A Biased Judgement Page 5

  “And why do you not send in one of your own men?”

  “You know why. You’re the only one with the skill. The only man in the country I truly trust.”

  I felt mollified even though I realised he was being particularly gentle for his own ends. Few men can manipulate so well as an older, much-respected brother.

  “Well, I shall give it some thought. If I go back - mark my words, Mycroft: If I go back - it shall not be for several weeks or more. In the meantime, see if you can get any more reliable information on our friend.”

  “And what will you do in the meantime?”

  “I shall hope for a case. Something to wash away the stench of treason and politics. A decent murder, for preference.”

  I left the building by the front entrance and my two shadows waited till I reached the end of the road before they followed me. And they followed me all the way back to Baker Street.

  5

  September 18th, 1897 - Bitterne

  Well, well, all my wishes have been granted.

  I have a case. And a nice little murder it is too.

  In response to a plea from Sir Christopher Summerville, Watson and I have come to investigate the death by strangling of the upper-housemaid, Liz Derby. It is not often I am engaged when the victim is a servant, though the circumstances here are peculiar and the nature of the crime particularly heinous.

  Rillington Manor is one of the smallest estates in the kingdom and Sir Christopher has never attracted my attention. His younger brother, however, has excited my interest on more than one occasion, being a reprobate of the first order.

  My two shadows followed us all the way to Waterloo. Watson and I managed to elude them, however, and they were still searching the crowd on the drizzling platform as we pulled out on the Southampton train.

  Watson seemed preoccupied with the details of tickets and money so there was no need to trouble him about the pair. I must say, for once I am pleased to be getting out of the city. I have felt claustrophobic of late, particularly with my every move being watched. Indeed, this entire year thus far has been a disappointment. All these months and still no word of Jack. I doubt I shall ever find him now and the thought that he lives in squalor while I owe him so great a debt rankles.

  In any event, the journey to Bitterne is short enough. The train took us past Windsor Castle squatting most inelegantly on a hill. It really is a very ugly building. Watson was, predictably, appalled at my observation.

  “It’s hardly unpatriotic to express a dislike of the architecture, Watson,” I said mildly.

  He humphed and returned his attention to his newspaper.

  We arrived at Bitterne station a little after eleven and from there engaged a cab to take us to the manor.

  The estate’s park is neither large nor impressive. The drive curves to the door in a manner intended to be majestic, but, because of its brevity, succeeds only in appearing foolish. The park itself is pretty enough and though it is September, the roses are still in bloom and their scent sweetened the damp air.

  Watson and I were met by the butler and led at once to the library to meet with our client.

  Sir Christopher Summerville is a short, stout, snide individual who greeted us as if we brought in a foul odour from the city upon our clothing.

  “Mr Holmes,” he said in a disapproving manner. “I’m afraid this matter is beneath your notice, but the local constabulary insisted.”

  “Who is the officer in charge of the case?” I asked.

  “A man called Greer. Competent enough, by all accounts, but he insists this case is beyond his sphere of expertise. Don’t know why we employ the man if he is of such little worth.”

  “It is surely worthy of the man to ask for help when he needs it,” Watson observed, bristling at the slight paid to the unfortunate policeman.

  I asked if we might see where the crime had occurred and a footman was sent to escort us. Sir Christopher, dismissing us like more distasteful members of the serving classes, was glad to be rid of his unpleasant task. Soto voce, Watson said, “You’d think this unfortunate woman was murdered simply to inconvenience him.” I confess, the same thought had crossed my own mind.

  The footman, around twenty years old with, I perceived, an ailing parent, led us through a warren of cold and inelegant rooms in the highest reaches of the house: the servants’ quarters.

  The dead woman had shared a room with the kitchen maid, but the unfortunate skivvy had been sacked a few days before for theft. Until a replacement for her could be found, the victim had the room to herself. It was a luxury she had not enjoyed for long.

  “Is the body still in situ?” Watson asked.

  “Ah, no, sir, I’m afraid not,” the footman replied. “The master felt it was too upsetting...”

  We reached the dead woman’s room and stood appalled in the doorway.

  “Good God,” Watson cried. “Did the killer create this chaos?”

  Chaos was, indeed, the word for it. Every item the woman possessed had been pulled out and strewn about the room. The washbasin in the corner had been upended and the stain of water across the bare floorboards was still damp. Only the bed linen was untouched and the imprint of the dead woman remained clear upon it. She had been in a kneeling position, I perceived, with her head upon the bed.

  I knelt on the floor and tried to detect footprints on the floorboards, but it was an impossibility, even for me. Dozens of feet had crossed this room since the crime had occurred.

  “Who has been in here?” I demanded.

  “Almost everyone, I’m afraid, sir,” the footman said. “We did try to keep them out, but the master... that is to say, we were overruled.”

  “We?”

  The boy took a long breath and let it out slowly. He said nothing and it was obvious he meant to keep whatever confidence he held. I exchanged a glance with Watson and I could see he agreed with my assessment: best not force the man too soon.

  “It is of no account,” I said, with studied indifference.

  The examination of the room took only minutes to reveal it as a wasted exercise. The inquisitive and the incompetent had done an effective job of destroying all traces of value.

  Watson rummaged through the dead woman’s clothing. After a few minutes he said, “Holmes...”

  I turned to see him holding an odd garment in his hands. I took it from him and examined it. I have never seen it’s like before.

  It had the general appearance of an apron, complete with bib. However, the fabric was a thin sort of cotton which would have rendered the garment impractical for any sort of domestic purpose.

  The dingy neck strap revealed the garment had been worn next to the skin. There was another strap that tied around the waist, again, in the fashion of an apron, and the whole thing seemed like an impractical version of every other such garment. However, a minute inspection revealed this was not the case. The skirt was twice as thick as the bib. Careful study revealed that the skirt was, in fact, a large pocket. There was a neat row of small buttons along the waist to keep the contents of the pocket intact.

  “Ha!” I cried. “Well done, Watson, well done indeed!”

  “Does this suggest anything to you?” my friend asked.

  “It suggests four different possibilities, but it is premature to discuss them at present.”

  Rising to my feet, I said, “Where is Inspector Greer?”

  The boy said, “He went into the village to see if anyone might have left on the train, sir. He said he’d be back by one o’clock. It’s almost that now.”

  “Why should he be interested in train passengers?” Watson asked, anticipating me.

  “Uh, Sir Christopher says no one in this house could have committed such a dreadful crime,” the footman stammered.

  “Bah!” I cried. “What idio
cy! How could anyone else have gained access to this room? How would anyone outside know where the woman’s room was? It is evident the room has been searched; even a cretin could see the deceased was murdered for something she possessed.”

  “What was that, sir?” the footman asked. “She was only a servant. The house has any number of treasures that must surely have been far more valuable than anything she possessed.”

  I studied the boy with some amusement. “Well, here is a brain, at least, Watson!” I cried. “What is your name, lad?”

  “Stevens, sir,” the youth replied.

  “Well, Stevens, you can make yourself useful and tell us about this woman, the victim.”

  The youth beamed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Watson smiled, well aware of my technique. By inflating the footman’s ego I was likely to learn far more than he intended to impart.

  “Well, sir,” Stevens began. “The woman, Liz Derby, has only been here a few weeks. She came with good references by all account and was approved by her Ladyship as a between maid.”

  Watson, taking notes in his attentive and efficient manner, said, “Where had she worked before?”

  “Lady Redgrave’s house in Eastbourne, sir. And before that she was with Sir Anthony Michaels in Cornwall. Miss Simms, that’s the housekeeper, sir, can tell you more, I’m sure.”

  “How long had she been in these establishments, do you know?”

  “Not long, I think,” Stevens said. “But I believe her references were excellent.”

  “Were they indeed?” I said.

  “What was she like?” Watson asked. “Miss Derby.”

  “She was all right, sir. Kept to herself. Her mother lived in Golders Green and Derby went to see her every week. Said the old woman was poorly and had no one else.”

  “Indeed?” I said. “Then pray tell, why would she come to an establishment so far away from the city?”

  The youth could not answer and I moved on. “Tell me who was in this house last night.”

  As if he had been anticipating the question, the boy immediately replied, “The staff of course: Mr Reynolds the butler; Miss Simms, the housekeeper; Mrs Bracken, the cook; then there’s a Lady’s maid, a parlour maid and one footman, which is to say me, sir. Then there’s Sir Christopher, Lady Summerville and the guests. That would be Mr and Mrs Beecham, Sir Edmund Villiers, Monsieur Perrot, and Lady Beatrice.”

  “And how many of these would have access to Miss Derby’s room?”

  “Everyone,” the lad replied at once.

  “Of course,” Watson said with a groan.

  “Well, sir,” Stevens said. “Servants are not permitted to lock their doors.”

  Before I could reply, there was a tentative knock and a very thin, very precise man of about forty came into the room.

  “Mr Holmes?” he inquired looking from me to the doctor and back again.

  “Inspector Greer, I presume?” I replied. The man and I shook hands then I turned to the footman. “Thank you, Stevens, you have been of inestimable use.”

  The servant nodded and left the room with the greatest reluctance. I waited till I heard his footstep fade into the distance before turning to the policeman.

  “This crime scene was not preserved, Inspector. Badly done.”

  “I know it, Mr Holmes,” he replied. “Though in my defence I should point out most of the disarray occurred before I arrived on the scene. Once the alarm was raised, I think the entire house arrived here to gawp. Indeed, I believe more than an hour passed before I was even sent for.”

  “And the searching of the room: you were not responsible for that?”

  “No indeed, sir.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “The footman, Stevens. The lad who was just here.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Just before six am. Miss Derby was expected downstairs by five-thirty in order to make tea for the servants, make the fires and so on. When she didn’t arrive the housekeeper sent the footman to look for her.”

  “Whose room is adjacent to this?”

  “The upstairs maid and the parlour maid share, Mr Holmes. But they deny hearing anything.”

  “Yet this disarray - it could hardly have been conducted in silence.”

  “If I may, Holmes,” Watson interjected. “Many servants work sixteen hour days and much of it is heavy labour. In my experience very few of them suffer from insomnia.”

  I thought about that. “Yes, that’s a fair point. Thank you, Watson: The font of knowledge for all things domestic, as always.”

  Watson wrinkled his nose, fully aware that the remark was as much insult as it was complement, but knowing me well enough to appreciate it was not meant unkindly.

  “Inspector, I wonder if you have yet had the opportunity to inquire at the deceased’s former employers for particulars of her character.”

  “Yes indeed,” he replied, looking relieved that he had done something right, at least. “I sent inquiries right away, Mr Holmes. I should hear back this afternoon, I think.”

  “And do you have any theories as to the motive behind the crime?”

  He swelled up with pride at being asked. Watson smirked behind the Inspector’s back.

  “Well, sir,” Greer replied. “It does seem rather a crime of passion. Strangulation, I mean. It looked very much as if the woman and another, probably a man, were quarrelling and he lost control.”

  “But surely even the soundest of sleepers would have been roused by what would certainly have been a loud quarrel? In any event, this crime scene has been essentially silenced. We shall go and see the body - I assume it has been taken to the morgue?”

  “It has, sir. I have a pony and trap outside; we can be at the morgue in no more than fifteen minutes.”

  “Let us away, then!”

  Once in the trap I asked the man to explain his extraordinary behaviour in going to the train station. “It really was most inefficient, inspector,” I said.

  “It was, I know, Mr Holmes. But Sir Christopher insisted and he’s a very hard man to deny. Besides, I had hoped to meet you there. I must have just missed you.”

  “So it would seem.”

  The morgue was in the bowels of the local hospital. We descended a stone staircase outside the building, our footsteps echoing in the stillness, and entered. There was an attendant on duty; a slovenly-looking man who stank. Within, the corpse of the victim lay upon a marble slab, a once-white sheet tossed indifferently over her.

  I drew my magnifying glass and began my study.

  The woman was about 27 years of age but looked much older. Every detail of her hard life was etched in the lines on her face and the course and reddened hands. As always, I worked methodically starting at the scalp and moving steadily down to her feet. I noted the curvature of her spine; the well-developed musculature of her arms; the rotting state of her teeth. She smelled of gin.

  A discoloured brown stain around the back of her neck was unconnected with the cause of death. The ring of black bruises around the throat with two prominent beneath the jaws were, however. The hyoid bone was crushed and the course, fleshy tissue around the front of the neck showed eight well-defined bruises.

  “Petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes... Manual strangulation, Watson,” I observed. “You see: here are the prints of the killer’s fingers beneath the jaw and the larger imprints of the thumbs on the back of the neck. He strangled her from behind.”

  “He?”

  “The hyoid has been crushed, so the killer was likely a man; I doubt a woman would have had enough strength to cause such damage, though I would not completely rule out the possibility. The victim’s fingernails are broken where the victim tried to fight him - or her - off. Inspector, was there any tissue beneath the woman’s fingerna
ils? I perceive she has been bathed and her nails cleaned.”

  “I don’t, uh, recall,” the man replied. He had, at least, the grace to look embarrassed. As well he might.

  “Would anyone have noticed?” Watson asked, anticipating my annoyance. “Perhaps that footman?”

  The Inspector bit his lower lip. I sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to weep. “Uh, possibly,” he said. “There was so much confusion, you see; servants weeping and Sir Christopher shouting... It’s no excuse, I know. I’m really very sorry, Mr Holmes.”

  “Your sorrow will not solve this case,” I said.

  I turned my attention to the dead woman’s clothing and here, at last, was a point of interest.

  “Aha!” I said, picking up the woman’s shoes, a stout pair of plain black brogues the soles of which were caked with dark red mud.

  “What is it, Holmes?” Watson asked, peering over my shoulder to see what I was looking at.

  I indicated the shoes, but the point eluded him. I motioned the beleaguered policeman to come forward. “You see here, Inspector,” said I. “These shoes are curious, are they not?”

  “A fine pair of shoes, hardly worn. What of them?’

  “These shoes are manufactured by Church’s. You will not find a better shoe in all of England. I doubt you will find this particular style for less than eighteen shillings; a small fortune for a between maid whose annual income is a mere six or seven pounds.”

  “Closer to five for her,” the inspector said. “Its common knowledge Sir Christopher pays the very lowest end of the scale for servants. But how on earth could she afford such an extravagance?”

  “How indeed?” I said.

  I examined the small pile of clothes on the bench but there was nothing of consequence.

  “This is what she was wearing when she was found?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mr Holmes,” the Inspector replied. “Her work clothes and her shoes.”

  “Getting ready to start her day,” Watson mused. I shot him a glance.