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Mrs Ormsby ushered them into her private room, which appeared to be more of a lady’s dayroom than a boudoir. Evidently, the Ormsby’s marriage was affectionate enough to share a bed. The furnishings were orderly and feminine, without crossing the line into frills and fancies.
Mrs Ormsby went straight to the connecting door, rightly perceived their interest lay in her husband’s domain. “As you can see, our rooms connect by way of a dressing room and private bathroom.” She waved her hand around the inner space, which was a sizable area lined with clothes, shoes, a pair of dressing tables and drawers for smaller items and jewellery. “We have a small safe for valuable items, which was not touched.”
Wallace opened the door to the private bathroom, another substantial space, with a full-sized bath as well as a washstand. Mrs Ormsby shrank back against the wall as Wallace opened the cabinet that had contained the heart tonic. The cabinet was crammed with a range of medicines and the usual soaps, perfumes and shaving items.
Charlie noted that the cabinet was locked, but the key was in the lock. A curious child would have no problem standing on a chair and taking whatever took her fancy. He took advantage of her distraction to hand Mrs Ormsby a reagent bottle, which she said was not one of hers. She passed it back to him without a trace of curiosity. She agreed without question when Charlie asked if he might take Doctor Ormsby’s silver-backed brush with him. He did not explain that he wanted it so he could eliminate her husband’s fingerprints from the inquiry.
The policemen went through to the master bedroom, which showed signs of Mrs Ormsby’s hasty retreat from a nap. Wallace pretended to ignore the scattering of intimate clothing and rumpled sheets. “Perhaps we might have a word with you in the drawing room, Mrs Ormsby?”
When they were seated in the drawing room, Mrs Ormsby smoothed her heavy black gown, lifted her veil and looked Wallace directly in the eye. “Please ask whatever you wish, Inspector.”
“Shall we start with your full name and place of birth?”
“Mrs Siobhan Agnes Ormsby. Edinburgh, Scotland.”
“You are Doctor Ormsby’s second wife, I understand,” Wallace said.
Mrs Ormsby replied in a subdued monotone, as one does with a tale oft told. “That is correct, Inspector. I came to New Zealand in 1883, after my first husband died and left me without support. This country was in desperate need of trained nurses and I felt a fresh start was in order. I met Edgar Ormsby and his family on the ship, under tragic circumstances. Edgar’s first wife became seriously ill and died during the voyage. I nursed her, with the assistance of Miss Lawson. Edgar and I met again at the hospital here in Dunedin. As fate would have it, he was in need of a nurse for the private surgical clinic he planned to establish. I accepted the position and eventually married him eighteen months later. Agnes was born less than a year afterwards, to our great delight.”
Mrs Ormsby waited patiently for the next question. When Wallace hesitated, she did not falter under his imperturbable gaze. “In answer to your unasked question, Inspector, I can assure you it was a love match. I didn’t marry Edgar for his money or position, although I admit I viewed a surgeon as an ideal match for my skills and interests. Indeed, until I first visited this house, I had no idea he was truly wealthy, rather than merely a well-to-do professional man. I suppose you will find that hard to believe, but it is true.”
“I have no reason to doubt it, Mrs Ormsby,” Wallace replied. “Did you know either Doctor Ormsby or Miss Lawson before the voyage?”
“No. Nelly and I were assigned bunks next to each other. We quickly became friends. She showed an aptitude for nursing and her assistance was much needed on that long voyage. Dysentery afflicted more passengers than the ship’s surgeon and I could handle alone.”
“Miss Lawson is now your lady’s maid, I understand.”
“Officially, that is her title, although Nelly is more of a companion. I have looked after myself for many decades, without the assistance of servants. She also assists me with the preparation of my natural remedies, as I’m sure you know.” Mrs Ormsby shot a stern glare in their direction. “I have complete faith in her. She is not the author of this tragedy, no more than I am. Less so, in fact, as I suffer the guilt of preparing the rat poison. Oh, how I wish that I had never heard of tutu.”
“Mrs Ormsby,” Wallace said, “you will appreciate that the critical issue is how the poison came to be in your husband’s heart tonic.”
“I have no idea, I assure you, Inspector. An intruder, I can only assume, as it cannot have been anyone within the household.”
Wallace raised an eyebrow fractionally, but let the comment pass. “Did you see anyone in the private bathroom used by your husband and yourself, at any time between afternoon tea on Friday and Saturday?”
“Only the usual people. Edgar’s valet shaved him in the bathroom every morning and the housemaids cleaned our rooms while we were at breakfast. Nelly would have been in the bathroom and dressing room at various times, to see to my requirements. Nobody else would have cause to be there. However, I spent most of Saturday downstairs, attending to preparations for the soirée. Thus, I cannot say for sure if anyone else entered the bathroom.”
“What about your husband’s bedroom?”
“Only the valet and the housemaids. Edgar’s valet was in and out during the day, attending to my husband’s clothes for the evening. Other than that, only myself and members of the family.”
“Family?”
For the first time in the interview, Mrs Ormsby’s composure slipped. Nothing dramatic – no pacing or hand-wringing or cross words. No more than a tightening of her lips and a narrowing of her eyes. “Unfortunately, Edgar chose the day of the soirée to stir up a hornet’s nest. I suppose you will have to know that Edgar had been at odds with all three of his older children in preceding weeks.”
“I will need to hear the details, Mrs Ormsby.” Wallace’s own composure was faultless, although his very stillness hinted at his eagerness to hear her answer.
“Must you hear it from me? I try avoid coming between Edgar and his children.”
Wallace did no more than raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, of course. I suppose it will have to be me now Edgar is no longer with us. I keep expecting him to come through the door...” A tear squeezed from under her eyelid. Mrs Ormsby dashed it away. “Well, if you must know, Cecilia was angry with her father over his failure to accept her suitor. Doctor Alexander had made his intentions known, but Edgar insisted on making him and Cecilia wait a week before he gave them his decision.”
“Why was that, Mrs Ormsby?” Wallace asked gently.
“Doctor Alexander has nothing but his skill and character to recommend him. He is a fine young man and an excellent surgeon, which was more than enough for my approval. However, Edgar wanted the best for his daughter, in terms of wealth and position. Despite Alexander’s failure to be born into wealth, Edgar planned to consent to the match. To be honest, I think he was pleased with the idea of a surgeon as a son-in-law and he truly did wish to see his daughter happy.”
“You’re sure your husband agreed? We were under the impression that Miss Cecilia believed her father had denied her suitor.”
“I’m afraid Edgar had rather an unfortunate tendency to tease and spring surprises on us.” Mrs Ormsby sighed. “Edgar told me he had made up his mind, but had not made that known to his daughter. He would have had to finalise the matter with Gideon Alexander first, of course. Perhaps Edgar intended to tell them the good news at the soirée.”
Charlie was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Doctor Ormsby was a man who relished being in control. Raising hackles by professing to be of one view, then changing his mind, presumably to appear magnanimous. Ormsby didn’t seem to realise that this approach was gaining him more enemies than friends. Horncastle and the women fundraisers, whom he had played against each other over the new operating theatre, and now his own daughter. Even his wife and son, after refusing to support the proposed expansion of his wife’s “little hobby”.
“I’m sure it was well meant,” Mrs Ormsby hastened to add. “Edgar was right to take the time to investigate Doctor Alexander’s situation before he agreed to the marriage. Henry was pushing his father to do so, as we knew so little of Alexander’s background. He hadn’t been in New Zealand long, but he came with excellent references.”
“I understand Henry was also angry with his father that day.” Wallace said.
Mrs Ormsby’s face tensed, as it always did when Henry’s name was mentioned. “Henry is frequently angry about something. He seems to find life very unfair, although I am unable to say why. He is fed, housed and educated as well as any young man in the land.”
“May I ask about your own relationship with Henry, Mrs Ormsby?”
“If you must. I do my best to be a fair and loving stepmother, but Henry sees me as an usurper. He has never accepted me, unlike dear Richard, and now I doubt he ever will. Unfortunately, I am now rather at Henry’s mercy.”
“How so?” Wallace softened his tone, knowing what was to come, but unable to put her out of her misery at this critical point.
Mrs Ormsby tried to lighten the situation with a little laugh, but it sounded a little too desperate to all present. “I’m sorry, it’s rather frustrating. Edgar was trying to push his older son, Richard, into an unwanted society marriage. Their relationship had long been strained, after Richard chose to become a pharmacist rather than a surgeon. A few weeks ago, the tension erupted into a furious argument. Edgar ripped up his will and made a new one, cutting Richard out entirely. It was a moment of foolishness, which Edgar intended to reverse as soon as Richard ‘saw sense’. Nevertheless, the fact is, Edgar had not yet done so. Thus, Henry is the now primary beneficiary of his father’s will. I cannot remain in this house under Henry’s rule.”
“Are you sure your husband didn’t change his will back in favour of Richard, as he intended?”
“I know he went to see his attorney on Friday, but I presume the new will remains undrafted and unsigned.”
Wallace leaned a little closer. “Your husband didn’t discuss it with you?”
Mrs Ormsby fluttered her delicate hands helplessly. For all her outward semblance of calm, tears welled again at the corner of her eyes. “Edgar makes his own decisions on such matters. I make a point of not being involved, as I do not wish to be perceived as influencing him against the children of his first wife.”
Wallace sank back into the armchair, but kept his eyes fixed on her. “As a matter of fact, it would seem that your husband did change his will. The new will was signed on Friday, the day before the soirée.”
Astonishment and hope rose to replace the misery on Mrs Ormsby’s face. Her lips moved, but no words escaped.
Wallace filled the silence. “Your husband’s meeting with his attorney must have been to sign an already drafted document. Richard was as surprised as you are, when he retrieved the document from Doctor Ormsby’s study.”
“Oh, well, my goodness. I cannot pretend that I am not relieved. For Richard, as well as for myself and Agnes.” Her moment of joy passed quickly. “Henry will be furious. I wonder if –”
Mrs Ormsby cut the sentence short. From the way she clamped her lips together, she was unlikely to say anything more. Charlie had little doubt that she was wondering if Henry knew of his father’s plan to reinstate Richard as the main beneficiary. Henry would indeed be furious.
“Richard will be able to make his own choice of a bride now.” Wallace leaned forward again as he said it, inviting her confidence.
“Yes, he will. And much the happier he will be for it.” Mrs Ormsby met Wallace’s gaze, but declined to elaborate.
“Perhaps his choice will be similar to his father’s? A match for love, not money?”
“You have put your detective skills to good use, I perceive, Inspector. Suffice to say, I will leave the decision entirely in Richard’s capable hands. He is a far better man than anyone gives him credit for, his father included.”
Wallace let the statement sit in silence, waiting for any further admissions. But Mrs Ormsby was not one to babble confidences into a gap in the conversation. Wallace tried a new tack. “I believe you and your stepson had plans to develop and expand your natural remedies business. Plans that were thwarted by your husband’s refusal to fund the venture.”
Mrs Ormsby’s head perked to one side, a touch of vexation crossing her rosebud lips. “I hope you are not thinking that minor disagreement was motive for murder, Inspector. I assure you, with time and persuasion, Edgar would have accepted our plans.”
Charlie had little doubt of it. This woman had all the powers of persuasion at her fingertips. She was clever, determined, and far too sweet-natured to refuse. “Mrs Ormsby, forgive me if I am being too forward, but why would your husband not wish to support your venture? It cannot have been that he didn’t want you to be employed, when he readily accepted your assistance as his nurse.”
The rosebud lips quirked into amusement. “Edgar did not wish me to sully my reputation by engaging in business for profit, Mr Pyke. Nor did he want me to lure Richard away from ‘pure’ medicine.”
“Perhaps he thought his own wealth sufficient, without need of supplement,” Wallace ventured.
“If you must know, I intended to donate the profits to a charitable medical service, which has been set up to benefit the native peoples. I attended a lecture by the director of the venture, who is of Ngāi Tahu descent. Indeed, it is from him that I first learned about the use of native plants as remedies.”
Mrs Ormsby paused, as if judging their characters before continuing her disclosure. “The British came to this far corner of the world to seize land and natural resources. We left the Māori people with little more than devastating new diseases and broken promises. Providing the means to cure the diseases we gave them is surely the very least we can do, don’t you think?”
Mrs Ormsby watched her words land on chastened ears. She rose from her chair. “If that is all, officers, I suppose you would like to speak to Cecilia.”
Wallace rose and saw her to the door. “Miss Cecilia and Miss Lawson, as well as the household staff.”
Edgar Ormsby’s widow paused at the threshold. “I will send Cecilia and Nelly to you first.”
While Wallace and Kelly conferred, Charlie slipped out of the room. He found Richard in his father’s study, sorting documents with glum resolve.
“If you will pardon the intrusion, Mr Ormsby, I wanted to ask about your knowledge of your stepmother’s plans to expand her natural remedies business and your father’s views on the matter.”
Richard set aside a pile of papers and gestured Charlie to the ladderback chair in front of the desk. He sat back in his father’s larger, well-padded leather chair behind the desk. “Mother and I plan to be partners in the venture. All we needed from Father was the capital to move to larger premises, in order to increase production of her skin creams. Father opposed the scheme, on the basis of not wanting either his wife or his son to be involved in ‘sordid commerce’, as he put it.”
“How did you feel about his refusal?” Charlie watched for signs of anger, but Richard merely seemed resigned.
“Annoyed, naturally. The profits were going to a charitable foundation, so it wasn’t as if Mother was attempting to amass independent wealth. I responded to my father’s refusal by preparing a detailed business plan, complete with test results, in order to convince my father of the prospects. The doctors and nurses at the hospital couldn’t get enough of my stepmother’s hand cream. Hygiene is essential for reducing infection, you know. Medical practitioners must constantly wash their hands using carbolic soap, to the point where painful rashes develop. The cream was a godsend. I have no doubt at all that the business would have been a great success.”
“Did your business proposal change your father’s mind?” Charlie asked.
Richard shrugged. “We’ll never know.” He got up and went to a cabinet, rummaging through it until he found the document. “Here, you can see for yourself what I gave him. He probably never read it.”
Richard had been impressively thorough, Charlie realised, as he flipped through pages of projected costs and profits, test results and endorsements. Each new meeting with the elder son raised his opinion of the man.
Tucked inside the document was a loose sheet of paper, on which someone had scribbled notes in a different hand, presumably that of Edgar Ormsby. He had clearly been convinced of the merits of the hand cream, to the extent of projecting potential profits from export of the product into the much larger British and American markets. The final paragraph said much of Edgar Ormsby’s character – a note to talk to his attorney about setting up the business in his own name and altering the flow of profits accordingly, with a small percentage to be donated to worthy medical charities of his choice. The scoundrel planned to pull the business venture from under his wife and son’s feet. He hadn’t even had the decency to tell them.
Charlie kept his expression blank. “May I retain this copy for a day or two?”
“If you wish. I have my own copy. If you have no more questions, Mr Pyke, I had better return to my task, unless you have any information to share on the villain who sent my father to his grave.”
“Not yet.” Charlie rose from the chair. Surely Richard would not have handed the document over so calmly, if he had been aware of his father’s notes. Even Richard Ormsby’s mild temperament would have been driven to rage at his father’s treachery, if he knew of it.
Charlie could hear Miss Cecilia Ormsby coming down the stairs, complaining loudly about being disturbed from her rest for the tedious task of talking to the constabulary. Time to return to the drawing room.
Cecilia entered in a swirl of black crepe. Whereas Mrs Ormsby’s heavy black mourning gown made her look smaller and more vulnerable, Cecilia’s fashionably cut and perfectly pressed gown achieved the opposite effect.
Edgar Ormsby’s daughter was unable to add any substantive evidence to the investigation. Cecilia did not so much as glance at Charlie, reserving her remarks solely for the senior officer. After castigating the police for disturbing a household in mourning, Cecilia declared she knew nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. Furthermore, she refused to believe her father’s death wasn’t anything more than a tragic heart attack. She flatly refused to take the reagent bottle, declaring herself entirely without interest in her stepmother’s silly little hobby.
Wallace persevered until Cecilia admitted she had been in her bedroom most of Saturday (not helping her stepmother with the soirée), after arguing with her father at breakfast over his delay in approving her engagement. The rest of her statement, delivered amidst pouts and recriminations, was centred around Gideon Alexander and the absolute importance of their marriage.
When Wallace informed her that her father’s will had been rewritten again, Cecilia didn’t so much as blink. “I know nothing about it, Inspector. I trusted my father to look after my best interests, as is proper.” She rose from the chair. “And now, you must excuse me, for I feel a headache coming on.”
Cecilia walked out the door. Wallace let her go. They heard a flurry of footsteps and a door opening nearby.
“Off to see brother Richard,” Kelly said, “to see if she has lost or gained in the new will. I’ll wager a shilling on sweet Cecilia convincing Richard to agree to the engagement before the day is done.”
Not a wager Charlie would be willing to bet against, even for a penny.
“We’ll need to interview her suitor,” Wallace said. “If Doctor Ormsby turned him down, that’s two more people with a motive.”