‘ANTIMONY,’ SAID DUNCAN Cameron, seated in his study by a brightly burning fire with his friend and colleague, James Clifton. ‘A most unusual choice of poison.’
‘Antimony, you say,’ said Clifton, sipping his brandy. ‘Never heard of it. This was the stuff that killed Charles Cranbrook?’
‘Precisely,’ said Cameron. ‘As a chemist, I’m well acquainted with it. A brittle, bluish-white metal, highly caustic. When you mix the metal’s oxide with cream of tartar, you produce tartar emetic, small, white crystals.’ He stroked Smith, the orange cat lying on the sofa beside him, eliciting a purr. ‘The autopsy performed on Cranbrook found traces of tartar emetic everywhere, in his mouth, throat, and stomach, but especially in the intestines.’
‘Hmmph,’ said Clifton, listening to the wind and rain outside the window. ‘What does the poison do?’
‘In extremely small doses,’ said Cameron, ‘say one or two grains, it has an emetic effect, inducing vomiting. Three grains can be used as a sedative, resulting in unconsciousness. Any larger dose is invariably fatal. A single grain administered to Smith, for example,’ – he patted the cat on the head – ‘and he’d be as dead as a doornail.’ The cat leapt from the sofa, swishing its ringed tail in the face of the black Scottie dog curled at Cameron’s feet. ‘The doctor who conducted the autopsy,’ continued Cameron, ‘Joseph Payne, good man, concluded that Cranbrook ingested between thirty and forty grains, over ten times the lethal dose. It completely destroyed the poor fellow’s digestive tract, turning his bowels to shredded pulp.’
‘How ghastly.’ Clifton rose from his chair and walked to the trolley to pour an inch of brandy. ‘Do I presume,’ he said as he returned to his chair by the fire, ‘that the mother of the deceased has engaged your services in order to cast doubt on the finding that Cranbrook was murdered?’
‘Presume nothing,’ said Cameron. ‘Establish the facts and follow where they lead you.’
‘Yes, but according to the newspaper accounts, the inquest raised the possibility that Cranbrook took his own life. What, then, has the good lady hired you to do?’
‘To identify her son’s murderer,’ said Cameron. ‘The inquest chiefly concerned itself with the scandalous affair between Mrs Cranbrook and Dr Gully—’
‘Ah, yes. The well-known practitioner of hydrotherapy.’
‘And by all accounts rather carelessly reached the conclusion that Cranbrook was murdered, without identifying a suspect, and leaving open the possibility of suicide.’
‘But certainly suicide is a plausible explanation.’
‘While there are many men, Clifton,’ said Cameron, uncrossing his long legs and leaning forward in his chair, ‘who desire to end their lives, there are very few, if any, who desire to torture themselves in the process. I can assure you, my good fellow, that death by a massive dose of tartar emetic is torture of the most horrific kind, considering how many painless methods exist for self-annihilation.’
‘O-ho!’ said Clifton. ‘I take your point. This should prove a fascinating case. How may I assist?’
‘I intend to begin,’ said Cameron, ‘with a precise reconstruction of the twenty-four hours before Cranbrook’s collapse. Meanwhile, I should like you to interview the witnesses questioned by Scotland Yard.’
‘Very well,’ said Clifton, tossing back the last of his brandy. ‘I shall start in the morning.’
The following day, bright and sunny after the storms that had swept across southern England in the night, Duncan Cameron slipped on his bowler and departed from his flat on Beaufort Gardens in Knightsbridge. With his leather case under his arm, he walked to Pont Street and climbed aboard the omnibus for the short trip to Victoria Station. Seated in the swaying railway compartment, he reread his précis of the lengthy report of the coroner’s inquest conducted two months following Charles Cranbrook’s death, shaking his head at the coroner’s court’s obsessive preoccupation with the illicit love affair between Cecilia Cranbrook and Dr James Gully. Arriving at Balham Station, Cameron made his way to the Bedford Hotel, site of the inquest, and then walked to 21 Bedford Hill Road. ‘Orwell Lodge,’ he murmured as he studied the small house with its neatly tended flowerbeds and window-boxes. Noting the ‘To Let’ sign in the window, he slipped his watch from his fob pocket, checked the time, and began strolling at a leisurely pace in the direction of Tooting Bec Common, turning onto the gravel drive that led to a large, white, neo-gothic house, by far the most impressive in the vicinity. ‘Ah,’ he said aloud. ‘The Priory.’ Again consulting his watch, he noted the elapsed time, four minutes thirty-eight seconds, and walked around to the stables behind the house. Finding the stalls empty and neatly swept, and observing that the curtains were drawn in all of the windows of the house, he moved furtively to the kitchen door, removed a tool from his pocket that resembled a penknife and quickly picked the lock.
The house was empty and dark, with slipcovers shrouding the furniture in the drawing-room. With his shoes creaking on the bare parquet, Cameron moved to the entrance hall and ascended the staircase. He turned the knob and peered into the oak-panelled bedroom on the left, devoid of furnishings, and then went to the small bedroom near the top of the stairs. Quietly opening the door, he found the room as its deceased former occupant had left it; a single bed against the wall by a window, a bedside table with a lamp, a dresser, and two straight-back chairs. According to the testimony of the upstairs maid at the inquest, Cranbrook had staggered from the room in his nightshirt at approximately half past nine and then gone back inside where, moments later she and Mrs Clark had found him leaning out the window, vomiting. Pushing back the curtains, Cameron gazed out of the window, which looked down on the slate roof of the floor below. Closing the curtains, he studied the bed where Cranbrook had died, wondering why he was sleeping there rather than with his wife in the master bedroom. And why the other woman, Mrs Clark, was with the deceased’s wife in the bedroom when Cranbrook fell ill. Though neither question had been answered during the inquest, he deduced that something was amiss between husband and wife.
Exiting the mansion, Cameron walked the short distance into town and, as it was only noon, stopped in at the Wheatsheaf, a public house opposite the railway station. Taking a seat at the bar, he ordered a half pint of the local bitter and glanced around the dimly lit room the tables of which were occupied by local regulars. ‘I say,’ said Cameron to the barman as he paddled the foam from Cameron’s glass, ‘I don’t suppose any of your customers were employed by the late Mr Cranbrook at The Priory?’
Sliding the glass across the scarred oak counter, the barman gave Cameron a curious look and said, ‘Well, there’s MacDonald.’ He nodded toward a table in the back where two men sat with their pints. ‘Looked after the old boy’s garden.’ Everyone in town, Cameron surmised, had paid rapt attention to the massive publicity surrounding the case and would assume he was merely another reporter. ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking a swallow of beer and leaving a shilling on the bar. Walking to the table in the back with his glass, he said, ‘It’s MacDonald, isn’t it?’
The former gardener looked up at the stranger and said, ‘Why, yes.’
‘Mind if I join you?’ said Cameron pleasantly. ‘I’m doing a story….’
‘Quite all right,’ said MacDonald, sliding over his chair. ‘This here is my mate Willoughby.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Cameron. ‘I understand you were employed at The Priory?’
‘’At’s right. The gardener, until we was all let go. And looked after the stables.’
‘The stables?’ said Cameron. ‘I thought this fellow Griffiths—’
‘Griffiths was sacked,’ said MacDonald with a trace of anger. ‘By Mr Cranbrook, rest ’is soul.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, a month or so before the … the, ah, incident.’
‘I see. Did you happen to see Mr Cranbrook on the day he fell ill?’
‘I did indeed.’ Pausing to take a swallow of beer, MacDonald said, ‘’E came home early and insisted I saddle Cremorne, one of the ’orses.’
‘Insisted?’
‘Well, I thought it was wrong, as I’d already exercised ’im. But I did as told, and the gelding run off with ’im. All the way to Mitcham Common.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘And when he got back, ’e’s as pale as a ghost and sweatin’. I supposed somethin’ was wrong with ’im, but what do I know? I’m just the gardener.’
‘He seemed unwell?’ said Cameron.
‘Oh, yes, sir. Sawyers told me ’e ’ad to carry ’im up the stairs.’
‘Sawyers?’
‘The butler.’
Cranbrook appeared to be ill, considered Cameron, when he returned from his ride, so ill that he had to be helped upstairs by the butler. Was it possible he’d already been poisoned? ‘Well, thank you, my man,’ said Cameron, rising from his chair. ‘This has been quite useful.’ He hurried from the tavern into the bright sunshine, arriving at the station just in time to make the 1.20 to Victoria. Thence he proceeded by omnibus to 87 Theobald’s Road, the chambers at Gray’s Inn Cranbrook had shared with his law partner, Edward Hope. Admitted by a secretary, Cameron found Hope at his desk in a small, tidy office with a view of the Inn’s emerald courtyard. He was a pleasant-looking young man, with sandy blond hair, worn short in the current fashion, wearing a black frockcoat, polka-dot cravat, and dove-grey waistcoat.
‘How may I help you, sir,’ said Hope somewhat eagerly, as his law practice had flagged since the demise of his partner.
‘My name’s Cameron. Duncan Cameron. My card.’ He handed Hope an engraved calling card.
‘Consulting detective,’ said Hope as he studied the card.
‘Yes. My services have been engaged by Lady Cranbrook.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Hope with a startled expression. ‘Please sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ Cameron sat in an armchair. ‘Did you see Cranbrook,’ he began, ‘on the day preceding his death?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Hope. ‘We lunched together at Charles’s club. He came into the office that morning, complaining that he’d been ill.’
‘This would have been …’
‘Monday. He’d spent the previous night at his club. At Boodle’s.’
‘Where you had your luncheon?’
‘No. Our luncheon was at White’s.’
‘I find it curious,’ said Cameron, ‘that Cranbrook would have dined at Boodle’s.’
‘How so?’
‘Because members are required to dress for dinner.’
‘Charlie kept evening wear at Boodle’s, as he often took a room there for the night.’
‘Was he at odds with any of the other members?’ asked Cameron. ‘Someone with a score to settle?’
‘Of course not,’ said Hope with a dismissive gesture. ‘Charlie had no enemies. In any case, he mentioned that he’d been sick on his way to the office. But he was feeling better over our luncheon. In fact, I’d say he was fine.’
‘After your luncheon,’ said Cameron, ‘did he return to work?’
‘No. He said he was going to Balham, at something like half past two. It was the last time I ever saw him.’
‘In your judgement, Mr Hope, was Cranbrook a contented man?’
‘I would say so. He seemed happily married, and to a beautiful woman. In fact, he was extremely proud of the property in Balham. He continued to enjoy his other pastimes, playing chess and lawn tennis, for example.’
‘Was he in any sort of trouble, financial difficulties, for example, that might explain his taking his life?’
‘Why, no. It’s quite unthinkable that Charles could have committed suicide.’
‘I see.’
‘He did mention, however,’ said Hope, leaning closer to Cameron, ‘that his stepfather was vexing him over some losses he’d incurred in the stock market.’
‘But he was a wealthy man,’ suggested Cameron.
‘Charles?’ said Hope with a short laugh. ‘His stepfather is as rich as Croesus, as I’m sure you know, but Charlie had to work for a living. Law’s a respectable profession, certainly, but not likely to make one rich.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Cameron, rising. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Not at all,’ said Hope, standing and reaching across the desk to shake his visitor’s hand. As Cameron turned to go, Hope said, ‘I say, Mr Cameron …’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done this?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Returning to his flat on Beaufort Gardens, Cameron whistled an air as he gazed up at the bright green canopy of the plane trees. He advised his dour Scottish housekeeper that he desired a pot of Orange Pekoe, and then retired to his study with Angus, his Scottie. Tossing his jacket over the back of a chair, he sat at his desk with a fresh writing pad and sharpened pencil. The encounter with MacDonald at the pub had been fortuitous, he considered, and the interview with Cranbrook’s partner Hope had yielded interesting details. Once his cup of tea, unsweetened and with milk, was at his elbow, he composed a succinct account of the day’s findings: the distance from Gully’s lodgings to The Priory, the arrangement of the upstairs bedrooms, the fact that Cranbrook slept in a separate room from his wife, that he spent the night before the crime at his club in town, complained of being ill in the morning, returned early to The Priory, where a riding incident left him shaken and unwell to the point that that he had to be helped upstairs by the butler, and that he’d sacked the stableman within a month before he was poisoned. And, Cameron considered after taking a sip of tea, that Cranbrook did not possess wealth and was distressed over losses in the stock market shortly before his death. Quite an interesting picture, he reflected, as he put his pencil aside and reached down to scratch the dog’s ears.
Next morning, as Cameron did not expect Clifton’s return from his travels until later in the day, he decided to pay a call on Detective Chief Inspector Cox at Scotland Yard. Donning a heather-mixture tweed cap and his ulster, as the day was cold with dense, swirling fog, Cameron travelled by hansom cab to Trafalgar Square, where he instructed the driver to turn on Whitehall and again on Whitehall Place, arriving at 10.00 a.m. at the former medieval palace that housed the London Metropolitan Police. He was well acquainted with Scotland Yard, and vice-versa, though he had not previously met Chief Inspector Cox, a high-ranking official he suspected had been assigned to the case due to the elevated social station of both the deceased and his widow. The inspector was seated at his desk in a cramped second-floor office with a view of the courtyard when Cameron was shown in, his long coat draped over his arm.
‘How do you do,’ said Cameron, reaching out to take Cox’s hand. ‘I appreciate your seeing me.’
‘The famous crime detective Duncan Cameron,’ said Cox, fixing him in his gaze. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
‘My services,’ said Cameron as he sat in a chair facing the desk, ‘have been engaged by Lady Cranbrook. I understand you oversaw the investigation into her son’s death.’
‘Correct,’ said Cox. A large man, he had a prominent forehead and long side-whiskers that joined a walrus-like moustache. ‘Unfortunate affair.’
‘I was hoping,’ said Cameron, casually crossing his leg over his knee, ‘that you might share your findings with me.’
‘I presume,’ said Cox, resting his elbows on his cluttered desk, ‘you’ve read the report of the coroner’s inquest?’
‘I have, though in my opinion it sheds very little light on the case.’
‘I quite agree. One would have thought Dr Gully was on trial for adultery. My investigation revealed that Cranbrook was poisoned with tartar emetic, either by his own hand or by an assailant.’
‘A rather odd choice of poison, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Antimony?’ said Cox. ‘Highly lethal, at even the smallest doses, and readily available from a chemist.’
‘Yes,’ said Cameron, ‘but quite difficult to administer. If mixed with food it has a highly noxious odour and taste, and if added to wine, it turns cloudy. It is, however, soluble in water, in which it is tasteless.’
‘Well,’ said Cox, drumming his fingers on the desktop, ‘my men did a thorough search of the premises and failed to find a trace of the poison. As for the murder hypothesis, there was certainly ample opportunity, some seven or eight persons who had access to the deceased’s person on or about the time of the alleged poisoning, but what’s wanting is motive. Such a crime is obviously premeditated, carefully planned in advance.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I personally interviewed all the key witnesses and am convinced none of them had a motive for seeing Mr Cranbrook dead.’
‘Not Dr Gully?’ said Cameron, flicking a bit of ash from his sleeve.
‘Oh, Gully was jealous, no doubt,’ said Cox, leaning forward. ‘But it is inconceivable to me that such a kindly old gentleman was in any way implicated. And, therefore,’ he concluded in a self-satisfied way, ‘we are left with the hypothesis of suicide. And here we have evidence.’
‘I see.’
‘First, the statement of Mrs Clark that Cranbrook confided he had poisoned himself, and second, the expert opinion of Dr Gill, who examined Cranbrook and questioned him in the hours following his poisoning.’
‘Yes,’ said Cameron, ‘but according to the report, one of the other physicians challenged Mrs Clark’s assertion.’
‘That may be,’ said Cox, spreading his large hands on his desk, ‘but I repose great confidence in the opinion of Dr Gill, the leading medical doctor in the city who, after all, spared the prince consort from death by typhus. Doctor Gill is convinced Cranbrook poisoned himself, as Cranbrook expressed no surprise or shock when he was told he’d ingested a lethal dose of poison.’
‘Well,’ said Cameron, rising from his chair, ‘it’s apparent you’ve conducted the investigation with the usual thoroughness and professionalism of the Metropolitan Police. I’m much obliged to you for sharing your conclusions.’ With a quick shake of the chief inspector’s hand, Cameron turned and let himself out. Donning his coat and hat in the foyer, he walked the short distance from Whitehall Place to the Embankment in fog so thick he nearly collided with a nurse pushing a pram. Strolling beside the indistinct river with his hands clasped behind his back, Cameron reflected on his interview with the pompous police inspector who, in the usual fashion of Scotland Yard, had clumsily bungled the investigation, failing to interview key witnesses such as the doctors who’d attended the dying man, dismissing Gully as a suspect out of hand, and making no effort to identify others who might have had a motive. Nor, he considered as he stopped to listen to the boom of the foghorn of a ship gliding past on the water, to determine the origin of the poison used to murder Cranbrook. All in all, the circumstances surrounding the death of Charles Cranbrook were as murky as the London fog and as disagreeable as the stench of bilge emanating from the Thames. Approaching the ghostly silhouette of Waterloo Bridge, Cameron decided to duck into Gordon’s Wine Bar for some toasted cheese and a glass of claret before returning to Beaufort Gardens and his much anticipated conversation with James Clifton.
Clifton’s travels had taken him first by rail to Malvern for a scheduled appointment with Dr James Gully, thence to Oxfordshire to interview Cecilia Cranbrook at her family’s country estate, and lastly to Birmingham to meet Mrs Jane Clark at the home of her sister, returning on the afternoon express to London’s Paddington Station. Clifton’s arrival at Cameron’s flat coincided with the Scottish housekeeper’s serving tea, accompanied by squares of shortbread, still warm from the oven, strawberry jam, and cucumber sandwiches. Clifton, a large man with an appetite to match, greedily helped himself to a plate as Cameron lounged on the sofa in his study, casually spinning the empty chambers of a long-barrelled Colt .45 revolver.
‘The Americans,’ he said, ‘have produced by far the finest sidearm. Not surprising, considering the frequency with which they resort to it.’
‘Frightfully violent race, the Americans,’ said Clifton, between bites of shortbread.
‘My dear Clifton,’ said Cameron, sitting upright and laying aside the revolver. ‘Pray describe your interviews.’
Wiping crumbs from his lips with a napkin, Clifton said, ‘I’ll save the best for last. Let me begin with Mrs Cranbrook. A poor, miserable woman, though quite pretty, who couldn’t control her tears, though I detected little fondness for her deceased husband. You see, Cameron’ – Clifton paused for a sip of tea – ‘the lady was entirely undone by the coroner’s inquest and all that was written in the Press about her affair with Gully. She struck me as, well, almost indifferent to the fact that Cranbrook had been killed and without any notion as to why, or by whom, he’d been poisoned.’
‘Go on,’ said Cameron, sampling a square of shortbread.
‘Mrs Clark, on the other hand,’ said Clifton, ‘was as cold as ice. Her statements to me matched almost precisely the testimony she gave at the inquest. How she found Cranbrook, her attempts to revive him with a mixture of hot water and mustard—’
‘A mixture,’ interrupted Cameron, ‘widely used to induce vomiting. As a means of rescuing one from poisoning. Interesting.’
‘Quite. Let me see.’ He consulted his extensive handwritten notes. ‘She confirms that she told Mrs Cranbrook and the doctors that she smelt chloroform on Cranbrook’s breath, but insists Cranbrook admitted to poisoning himself. Says relations between the deceased and his wife were “cordial” and insists Gully no longer had anything to do with Cecilia. Bridles at the suggestion Cranbrook’s death was anything other than suicide.’
‘And the best?’ said Cameron, reaching for a cucumber sandwich. ‘You saved for last?’
‘Do you mind?’ said Clifton, taking the last of the shortbread. ‘My interview with Dr Gully. A very impressive individual. Freely admits that he was in love with Cecilia, though he owns it was an error of judgement for a man his age. Extremely bitter about the sensational newspaper reportage of the affair. But here’s the interesting bit. Gully is certain Cecilia was the victim of maltreatment at the hands of her husband, perhaps violence. Convinced that Cranbrook married her strictly for money.’
‘Would you say,’ said Cameron, reaching for his teacup, ‘that Gully, in love with the beautiful creature who is suffering at the hands of an abusive, avaricious husband, might have resorted to murder?’
‘Perhaps. But even more intriguing, Cameron, is the fact that Gully maintained contact with Mrs Clark.’