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Grace entered the cold, cheerless domain of the police surgeon twenty minutes later, half hoping he would not still be there late on a Sunday afternoon. The possibility that her essay on a toxic native plant had precipitated Edgar Ormsby’s death was beyond unsettling. Her gut churned with an unholy mix of guilt and fear. Nevertheless, she was obliged to report her suspicions.
Doctor Cranston-Hartfield was bending over a test tube, muttering to himself. He looked up at the sound of her tentative footsteps. “Grace. Good to see you. You’ve thrown me a tricky one this time. I know Ormsby died of a seizure and heart failure, but I’m darned if I can trace the underlying cause. Stomach cramps and vomiting over several hours, followed by sudden convulsions and heart arrythmia. Odd, to say the least.”
Grace indicated the row of test tubes and open textbooks. “I take it you have been testing for poisons?”
“If it is a poison, I have been unable to detect it. Digitalis poisoning is the closest match to the symptoms, but the presentation is atypical. Perhaps it is simply one of those tragic coincidences. A stomach upset due to food poisoning, vomited out, combined with undiagnosed epilepsy and a weak heart. I’ll probably have to rule it as natural causes, unless the police team can find evidence of a crime. Nobody would thank me for recommending that the coroner should leave the cause of death open, especially for such a prominent citizen.”
The police surgeon straightened his back with an audible click. “You really must stop getting entangled in suspicious deaths, Grace, especially so soon after the last one. But have no fear, I have ruled out strangulation. That so-called eye witness must need his eyes testing.”
Grace fiddled with her gloves, putting off the inevitable. “I’m grateful, Jamie. You must have been here all day, if not half the night as well.”
Doctor Cranston-Hartfield shrugged. They both knew that a police surgeon’s hours were far from regular. “Doctor Beechworth came by earlier. Wanted to ensure I had all the facts. It seems you have another admirer.” The police surgeon looked as ill at ease as she was. In the past few seconds, he had smoothed his sleek moustache, adjusted his cuffs, shuffled his feet, and developed a fascination with the spotless white wall behind her. “The thing is, Grace, you should know ... that is, I’d like you to know ... well, the fact is, I have been stepping out with Beechworth’s eldest daughter of late.”
Grace felt a small brick of guilt lift from her conscience. “Marvellous news, Jamie. I’m so very happy for you both. I hear she is an exceptional young lady.” Grace’s professional relationship with the police surgeon had been strained recently due to his personal interest in her. She had been dreading matters coming to a head between them, which would certainly have meant the end of their working relationship. The police surgeon might be young, but he excelled at his work. Thank heavens for the delightful Miss Beechworth.
The lines of exhaustion fell away from his face as he smiled the dreamy smile of a man in the first grip of a new love. “I do hope we can continue working together, Grace. There are few medical students who view the dark art of the post-mortem with the interest and aptitude you show.”
“You may depend upon it,” Grace said, with heartfelt enthusiasm. “I have learnt a great deal working with you, Jamie. In fact, I have come here to ask your professional advice on a possible, but highly unusual, cause for Ormsby’s death. Have you heard of a toxic native plant known as tutu to Māori, or Coriaria to science?”
“Tutu?” Jamie Cranston-Hartfield’s fatigue evaporated as he churned through his formidable knowledge of toxicology. “Haven’t had a death in a while, but I recall a group of children who became severely ill from eating a large quantity of tutu berries. Happened while I was a medical student. By Jove, the little blighters had us worried. An extended period of nausea and vomiting, followed by bouts of convulsions and stupor, respiratory distress, heart palpitations...”
His jaw fell slack at his own description of the symptoms. The police surgeon rushed out of the room, returning several minutes later with a faded folder. “I did a little follow-up research on tutu. Hated that feeling of helplessness that none of us knew what to do.”
Jamie flipped through the pages with flying fingers. His words came equally fast. “The Māori people knew all about tutu, of course. There’s an account of them saving the life of one of the early settlers by stopping him from eating the berries. Livestock perished in devastating numbers in the early years, after they gorged on the leaves and shoots. Did you know that Captain Cook put the first sheep ashore in New Zealand, only to have them die after eating tutu? Not many human deaths now that we know about it, although children must still be warned and educated on its toxicity. Toot, the settlers called it.”
The police surgeon’s monologue stopped abruptly when he found the page he was looking for. “Ah, here it is.” He scanned the page quickly, the colour draining from his face. “You’re right, Grace, the symptoms are a close match. If tutu caused Ormsby’s death, it wasn’t because he was feasting on berries. In fact, the berries are no longer in season. Besides, he would have had to ingest a massive quantity to die, although his weak heart would have made him more susceptible than most.”
“I agree, Jamie. The thing is, Mrs Ormsby had experimented with tutu in an attempt to develop a rat poison. Richard Ormsby told us, which was why I hurried to see you.”
“Richard Ormsby admitted it?”
Grace shook her head. “It wasn’t an admission. The topic came up in another context and Richard mentioned his stepmother’s interest. He gave no indication of knowing that the effects were the same as the symptoms his father showed. In fact, he doesn’t know the exact symptoms associated with his father’s death, as I only gave them an abridged account. Richard believes his father’s death was due to his weak heart, following a seizure.”
The police surgeon snapped the file shut. “I will have to advise the police officer in charge of the investigation immediately. Thank goodness Detective Inspector Wallace is arriving back tomorrow. This case will have to be upgraded to a homicide inquiry.”
––––––––
Grace arrived home to find Charlie sitting on the front step.
“Thought you’d be home before me, Grace. I was about to send out a search party.”
“I felt obliged to inform the police surgeon about my concerns without delay. As luck would have it, he witnessed a tutu poisoning as a medical student and recalled the symptoms. He’s recommending the case be upgraded to a homicide inquiry. Fortunately, DI Wallace is back tomorrow.”
“That’s good news.” Charlie leaned back against the step and observed her. “How is my dear friend, Cranston-Hartfield?”
Dear friend? Charlie and Jamie circled around each other like pit bulls every time they met. “The police surgeon is besotted with Doctor Beechworth’s eldest daughter, a lovely young woman. As you can imagine, I am delighted to see him so happy.” Grace paused to gauge Charlie’s reaction. “No pithy riposte, Charlie? You disappoint me. If nothing else, I thought the prospect of a murder inquiry would have you as lively as a bloodhound on the scent.”
Charlie regarded her with a quizzical eye and the beginnings of a grin. “No wonder Ormsby fancied you as his daughter-in-law, with the police surgeon retiring from the field. I must say, I struggle to picture you married to Richard Ormsby. I am trying to visualise you a decade or two from now, surrounded by lively little girls with stethoscopes around their necks and pudgy little boys terrified by their sisters intelligence and daring.”
Grace swatted his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie. My little Ormsby sons will be treated no different to their sisters. Women only want the same opportunities, not complete subjugation of men. Most men, anyway.”
“Present company excepted, I hope.” Charlie rose from the step. “We’d better go inside, I suppose.”
Grace took his arm. “I’m looking forward to an hour’s peace and quiet before dinner.”
“I’m afraid you would have more chance of peace at a brass band concert, Grace. The entire extended Southern Investigations team has gathered in Anne’s drawing room.”
“Discussing the murder?”
“How I wish it were so,” Charlie lamented. “Wedding matters prevail over crime. There’s only so much discussion of tulle versus silk that a man can take before he breaks. I must say, I’m amazed at Alistair’s capacity to cope. He smiles and nods at every suggestion Aunt Lily and my mother make, no matter how ridiculous.”
“Alistair is a smart man.” Grace sighed. “Let’s set our smiles in place and sally forth. All I ask is that you rescue me if I show signs of a tulle-induced brain seizure.”
“I promise, if I am here,” Charlie said, as he opened the door for her. “I was planning to return to the scene of Ormsby’s collapse this evening, to test a little theory.”
“I beg of you, take me with you.”
Grace was, as forewarned, dragged straight into a huddle with Jasmine, Lily and Anne, while Charlie made a coward’s dash to the other corner to update Alistair and Thomas on the case. Kenneth Drummond, ever the gentleman, brought Grace a glass of sherry and topped up the other ladies’ glasses, before hurrying away from talk of buttonholes and bouquets to pour more whisky for the men.
After Grace successfully deflected questions about her day (“are you still under suspicion for murder?” hardly seemed a polite topic of conversation, in the circumstances), she found herself enjoying the novelty of planning a happy event. Perhaps, she conceded, the constant grimness of her life as a trainee doctor and occasional detective could do with a little more balance.
Grace sat back, sipped sherry, and chipped in with her opinions as required. “Yes, satin would be perfect ... definitely gold trim, not silver ... perhaps camellias given the season ... Alistair will be happy with whatever you decide, Lily ... yes, Jasmine, Charlie will make a handsome best man ... three courses at dinner will be more than enough ... champagne, naturally.”
After what felt like several hours of discussions (less than thirty minutes, according to the clock on the mantelpiece), Jasmine Pyke made a final tick on her list, which extended to several pages. “Excellent, I believe we have a complete and comprehensive plan. Have we got time before dinner for me to take Grace’s measurements, Anne?”
“Grab her while you can, Jasmine,” Anne replied. “Without your intervention, she’ll end up coming to the wedding dressed in her usual white shirtwaist and grey skirt, probably with a surgical apron on top. I know that look on Grace’s face. She’ll be off chasing suspects before pudding is settled in her stomach.”
When his mother left the room, Charlie sidled up to Grace and whispered, “I don’t wish to alarm you, but Ma has interrogation skills that would be the envy of any detective inspector. Good luck.”
Jasmine Pyke came back to the drawing room, carrying a wooden box, which either contained sewing accessories or instruments of inquisition (or possible both, Jasmine being an efficient sort of woman). She took Grace up to her room and directed her to take off her outer clothes and stand still, with her arms out. Thankfully, the thumb-screws were set aside in favour of a measuring tape. Grace took a leaf out of Alistair’s book – keep smiling and follow orders – as the tape flashed this way and that, measuring every part of her anatomy with surgical precision.
“This won’t take long,” Jasmine assured her with a charming smile, as the tape slid around Grace’s neck and tightened. “Anne is a lovely lady.” The tape whizzed down the length of Grace’s arm. “So welcoming and wonderfully accepting of your choices.” Whizz, underarm to waist.
“I am extremely grateful for my great-aunt’s support and trust.” Grace squirmed as the measuring tape tickled her torso. “I know medicine is not the usual path for a young woman to take, but it is what I have always dreamed of doing.”
“That can’t be right, let me just measure your chest again.” Jasmine slipped the tape around Grace’s bust. “No, that’s right. I’ll have to make some major adjustments to the pattern, which was designed for Lily.”
Jasmine mumbled her thoughts to herself, which was just as well, as Grace had no reply. The tape circled her waist. Grace had spent her life being told to eat more and stop rushing around, if she wished to have an attractive feminine figure. Now, she felt like an Amazon. She consoled herself with the thought that Lily was five inches shorter and practically invisible if she was standing side on. Jasmine was the same. How she had ever given birth to Charlie, Grace didn’t care to imagine.
The tape moved on down to her hips. “Hmm, I hope we have enough material,” Jasmine murmured. “You don’t long for a husband and children?”
The sudden switch back to a personal question caught Grace by surprise. There was something ludicrous about being asked that question by Charlie’s mother, when Jasmine was on her knees, measuring Grace’s hips. Would Jasmine look at the tape and declare them child-bearing hips or would she tut in disappointment and stop this increasingly embarrassing interrogation?
“I want a family eventually,” Grace assured her, “but only after I have qualified as a doctor. I mean to work as well as raising my children.”
Jasmine’s face was hidden as she measured the hip to floor distance. Grace didn’t want Jasmine to be getting the wrong idea, but she didn’t wish to offend either. “Really, it is not so very different from what most women do. After all, Anne was both married and dispensing medical care, while you must have taken on a great deal of work in support of Sergeant Pyke. Charlie told me you run the Clyde police station, while your husband is out patrolling the large area under his command. I’d love to hear more about it, Mrs Pyke. It cannot be easy, in so remote a place, with so many gold miners desperate to make a fortune.”
“I suppose that’s true enough.” Jasmine stood up and recorded the measurements in quick, neat script. “At least you will be paid for your toil. The wives of country policemen are expected to help with no recompense. My Thomas is out all hours of the day and night. Perhaps our Charlie has made a wise decision after all, leaving the police. Let’s double-check that waist.”
“I am sure he has. Charlie has all the characteristics of an ideal detective.”
“There, all done. You can put your arms down now.” Jasmine rolled the tape up and deposited it in her sewing kit, alongside a rainbow of cotton, a score of wickedly sharp needles of various sizes and shapes, and no less than three types of scissors. She turned and favoured Grace with another charming smile. “Charlie failed to mention what a lovely figure you have, he was so busy telling us about your intellectual accomplishments. I can see now that the pattern for the bridesmaid’s gown is all wrong. Lily and I will look for one that suits you better tomorrow. I promise you, Grace, you will look perfect on the day.”
Grace wondered what Jasmine’s view of perfect might be. Time to make her feelings known, so there was no misunderstanding. “I don’t wish to stand out, Mrs Pyke. Something simple and modest would be ideal, in a neutral colour, so the focus remains on Lily.”
“Nonsense, Grace. You must look dazzling. Lily has chosen a gorgeous silk, which will be lovely with your dark hair.” Jasmine snapped the sewing box closed. “Charlie certainly seems to be happy now that he is back in Dunedin. I’m glad he has been able to secure his first case so quickly, thanks to you. And, if I might be so forward, I am relieved to see the two of you on good terms again. He was worried you might not forgive him.”
“There was nothing to forgive.” Grace pulled her outer clothes back on with relief. “I have made it clear our friendship is in no way diminished. In fact, I understand perfectly that he needed time away to consider his career, which is as important to him as my medical career is to me.”
“I’m eager to hear all about your medical studies, Grace. It’s about time we had doctors who understand how a woman’s body works. And you work with the police surgeon too, which must be absolutely fascinating. My husband is eager to discuss the subject with you. Thomas loves nothing better than to stay up late at night, reading about the latest techniques. He subscribes to many journals, which arrive by the boxload once a year from the other side of the world. Charlie used to say that day was better than Christmas. Now, let’s go back downstairs. I’ve been wanting to ask you more about the post-mortem process.”
Round one of the inquisition completed satisfactorily, Grace made light conversation about the gentle art of autopsy to a surprisingly knowledgeable and interested audience. It appeared there wasn’t much that could shock the wife of a long-standing country policeman.
Over dinner, talk turned to their first case. Grace explained about the rat poison Mrs Ormsby had developed from the tutu plant.
“Murder, do you think?” Alistair asked. “That old classic, a wife killing her husband with poison, with a new twist? Would you please pass the mint sauce, Lily, my darling.”
Charlie passed it, his arms being longer. “Could be, although Mrs Ormsby didn’t strike me as the usual type of poisoner. We only met her briefly, but her grief seemed genuine. I must say, Mrs Brown has outdone herself with this lamb. An unpleasant way to die by the sound of it. The tutu poison I mean, not the lamb.”
“Charlie, is this really an appropriate conversation for the dinner table?” Jasmine asked.
“Would you rather Grace continued her fascinating description of autopsy methods?” Charlie replied. “Or should we talk about the weather? Who’s in favour of hearing more about The Case of the Poisoned Surgeon?”
After a chorus of ayes, Jasmine included, Thomas Pyke asked about the victim.
“I’d say Doctor Ormsby was genuinely devoted to his wife, and vice versa,” Grace answered. “although they are very different in temperament. A hard man to fathom. Fickle, definitely. Ormsby seemed so set on the new operating theatre on Thursday, but professed a different opinion to me on Saturday. Likewise, he was against me attending medical school, yet he wanted me to marry his son, Richard.”
This declaration put a stop to the conversation. Fortunately, Anne filled the awkward silence. “Perhaps Edgar Ormsby was more cunning than I gave him credit for. Marrying you off to his son might be his way of getting you out of medical school. The theory being, you’d be too busy raising a nursery full of Ormsby heirs to practice medicine.”
“Really, Auntie, you are putting me off my dinner,” Grace said, as she helped herself to another slice of roast lamb. “I’d sooner remain a spinster forever than become Henry Ormsby’s sister-in-law. Please don’t tell DS Elliot, or he’ll see it as another motive for me to do away with Ormsby.”
“If not the widow, then who?” Alistair asked. “I suppose it will come down to who had access to the poison and how it was administered.”
Charlie scooped up more of the deliciously crisp roast potatoes, which Mrs Brown had left conveniently near his plate, as she always did. “I suspect it is going to be a difficult case to prove, even if we can narrow down the suspects. Mrs Ormsby’s workroom is near the house. I imagine it would be easy enough to find the key, take the poison, and slip some into food or drink, depending on how bad it tastes. Anyone might have done it. We must hope the culprit has left a monogrammed handkerchief or calling card.”
“What about fingerprints?” Thomas Pyke suggested. At the general bafflement around the table, he explained. “Francis Galton has published several articles on the unique nature of marks made by the tip of the fingers and their potential for identifying individuals. His latest work proves the concept.”
“I know Scotland Yard dismissed the idea,” Alistair said, “partly on the basis of having no method to match a fingerprint to a perpetrator, when there are thousands of criminals it might have come from.”
Charlie’s fork halted in mid-air as he considered the idea. “That problem is irrelevant in this case, as we have a limited number of likely suspects from within the same household. If we could get their fingerprints and match them to marks on the poison bottle, we might identify the murderer.”
“Only if the murderer did not have legitimate reason to touch the bottle,” Anne said. “Mrs Ormsby, for example, would have left her marks on the poison bottle during the production process.”
Grace lifted her palm in front of her face. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by fingerprints, Sergeant Pyke.”
Thomas Pyke polished a wine glass with his napkin, then pressed his thumb and forefinger to it. “Do the same in a different spot, Grace, and you too, Charlie. Can you see the marks?”
Grace squinted at the glass. “I see three pairs of smudges.”
Thomas Pyke excused himself from the table. He returned with a small dish of cocoa powder, which he sprinkled on the glass, before dusting it off gently with a pastry brush. By the light of a gas lamp, turned to full, he angled the glass until the audience crowding around him could see the marks.
Grace took the glass by the stem to observe more closely, with the help of a magnifying glass Charlie passed to her. “How extraordinary! I see them now. Lots of little curving lines, different for each of us.”
Charlie’s father leaned over her shoulder, pointing out the patterns of arches, loops and whorls. “Francis Galton showed that fingerprints are unique to an individual, even within families and between twins. Aside from being a polymath, Galton has an interest in heredity, being a cousin of Charles Darwin. Unfortunately, he also believes in the so-called betterment of humanity through proper breeding. Eugenics, he calls it.”
“Survival of the elitists,” Anne grumbled.
“I wonder the police haven’t thought to use fingerprints before now,” Kenneth Drummond chimed in. “Since the dawn of civilisation, people have dipped their finger or thumb in ink and pressed it onto legal and business documents, in lieu of a signature. Still happens, amongst the illiterate.”
“If fingerprints are unique, while signatures may be forged, it would seem the illiterate are the wiser,” Anne suggested.
“How right you are, my dear,” Drummond replied. “I must say, the next time I commit a crime, I shall be more careful what I touch.”
Anne favoured her beau with a smile. “With your legal skills, Kenneth, you’d talk the judge into believing you were innocent, no matter how many smudges were found in the cocoa.”
Lily clutched her fiancé’s arm. “Alistair, this may be a way for us to assist in the investigation. Now that we have set up the workroom in our new house, we have a place to experiment. How exciting it would be to try our hand at solving a case using fingerprints.”