When they stepped down from the comfort of their railway carriage onto the broad platform at Hexham station, the first thing that clawed at their senses was the pervasive, pungent stench of the town’s tanneries. Hexham, Atticus suddenly recalled, was renowned for its glove and hat-making industries.
Lucie held her perfumed pocket handkerchief to her nose as Atticus went to tap on the shoulder of one of the platform porters and politely ask for directions to the town’s police station.
“It’s very easy,” he announced when he returned. “We need to walk into the town towards the Abbey and find the Hall Gate. The police station is opposite the Old Gaol there.”
The busy lane leading into the town bordered a large and verdant orchard, and it would have been a pleasant enough walk except for the steady, westerly breeze which carried the acrid fumes from the myriad mill and manufactory chimneys into their throats. But then the orchard all too soon gave way to rows of stinking slums and hovels and they quickly found themselves continually switching their attention between the quaint, stone architecture and tantalising glimpses of St Wilfrid’s great abbey beyond and the piles of rotting rubbish and excrement that littered the streets.
At last, they were pointed into the ancient Hall Gate and found themselves in front of a neat stone building with dark blue window-shutters and a large blue-glass lantern above the door marked ‘Police.’ Atticus pushed open the door, a bell tinkled overhead and a harassed-looking sergeant glanced up with obvious irritation from a sheaf of papers fanned across his desk like a hand of cards. His expression of annoyance dissolved instantly as he caught sight of Lucie and he stood smartly to dutiful and smiling attention. He said, “Good morning, madam, good morning, sir.”
Atticus smiled back cordially and politely offered their calling card. Lucie had reminded him more than once on the train and again as they walked through the town how important it was to keep police officers of all ranks as allies rather than enemies.
“A very good morning to you, Sergeant,” he said. “We are Mr and Mrs Atticus Fox of Harrogate and I believe that we are expected.”
The sergeant’s smile faltered just a little as he examined their calling card and his warm Northumbrian accent became a degree cooler and more officious as he said: “Very good, Mr Fox, the detective superintendent has just got back. Follow me please,” and led them through a battered door to the rear of the station.
They clattered noisily up a cramped flight of bare wooden stairs and stopped on the landing where the sergeant paused to button his collar up tight. He steeled himself and knocked smartly on a door marked, ‘Detective Superintendent Thos. Robson.’
After a brief pause, a gruff, muffled voice barked, “Yes, what is it?” and the sergeant twisted the brass door-knob and stepped inside. Atticus caught the words ‘private,’ ‘commissioned,’ and ‘Fox,’ and stepped forward to join the sergeant in the room.
Detective Superintendent Thomas Robson stood as he caught sight of Atticus and circled his broad, cluttered bureau with his dinner plate of a hand outstretched. His gaze shifted onto Lucie as she followed in her husband’s wake and he bowed briefly and politely to her before offering the two mismatched, wooden chairs without cushions in front of his desk.
He waited until Lucie and Atticus were seated before slumping wearily into his own. His chair creaked sharply as it caught him.
“It has already been a long day for the both of us, Mr and Mrs Fox. How can the Hexham Constabulary be of assistance to you?”
Atticus already had Lucie’s agreement for him to speak directly.
“You might be aware, Superintendent Robson, that Sir Hugh Lowther has engaged us to conduct a parallel investigation to your own into the recent death on his estate. That investigation will now naturally extend to include his father’s unfortunate demise yesterday.”
Robson was silent for a few moments as he meticulously aligned the side of a heavily-doodled blotting pad with the edge of his desk.
“I am Detective Superintendent, and if you will pardon me, I will be perfectly candid with you both. Yes, I am well aware of the reason you are both in Northumberland. However, unlike Colonel Lowther, I do not believe that you can bring one atom of assistance to the case – or cases if you prefer. Rather, I suspect that at best, you will only serve to get in the way of our own proper investigations.”
The joints of his chair creaked again as he leaned forward, defiantly across his desk. “And frankly it does nothing at all to help the public’s confidence in its police force if wealthy local landowners bring fancy privately commissioned investigators up from the south.”
He glared at them as if to reinforce his point.
“However, notwithstanding all of that,” he continued, a little more reasonably now, “Sir Hugh himself has personally requested that we cooperate fully with you. He is an influential man here in this part of Northumberland, and generally a good friend to the police, so on this occasion that is precisely what we shall do.”
Atticus couldn’t help beaming. They could have asked for nothing more.
“Then you have our word of honour that we will do our utmost not to obstruct or to compromise your own investigation in any way.”
He hesitated.
“May I ask who the investigating officer is please?”
Robson sat back in his chair and regarded him shrewdly.
“I am the investigating officer in both cases, Fox. This isn’t Harrogate. Here at Hexham, in addition to me, we have the sergeant, whom you have already met, and just four constables. We are, as you might imagine, somewhat undermanned.
“I could have requested that a detective inspector be sent out from Newcastle or even Gateshead, I suppose, but because of the very serious nature of the case and especially because Sir Hugh’s own father is now a victim, I have decided to oversee the inquiry personally.”
Atticus tested the water further. “Very wise. So may we ask what your conclusions are so far?”
“You may ask of course, Fox, and I will freely admit in return that we are quite baffled at this stage, although our enquiries are of course continuing. We know that it isn’t King Arthur, and we suspect it isn’t Jack the Ripper either, but beyond that…” He spread his enormous hands in a gesture of bafflement. “Now, Sir Hugh asked if you could speak to the coroner about an autopsy and whether Mrs Fox could see the corpse at first hand.”
“May I?” Lucie asked, “It is always preferable to reading reports.”
Robson regarded them for several moments as he considered the request. “Actually, you’re in luck,” he replied eventually. “A local doctor has been asked to carry out autopsies on both Samson Elliott and Sir Douglas Lowther. He’s to begin later today and he has agreed that you both may observe.”
He smiled.
“I’ll warn you though, Elliott’s body in particular is in quite a poor condition and it has already begun, in spite of being in the chill of the morgue, to… decompose.”