The Hanging Cage (The Northminster Mysteries Book 4) Page 2

  “And how close is she to term?”

  “Eight and a half months,” said the woman.

  “First labour?”

  “Yes,” said the servant. “But she’s miscarried a few times since.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Just twenty, sir. She was nearly a child when she married,” and then added darkly, “too young.”

  “Were you her nurse?” Felix asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  He followed her out of the hotel into a paved court, and then through a gate which led to a twisting lane, bounded on both sides with high walls. Another gate led to a steep and treacherous path, down which the rain was running in torrents.

  At last, they reached a substantial stone gateway, the shelter of which provided momentary relief from the downpour. Felix wanted to catch his breath for a moment, but the servant went swiftly on and he had to follow her across a great courtyard to the imposing grey stone edifice that loomed up in front of them. On a bright day it might have looked picturesque. In such disgusting weather, it looked like a prison.

  This impression was not dispelled as they entered the house. They crossed a cheerless great hall, bristling with a panoply of dangerous-looking weapons. Felix thought he saw, hanging from the rafters, one of those notorious cages in which it had once been the barbaric custom to place the bodies of executed criminals.

  He followed the woman up a great staircase hung with threadbare tapestries, and through a succession of large apartments. These rooms might have been luxurious and impressive had they not been so ill-lit and crammed with ugly old furniture.

  At last, after the ascent of another set of stairs, this time set into a tower, they reached the young mother.

  Her room was a little better than those they had passed through: there was a fire in the great fireplace, numerous oil lamps had been lit, and the ancient bed had been hung with bright, modern chintz. Yet the same profusion of ancient knick-knacks covered all the other surfaces, and the window had panes of coloured glass further obscuring the light.

  His patient was not in her bed, but on a low chair. This might have been comfortable and practical for a woman in her advanced condition, had it not had a ludicrously high back, formed into a crocketed arch. It would have suited a sturdy bishop in a cathedral, but not a fragile girl.

  Mrs Yardley was little more than a girl, and very small and slight. The great distension of her belly only added to the idea that her maid had suggested earlier: that she was not formed to bear children.

  As he approached her, Felix fixed his expression into what he hoped was a polite, encouraging smile, and reminded himself that such appearances were often deceptive. Women had a strength and courage in these matters that could carry them through the most arduous and unpromising conditions. At the same time he noticed that the pail sitting nearby was full of heavily bloodied napkins.

  She stared up at him, her face pale from blood loss.

  “Who is this, Grace? Where is Dr Fellowes?” She spoke very softly. She was clearly already very tired.

  “This is Dr Carswell, ma’am,” said Grace. “I found him at the Falcon. Dr Fellowes was not to be found, but providence sent this gentleman.”

  “I am from Northminster, ma’am,” Felix said.

  “But you are a Scotsman,” said Mrs Yardley.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My mama always liked Scotch doctors,” she said, and managed a wan smile, which was encouraging.

  “That is what I thought, ma’am,” said Grace. “The moment he opened his mouth, I knew he was heaven-sent!”

  “Will you let me help you, ma’am?” he said.

  Mrs Yardley nodded, and Felix hoped he would not disappoint her. There was no knowing what complications he was about to be faced with.

  “When did you last have a contraction?” he asked, crouching down beside her.

  “Not for an hour or so – is that not right, Ellen?” she said, consulting the other servant in the room.

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  Felix knew then he would have to work fast. These were not promising signs. There was a chance that the child was already dead. He pulled off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Perhaps if you could manage to get onto the bed?”

  She assented, and with Grace’s help, staggered the few steps across the room. They then arranged her on the edge of the bed, which was fortunately well raised from the ground, with a pile of pillows to support her, and kneeling on the floor, he was able to make a proper examination.

  The bleeding was still worryingly profuse and the cause clear enough: the placenta had detached itself and was presenting itself, blocking the os uteri and the safe passage of the child. Another difficulty was that the child appeared to be lying in the breech, in which case he would first have to turn the child and then deliver it. He would probably have to use forceps, a useful instrument, but one that was always fraught with danger.

  Chapter Two

  “Who is Mrs Yardley?” Giles asked the waiter.

  “The Squire’s lady. Lives up the castle. Up the lane behind here, sir,” said the waiter, gathering the dirty crockery onto his tray.

  “And he’s the principal gentleman in the town?”

  “Yes, sir, in town. But then there is Lord Milburne’s place, Woodville Park. That’s a much bigger house, and very handsome. I was thinking of going for a place there. There’s been talk of the new young Lord taking on a lot of new people. He’s been throwing money around, they say. Thought he might pay well.”

  Giles smiled.

  “He’s only recently come into the property, then?”

  “Yes, sir, very recently. Saw him at church the other Sunday. Quite the swell, he is. Looks the part. The story is that he only got it by chance. He never thought he was going to get it, but there were all these deaths in the family, and he gets a letter saying it’s all his now, and the title. Imagine the luck of that! Ah, it’s all right for some.”

  “A large fortune, then?”

  “So they say. Mrs White, that’s the mistress here, she likes to reckon things up. She says he must be worth forty thousand pounds a year.” The waiter shook his head. “And he had scarcely nowt before. Quite a tale, isn’t it?”

  -o-

  The guardians of the late Miss Barker, Mr and Mrs Frederick Ampner, lived in some style, in a large, modern house on the edge of the town, with its own small park. It would have been an easy walk in good weather but as the rain persisted, Giles was glad he could travel there in a closed carriage.

  Mr Ampner, an attorney in late middle age, was as substantial in his figure as in his property and received Giles in a well-appointed study. He seemed genuinely affected by the circumstances.

  “Fellowes seemed certain she took her own life,” he said. “But I pray that is not the case. I am glad Mr Earle sent for you to not let that verdict prevail – at least not without some investigation. Yet, I do keep thinking, given the bottle we found in her room, that it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. But why – that is the great question. Neither my wife nor I can think of any reason why Annabella would...” He stopped, his distress evident enough. “Mrs Ampner is not well,” he went on after a moment. “This business has utterly prostrated her. I have sent for Dr Fellowes to come and see to her, but he is taking his time.”

  “He seems to have been in demand today,” Giles said. “My colleague, Mr Carswell, who is a medical man, was called away to the castle to attend to Mrs Yardley because Dr Fellowes could not be found.”

  “It would not be the first time,” said Ampner. “Dr Fellowes, well – I do not like to gossip, Major Vernon, but he is believed to be intemperate, and he is certainly unreliable. That is why Johnny Earle sent for you. He feels, and with some reason, that Dr Fellowes’ judgement cannot entirely be trusted. But we are all at his mercy, given there is no other doctor in the town, and the apothecary is too wretched a specimen to have any confidence in. Mrs Yardley is for
tunate to have secured your colleague’s services. Perhaps he might call on Mrs Ampner later?”

  “Certainly,” Giles said. “He needs to collect various specimens from here, you will understand. I’m asked to enquire how much evidence has been preserved.”

  “Oh, it is all there, just as it was found yesterday morning. Johnny Earle told us to close the door on it, when she was taken away. We knew of course that you gentlemen would need to see it all.”

  “Perhaps you could give me the sequence of events as they happened yesterday?” Giles said, taking out his notebook. “At what time was Miss Barker’s death discovered?”

  “A little after eleven. I wasn’t here. I was at my office. Annabella’s maid Susan discovered what had happened. She had been told not to wake her before eleven, because of the ball the night before. Both Mrs Ampner and Annabella, and indeed Mrs Ampner’s brother, were all still abed in fact.”

  “Mrs Ampner’s brother? His name, sir?”

  “George Gosforth.”

  “He lives here with you?

  “He’s on a long visit,” said Ampner with a slightly pained expression.

  “So Susan went in and found her mistress insensible?”

  “Yes, and went at once to my wife. And my wife sent for Dr Fellowes, who I think came just after noon, about when I came back home, for Mrs Ampner sent for me too, and then quite by chance, just as Dr Fellowes was coming downstairs, Johnny Earle walks in. Poor man. He had called to pursue his suit, not find her dead.”

  “You knew that he hoped to marry her?”

  “Yes, he has been frank with me from the start. I told him, ‘yes, of course’, for he is an excellent fellow, and clearly had the best intentions towards Annabella. But I told him that he must win her fair and square. That the choice would be hers, not mine. Because Annabella was not the sort of girl one could tell to do anything. She was not wilful, sir, don’t misunderstand me, but she knew her mind. I liked that in her, and that is why I trusted her to say yea or nay to all those suitors. And that is why I think Johnny is quite right to have sent for you. It cannot be suicide. She was not such a fool nor so wicked. She was a good girl, a proper Christian.”

  “And quite a few men wished to marry her?”

  “Yes. And not just for her money, but for her character. Which pleased me, for there are some people who would consider her beneath them, because of her mother’s people, but I have never held with that sort of nonsense, and I know that is why her father trusted her to my care. He knew...” And then he fell into silence, glancing away from Giles. “My care,” he said, quietly, struggling to control his tone. “And now she is dead – dead under my own roof, where she was put to be cared for. I have failed her, and that is the plain truth of it.”

  There was a tap at the door and a woman’s voice said, “May I come in?”

  “Of course, my dear,” said Ampner getting up and opening the door. Giles rose and saw a handsome woman in her early thirties, dressed in a striking silk dressing gown.

  “Oh, I did not know you had company,” she said, seeing Giles and shrinking back a little. “I should go up and dress.”

  “This is Major Vernon, my dear,” Ampner said, taking her hand and leading her into the room. “Major Vernon, this is my wife. I think he will have some questions for you, Mary.”

  “Only if you are feeling well enough, ma’am,” Giles said, making his bow.

  “Are you feeling better?” Ampner said.

  “Yes, a little,” she said.

  “There is no sign of Dr Fellowes, my dear, I am sorry.”

  “I don’t think I shall need him after all,” said Mrs Ampner. “I am feeling much better now. What I was wondering, though, is where Georgie is. No-one seems to have seen him.”

  “George?” said Mr Ampner. “I have no notion. He will be back for dinner, I am sure.”

  “I’m worried about him,” she said. “He was so distressed last night. He was very fond of her. It has been terrible for him.”

  “It has been terrible for us all,” said Mr Ampner. “And notwithstanding George’s distress, I’m disappointed he has not stayed at home to look to you, my dear.”

  “But he knows I have you to do that,” said Mrs Ampner.

  “Yes, but a true brother in such circumstances...” Ampner broke off. “Come and sit by the fire, my dear. I do not like you standing in that draught.”

  She obeyed him and sat twisting the folds of her dressing gown in her hands.

  “He did not even leave a note,” she said, to her husband.

  “And has he ever left a note before?” said Ampner.

  “No, no, I suppose not.”

  “He will be home for dinner,” Ampner said, patting her shoulder.

  “I hope you do not mind me being so direct, Mrs Ampner,” Giles said, “but when you say your brother was fond of Miss Barker, do you mean he had intentions towards her?”

  “Oh, goodness no! Georgie would not have presumed. He would not have dared!” said Mrs Ampner. “Of course not. No, it was simply they were fond of each other. Like brother and sister.” She spoke emphatically with an appraising glance at her husband. “We live such a quiet life here,” she went on. “And Georgie has been such a comfort. He has been reading to us while we do our work. He reads very well. My late mother always thought he could have gone on the stage.”

  “And what is your brother’s profession?”

  “He hasn’t quite decided,” Mrs Ampner went on. “He’s still very young.”

  “He’s one and twenty,” said Mr Ampner. “Not so young.”

  “And you are quite certain there was no romantic attachment?” Giles said.

  “No, no!” she said. “He would not have kept that from me, nor from Mr Ampner. I should have not have allowed him to stay if he had said something of that sort.” Giles nodded. “Besides, Georgie is in love with quite another young lady – Miss Earle. Perhaps that is where he is now, declaring himself!” She finished with a nervous laugh.

  “Lucy Earle?” said Mr Ampner. “Surely not? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. She’ll never have him. He has no money to speak of, Major Vernon.”

  Mrs Ampner looked rather mortified at this and rose from her seat.

  “Of course he would not confide in you, my dear,” she said after a moment. “Why would he, when you are always so unkind? It’s hardly his fault –”

  “Unkind?” said Ampner getting up. “And as to the question of fault, well, a man must try to get on, that is the way it is, my dear, and George needs to face that fact, sooner rather than later. He wasn’t born to be a gentleman of leisure. He has to work like the rest of us. It may seem cruel, but it isn’t.” Mrs Ampner stared at him, as if she were about to dissolve into tears. He again rested his hand on her shoulder. “And I am sorry to bring up such a tender subject in front of a stranger, but Annabella is dead, and I can’t be pretending at such a time.”

  His voice broke at the end of this speech and he turned away from them both. Mrs Ampner was staring into the fire and Giles could see there were tears rolling down her face.

  “Please excuse me, I shall go and look at Miss Barker’s room,” said Giles, going to the door. “I shall ask one of the servants the way.”

  He climbed the stairs, hoping he would not hear the sound of raised voices through the solid door to Mr Ampner’s study. He wondered if he would be able to do a brief search of the infamous George’s room. He was not entirely convinced by his sister’s declaration of a lack of romantic interest. A young man with apparently few prospects and little inclination to work, faced with a beautiful young heiress living in his sister’s house, would surely find it hard to resist the opportunity of advancing himself by such means. His unexplained absence and his sister’s distress at it only made Giles more interested in speaking to him. He would have to be found and interviewed, even if it was just to eliminate him from any taint of suspicion.

  A housemaid, coming out of a bedroom with a basket of dirty linen, was happy
to show him to Miss Barker’s room, and also to point out the rooms of the other members of the household.

  Annabella Barker’s room must have been one of the best bedrooms in the house. It was large, with a bay window overlooking the gardens, and no expense had been spared on its decoration. It was the room of a girl who led a comfortable, unfettered existence, with plenty of pin money and a guardian who had great affection for her. There was evidence of the usual pursuits of respectable young women: a satin-wood work-box, a table set up for flower painting, an embroidery hoop on a stand and a guitar lying on the window seat. There were a few books on a fretwork shelf: light, unremarkable works of popular poetry. On the table by the bed lay a well-thumbed Bible and a prayer book. There were ribbons in both, marking the appropriate collects and readings for the time of year, and he noted that she had put the ribbons ready for the next morning’s portion of scripture. Would she have done that if she had intended to take her own life?

  He turned his attention to the dressing table. Here he found the empty tonic bottle, a piece of evidence that was entirely circumstantial until further tests had been done. Giles wondered why the doctor had been so eager to ascribe the death to this particular tonic, even when a natural cause of death had not yet been ruled out.

  The bottle was of a common sort, made with clear glass, but the label pasted on it was not. It had been decorated with painted flowers, and written in fancy script were the words: ‘Precious Dew’. The neck of the bottle was embellished with a length of pink silk ribbon, tied in a bow.

  Giles removed the stopper and sniffed it. It smelled of rose water.

  Also on the dressing table were two lidded baskets, which contained more bottles and pots, a mixture of the medicinal and cosmetic, many with the same carefully decorated labels and different coloured ribbons dangling from their necks. They also had fanciful names. There was another full bottle of ‘Precious Dew’, but also a flask of ‘The Crystal Elixir’, pots of ‘Crème de Perle’ and ‘Crème de l’Alabaste’, and even a little tin box containing ‘Rouge d’Amour’.