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Martha cradled the cup in her hands as she stared, unseeingly, out of the window. She hadn’t slept since identifying Constance’s body. She wondered how Ethel had fared.
A board creaked in the room above, followed by the sound of footsteps descending the stairs.
‘I couldn’t face breakfast this morning,’ she said when Ethel appeared, ‘but there’s tea in the pot.’ She gestured to the silver tea service.
Ethel came over and stood at her side.
‘I’m sorry about Constance. I know you were close.’
‘Yes.’ Martha blinked, fighting gathering tears. One escaped and rolled down her cheek. ‘We both supported the cause from its earliest days, though Constance was more militant than I ever was.’ Silence fell over the two young women.
‘It looks so normal in the street. It’s as if last night never happened.’ Ethel’s voice was strained, little more than a murmur.
Martha turned away from the window. She couldn’t bear to see the line-up of hansom cabs in front of the church. She laid her cup on the table and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress.
‘I must visit Archie. I’m not sure he’ll know . . .’ Her voice faltered. She couldn’t say the words ‘Constance’ and ‘death’ in the same sentence. ‘How on earth am I going to tell him?’ She dashed another tear from her eye.
‘I’ll come with you. We can do it together. Lila won’t mind if I take the morning off. I’ll let her know before we leave.’
‘We can’t exclude Kirsty. She has been part of our murder investigation since the beginning.’ Martha stepped away from the window and placed her cup in its saucer. ‘I have sent Aggie to her aunt’s house with a note.’ She could see Ethel thinking and wondered what was going through her mind. At last, the girl spoke.
‘Do you think her husband had anything to do with Constance’s death?’
‘Archie?’ Martha couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘I hadn’t given that any thought, but I suppose we shouldn’t rule it out. However, I was thinking he might know if anyone had been following Constance or held a grudge against her. In any case, the poor man has been somewhat debilitated since he ate those bad oysters.’
* * *
LAUGHTER AND RAUCOUS voices mingled with the sound of doors banging and feet thumping in the corridor, announced the arrival of the early shift. Hammond groaned. His eyes felt glued together and his joints ached. The hard wood of the canteen bench he’d fallen asleep on hadn’t helped his back any; he groaned again as he tried to move. He struggled into a sitting position and rescued his hat from the floor. He was getting too old for the hassle his work entailed, though being in the job protected him from his gran’s company. She must be as old as Methuselah, and he was fed up waiting for her to kick the bucket.
By the time he massaged feeling into his limbs, the worst of the noise had died away. Faint commands echoed from outside, indicating the bobbies had gathered in the courtyard on morning parade.
The sink in the corner of the canteen was full of dirty mugs, but he splashed cold water over his face before wandering up the corridor to his office. He wanted to check whether Constable Buchan had carried out his order to write a report on the evening’s events.
The room was in its usual state of disarray. Papers and files littered every available surface and most of the floor. Buchan’s report lay in a cleared space on the desk, pinned down by a brass ashtray. He slumped into his chair to study it, but the further he read, the more depressed he became. It wasn’t Buchan’s fault. The lad could write a damned good report, even if he wasn’t much use at anything else. It was these damned suffragettes who kept getting themselves killed.
Footsteps clomped up the corridor and Buchan appeared in the doorway.
‘Thought you might want a cup of tea,’ he said, pushing papers aside and placing a mug on the desk.
Hammond swallowed a mouthful. The tea was so strong he had to stop himself from gagging. But that was the way bobbies liked it; brewed until it resembled tar.
‘I’ve examined the hansom cab and noted the details of the cabby it belongs to.’
Buchan’s expression was similar to that of a puppy looking for praise and Hammond suppressed a groan. What right did the constable have for being so bright after the night they’d put in?
‘Good lad,’ he said, though he wanted to kick him into submission. ‘We will follow that up after we’ve visited the victim’s husband.’
* * *
WITH A SHOWER OF SPARKS and the grinding of wheels on iron rails, the tram clanked to a halt. On a normal day and in a normal situation, Martha would have hired a cab, but after the discovery of Constance’s body during the early hours of the morning, she’d shuddered at the very thought. It had been Ethel’s suggestion they travel by tram car and, although the journey had been less comfortable, it had eased Martha’s distress.
Kirsty, Ethel and Martha waited on the kerb for a bicycle and then a horse and cart to pass before crossing to the other side of Perth Road. Springfield was a cul-de-sac of Regency, terraced houses, bordered by waist-high walls topped with iron railings. Doric pillars at the entrances and ornamental balustrades on the edge of each roof indicated the occupants were wealthier than their Perth Road neighbours.
Martha counted the numbers until she came to the house halfway along the east side of the street. She turned into the entrance, followed by Kirsty and Ethel, but before she could announce their presence, the door flew open and Inspector Hammond strode out. Constable Buchan followed in his wake. Hammond stopped when he saw Martha.
‘I might have known you lot would tramp all over my investigation. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to pay my respects,’ she snapped, stiffening. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘If you lot weren’t out roaming the streets all the time, you wouldn’t be getting yourselves killed.’
‘Lock us in the house. Tie us to the kitchen sink. Is that how men think they should treat women? Well, sorry to disappoint you, but there are a lot of women who would disagree with you.’ Martha’s voice was tight with anger as she watched the inspector stride down the steps and on to the road.
‘He’s not in the best of moods today,’ the constable whispered to Ethel.
She raised her eyebrows and shared a smile with him.
‘I can see that. But Martha’s his match.’
A young woman stood in the doorway, regarding them with a bemused expression.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Please inform Mr Drysdale we wish to pay our respects,’ Martha said, handing her a visiting card.
‘I’m afraid Mr Drysdale is indisposed.’
The woman tried to block their entry, but Martha swept past her.
‘I take it you are new here.’ Martha looked her up and down with her most officious stare. ‘I am usually announced by the butler. Where is he?’ She stared around the hall, observing the pile of cabin trunks piled up to the left of the door.
‘Mr McGregor has gone on ahead to open the London house.’
Martha frowned. Constance, before her death, had indicated a return to London, but she hadn’t given the impression it would be so soon.
‘What is it, Gloria?’ Archie emerged from a door further down the hall.
‘I tried to tell them you weren’t well enough for visitors, but they wouldn’t listen.’
Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Archie shuffled towards them.
‘It’s quite all right. Show Miss Fairweather and her friends into the small parlour. I’ll see them there. And perhaps you can bring us a pot of tea and a plate of those shortbread biscuits.’
‘We are so sorry for your loss,’ Martha said, once Archie had joined them in the room. ‘Constance will be greatly missed.’
‘Such a terrible thing to happen.’ Archie eased himself into an armchair. ‘We had intended to journey to London on the midday train. Our preparations had been made. The permanent staff have gone ahead, and the temporary ones dismissed. I don’t know what I’ll do now.’
‘I hadn’t realised you were intending to go to London so soon.’
‘Constance insisted. She was worried because my bout of food poisoning weakened me. She wanted me to see my Harley Street doctor.’ Archie’s shoulders shook, and he buried his face in his hands. His stick clattered to the floor. Kirsty leaned forward, picked it up, and handed it to him. He grabbed it from her with more haste than necessary and his hand closed on the eagle-shaped handle.
‘Thank you,’ he said after a moment.
‘My father has a similar cane. His one is a sword-stick,’ Kirsty said, staring first at the cane and then Archie.
‘How interesting. I can assure you that this one is a simple walking stick, to enable me to move around.’ His gaze lingered on her before he looked away to reach for a handkerchief. He wiped a tear from his eye and sighed.
An awkward silence ensued until Gloria entered the room, pushing a trolley with the tea things.
‘Thank you, Gloria. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t here.’
‘Is Gloria the only servant left?’ Martha asked once the woman had left the room again.
‘I’m afraid so, but she’s not actually a servant. She’s the nurse who has been looking after me during my illness. I’ve asked her to stay on until I leave. Although, if I continue to be debilitated, I might have to ask her to accompany me on the journey to London.’
‘You still intend to go?’
‘I’ll stay until after the funeral.’ He wiped another tear from his eye. ‘I don’t think I can remain in this house without Constance.’
* * *
‘DAMNED WOMEN,’ HAMMOND muttered as he and Constable Buchan set out on the next stage of their investigation. ‘Why can’t they be like normal women? Ones who know their place?’
Buchan knew better than to reply, though Hammond scowled with displeasure when he saw a glimmer of amusement cross the young bobby’s face.
The address on the cab’s registration details was a small cottage near Ninewells tram terminus. It sat back from the road, with a strip of grass at the front. A rough-hewn path at the side of the house led to a stable at the rear of the property. Hammond thumped on the door with his fist.
The woman who opened it looked like a younger version of his gran. Worn out before her time, her expression showed defeat. Worry lines crisscrossed her face, though otherwise, her features held no signs of ageing. She wiped her hands on the apron that encompassed her body.
‘Police,’ Hammond announced. ‘Is this the abode of Douglas Paterson, cab driver?’
The woman stepped back. The worry lines intensified.
‘Dougie? He’s not here. What’s he done? What’s happened?’
‘It might be better if we came in,’ Buchan said.
Hammond glowered at him, but the young constable continued.
‘I’m assuming you’re Mrs Paterson?’
She nodded and stepped aside to let them enter. The room she led them into was a cross between a sitting-room and a kitchen; a jawbox sink filled the window recess, a table and chairs hugged the wall at the opposite side, and two armchairs and a dilapidated sofa sat in front of the fire, which glowed red despite the heat of the day. A savoury smell wafted from the range attached to the fireplace.
Mrs Paterson gestured for them to sit, but Hammond remained standing. He didn’t fancy subjecting the sofa to his weight.
‘Your husband, Mrs Paterson – when did you last see him?’ He signalled to Buchan to take notes.
‘Yesterday, after lunch. He left for work.’ Her voice sounded anxious and her eyes flitted between both men.
‘And you’ve not seen him since.’
‘No.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘I expected him to come home before breakfast. He works most of the night but stops for breakfast and then returns to the rank. We need every fare he can get.’
‘I see. So, when he didn’t return, was that a matter for you to worry about?’
‘No. I just thought he’d picked up extra fares and would come home when they were completed. What’s this all about? Has he been in an accident?’ She swayed and panic made her breathing laboured.
Buchan took hold of her arm and lowered her into an armchair.
‘You’ll feel better if you sit down.’
‘Not an accident, but we need to trace him,’ Hammond said. ‘We found his cab on the rank last night and it contained the body of a woman.’
‘Body of a . . .’ Mrs Paterson, unable to continue, surveyed them with horror. ‘You mean, someone died in his cab?’
‘The dead woman was murdered.’ The harshness in Hammond’s voice contained no sympathy.
Mrs Paterson sagged and uttered a moan.
‘You can’t think Dougie had anything to do with that?’ Her voice shook. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘We won’t know until we talk to him, and we have to find him first.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Buchan said. ‘This must be a shock for you.’
Hammond glared at him. The boy was getting too big for his boots. He had no right to interfere during an interrogation.
‘We will need to search your house and any outbuildings, in case he is hiding here. I will also need a photograph of him.’
The woman’s shoulders sagged in defeat.
‘I can’t afford to have photographs taken, but search where you like. You won’t find him here.’
‘Buchan, you do the search, while I remain here with Mrs Paterson.’
The search didn’t take long and Hammond’s frustration grew as he listened to Buchan’s report that nothing had been found. Hammond stamped away from the house, leaving Buchan to close the gate behind them.
‘We need to find that cabby before he kills someone else.’
‘Yes, sir.’