Trouble Afoot
As the doctor bent to examine the body, she stepped around to the far side of the armchair where Old Mr. Pickles sat, earning a hiss from Charity. She crouched down to get a better view. It was the first chance she’d had to see the old man clearly. His open eyes took her aback for a moment, staring but not seeing.
“A heart attack, do you think, Doctor?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
He gave her a startled look. “I don’t think…”
“Someone is claiming he was hit on the head.”
Doctor Rook stood and peered at the side of Mr. Pickles head that was exposed to view. He parted the thin hair with long, delicate fingers, before crouching down and looking at the face again.
“There appears to be an abrasion there, but virtually no blood,” he said thoughtfully.
Emma drew in a sharp breath. “Isn’t that unusual? Head wounds tend to bleed profusely, don’t they?” She knew perfectly well they did, but deferring to him would do no harm.
“Have you medical experience, Miss, er, Mrs..? he asked.
“Mrs. Emma Berry. I’m a herbalist by training, but I have seen a few deaths in my lifetime.”
“Er, yes, of course.”
Emma almost wanted to assure him that she hadn’t caused any of them herself.
“Could he have fallen, do you think?” she asked now.
“What?”
“The abrasion on the head. Could he have fallen, hit his head, got back in his chair, and then had a heart attack? He is quite elderly. I thought, when I saw him earlier today, that he didn’t look very well.”
“You spoke to him today?”
“We didn’t speak. He was having lunch at the Tearoom when I was there.”
“And what time was that?”
“Half past twelve.”
Doctor Rook lifted the right hand that was hanging loosely over the arm of the chair and flexed the fingers.
“The room is very warm,” Emma mused, almost to herself.
“Why are you two whispering?” Charity demanded. “What are you cooking up?”
“I beg your pardon, madam?” Doctor Rook stood and stared at Charity.
“Not you. Her.”
Emma stood as the doctor turned a questioning look her way. At least he had some backbone, standing up to Charity Pickles, but she wasn’t done yet.
“The matter of lividity would still come into play regardless of temperature, wouldn’t it, Doctor?” she asked, a little desperately.
“Of course.”
“And digestion of food?”
“Indeed.”
The look he gave her this time suggested he thought her a distinctly odd woman. Emma hoped she wasn’t overdoing it, but as she opened her mouth to speak again, Charity got in before her.
“Well? Was my father murdered, or did he die of a heart attack?”
“I cannot be certain from the evidence to hand,” Doctor Rook replied. “Several factors need further investigation. I will have to discuss the matter with Dr. MacArthur, but it’s likely it will require an autopsy to determine cause of death.”
“You’re cutting him up?” Grace cried in horror, her hands going to her face.
Miriam fainted into the arms of her fiancé, as Emma breathed a sigh of relief. It was at that moment the police arrived at the house.
“So, we have a dead man with a possible wound to the back of his head, and a witness who saw a person by the body with a lump of firewood in her hand.”
Sergeant Thomas Donovan had very quickly gotten to the gist of the story despite the undercurrents in the room, not least of which concerned his own Irish heritage. Emma hadn’t met him before, but she’d seen him pacing the streets in his very British bobby’s uniform, complete with helmet. He was an imposing figure, being tall and muscular, with a full beard and bushy moustache. She couldn’t imagine him standing for any nonsense.
“That’s your story, then, is it?” he asked, turning his piercing blue-eyed gaze on Miriam.
Miriam was struggling under his questioning. She hesitated for a moment, as if suddenly realising the significance of what she was claiming. Then she nodded.
“Yes. Yes,” she repeated more strongly.
“So where is this piece of firewood?”
“I think I dropped it in the basket,” Janet replied, indicating the large wicker basket tucked beside the fireplace.
Sergeant Donovan stepped forward and peered into it. Then he picked up the basket with one hand and tipped it over. It was empty.
“Are you sure you didn’t put it on the fire?”
“No. At least, I don’t think I did.”
“Why is it I shouldn’t arrest you for the murder of your grandfather?” he asked, as he put the wicker basket back down.
Janet seemed to shrink, trying to disappear behind her father, who immediately put an arm around her shoulder in a display of support and affection that Emma hadn’t expected of Nathaniel Pickles. It seemed to surprise Janet a little, as well.
“She told you the firewood was on the floor, and she’d just picked it up when Miriam came into the room,” Nathaniel said. “Besides, what possible motive could she have?”
“They argued,” Miriam said.
“If people were to kill everyone they argued with, this world would have half as many people in it,” Sergeant Donovan put in drily. “Although that might not be such a bad idea, but for all that, what was this argument supposed to be about?”
What indeed, Emma wondered.
“Grandfather’s will,” Miriam replied.
“Is that right? Money is what it’s about then, is it?”
“No,” Janet said. “Grandfather told us two days ago that he was leaving this house to me, but…”
“It’s a complete travesty of justice,” Charity cried. “I’ve worked my fingers to the bone running this place for the past thirty years, bringing in an income from boarders. We’ll challenge the will. Father clearly wasn’t thinking when he wrote it. This is my home.”
“And mine,” Nathaniel put in. “This house should pass to the three of us, father’s children.”
“Indeed,” Grace agreed.
“I don’t want the house,” Janet argued. “I’ve got a home of my own already. I told Grandfather that. It’s what we were arguing about yesterday.”
“Oh, a likely story,” Miriam said. “As if anyone would turn down owning this house. It’s more likely you killed him before he could change the will and write you out. That’s what he wanted to see you about, wasn’t it? That’s what he meant in his note.”
“What’s this about a note?” Sergeant Donovan asked.
“That’s why I was here,” Janet said. “He sent me a note telling me to come at once.”
“Do you have this note?” the Sergeant asked Janet.
She pulled a crumpled paper from her sleeve, and he took it from her.
Holding it out and squinting slightly he read aloud.
“I need to discuss the allocations in my will. Please call and see me immediately. Grandfather. Well, that’s clear enough. So, he summoned you here. What did he have to say?”
“I don’t know,” Janet cried. “He was dead already.”
“You knew he was dead?”
“No. I thought he was asleep. Miriam said he was dead. I told you that. She checked on him when he didn’t answer her. I didn’t kill him.”
“It’s premature to be charging anyone with murder just yet,” Emma said, before they got into another round of accusations. “We need the results of the autopsy before this can be taken any further.”
Sergeant Donovan’s blue eyes glittered as he turned his gaze on Emma.
“Mrs. Berry it is, I believe,” he said. “I heard you’d retired from meddling in police business.”
Emma’s eyes widened. He knew who she was? And her past?
“Justice is the responsibility of us all,” she managed to gasp.
“Aye, but I’m the one handing it out here. I’ve no need of your assistance.” Emma wasn’t sure about that, but she curtailed her annoyance and didn’t respond. “So, it’s an autopsy we’re needing, is it, Doctor?”
“I would advise it being the wiser course,” Doctor Rook replied. “But of course, that will be Dr. MacArthur’s decision. He is the coroner after all.”
“Well, then, we’d best get himself down to the surgery as soon as possible. Would you arrange for the coroner’s wagon then, Doctor?”
“Certainly. I’ll do it at once.” Doctor Rook left, and Sergeant Donovan said he would wait out front for the wagon to arrive, allowing the family to take their final leave of their family member. A man of some finer feelings, Emma was pleased to see, not that it seemed to be repeated among those remaining in the room.
“What a disaster,” Grace remarked, breaking the heavy silence that followed Sergeant Donovan’s departure. “At least while Father was alive, we had a chance of getting him to rethink his will. I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”
Charity huffed as the clock on the mantle struck five. “Dinner will be late. At least the kitchen is still mine. For the moment.”
Poor Mr. Pickles. Was his will all his family could think about?
“I need to go,” Emma said to Henrietta. “Daniel’s arriving tonight. He may be home already.”
“I doubt it, Mrs. Berry,” Nathaniel said. “He’s been held up with a broken paddle strut. We received a telegraph from Perricoota just before I was called home.”
“Oh. Thank you for that information,” Emma told him, as Henrietta cast her a sympathetic glance.
As the senior clerk at the wharf office, Nathaniel Pickles knew everything that went on along the river concerning the riverboats. Captains were required to update their schedules, and report on water levels, whenever they were able.
“I’d walk back with you, but I need to see Janet home,” Henrietta told her.
“Of course, you do.”
Emma was going to be consoling Darcy tonight too, but at least Daniel would eventually arrive. Nothing was going to be changed for Janet in the morning. Her grandfather would still be dead, and she would still be under suspicion of having killed him.
Nathaniel walked out to the front gate with the three of them, passing Sergeant Donovan who was lounging in a chair on the verandah.
“What do you think the autopsy will reveal?” Nathaniel asked Emma.
“I’m hoping it will establish time of death, at the very least,” Emma replied.
“Yes.” He didn’t sound confident.
The jingle of harness drew their attention and a hansom cab pulled up.
“I’ve just seen a very disappointed boy and his friends walking home from the wharf,” Mr. Crowley said, looking to Emma. “I suspect he could do with his mama about now. Can I offer you a lift?”
Emma suddenly realised how much she longed to be home, compounded by the disappointment of Daniel not having arrived.
“Thank you,” she told him, and promised Janet and Henrietta she would see them next day.
As Mr. Crowley drove her away, she saw Henrietta tuck her hand in Nathaniel’s elbow, her other clasping Janet’s hand as they started up the street. Emma didn’t know what had caused the Pickles estrangement, which was of long-standing, but her heart warmed to Nathaniel. His support tonight was more than just polite.
“Is everything all right in Connelly Street?” Mr. Crowley asked as he held the cab door for Emma to alight outside her home. She knew her ride had come with the price of information. He was getting too old to be going up and down from his box to open doors.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Crowley. Old Mr. Pickles died this afternoon.”
“Ah, I was afraid it must be something like that. I’m sure your friends needed you to provide comfort.”
“What little I could,” Emma told him.
She knew he suspected there was more to it, and whatever news they received on the morrow would only confirm that. Because even should it turn out to have been a heart attack that killed him, who had hit Old Mr. Pickles on the head? And why?