SEVERAL DAYS PASSED before Duncan Cameron received a reply to the telegram he’d sent Sir Richard Henderson, requesting permission to interview his daughter Cecilia as a part of his investigation into the death of Charles Cranbrook undertaken at the behest of Lady Cranbrook. Henderson readily acceded to the request, though he cautioned that Cecilia may be of little help, as she is in poor health, inviting Cameron to come to Buscot Park and stay the night. In the meantime, Cameron dispatched James Clifton to Balham with instructions to mingle freely with the locals and keep his ear to the ground.
Departing from Paddington on the mid-morning train, Cameron gazed out on the sunlit late-summer countryside, admiring the honey-coloured stone cottages, the occasional manor house, the fields of blue and yellow wildflowers, and cattle, as Shakespeare described them, resting under the canopy of an ancient oak. For a while he read his Trollope, and then put the novel aside and turned to the volume he’d borrowed from the library of the Royal College of Physicians, detailing the prescribed uses of poisons in the treatment of certain ailments. Continuing to believe that antimony, or tartar emetic, was a very odd choice of poison with which to commit murder, Cameron was curious about who, in the course of lawful behaviour, might be possessed of it. The passage in the textbook devoted to antimony was extremely brief, describing its use to induce vomiting and as a sedative but cautioning that even a tiny overdose could lead to death. One final comment, however, caught Cameron’s attention: ‘In veterinary medicine, tartar emetic is sometimes used in worming horses and other large animals.’ Closing the volume with a snap, he turned his gaze to the window, noting his reflection in the glass as the train slowed perceptibly at the approach to Swindon Station.
From the Cotswold village, Cameron travelled by rented carriage to the town of Faringdon, an hour’s journey, and thence along a country lane bordered with hedgerows through splendid countryside to the elaborate stone gate that marked the entrance to Buscot Park, one of the finest country houses in Oxfordshire, if not all of England. Situated on a slight rise in the heart of 3000 acres of rolling parkland, the palatial eighteenth-century house had been designed by the noted architect James Darley and constructed of native limestone in the Palladian style. Cameron counted seven chimneys on the steeply pitched slate roof as the carriage came to a halt on the gravel drive. A liveried footman unloaded Cameron’s valise and then escorted him up the stairs where another servant led him to the drawing-room. Sir Richard Henderson rose from his chair as Cameron entered the richly appointed room, with eighteen-foot ceilings, elaborate mouldings, and walls painted pale blue. His tread creaking on the old parquet, Cameron approached Sir Richard with outstretched hand and said, ‘Good day, sir. You have a magnificent home.’
‘Thank you, Mr Cameron,’ said Henderson with obvious pride. Though knighted, his fortune had been self-made in the mining industry and his pretensions were those of the nouveau riche. ‘Shall we sit, or do you prefer to rest in your room after your travels?’
‘Let’s sit,’ said Cameron agreeably, ‘though a glass of water would be much appreciated.’
‘Sawyers,’ said Henderson, ‘bring us water.’ Turning back to Cameron, who sat in the chair beside him, he said, ‘Terrible, this business about Charles Cranbrook. Dead at the age of thirty after only four months’ marriage.’
‘Do you believe he took his own life?’ asked Cameron.
‘Do you?’
‘No.’ Both men waited for the butler to serve glasses of water from a tray. ‘Nor,’ said Cameron after the butler retired, ‘does my client, Lady Cranbrook.’
Henderson shook his head with a grimace. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I doubt Cecilia will be of much assistance to you. She’s devastated after all she’s endured.’
‘Was there trouble in the marriage?’ asked Cameron, after taking a sip of water.
Henderson hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Yes. Cecilia came home for a visit and seemed quite unhappy. Insisted she could not go back to Charles, which, of course, was out of the question.’
‘When was this?’
‘In midwinter. My God, the poor girl can’t seem to find her place in a marriage. Virtually the same thing happened before, with Captain Castello.’
‘What, if I may ask,’ said Cameron, ‘was the cause of Castello’s premature death?’
‘Drink,’ said Henderson. ‘Simple as that. Drank himself to death. This was after his estrangement from Cecilia. He left her a fortune, however, much to my surprise and, frankly, dismay.’
‘Dismay?’
Henderson nodded and said, ‘The inheritance of sizeable wealth by an eligible young woman can be a curse, attracting unscrupulous men like iron filings to a magnet.’
‘Was Cranbrook such a man?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Father….’
Both men turned in their chairs to observe Cecilia, wearing a blue silk tea-gown and matching slippers, standing in the entrance to the room.
‘Yes, dear?’ said Henderson as both men rose from their chairs.
‘Are you ready for me?’
‘It would be best,’ said Cameron in an aside to Cecilia’s father, ‘if I were to question her alone.’
‘This gentleman,’ said Henderson, ‘is the private detective Duncan Cameron. I would suggest that you talk to him in the library.’ Turning to Cameron, he added, ‘Please let Sawyers know if you’d care for tea or something to eat.’
Cameron chose a comfortable leather armchair facing Cecilia, seated on a sofa in the library, redolent of cigar smoke, and filled with bookcases of leather-bound volumes. She clutched a goblet filled with straw-coloured wine, not, surmised Cameron, her first of the afternoon. He briefly studied her delicate features, her large, sensual eyes and bow lips, her auburn hair in ringlets; pretty yet wan, with a forlorn expression. The object of desire, he considered, of James Gully, of pathetic indifference to Captain Castello, and of greedy possession by Charles Cranbrook.
Taking a sip of wine, she said softly, ‘Where shall we begin?’
‘If I’m going to provide any consolation to my client,’ replied Cameron, ‘in understanding how Charles came to be poisoned, it’s essential that you are entirely candid and forthcoming, even if I touch on matters that frankly are embarrassing to you.’
‘All right,’ said Cecilia with a nod.
‘I’d like to begin with your relationship with Dr Gully.’
‘If only I’d listened to him,’ said Cecilia, suddenly bursting into tears. Cameron merely looked at her, inviting her to explain. ‘He warned me,’ she said, wiping away her tears. ‘Insisted Charles was only after my money and that marriage was fraught with risk.’
‘I see,’ said Cameron, holding her in his steady gaze.
‘And yet it might have worked,’ she continued as if anxious to unburden herself, ‘but for the fact that I shared my secret with him. That I had been involved,’ she explained, ‘in a love affair with James.’
‘With Dr Gully.’
‘Why not admit it?’ she asked, as much to herself as to Cameron. ‘It’s been spread across every newspaper in London. At all events, I chose to tell him, to afford him the option of ending the engagement, which he chose not to do. But then, within weeks of the wedding it seemed, he was consumed with jealousy. His mind was made up that I still loved James, and nothing I could say or do would alter it.’
‘I’m curious,’ said Cameron, ‘why someone as proper and fastidious as Charles appeared to have been, would have married you, having learned of your affair with a much older married man?’
Cecilia reddened and then finished her wine in a gulp. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘he wanted my money and my household and all its possessions.’ She paused and then said, ‘And also because he, too, had had an affair.’
‘An illicit affair?’
‘Yes, with some wench in Maidenhead. Even with a child. And so he said he’d forgive me, which of course was a lie.’
‘Which would explain his cruelty.’
‘Oh, yes. He was terribly cruel.’
‘Striking you and dismissing the household staff?’
‘Yes, he struck me in the face and sacked a number of the servants, and threatened to sack the rest.’
‘Including Griffiths, the stableman?’
Cecilia nodded and said, ‘I must say it made me furious. Poor Griffiths’ wife was expecting a baby. He was very bitter, but Charlie was unrelenting.’
‘And what about Mrs Clark? Did he intend to give her notice?’
‘What, Jane? Good heavens, no. I would never have allowed it.’
‘Why would she have been any different?’
‘Jane was no mere employee, sir. She is my dear friend and confidante.’
‘Let me return to Dr Gully,’ said Cameron. ‘Did your affair with him come to an end before meeting Charles Cranbrook?’
‘Yes.’ Cecilia reached for a silver bell and rang it to summon the butler, who appeared after a moment. ‘Bring me another glass of wine, Sawyers, if you please.’
‘Why did you end the affair with Gully?’ persisted Cameron. ‘He’d left his lucrative practice in Malvern, after all, to move to Balham to be near you.’
‘Because of scurrilous lies and innuendo spread by a man named Throckmorton and his sister about my relationship to the doctor. Throckmorton was my first husband’s solicitor. It was terribly damaging to my reputation, and Jane thought it best I end the affair.’
‘Did Mrs Clark dislike Dr Gully?’ Cameron paused as the butler returned and served Cecilia another goblet of wine from a salver.
When she and Cameron were alone again, Cecilia said, ‘Jane thought it unseemly that I was in love with a man of James’s age. He resented her intrusion, but sadly, Jane was right.’
‘And,’ said Cameron, ‘she arranged your introduction to Cranbrook?’
‘Yes. Her late husband had been employed by Charles’s stepfather in Jamaica.’
‘Was there anything else,’ said Cameron, ‘that influenced your decision to part with Dr Gully?’
Cecilia hesitated and took a swallow of wine. ‘No,’ she said at length. ‘Nothing.’
‘I understand,’ said Cameron, ‘that shortly before your husband’s death you suffered a miscarriage.’ Cecilia nodded. ‘And that afterward, Charles slept in the spare bedroom, where he died, and Mrs Clark shared your bedroom.’
‘Yes,’ said Cecilia. ‘I needed dear Jane at my side.’
‘Well,’ said Cameron, rising from his chair, ‘I very much appreciate your candour, and I’m terribly sorry for all that you’ve been through.’
‘You’re not going to ask me about the night Charles was stricken?’
‘No.’
‘I can’t believe that he took his own life,’ said Cecilia. ‘Nor that anyone could have poisoned him. It must have been an accident.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Cameron. ‘Good afternoon.’
The fact that Sawyers, the butler at Buscot Park, had accompanied Cecilia from The Priory had not escaped Cameron’s notice. And so, on the pretext of locating the WC, he accosted Sawyers, portly and bald, and asked if he could describe Charles Cranbrook’s condition on the evening before he collapsed.
‘Pale and weak,’ replied the butler. ‘So weak he had to be helped up the stairs.’
‘Would you say he was ill?’ enquired Cameron.
‘Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Quite ill.’
‘Not merely shaken by a ride on a runaway horse?’
‘Oh, no, sir.’
‘One last thing,’ said Cameron. ‘According to Mary Ann, the upstairs maid, you overheard Mr Cranbrook speaking privately to Mrs Clark, advising her he intended to give her notice.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Thank you, my good man,’ said Cameron. He returned to the drawing-room where he found Sir Richard Henderson, whom he thanked profusely for his co-operation but informed him that he’d changed his mind and would not be staying for dinner. Departing by the same rented carriage, he reached Swindon before dark, spending the night in a roadside inn and departing on the first train in the morning for London.
A former officer in the Royal Navy, James Clifton was accustomed to spending his leisure hours in public houses, relaxing over a glass of ale or whisky in the company of other similar men. In the day and a half he’d spent in Balham, he’d whiled away hours in the Wheatsheaf opposite the railway station, as well as the village’s other two pubs, the Rose and Crown and the Lambeth Arms. Though there had been no shortage of conversation about the celebrated Cranbrook case – everyone, it seemed, had a theory about who’d committed the crime and the motive – he’d thus far encountered no one who possessed any personal knowledge that might shed light on its solution. Seated at a scarred trestle table in the bar of the Rose and Crown, Clifton sipped his pint as the ruddy-faced man seated opposite him expounded his opinion: ‘It was the doctor who done it,’ he stated emphatically. ‘Why, the old blighter’s in love with this beautiful young thing, with all the money in the world, and then along comes this lad Cranbrook an’ steals her away. Same old story, eh? Slips a bit of poison in his beer, and no one’s the wiser.’
Clifton nodded amicably, having listened to dozens of variations on the same theme. He polished off his stout, bid the man good day, and made his way to the bar. ‘You don’t suppose,’ he asked the barman, ‘there’s somewhere else in the village, apart from the public houses, where a man might go to slake his thirst at the end of the day?’
‘Well, you might try the Bedford Hotel,’ the man suggested. ‘Some chaps prefer the lobby bar with its tiled floor and potted ferns, though I think it’s a bit posh.’
‘An excellent idea,’ said Clifton with a smile. ‘I’m much obliged.’ He tossed a shilling on the counter and made his way out of the dim, smoky room into the sunlit late-summer evening. Clifton was aware that the Bedford Hotel, located in the centre of town, had been the site of the coroner’s inquest. He seemed to recall a lithograph of the proceedings in the hotel ballroom in one of the pictorial newspapers. Entering the fusty lobby, he observed a bevelled glass door opposite the reception desk beneath a sign that said simply ‘Bar’. It was just as the man at the Rose and Crown described it, a high-ceilinged room with a black and white tiled floor, large enamelled pots planted with ferns, and gas-lit chandeliers. ‘Posh, indeed,’ mumbled Clifton to himself as he surveyed the room. Walking up to the long bar, he sat in a cane-back stool and hitched a boot on the brass railing.
‘Evening, guv’nor,’ said the barman, a plump man with a striped apron and handlebar moustache. ‘What’ll it be?’
Briefly consulting his watch, Clifton ordered gin with quinine water, a beverage he’d acquired a taste for during his naval service on the Indian subcontinent. Glancing around the room, he counted three tables occupied by other middle-aged men, office workers as opposed to tradesmen, judging from their dress. The man returned with Clifton’s drink and then resumed polishing the mahogany counter with a soft cloth. After finishing half his drink, Clifton struck up a conversation with him about the international cricket tournament then in progress, the New Zealand side having bested arch-rival Australia, and then turned to the subject of the Cranbrook coroner’s inquest.
‘Never in my life,’ said the man, ‘did I think we’d do so much business, but the lobby was crawling with newspapermen, and believe you me, they drink like fish, at all hours of the day and night.’
‘Must have been some spectacle,’ commented Clifton, as he thoughtfully sipped his gin. He was vaguely aware that several other men had entered the bar and taken seats at a table behind him. ‘Do any of the principal witnesses patronize your establishment?’
‘Oh, well, the famous ones, the doctor, for instance, and the severe little woman, I forget the name, are all gone away, but some of the others, you know the ones who worked at the place, come in from time to time.’
‘I’m sure they’ve got a tale to tell,’ suggested Clifton.
‘Not that I know of,’ said the barkeep. ‘But I’m off on Wednesdays and Fridays. I heard tell from Higgins, the other barman, that this one fellow, don’t know the name, claimed to have worked for Cranbrook and had some very harsh words about him.’
Finishing his drink, Clifton said, ‘Oh really? Perhaps I’ll drop by tomorrow and see your man Higgins.’ Placing several coins on the counter, he slipped from his seat, walked past a nearby table, now empty, and into the hotel lobby. As it was a trifle too early for bed, and too late for the train into London, he decided to take a turn around the block in the cool night air. The dark sky was ringed with lavender as Clifton emerged from the hotel and began strolling the empty pavement. In the distance, a lamplighter stood on his ladder lighting the streetlights. Turning left at the corner, Clifton made his way in the dark shadows cast by buildings on both sides of the narrow street. Conscious of footsteps behind him, he quickened his pace. The footsteps grew louder, and Clifton stopped to look over his shoulder; a fatal error. A man lurking in a nearby doorway leapt out and brought down a cudgel on Clifton’s skull with a sickening thwack. Clifton groaned loudly, his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground.
Something of a comic sight, with a large bandage on the back of his head tied under his chin, James Clifton sat in a comfortable armchair in Duncan Cameron’s study with his feet up on a stool, nursing a brandy and soda. ‘You have no recollection of your assailant?’ asked Cameron, holding the orange cat in his lap.
‘None whatsoever,’ replied Clifton. ‘Never saw a thing. Heard something, footsteps, turned to have a look, and then, smack and I was out like a light.’
‘Judging from the gash on your scalp,’ said Cameron, ‘he must have used something like this Irish shillelagh.’ He held up a sturdy oak staff with a knob on the end and slapped it in his palm. ‘Obviously had an accomplice, the man following behind you.’ Clifton nodded sourly and took a swallow of his drink. ‘What about the men in the bar of the hotel?’ asked Cameron. ‘Could you identify any of them?’
‘Not really. The men I saw were sitting away off. I overheard some fellows at a table behind me, but by the time I left they had gone.’
‘Presumably your assailants,’ said Cameron. ‘There must have been something in your conversation with the bartender that concerned them. Hence the knock on the head.’
‘Or else it was merely a cutpurse bent on theft.’
‘Except for the fact,’ said Cameron, placing his shillelagh on a shelf, ‘that you weren’t robbed. No, these men were intending to dissuade you from enquiring further into the singular clue you happened upon.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Clifton, ‘the former servant at The Priory who spoke harshly of Cranbrook with the other barman. Man named Higgins.’
‘Whom we shall interview in due course,’ said Cameron, ‘though it’s unsurprising that a man who lost his position would hold a grudge against his employer.’ He dropped the cat on the floor and then crossed his long legs. ‘On the other hand,’ Cameron continued, ‘based on my visit to Cecilia Cranbrook, an intriguing picture is beginning to take form.’
‘Do you mind?’ said Clifton, holding up his empty glass.
‘Not at all.’ Cameron rose and quickly poured Clifton another brandy. ‘What is most striking,’ said Cameron as he handed Clifton his drink, ‘is the fact that Cecilia was unaware that Cranbrook had advised Mrs Clark he intended to sack her. This is corroborated by two witnesses and yet it was never mentioned during the inquest. Had Cecilia known of Cranbrook’s intentions, no doubt she would have been furious, leading to another violent row.’
‘Yes,’ said Clifton after taking a sip, ‘but what’s your point?’
‘I can only think of one reason,’ said Cameron, ‘why Mrs Clark would have withheld this from Cecilia. That she intended to murder Cranbrook, and, unaware that Sawyers, the butler, had overheard Cranbrook declare his intention to dismiss her, she withheld the fact, which would otherwise reveal her motive for the crime.’
‘Ah,’ said Clifton. ‘How astute.’
‘But I believe she had another, more compelling motive for murder than the mere prospect of losing her position.’
‘Pray go on.’
‘That of the jealous lover,’ said Cameron.
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me,’ said Clifton. ‘Jealous lover? Gully, you mean?’
‘No. Jane Clark.’
‘Lover?’ repeated Clifton with a befuddled expression. ‘Lover of whom?’
‘Why, of Cecilia. I believe it’s plausible they were lovers.’
‘But two women? How could they possibly…?’
‘You’re aware of homosexuality between men?’ asked Cameron.
‘Of course,’ said Clifton, reddening. ‘In the navy it’s referred to as buggery. Punishable by death, or was. But …’
‘Well, I’m sorry to shock you, Clifton, but homosexual relations have occurred between women since the days of the ancient Greeks.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘Here we know for a fact that Mrs Clark was sharing Cecilia’s bed. We also know that Cecilia is a sensual, nay promiscuous, young woman. I detected a quite strong emotional attachment, one might even say love, that Cecilia felt for Mrs Clark, whom she refers to as Jane or Janie.’ Cameron rose from his chair and began to pace. ‘Mrs Clark, Cecilia’s lover, observes her cruel mistreatment at the hands of her husband. For his part, Cranbrook, having no money of his own but great pretensions to wealth, would never consent to ending the marriage, or even to a legal separation. Cecilia is trapped. Mrs Clark, a very shrewd woman, resolves to poison him, but must take great care to conceal the fact that Cranbrook intends to sack her, which of course would cast suspicion on her.’
‘With poison supplied to her lodger by the old sod Gully,’ interjected Clifton.
‘And then,’ continued Cameron, ‘as Cranbrook lies dying, Mrs Clark appears to come to his rescue and contrives this cock-and-bull tale about Cranbrook admitting privately to her that he poisoned himself. Don’t tell Cecilia. Hah!’
‘Brilliant.’
‘But now,’ concluded Cameron, ‘we must connect the little lady to the poison.’