Simon and Constable Potter stared down at the body on the slab before them. Simon looked up at the pathologist standing on the other side. Potter was a bit pale but holding up all right, silently determined not to disgrace himself—he’d asked to come in with Simon. Said he’d like to learn. The makings of a good officer, there.
“So you agree with the village doctor? Most likely the blow to the head that killed her?”
The man nodded, moustaches trembling. “Yes. I think she tried to flee from her attacker…the marks on the soles of her feet, you see? And then when that became impossible, she turned to fight them off. And then she fell and perhaps struck her head…or perhaps was struck with something. I think there was a fight, regardless. You can see the beginnings of bruises on the arms and hands.”
“Do we need to do a post-mortem?” Simon asked. “Dr Marks suggested it. The family will be arriving in the next hour or two and I’d like to prepare them if that’s the case.”
“No, I really don’t think that’s necessary. It’s quite clear to me. The cause of death must be a blow to the head, however it was delivered. No need to distress them further. I can see why Dr Marks might think it beneficial in an academically curious kind of way…but from a police business perspective I would say it’s not necessary.”
Simon nodded gratefully. “Quite. I don’t see how it’ll benefit, if that’s your considered opinion.”
“It is my opinion.” The doctor turned away and began to take off his surgical gown. “I’m quite happy to put that on the death certificate. Do you have any idea what actually happened to the poor woman?”
Simon shook his head and watched as the man balled the gown, tossed it into a basket in the corner, and started to scrub his hands at the sink. “I’ve got a couple of witnesses who place her talking to another woman she had an altercation with earlier in the evening. She struck the woman and the woman came back to make amends, apparently.” He pulled a face. “Could a woman have killed her?”
“Oh yes, most certainly. Head wounds are tricky. Luck, more than anything, you know. Bad or good.” He was drying his hands as he spoke. “I’m quite happy to stand up at the inquest and say that.”
Simon nodded. A shame. He’d liked Miss Hall-Bridges. But people did strange things. It was one of the things he’d learned about his job very early on. People do strange things should be his motto, framed and put over his desk.
He thanked the doctor and he and Potter made their way back to the other side of town to the desk in question.
“Thank you, Potter,” he said as they pulled into the station yard. “Boring morning for you, all told.
“Not at all, sir. The sunshine was very pleasant…and I got the chance to listen to the pathologist. It’s interesting stuff. Makes me a better copper.”
Simon nodded. “Yes, I suppose. Well. If you’re interested, I’ll bear you in mind when I need a driver again.”
“Yes please, sir. I’d welcome the chance.”
They made their way into the cool interior of the station and parted ways. Simon settled behind his desk and rubbed his hands over his face. Damn it. Stupid nobs and their stupid quarrels about things that weren’t important at all. A Ouija board for God’s sake! Talking to the dead! The dead were gone. It was those left behind who needed help. Not that ladies like that would ever consider that. He’d taken an instant dislike to his two witnesses and had been rather struck by his supposed murderess. But justice was blind and if Lucy Hall-Bridges had done it, she deserved to hang.
He sighed as one of his sergeants stuck his head round the door. “The family are here, sir. Shall I show them in?”
“They made good time,” Simon said, getting to his feet. “Scrape up some tea and biscuits from somewhere, could you?”
The sergeant nodded and briefly disappeared, leaving the door open. When he came back he was ushering a tear-stained older woman and a man in his twenties before him down the corridor. “Mrs Hornby and Mr Hornby, sir,” he said.
Simon nodded and stepped forward, hand held out. “Mrs Hornby. I am so sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” She shook his hand and he helped her into one of the chairs opposite his desk. “And Mr Hornby. I am so sorry to be the bearer of such terrible news.”
* * * *
These interviews were never pleasant. But…the Hornbys were quietly distressed rather than loud and angry with emotion. Confused about the Ouija board.
“I had no idea,” her mother said, quietly. “Poor, poor Lottie. We knew she was badly affected by Thomas’ death…who wouldn’t be? But to resort to Spiritualism…” Her voice trailed off. She sounded appalled, in the way only a pillar of the Church of England could be at the idea of such flimflam. Her eyes welled up again as they’d been doing at intervals throughout the interview.
Mr Hornby took her hand and patted it. “There, Mama. She’s with Thomas and Father now. And at peace.” He looked up at Simon. “These two friends of hers…they’re still at the house?”
Simon nodded. “Yes. I’m going to need to speak to them again and get a formal statement. I know it’s very inconvenient, but if you could bear…”
Hornby nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Anything to help.” He swallowed. “Her body…?” he enquired, delicately.
“I need to speak to the coroner,” Simon said. “The inquest will need to be formally opened and then adjourned whilst we investigate. I spoke to the pathologist earlier and he thinks the cause of death is clear…” He paused as Mrs Hornby’s eyes welled again and she got herself under control. “…so under that circumstance I would imagine you will be able to proceed with funeral arrangements. I don’t think the coroner will disagree, but it’s not my place to make that decision. But it’s not a case of working out how she died, you see—that’s the coroner’s job and that’s already clear. It’s a case of working out who killed her, which is my department.”
That was rather blunt, but in his experience people in these affecting situations tended not to get the point if one was subtle.
Mr Hornby nodded. “Quite,” he said rather palely. “There’s no chance she,” he cleared his throat, “erm, drowned?” He glanced sidelong at his mother, but the lady was stoic, gripping his hand rather hard, but no longer weeping.
“None at all. Both the village doctor in Bradfield…Dr Marks?” Mr Hornby nodded in acknowledgement, “and my own pathologist at the hospital agree that it was most likely the blow to the head that killed her.”
That did make Mrs Hornby flinch. “Dear Sylvia,” she said, somewhat shakily. “Of course she’d be called out to anything like this in the village. Such a bluestocking as a girl and a very sensible sort of person.”
“I understand she was up at the house last night,” Simon assayed cautiously. He hadn’t planned to ask about this today, but if she was willing to talk…
“Was she?” Mrs Hornby mopped her eyes. “I suppose Lottie might ask her. They were very friendly for a couple of years as gels. Books, reading, you know. But Lottie grew out of it, whilst Sylvia went on to university.” Her voice dropped on the last word as if she was mentioning something not quite proper. Simon stifled a smile that threatened to break out despite the circumstances.
“Yes, she and her friend, Miss Hall-Bridges…and another lady from the village,” he consulted his notes. “Miss Lonsdale.”
“I don’t know Miss Hall-Bridges personally,” Mrs Hornby said. “However, I believe she’s a very nice young woman.”
Mr Hornby nodded. “Cousin of Charlie Fitzherbert,” he said.
“Oh, really?” His mother turned to him. “Such a sweet young man. He was very badly wounded, wasn’t he?”
“I believe so,” Hornby replied. “Haven’t seen him in years, but he was a few years ahead of me at Eton. And Miss Lonsdale and her mother have moved into a cottage on the edge of the village, I understand. She’s been to tea once or twice, hasn’t she, Mother?” He looked over at her.
She nodded, weeping again. “Yes, she came that Tuesday before we left for town, didn’t she? She seemed very nice. Rides a lot. Not the kind who I’d imagine would be involved with Spiritualism. Not that I would imagine Sylvia would be, either.”
“I get the impression they were invited by Mrs Fortescue because she and her friends felt they needed a larger group to hold their séance,” Simon said. “I don’t think they were close friends with your daughter or her friends from London.”
Mrs Hornby nodded. “That would make sense. I did wonder why Lottie didn’t come up with us. We usually go up for a few weeks in June and early July and then come home for the rest of the summer. She prefers town, as a rule.”
Her son nodded. “Yes, quite. I put it down to her grieving for Thomas. Which I suppose it was, the poor old girl. Spiritualism, though.” He frowned. “Just…Well. You know.”
Simon nodded. “Quite,” he said, and rose to his feet. No point in keeping them here any longer. “Anyway. I’m so sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. And I do assure you we’re going to find out what happened. Please be confident of that.”
Mr Hornby helped his mother to her feet and Simon shook their hands again.
“I’ll come up tomorrow, if that’s convenient?” Or if it’s not convenient, actually, but he didn’t say that aloud. “To take formal statements from the ladies. And I’ll need to double-check their stories with the servants if that could be arranged. Of course, if any further information comes to light, I’ll let you know immediately.”
That provoked another flood of understandable tears from Mrs Hornby as they departed.