DEATH CAME SILENTLY to Flora Politson on Friday the thirteenth of April.
At sixty-one years of age, Flora – the plump widow of a wealthy Liverpool merchant and mistress of a grand stucco villa in Fulwood Park, some three miles from the smells of the city and the bustle of the docks – had appeared to be in the best of health. But Dr Willis knew that good health is often no defence against a visit from the Grim Reaper.
Willis, with his great mutton chop whiskers and his battered leather bag, was more adept at charming wealthy ladies than he was at diagnosis, but he gave his verdict with the certainty of holy writ. Flora Politson had died of heart failure. A sudden and merciful end.
The small, pale young man with sandy hair who accompanied the doctor looked no older than the butcher’s boy who came whistling up the drive of Mortaber Villa each day on his bicycle. However, from his manner of dress and the leather doctor’s bag he clutched in his right hand, Biddy – the late Mrs Politson’s maid – guessed that he was assisting Dr Willis in some way. But it wasn’t her place to ask questions.
Biddy stood near the bedroom, smoothing her crisp, white apron with restless fingers as the doctor and his companion bent over Mrs Politson who lay, as though asleep, on the bed. Biddy thought her mistress looked so peaceful lying there, her arms crossed neatly on her chest. The snowy lace counterpane was pulled up to her scrawny neck and her hair, spread out on the pillow, was iron grey and fluffy like the rain clouds that hung over the River Mersey that morning.
Biddy gazed out of the sash window at the gardens below with their bushy laurels lining the sweeping drive. It had begun to rain, a thin, miserable drizzle. Funeral weather, her mother used to say. Weather for death.
Dr Willis interrupted Biddy’s thoughts by touching her arm and she flinched. He’d touched her before, his large, clammy hand patting her small rough one. Lingering too long. The younger man was still standing by the bed, silent and thoughtful, studying Flora’s dead face and Biddy doubted he’d have noticed Dr Willis’s over-familiar gesture. And even if he had seen, he would no doubt have kept his opinions to himself – as underlings and servants must.
Biddy cleared her throat. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes. “But how did the mistress die? She wasn’t ill or nothing.”
The doctor gave Biddy a small, patronizing smile. “Your mistress has suffered with a weak heart for many years.” He didn’t bother elaborating further. Why should he, for a maidservant with a round, pudding face and lank, mousy hair tucked up under her cap.
“The undertakers will be here presently,” the doctor said. A speck of saliva escaped his lips and Biddy looked away. Something about him reminded her of George, the footman at the house on Catherine Street where she’d once worked. She had been fourteen then and she’d had no experience of men … until she caught George’s lecherous bloodshot eye. She imagined she could smell him now, the scent of his sweat as he had held her close to him – when he did what he liked to do when the cook’s back was turned and the staff were all busy with their chores. Biddy felt her body trembling at the very thought of George’s touch … of his clammy hand thrusting up her skirts, touching and kneading the places her mother had told her nobody but her husband should be privy to. She glanced at the dead woman on the bed, trying to banish the memories of her humiliation.
Dr Willis gave her a businesslike smile. “I shall sign the death certificate and leave it here. Mr Politson will be here shortly. I have sent word that his mother has passed away.”
“Mr Politson called this morning, sir,” Biddy said, almost in a whisper.
The doctor looked at her, frowning. “I didn’t know.”
“He stayed about half an hour, sir. Him and the mistress …” She stopped herself. It wasn’t her place to gossip about her betters and she was aware that she’d said enough already.
Dr Willis shuffled his feet. “I don’t think that’s any concern of ours, Biddy.” He turned and addressed the young man. “Dr Carson, there’s nothing more we can do here.”
The young man made no move to leave but looked straight at Biddy with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. “Please go on, Biddy. What were you saying about Mr Politson and your mistress?” He glanced at the corpse on the bed as though he expected it to rise at any moment and join in the conversation.
“If you please, sir, they … they had words, sir. That’s all.” Biddy sounded wary.
“What kind of words?”
“Harsh ones, sir. We could hear them in the servants’ hall. But it’s not my place to say any more.”
“Indeed,” Willis interrupted, impatient.
“I don’t suppose you caught the, er … sense of these harsh words, did you?”
“Not the sense, sir. I just heard raised voices. As though they were quarrelling, sir.”
“Doctor Carson, it is time we were going,” Willis said firmly. “This unfortunate girl can hardly be expected to pass judgment on the affairs of her employers. The death was natural and that is an end to the matter.”
Dr Willis looked at the corpse again, a little uneasy. Flora Politson had quarrelled with her son – and a few hours later, Flora Politson had been found dead by her maid. But Willis had known the family for years and, as far as he was concerned, people of the Politsons’ standing in the community were above suspicion. It was high time young Dr Carson, his assistant of three months, learned this before he committed the grave sin of insulting his betters. “Dr Carson, come. We have patients to see.”
But Carson ignored the order. He walked back to the bed and bent over the dead woman, sniffing the air around her. Alongside an empty bottle marked laudanum on the bedside table, stood a half-drunk cup of tea, the milk formed into dead swirls on the surface. He sniffed at it before placing his hand beneath the dead woman’s head and lifting it gently. For a few moments he studied the pillow closely, then he lowered the head again.
“Is anything the matter, sir?” Biddy asked, craning her neck to see what was going on.
Before Carson could answer, Willis spoke again, impatient. “Come, Carson, we have calls to make. Biddy, tell Waggs that the undertaker is expected.”
Biddy scurried from the room and made for the servant’s hall where she knew the butler, Mr Waggs, was polishing the silver. As she reached the foot of the stairs she heard Dr Carson’s voice. “I’m not satisfied, doctor,” he was saying. “I wish to make a more thorough examination.”
“Nonsense,” Willis barked as he swept down the staircase, almost colliding with Biddy who had stood aside with her head bowed, ready to see the medical men off the premises.
Biddy watched the younger doctor hesitate at the front door. Then he turned to address her. “Biddy, just one thing, if you please. Had your mistress pricked herself at all … a finger perhaps … or some part of her face or …?”
Biddy frowned in an effort to remember. Then she nodded. “She pricked her finger yesterday, sir, when she was sewing. Drove a needle in almost to the bone, sir.”
“Indeed.”
“Oh yes, sir. It bled something awful.”
Carson nodded. “Come, Biddy. Show me if you will.”
Biddy hesitated for a few moments before returning upstairs to Flora’s bedside. She watched while the doctor uncovered the dead woman’s hands. Sure enough, on her left forefinger was a pinprick wound, half-healed now but still visible. Unexpectedly, Carson picked up the cup containing the dregs of tea and poured a little of the liquid into a small glass vial which he popped into his waistcoat pocket before thanking Biddy again and hurrying out to join his colleague downstairs in the hallway. Biddy saw Dr Willis shoot the young man a hostile glance. His professional opinion had been questioned. Or his incompetence had been discovered.
Biddy bobbed a curtsy as the two doctors left then she hurried across the hall and pushed open the green baize door that led to the servants’ quarters.
Death had visited the house. And death meant more work. Until the arrival of the police brought everything to a sudden halt.
***
Reginald Politson was the only son and heir of Flora Politson and the late Septimus Politson Esquire. Septimus himself had been a man of ambition and by the time of his death seven years ago, he had made a fortune supplying the voracious needs of the Liverpool shipping industry. Reginald had been a disappointment to him – all the servants knew that – and after her husband’s death, Flora had kept her dainty hands on the company’s tiller. But now she was dead, Reginald would have free rein to run the business as he thought fit. And there were many, servants’ hall gossip had it, who thought that he would run it into the ground.
Reginald was a swarthy man in his mid-thirties. And he was unmarried which some in the servants’ hall took as a sign of dissipation. A respectable young man in Reginald’s position should take a wife and those that didn’t were definitely suspect. Biddy had overheard one of the footmen telling Daisy the parlour maid that Mr Politson preferred the company of men but Biddy was uncertain what he had meant by that. At least he didn’t pester the female servants like some. At least she didn’t have to go about the house in fear that he might creep up on her, pull her into a room and use her to satisfy his desires, panting like an animal above her, hurting her like her old master at the house in Canning Place had done.
Biddy served tea to Mr Politson and the family solicitor, Mr Jaques, in the drawing room. The house was now in deep mourning – black crêpe everywhere and a large black bow tied to the front door. The undertakers, with their long, serious faces and discreet footsteps, had called and Mrs Politson had been laid out properly in her bed, receiving visitors in death as she had done in life.
Flora Politson’s only son and her solicitor wore suitably solemn expressions as they discussed whatever they were discussing. As Biddy set down the tray, Mr Politson looked restless and uncomfortable and perhaps, she thought, also a little guilty. But she told herself that the man had just lost his mother suddenly and he was probably in shock.
The policemen arrived at six o’clock. Mr Waggs admitted the inspector and the plump uniformed constable through the front door with plain disapproval. As far as Mr Waggs was concerned, policemen should use the tradesmen’s entrance. Mr Waggs had once worked for a titled gentleman and was a stickler for the proprieties.
The inspector, a large man with a bald head and ruddy cheeks, was closeted with Mr Politson and his solicitor for a full half hour before Biddy was summoned from the servants’ hall to the dining room. Inspector Always wished to speak with her.
Biddy hadn’t had dealings with the police before but her brothers said that they were best avoided. Police meant trouble and her brothers were usually right about that sort of thing. They’d had to be. Their parents had travelled to Liverpool from County Mayo on a crowded boat to be packed into a cellar in one of the mean, filthy courts that lay between St James Street and the docks with their children and the rats. Four of their children had died. But Biddy and her two brothers had survived.
She entered the dining room and saw the constable sitting awkwardly in the corner of the room, his notebook at the ready, while the inspector sat in one of the dining chairs at the huge polished table. The inspector smiled as he invited her to sit. He had a kind face. But she’d known men with kind faces before – and they sometimes weren’t what they seemed.
“Now, Biddy, you must tell the truth, do you understand?”
Biddy nodded.
“There was a small bottle by your mistress’s bed. Do you know what it contained?”
“Her laudanum, sir. Took it every night without fail, she did … to sleep.”
“Dr Carson suspects there was some in her tea. He’s saying the dose might have killed her.”
Biddy’s hand went to her mouth in horror. “She never took it in tea, sir. She took it in water last thing at night.”
“Would you say anything had upset your mistress recently, Biddy? Think carefully.”
Biddy frowned. “She had words with Mr Politson … her son. They were arguing like …” She stopped herself. She mustn’t say too much.
“You didn’t overhear what they were saying by any chance?” The inspector gave her a knowing wink. Servants listened at keyholes. Servants knew things.
Biddy blushed. “I heard the words … immoral … and unnatural. And the mistress asked him why he didn’t get himself a wife. I couldn’t make out everything Mr Politson said in reply, sir. But he sounded angry. He said she’d be sorry.”
“Were those his exact words?”
Biddy considered the question for a few moments. “Those or something very like them, sir.”
The inspector smiled again. He reminded her of the priest at the church near where she used to live – he had always made her feel guilty too. She swallowed hard. “Will that be all, sir?”
The inspector nodded. “For the moment,” he said.
Biddy made straight for the servants’ hall. And by the end of the day word had spread that the police thought Flora Politson had been poisoned.
And when Biddy piped up that she was sure she’d taken an overdose by accident, nobody believed her.
On her afternoon off Biddy was grateful to escape from the heavy blanket of mourning that had enveloped the house from scullery to attic. The mistress’ death was the only topic of conversation in the servants’ hall and, as nothing more had been seen of the police for several days, everyone assumed that the initial suspicion about the cause of Flora’s death had been dispelled, to the disappointment of some. There had already been an inquest and the coroner had given his verdict. Accidental death. Mrs Flora Politson had taken her usual laudanum then she had taken a further dose, no doubt distracted by her quarrel with Reginald, her only son.
The funeral arrangements, a little delayed by the inquest, were now in progress and Reginald Politson was playing the grieving son to perfection, receiving the condolences of Liverpool society who paid their dutiful calls with solemn faces and tearful eyes.
It was to be a grand funeral, as befitted a woman of Flora’s standing, held in a few days’ time at St Anne’s church. Cook was working herself up into a state of near hysteria about the catering arrangements. But Cook worked herself up about most things.
At one o’clock that afternoon, Biddy left the bustling house by the servants’ entrance, securing her new hat firmly with a hat pin. The wind was blowing in strongly from the River Mersey and you couldn’t be too careful as far as new hats were concerned. She made for Sefton Park, walking purposefully towards the new bandstand. She was meeting Michael there and she didn’t want to be late. Michael was her favourite brother, always smiling, always ready with a quip. She didn’t care that he’d been in trouble with the police, or that he earned what money he had playing cards with strangers in pubs. He was her Michael. Her darling big brother.
She hurried onwards past the park lake. It looked like paradise with all those trees and the water glistening in the weak sunlight and she was unaware of being followed, of the footsteps behind her echoing her own on the new stone path. So when she heard someone calling her name softly, she swung round, bringing her hand to her breast as if to still her pounding heart.
Reginald Politson stood there, shifting from foot to foot. His dress was immaculate as usual but he looked pale and there were dark rings beneath his eyes as though he hadn’t slept. And he looked frightened. “Biddy.” He spoke with his habitual smooth charm but Biddy sensed his anxiety. “I’m glad I caught up with you. I need to speak to you.”
Biddy said nothing. She stared at his shoes. They were shiny. You could almost see the reflection of the grey clouds overhead in them. He offered his arm and she hesitated before taking it. Gentlemen were dangerous. She’d thought Mr Politson was different somehow – but now she wasn’t so sure. She slipped her arm through his stiffly.
“It’s a delicate matter,” he began as they walked. “The police wish to see me again. Look, Biddy, they might want to talk to the servants too. And if they do, I need you to tell them I never entered her bedroom that day.” He stopped suddenly and looked at her with wide, pleading eyes. Like a child … or a dog.
Biddy straightened her back. For the first time in her life she had power. And she wasn’t sure how to use it.
But after a few moments she shook her head. “I’ve got to tell the truth, sir. I don’t want to go to hell, do I?”
She spotted Michael, sheltering in the trees, waiting, watching impatiently. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, pulling her arm away. “I’m meeting someone. I’ve got to go now.”
As she hurried off towards the trees, it began to rain.
***
Henry Carson MD had calls to make. Not that anybody was ill, but there were things he had to check. He had looked through all the notes Dr Willis had made during his years working as a physician in the town of Liverpool. Willis, he knew, worked chiefly amongst the wealthy that dwelled in considerable comfort in the fine Georgian houses around Rodney Street and Catherine Street. Carson himself, after a few weeks of assisting Willis in his work, had taken to salving his sensitive conscience by helping at a clinic for the poor of the squalid courts – so close to the mansions of the rich but in a different and lower world.
But today it was the rich who concerned him. Three of Dr Willis’ wealthy patients to be precise. He spread the records of their deaths before him on his desk and moved the oil lamp a little closer. The similarities were unmistakable. But he had no evidence. Only vague suspicions.
He turned down the lamp and left the room. It would be better by far if Dr Willis knew nothing about what he was preparing to do. Henry Carson crept down the staircase of Willis’ house in Rodney Street and let himself out, careful not to disturb the household.
He had questions to ask. And it was usually servants who knew the answers.
Biddy hurried back to Fulwood park. Talking to Michael, walking with him arm in arm, listening to the news of the family – how dad was still drinking, how mam was growing thinner by the day and how Patrick’s cough was no better – had made her lose all track of time.
She began to run but when she reached the park lake she spotted Reginald Politson walking, deep in conversation, with a flamboyantly dressed young man. She slipped behind the trunk of the nearest tree and once Politson and his companion were out of sight she hurried back, her heart thumping, and hurtled down the steps leading down to the servants’ quarters, mouthing a silent prayer that Mr Waggs wouldn’t see her and scold her for her lateness.
When she saw there was nobody about, she paused in the lobby to catch her breath, took off her coat and hat and walked casually through the kitchen where Cook was too preoccupied to notice her. Then she hurried up the back stairs and shot into the sparsely furnished bedroom she shared with Sally the parlour maid, shutting the door softly behind her.
And as she drew the cheap cardboard suitcase from beneath her iron bed, she felt her body was trembling. She knew she was in danger and she was afraid.
“I have just paid another visit to Mrs Politson’s house in Fulwood Park.”
Dr Willis looked up at his assistant who stood on the other side of the huge oak desk like a schoolboy summoned to his headmaster and felt a wave of irritation. “I see,” he said, trying to stay calm. “I should have accompanied you, Dr Carson. It is not your place to …”
“I think Flora Politson was murdered.”
Willis stood up, knocking a stack of papers to the floor. “This is outrageous. How dare you intrude on the grief of a family of the Politsons’ standing with unfounded accusations. If you wish to keep your reputation in this town …”
“If this matter is not dealt with promptly, doctor, your own reputation might suffer. If it emerged that a crime was ignored …”
Willis stroked his mutton chop whiskers, considering the implications. “You have evidence?”
“I have discovered three similar cases.”
Willis raised his eyebrows.
“I have visited all the houses concerned and interviewed the servants. The victims were all wealthy widows and the deaths were identical. The laudanum by the bed tends to deflect suspicion. The blood on the pillow, easily explained away …”
He had Willis’s complete attention now. “You have re-examined Mrs Politson’s body?”
Carson nodded. “And my examination confirmed my theory.”
“But the motive? What can your killer gain from these deaths?”
Carson explained patiently and Willis’ eyes widened. “You can prove nothing.”
“I have already sent the maid to fetch Inspector Always.”
Willis swallowed hard, looking like a man who was about to face the gallows. “I fear, doctor, that you are about to make a fool of yourself,” he said weakly.
When Henry Carson arrived at Mortaber Villa in Dr Willis’ brougham, seated opposite Inspector Always, he felt a little apprehensive. But he had considered the facts carefully and he knew that the murderer was clever and had been responsible for the deaths of at least four women. Maybe more.
Carson alighted first and marched straight to the front door. A black crêpe mourning bow was fixed to the brass knocker and the doctor’s pounding on the door was enough to wake the dead. The door was opened by a butler with hostile, suspicious eyes who announced in chilly tones that Mr Politson would be with them presently.
“It’s not Mr Politson we want to see this time,” said Inspector Always. “It’s you, Mr Waggs. We’d like to ask you some questions.” Always had acquired the skill over the years of making even the most innocent statement sound menacing to instil fear into the hearts of Liverpool’s criminal fraternity.
Carson saw panic in the butler’s eyes. The haughty looks had disappeared only to be replaced by fear.
Waggs led them to the butler’s pantry where they spoke in hushed whispers. When the three men emerged, Waggs led Always upstairs and Carson followed, wanting to be in at the end.
But when they reached the room it was empty. Their bird had flown out into the rainy night.
Two years later.
It was a grey, rainy day in New York and Mrs Van Dutton was snoring slightly in her drugged sleep, unaware that her maid, Rosa, was standing by the bed watching her.
As Rosa stared at the unconscious woman, her mind began to wander. She heard again the clank of the anchor being raised, felt the thrill of standing on the deck with her brother watching Liverpool fading into the distance, bound for a new world full of new opportunities. America.
She had used the name Biddy then, of course. But she was accustomed to changing her name. At Mrs Ventnor’s house in Canning Place she had been Sarah, at Mrs Hobson’s establishment in Catherine Street she had been Daisy and at Mrs Tregellis’ she had been Mary. Forging references was a simple matter – Michael had a deft touch with words – and money made lonely old women gullible so it had been easy to steal the wealthy widows’ jewels, little by little. A ring here, a brooch there. Until discovery was imminent and action had to be taken.
She and Michael had thought America would be different – their Promised Land where they could make their fortune. But when the money had started to dwindle, she’d been obliged to fall back on her tried and trusted way of raising the necessary funds.
She took the hat pin from the pocket of her skirts and felt the point with her finger. The pin was an old friend. What policeman would consider that the pin securing her hat could possibly be a murder weapon. Every woman possessed one. But not many considered its murderous possibilities.
She turned the drugged woman over gently and lifted the hair until the nape of the scrawny neck was exposed. That young doctor in Liverpool – Carson his name was – had noticed a spot of blood on the pillow so now she was careful to place a handkerchief beneath the head to prevent any telltale mark being left. Then she arranged the scene carefully. The half-empty bottle of laudanum by the bed and the remains of a night-time drink which also contained the drug – Mrs Van Dutton had taken it to help her sleep and taken a double dose accidentally. Her maid, of course, would confirm that she was in the habit of using it to prevent disturbed nights. No questions must be asked. And no doctor would dream of examining the area beneath the hairline at the back of the dead woman’s neck.
The maid gritted her teeth and thrust the hat pin upwards into the unconscious woman’s brain. So neat. Now the charade would begin. She would discover that the old lady had died in her sleep and call the doctor after helping herself to any jewels and cash that might not be missed by the victims’ neglectful relatives.
It was a full hour before the doctor came that day – plenty of time to arrange things. It had all gone smoothly. Mrs Van Dutton’s usual physician was otherwise engaged but a new doctor was coming in his place so that was better still. She felt rather pleased with herself and, as she waited for the doctor to arrive, she gazed out of the window, avoiding the sight of the wizened corpse on the bed. It was raining again. Funeral weather.
***
The doctor arranged his features into a solemn expression as Mrs Van Dutton’s footman answered the door.
“I was expecting Dr Brown,” the servant said as he led the way upstairs.
“He’s been unavoidably detained.”
The footman turned. “You sound English, sir.”
“I am. I only arrived in New York three weeks ago. Carson’s the name. Dr Henry Carson.”