs, erupted on to the scene.

‘Praise be to the blessed Lord and all his saints! Haven’t I prayed for this moment? To see the darling child safe and sound – and you, too, Mrs Canning.’

Charlotte stirred but did not fully wake. Hastily Jane placed her daughter in Ellen’s arms and ordered, ‘Please take her upstairs and put her to bed in the nursery, Ellen.’

Ellen bore her charge away. Although he’d been expecting his wife and me, Canning had probably not been expecting Dunn. Certainly, from his shocked expression, he had not anticipated seeing Miss Stephens with us. He turned back into the parlour, and we all followed. Mrs Bell closed the door after us, but I was sure she waited outside in the hall, hoping to overhear what was said.

‘I am obliged to you, gentlemen, for finding and returning my daughter,’ said Canning stiffly to Dunn and myself. He had taken up a position before the hearth, feet spread and hands behind his back. He turned his head towards the elder lady. ‘I had not anticipated seeing you, Miss Stephens.’

‘You did not think I would allow Jane to return, with the little girl, under police escort without coming too?’ she retorted. ‘That would have been most remiss of me.’

Canning flushed and muttered, ‘Yes, quite so.’ He had been careful not to look at his wife in all this time. Now he turned to her, open hostility on his face. ‘You, madam, have disgraced me and disgraced yourself. You may go wherever you will. You will not remain under this roof.’

‘Jane and I,’ said Miss Stephens loudly before either Dunn or myself could reply, ‘will take rooms in a suitable hotel nearby. Mr Quartermain will arrive tomorrow and we shall consult with him.’

‘Who the devil is Mr Quartermain?’ roared Canning, his complexion turning dark red and his Vandyke beard quivering.

‘Mr Quartermain is a lawyer I have engaged to act on my niece’s behalf,’ retorted Miss Stephens.

‘Have you, egad? Well, ma’am, you may engage as many lawyers as you wish. My daughter remains here with me, under my roof, and in my protection.’ Canning swung round to face Dunn and myself. ‘I don’t know what the procedure will be now with regard to yourselves. I do not wish any charges to be pressed against Mrs Canning with regard to her behaviour and her abduction of my daughter. That would cause too much gossip. I want – I need this to be kept as quiet as possible. I, too, shall take legal advice first thing in the morning. I don’t believe I need trouble the police any further.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Dunn calmly, ‘we shall need to trouble you a little more. But that can wait until tomorrow. Then, perhaps, you might care to present yourself at Scotland Yard, together with your legal adviser.’

‘Whatever for?’ cried Canning.

‘There is the matter of your having made a false report, sir. You claimed your wife and child had been kidnapped by unknown agents; something you knew not to be true. You did not explain to us the precise sequence of events that had led to your wife leaving. Considerable police time and resources have been expended. However, we can discuss that tomorrow. I shall see the ladies safely settled into a hotel. Goodnight, sir.’

Outside, as Slater was helping the women into the growler, Dunn said to me in a low voice, ‘You can leave Canning to me. When he turns up with his solicitor tomorrow, we shall probably issue him a stern warning and leave it at that. He has been a nuisance but it would be difficult, if not impossible, to bring any serious charge against him. It will now be all up to the lawyers to decide the future of the Cannings’ domestic arrangements – and the little girl. You had better concentrate on the Putney murder. Will you go there tonight and inform Mrs Lamont we have her husband in custody?’

I opened my mouth to reply, but Slater had returned. I asked him if he knew of any small, respectable hotels in the area.

‘I know just the place, gents,’ he informed us. ‘Leave it to me.’

We joined the women inside the growler. Jane was weeping softly.

‘I shall not see my daughter again, Inspector Ross. She will be so frightened when she wakes tomorrow and I am not there – and don’t appear.’

Her aunt patted her arm. ‘There, there, my dear. The nursemaid appears to have a real affection for the child. You need not fear for her wellbeing. Let us wait and see what Mr Quartermain has to say when he arrives in London tomorrow.’

A great deal seemed to be riding on Mr Quartermain. I hoped he did not let his clients down.

The hotel to which Wally Slater drove us appeared eminently suitable, so we left the two women there.

‘Well, Ross?’ Dunn asked as we returned to the waiting growler.

‘I would prefer,’ I said, ‘not to go all the way to Putney tonight. The light is already fading and by the time I get there, it will be dark. Lamont told me his wife knows nothing of all this, but I am not so sure. I believe they are in it together and the whole thing goes back to the murder of Isaiah Sheldon, all those years ago. Let Mrs Lamont wait and worry a little. I’ll go there first thing in the morning.’

‘Very well, I’ll leave it to your judgement as you have met the woman already. Get this cab to take you home. You have further to go than I do. I’ll walk, or take another cab if I see one.’

‘There is one thing, sir,’ I said with some trepidation.

‘Well?’

‘I should like to take my wife with me tomorrow, when I go to interview Amelia Lamont.’ I held my breath. What I asked was, to say the least, irregular.

‘Why?’ asked Dunn with remarkable calm, but with a sharp eye on me.

‘Mrs Lamont is a wealthy woman of good social standing in her community. We have Lamont because he tried to flee the country. She was not with him. She is, presumably, still sitting at home in Putney, utterly respectable to all eyes. Many people might believe her the wronged party, the deserted wife, the woman who foolishly married a villain. We cannot simply bring her in and question her as we might do a—’

‘A common criminal?’ suggested Dunn, a dry note in his voice.

‘That’s just it, sir. It is one thing for me to believe she
is
a common criminal: a murderess who killed a member of her family . . .’

‘Not yet proved!’ warned Dunn.

‘I shall get the evidence! Moreover, she and her husband have conspired, I do believe, in the death of Rachel Sawyer, and I’ll get the truth out of the pair of them. But you are right in what I think you were implying. We cannot treat Amelia Lamont like a brothel madam or petty thief. She is a clever woman, in the world’s view blameless, whom the public will find hard to believe so wicked. So I need someone with me who will understand such a woman, that is, understand how her mind might work far better than I. Another woman might notice things in the behaviour of Amelia Lamont, or in her general demeanour, that might not strike a male observer. I would value Lizzie’s keen eye.’

I was about to add that Mrs Lamont had fainted on me once and, if the faint had been a trick, it was one I thought she was less likely to repeat before a female witness.

But Dunn spoke. ‘Very well, but discretion, Ross. Above all, discretion!’

He strode away, perhaps before he could change his mind.

I heaved a sigh of relief. ‘To my house, Wally,’ I said to Slater.

‘Get you there in no time, Inspector Ross,’ the cabbie assured me. ‘Giddyup, Victor!’

Elizabeth Martin Ross

It had grown late by the time Ben had finished recounting everything that had happened that day. I was happy to hear that Jane Canning and her daughter were safe, but could only feel deep sympathy for poor Jane. I was sure her fears that she would be parted from her child were well founded.

Ben told me that he had requested permission of Superintendent Dunn to take me with him to Putney in the morning, though I would be an observer only. I was astonished that Dunn had agreed to let me go with Ben, provided I kept quiet. I told him, rather indignantly, that of course I wouldn’t interrupt. I knew that Ben had asked for me to be allowed to go because he was so worried about the interview with Amelia Lamont. So we fell to discussing the murder of Rachel Sawyer, and how best to approach Mrs Lamont.

‘She doesn’t know we have Lamont in custody,’ Ben warned. ‘I shall have to tell her that first. I don’t know if she’ll fall flat on the carpet, as she did before, or go into hysterics. I don’t know if you will need to bring her round, or calm her down, or both, Lizzie. I just don’t want Johnson, the butler, coming in with his jug of water!’

It had grown late, but who could sleep with so many unanswered questions still buzzing about in both our brains? Perhaps we could not find the answers, just sitting and talking, but perhaps we might find what my father often called ‘the end of the string’. I quoted this to Ben, who asked what it meant.

‘Why, that events are connected and if we start with one end of the string and follow it along, we’ll come to the end of it eventually.’

‘Your father was an optimist,’ Ben said.

‘He was a very practical man, a doctor. If a patient came to him complaining of assorted symptoms, he had to follow those to the source of the problem.’

‘I have been trying to deal with three patients at once, if you want to put it that way,’ said Ben. ‘I have returned Charlotte Canning to her father. I have Charles Lamont in a cell. Now I have to tackle Amelia Lamont and I remain horribly afraid she may be the trickiest.’ He sighed. ‘I just wish I could remember what it was I saw, on my first visit to Fox House, that has lodged in my mind like a splinter in the skin.’ He tapped his fingers irritably on the arm of his chair. ‘I had hoped, on my second visit there, to be shown into that parlour again, the one in which Isaiah Sheldon died. Then I might have noticed whatever it was again, and I’d have known what train of thought it started. But I was shown into the back parlour and had no opportunity.’

‘All right,’ I suggested, ‘tell me again what you observed on your first visit, during the few minutes you were alone there before Lamont and his wife came in.’

Ben leaned back, closed his eyes, and said, ‘I saw what James Mills saw, when he looked into the window sixteen years ago. That is what struck me: how little it had changed, if Mills’s description is accurate. I think his description must be exact because it was all so recognisable. Oh, there were new chairs, either side of the hearth, but they stood where Mills claimed the previous chairs had been.’

‘So, what did you see?’ I persisted. ‘The butler had shown you into the room. He’d left you, closed the door?’

‘Yes, Johnson closed the door on me. I was there alone for perhaps five or six minutes. Let’s see, if I stood with the door behind me, the window was to my right. There was an oil lamp on a small table by it, just as Mills described there being. The grandfather clock he mentioned still stood against the far wall. To my left was the hearth, with a chair set either side of it. No fire in the hearth when I was there, of course.’