Chapter Eleven
Riley arrived at the Yard early the following morning, grainy-eyed and irritable as a result of his largely sleeplessness night. He was still fuming because Danforth had, wittingly or otherwise, forced his hand.
‘At least news of an arrest ain’t in the newspapers this morning,’ Salter, to whom Riley had vented at some length, pointed out. ‘Either they haven’t heard yet, or the news broke too late for the morning editions. What will you do? Talk to Danforth?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Riley glanced at the clock. ‘If Peterson and Harper have followed the instructions I gave them last night, they will already be on the way back here with Grant. You and I will interview him, Salter, and see what he has to say for himself. How much of that we repeat to Danforth remains to be seen.’
‘In other words, unless you can prove beyond measure that he is guilty, you’ll move heaven and earth to prevent Danforth from insisting upon charging him.’
Riley ground his teeth. ‘Precisely. Let’s hope he was miles away from Knightsbridge at the time of the murder and has witnesses to vouch for him. Otherwise…’ Riley shook his head. ‘Ashton has made sure that half the world thinks he’s guilty, so it will be an uphill struggle for the lad to clear his name.’
‘Even if he didn’t do it.’
‘Quite.’
Constable Peterson knocked and stuck his head round the door.
‘Grant is here, sir.’
‘What do you make of him?’ Riley asked, beckoning the young constable into his office.
‘Very distraught over the death of Miss Ferguson. Looks like he hasn’t slept for a week. But I didn’t ask him nothing. Thought it best not to. He came along with us with no fuss. It was like he’d been expecting us.’
‘Does he strike you as the murdering type?’ Salter asked.
Peterson scratched his head, as though he failed to understand why he was being asked to express an opinion. ‘He’s very artistic by all accounts,’ he said eventually. ‘Passionate types, the artistic lot, so I’m told. He seems harmless, but it’s hard to say what he might be capable of, if roused.’
‘Very well. Thank you, Peterson. Sergeant Salter and I will take matters from here.’
Riley stopped at the front desk on his way to the interview room and exchanged a few words with the Sergeant Barton, who had been reluctant to offer Peterson and Harper’s services to Riley. Detective Constables Carter and Soames had been assigned to other cases and so Barton was expected to provide any further manpower that Riley required. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. Riley always made a point of thanking him and hastened to do so now.
‘Didn’t have a lot of choice,’ Barton replied dismissively.
‘You’ll get dozens of reporters in here this morning, wanting to know who we have in custody and using all sorts of tricks to get past you. Not a word, Barton. I can rely on you to make sure no one else speaks out of turn too, I trust. Despite rumours to the contrary, there’s nothing to say that the lad we’ve brought in has anything to do with this whole sorry business.’
Barton gave a reluctant nod. He might resent the Detective Department, but he disliked newspaper men even more. ‘I’ll do my best, but the word I’m hearing is that the case is already solved. I knew that couldn’t be right. Anyway, none of those newspapers types will get anything out of me and I’ll flay any of my lot alive if they speak a word to them.’
Glad to have made a little headway with Barton, Riley nodded his appreciation. ‘Good man,’ he said.
Riley and Salter entered the bare room that was kept for interviewing suspects. It was a glorified cell with walls that had been painted a dull green long before Riley’s time. The paint was now peeling in places and the space smelt of mould. There was one small window, covered with bars, so high up in the wall that the limited amount of light it let in failed to reach the level of the suspect. The atmosphere was intimidating, and Riley had long ago formed the opinion that such austere surroundings were more likely than not to encourage a confession just so that the accused could escape its confines. Since more often than not the suspects in question were guilty of the crimes they were arrested for, that seemed reasonable to Riley. The only thing that could be said in favour of the room was that it was cool, almost to the point of chilliness. In the centre of the room was a table and three chairs, in one of which Grant was sitting.
One glance at Grant persuaded Riley that his devastation was no act. Thick blond hair flopped over enormous eyes that were blotchy and swollen. He leaned both elbows on the rickety table and stared sightlessly at the opposite wall, totally lost in his own misery. Riley exchanged a look with Salter, who shrugged. Grant was definitely not the type they usually entertained in these salubrious surroundings.
‘I am Detective Inspector Rochester and this is Sergeant Salter,’ Riley said briskly, taking one of the two chairs opposite Grant, leaving Salter standing. ‘You are Harry Grant?’
Grant’s head shot up, and he regarded Riley through bloodshot eyes.
‘Emily is dead.’ He shook his head, sending a shock of hair that would benefit from a wash cascading over his eyes. ‘It’s true. I know it’s true, but I still can’t accept that she’s dead. She wouldn’t leave me. She just wouldn’t.’
Tears spilled down his cheeks. The young man was probably the same age as Emily, perhaps younger, since his skin was still smooth, untroubled by a razor. His hands were delicate, with long fingers that would provide the necessary reach to produce a piano sonata or to squeeze the life from a young girl’s neck. Grant was dressed respectably, albeit without a tie or waistcoat. Riley doubted if he had been sleeping, but he’d definitely dressed in a hurry. His coat was serge green, with bright brass buttons.
And a button on the right sleeve had been ripped off, taking some of the fabric with it.
Riley shared a glance with Salter and could see from his grim expression that his sergeant had noticed the missing button, too. Riley feared that they had found their murderer.
‘News of the young lady’s death has been in the papers for two days,’ Riley said curtly. ‘She was a close friend of yours, you are greatly distressed by her demise. It should follow that you would like to see her murderer pay for his crime.’ Riley allowed a significant pause, watching Grant closely all the while, surprised when he didn’t break the uneasy silence that settled over the dingy room like a wet blanket. Most people, in Riley’s experience, especially those with guilty consciences, were uncomfortable with silences and sought to fill them with justification, denial or idle chatter. But Grant was trapped in his own form of living hell and seemed oblivious to tense atmosphere. ‘I can’t help wondering why you didn’t come to see me before now, instead of leaving me to come to you,’ Riley concluded eventually.
Salter stepped forward and rested his fists on the table before Grant. He leant down until his face was only a few inches from Grant’s. ‘Or maybe you hoped we wouldn’t learn of your existence?’ he asked.
Harry Grant leaned back and wiped the tears away from his face with one hand, tapping out a complicated rhythm on the table top with the fingers of the other hand. Music, Riley thought. He’d lost himself in a musical world, didn’t seem to hear the questions being fired at him and certainly made no attempt to answer them. Riley lost patience with him, hardened his heart, suppressed his doubts about Grant’s guilt and brought the palm of his hand down onto the table. The loud slap had the desired effect. Grant’s entire body jerked and he finally looked directly at Riley.
‘You would have thought that I killed her,’ he said, indicating that he had heard the question and simply chosen not to answer it. ‘That’s why I didn’t come to you. But I could no more kill Emily than I could use excess pedal when performing Sonata quasi una fantasia.’
Come again?’ Salter said, blinking.
‘Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata,’ Riley said softly, surprised that the son of a carpenter could pronounce the Italian name like a native. ‘I believe Grant considers Emily’s life and Beethoven’s genius to be equally sacrosanct.’
‘I loved Emily. That’s the truth of the matter.’ He waved his arms about, agitated, his grip on reality seeming at best only partial. ‘We were kindred souls.’ He fell back in his chair, arms hanging limply at his sides, calm and rational again.
‘Tell me how you met her,’ Riley said. ‘Her mother didn’t know of your existence.’
The story spilled out in dribs and drabs, requiring constant prompting from Riley to keep Grant from rambling away from the point. Much of what Professor Heston had speculated proved to be the truth. Harry and Emily had met by chance at the professor’s studio and formed a friendship.
‘You are studying at the Conservatoire in Paris, I understand,’ Riley said. ‘Congratulations. I believe places are highly sought after.’
Grant shrugged, as though it was no more than his due to be accepted there. Geniuses, Riley reminded himself, were not renowned for their modesty. ‘Emily wanted to go there too. She would have been accepted, I’m sure of it. She was good enough. But, of course, her family had other plans for her.’
‘They wanted her to marry for money,’ Salter said.
‘Money, pah!’ Grant threw up his hands contemptuously.
Riley thought but didn’t say that young Grant had clearly never gone hungry. He had probably never entertained a practical thought, either. ‘You are a carpenter’s son, yet you study music in Paris. Is that a disadvantage?’
Grant shrugged. ‘We all speak the same language, which is music. If anything else matters to you, then you are unworthy of your place.’
‘Emily Ferguson came to matter to you, though, didn’t she?’ Salter maintained his intimidating pose hunched above Grant. Riley leaned back in his chair, and Grant looked to him for a lifeline.
‘How did you first become interested in music?’ Riley didn’t see what bearing it had upon the case but was curious. Besides, talking about music was the only subject that brought animation to Grant’s gaunt face. He answered Riley as if Salter wasn’t even in the room.
‘I listened to the organ in the chapel as a boy and loved the noise it made. I asked the organist to teach me and…well, I sort of went from there. Seems I had an aptitude for it and was soon better at playing it than the organist. I couldn’t read music, not then. I just played instinctively. Someone heard me play, invited Professor Heston to listen and he took control of my studies from there.’ He threw back his head and closed his eyes. ‘The first time I laid my fingers on the keyboard of his magnificent grand piano, I somehow just knew that I had discovered what I’d been born to do.’
‘You are very young,’ Riley said.
‘Seventeen. The same as Emily.’ A few more tears leaked from his eyes. ‘Except she will never get older, or play another note.’
‘The two of you knew you had no future together, so why did you go to Ashton’s estate on the night Emily died?’
‘I did not! I…’
‘Don’t give me that!’ Salter fixed the hapless young man with a steely look. ‘We can’t help you if you don’t tell us the truth.’
‘No one can help me.’ Grant replied, thrusting a hand through his floppy hair, his eyes wild. ‘My life is over.’
‘It will be if you don’t tell the inspector what happened. We know you were there.’
Salter nodded towards the torn cuff and missing button. Grant glanced at it, only now appearing to notice that it was gone. He let out a long sigh. ‘I was there,’ he said. ‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you would jump to conclusions.’ He allowed a dramatic pause—a fermata preceding a soloist’s cadenza. ‘The wrong conclusions.’
‘Why did you go?’ Riley asked him.
‘At first just to listen to her play. I knew that she would and that I would never be able to hear her do so again. She’d made up her mind, you see.’
‘To marry?’ Riley prompted.
‘I suppose she was always going to do what her parents expected of her, even though she resented them for it. We met the day before that party, but she said she couldn’t ever see me again after that. She told me her father would soon be back in England and she had to make her decision before then. I implored her to come to Paris with me. I could have got her an interview at the Conservatoire. We were destined to do great things together. We don’t just perform, we are composers too. Look.’ He pulled a tattered notebook from his inside pocket and thrust it at Riley. It was covered in complicated arrangements of musical notes, some crossed out, ideas scrawled in margins. ‘This is our opus. We were composing it together and intended to perform it for Professor Heston.’ He sniffed. ‘We will never get the opportunity now. But I knew we would be famous and our music would be played in the grandest concert halls. It was just a matter of time and patience, but I couldn’t make Emily see that.’ He let out a frustrated breath. ‘Her obedience to her father and her class was too deeply ingrained.’
Riley shared a look with Salter, both of them probably thinking there was a fine line between genius and insanity. It was obvious to Riley that young Grant believed passionately in his abilities and, given that a carpenter’s son had risen to such musical heights, he was very likely right to do so. Emily, it seemed, had been more practically minded.
‘I see,’ Riley said. ‘And so you went to hear her at Aston’s one last time. How did you get in?’
‘I didn’t intend to. Not at first. I knew all the doors would be open on such a warm night, so I was content to listen from the mews. None of the coachmen saw me. I knew at once when my angel played. It was spellbinding. Then the music stopped and the coachmen were let in through the gate for supper.’ He shrugged. ‘I just followed them on impulse. If I could see Emily just once more, beg her to change her mind, then perhaps she would see reason. Come to her senses.’ He waved his hands again. ‘I don’t know what I thought.’
‘Did you see her?’
‘The music room was empty. I heard voices from the end of the garden and knew I had missed my chance. So, I left a copy of the first page of our opus on the music stand. I knew that if she returned to that room she would look at the music. We all do whenever we are anywhere near an instrument. It’s an instinct, you see. Anyway, I thought the sight of it might make her reconsider.’
‘You didn’t wait to see her?’ Salter asked.
‘I intended to, but I heard someone coming and lost my nerve. If I was found there I knew Emily would speak up for me and that would get her into trouble. So I left the music room and caught a glimpse of someone—’
‘Did you recognise him?’ Riley asked, sitting forward.
‘No, I knew nothing about the men who sought Emily’s hand, and cared even less. I couldn’t bear to know. It was a young man, I saw that much, but he couldn’t have been one of her suitors.’
‘Why not?’
‘He had hidden himself in an alcove below the terrace, but he wasn’t so well hidden that I couldn’t see that he was engaged, intimately engaged, with another man.’ Grant seemed very casual about and not at all shocked by what he had seen. Parisian licence had rubbed off on him, Riley supposed.
‘Did he see you?’
‘He must have heard me because he looked round, but I don’t think he could have seen my face. It was dark and I was too far away.’
Leith, Riley thought. It would explain why he had been so forthright about his predilections. He knew he had been seen but wasn’t sure who had seen him, so he decided to be honest. Although he hadn’t been honest enough to admit to the liaison beneath the terrace, which was the direction Grant would have had to take if he intended to retrace his steps and leave the grounds through the gate to the mews.
‘Did you see the man he was with?’
‘No, but he was in livery, and when I left I could hear them arguing.’
There were only two young men in Ashton’s household who wore livery. The two footmen, Paxton and Murray. Realisation dawned. Grant must have seen Leith with Murray, the under-footman with the baby face, long lashes and sensual mouth.
‘Did you hear what they were arguing about?’
‘No, I just heard raised voices.’
‘So you decided to cut your losses and leave,’ Riley said. ‘How did you get out? I understand the gate was locked.’
‘It was. So I scaled the wall next to it. That must be where I tore my sleeve. I was too distraught to notice.’
Riley was inclined to believe his account, but he knew Danforth would not. Logically, Grant could only have climbed that wall unobserved when the coachmen were still taking supper. If they had returned to the mews, even the least observant of them would have noticed a young man scaling the wall. So if Grant left while they were still in the house, he could not have murdered Emily. Leith however, perhaps thinking it had been Emily who had observed him with Murray if she happened to return to the terrace just after Grant left it, might have acted on impulse to silence her. Permanently. But if that was the case, why admit to his depravity?
‘You see how this looks for you, Grant,’ Riley said. ‘You have admitted that you were passionately in love with Emily, but she had decided to marry another. You confronted her, tried to persuade her to see reason, but when she wouldn’t, you lost your temper. You have shown yourself to us as an emotional young man, given easily to anger. And you were blinded by jealousy. If you couldn’t have her, no one would.’
‘No!’ Grant jumped to his feet. ‘No, I swear on my life that I didn’t even see her, much less touch her. I am a musician. I heard her. It was enough.’
Riley knew he would have to press him for more details, even try and extract a confession, or he would not be doing his job. But before he could phrase his next question there was an urgent knock at the door and Peterson, red in the face, put his head around it.
‘What is it?’ Riley snapped.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said breathlessly, ‘but you’re needed, urgent like. There’s been another death at Lord Ashton’s.’
Salter pushed himself upright from the desk where he was still leaning over Grant, looking as astounded as Riley himself felt. Riley jumped to his feet, holding the back of the chair he’d been sitting in to prevent it from falling. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Get back there now, tell them I’m coming and to touch nothing until I get there. Before you go, lock Grant in a cell until I get back.’ He turned his attention to Grant. ‘You realise that you will have to remain here until we can confirm your story.’ He gave a significant pause. ‘If we can confirm it. Shall we inform your father?’
‘He’s at work and won’t be concerned about me. I would prefer him not to be inconvenienced.’
‘Very well.’
Riley expected protests from the young man about being detained but none were forthcoming. ‘Can I keep my notebook?’ he asked, holding up the book in question and a stubby pencil. ‘This Opus will be dedicated to Emily. It’s vital that I finish it. She will live on through our music.’
Riley nodded and Harper came to take Grant away.
‘Who’s dead?’ Riley asked Peterson.
‘Susan, the parlour maid, sir. We just received word that she killed herself. I wouldn’t have bothered you with a suicide, but what with it being Lord Aston’s house, I thought—’
‘You thought right, Peterson. Come with us and keep your eyes peeled. And have Doctor Maynard summoned. I want him to see this one personally.’ He turned to Salter. ‘I’ll wager a guinea this is no suicide,’ he said as they left the Yard by the back entrance.
‘You don’t think Grant killed Miss Ferguson either, do you, sir?’
‘Do you?’
‘I think he could have. He ain’t all there, if you ask me. He’s a moody young chap. All the evidence points to him. He was there and had the oldest motive of them all. Jealousy. And that’s enough for Danforth to have him swing for it. It’s enough for a decent prosecutor too, but the lad has his head in the clouds and doesn’t seem to realise just how much trouble he’s in.’ Salter sighed in frustration. ‘He’s on a different plane to the rest of us.’
‘He is that,’ Riley replied as the policemen made their way to Knightsbridge. ‘But I keep coming back to that damned champagne. No one will convince me that someone didn’t pour it and then have Emily enticed back to the music room with the deliberate intention of getting her alone.’
‘Grant could have poured it,’ Salter said. ‘All the doors were open—’
‘Do you really believe he’d think of anything other than Emily and music? He might be a genius but he’s still a child in many respects.’
‘You’re right, sir. It doesn’t seem likely.’
Their arrival at Ashton House brought their discussion to a close. They were met in the entrance vestibule by Ashton himself.
‘Can’t see why they bothered you with this, Rochester,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘It’s just a simple suicide. Stupid girl. Damned inconsiderate of her, just when things were starting to settle down.’
‘Then we’d best take a look,’ Riley replied, struggling to maintain an emotionless mask in the face of his dislike for the man. ‘No need for you to join us, Lord Ashton. Farlow can show us the way.’
They left Ashton, who was clearly unaccustomed to being given orders in his own home, spluttering with indignation. Riley followed Farlow up two flights of stairs, until they reached the servants’ quarters in the attics. The heat was an intense, palpable blast under the eaves of the house. Farlow opened the door to a single room, from which emitted a vile stench. With a look of distaste, the butler stood back, words unnecessary.
‘Send Doctor Maynard up as soon as he arrives, please, Farlow,’ Riley said.
‘As your lordship wishes.’
Farlow backed away and descended the stairs at a brisker pace than he had ascended them. No one liked being associated with sudden death, Riley thought. He squared his shoulders and led the way inside a cramped room that contained a single bed, a small table beside it containing a half-empty glass and a sheet of paper. There was a small chest of drawers squashed into one corner, a washstand, a tiny window set in the sloping ceiling and pegs behind the door, upon which hung the girl’s clothes. An entire life squeezed into a few square feet. The thought depressed Riley, even though he was aware that many less fortunate souls would envy Susan her position.
They wouldn’t envy her now, he thought, looking at the body on the bed. She wore a thin nightgown. Her hair was neatly braided and she lay with her eyes closed, looking peaceful, on top of the covers. At first glance she appeared to be sleeping, but for the fact that she had vomited violently. The reek was almost unbearable, despite the fact that someone had propped open the skylight window above her.
Riley knew that she was dead but he checked for a pulse, just to be sure. He didn’t find one and her body was cold to the touch. He shook his head, wondering why Ashton hadn’t attempted to pass the death off as natural causes. Young and healthy women routinely died from stomach illnesses, and Susan’s vomit implied she could have suffered from such a complaint. Then Riley’s glance took in the small table and the badly written letter resting upon it and he had his answer. He picked up the letter, its ink smudged, and tried to decipher its contents.
‘She’s admitting that she poured the champagne and enticed Emily into the music room,’ Riley said, passing the letter to Salter. ‘She would have been found by the cook, or the other housemaid, when she didn’t report for duty this morning.’
‘Which is why Ashton can’t pass this off as a natural death,’ Salter said, verbalising Riley’s earlier thought. ‘Whoever found her would have had a right shock, then seen that letter, so Ashton couldn’t remove it and rely upon his servants not to mention it. Besides, he must have realised that you would come personally, sir, given your involvement with Miss Ferguson’s case, despite the fact that he pretended to be surprised to see you.’
‘What else do you notice, Salter?’ Riley asked. ‘Not just about that letter, I mean. About the situation itself?’
Salter thought for a moment. ‘It’s too neat,’ he said. ‘Not the letter, I don’t mean that, I mean the whole thing. Susan didn’t kill herself, I’m sure of it. Someone’s trying to make her seem guilty. She was expendable, after all. Who’ll miss another maid? The note she left points suspicion her way, normal order is restored and the Ashtons have everyone’s sympathy.’
Riley looked at Salter with an expression of satisfaction. ‘Not bad, Jack, not bad at all. Now look at the letter more closely.’
Salter studied it for a moment and didn’t take long to reach the same conclusion as Riley. ‘The girl didn’t write it,’ he said slowly. ‘Someone has gone to the trouble to disguise their handwriting and make it look like that of a barely educated servant. All the blots and crossings out, but they haven’t made any spelling mistakes.’
Riley nodded his approval. ‘The writer uses the word “conscience”. I doubt whether Susan would have used such a word, and even if she did, the chances of her spelling it correctly are slim.’
‘The girl left rag school at twelve and Mrs Border implied that she could barely read or write. She wouldn’t have had either the need or the opportunity to hone those skills once she entered service.’
‘Anything else?’
Salter looked around the room, and back at the letter. ‘Where’s the pen and ink? And this is thick, embossed paper,’ Salter said. ‘Not something that a servant would have legitimate access to.’
‘Any more than she would have access to wine,’ Riley said, picking up the glass and sniffing its contents. ‘I’ll wager this contains the poison that killed the poor girl, but Maynard will be able to confirm it. Any odour one might expect is masked by the scent of the wine. A decent claret, unless I miss my guess. Someone came up here and encouraged Susan to drink it.’ Riley rubbed the back of the neck, stepping out onto the corridor to avoid the worst of the stench that was starting to make his own stomach roil. ‘And it doesn’t take a genius to work out who that someone must be.’
‘Terrance Ashton,’ Salter said, his expression dour.
‘Precisely. But why make it look like suicide? Without the letter or the wine we would have probably assumed she had died from dysentery. It happens far too frequently, and things go off badly in this heat. So it comes back to what you said, Jack. Terrance, or whoever the guilty party is, is trying to deflect our suspicions by having us think that Susan enticed Emily into the music room at the behest of one of the other guests.’ Riley shook his head. ‘“Behest” is another word used in the letter and is not one that would form a part of a servant’s vocabulary. So I think we can assume that the first part of your hypothesis is correct. The second, however, is still open to question. Are they trying to shift the blame away from their class to protect their reputation, or are they trying to shift the blame away from Terrance to save him from the rope?’
‘Terrance probably feels uneasy because he knows we suspect him, sir,’ Salter said. ‘Shame he didn’t know earlier that Grant is a better suspect?’
Riley stepped back into the room and opened each of the drawers in the chest. They revealed nothing of interest, other than a few undergarments and a moth-eaten tippet. There were no love letters, diaries, nothing of a personal nature. There were no books in the room either, no sewing or knitting, and Riley wondered how she passed her few leisure hours. Not that she would get many, he realised, since Ashton demanded his pound of flesh from his servants. Even so, she had to have occupied her time with something. Unless she came to this room only to sleep. If that were the case, where did she while away her free time?
‘Who were you, Susan?’ he said aloud. ‘I have never known a room to reveal so few clues about its occupant,’ he added, turning to Salter, closing his eyes as he thought about the Ashtons’ public display of family unity the previous evening. ‘Terrance seemed down in the dumps at Lady Bilton’s last night,’ he remarked. ‘Something was certainly preying on his mind.’
‘He was very upset about Miss Ferguson’s death,’ Salter replied.
‘Indeed, but whether that was genuine grief or the product of a guilty conscience I have yet to decide. Or perhaps he was still visibly shaken from the murder of Susan here.’
‘Maybe Susan did lure Miss Ferguson to the music room at Mr Terrance’s request,’ Peterson suggested from behind Salter and Riley, ‘in return for…well, some sort of unrealistic promise that the young man had no intention of keeping, but which Susan took seriously.’
‘Good point, Peterson.’ Riley was impressed by the young constable’s flair for detection work. Sergeant Barton, he knew, would be less than pleased if Riley tried to lure one of his better men over to the dark side. ‘Susan took umbrage when Terrance didn’t deliver on that promise, felt she was under suspicion for having lured Emily to the music room and threatened to tell the truth if Terrance didn’t live up to his side of their bargain.’
‘But it still doesn’t explain the staged suicide,’ Salter said, frowning.
‘Terrance must have known that we would be suspicious if a strong young woman employed in this house dropped dead for no reason so soon after Emily was murdered in it, and that we would order a post mortem,’ Riley said. ‘Maynard would discover the poison. Everyone knows that methods of tracing poisons have improved and that in cases of unexplained death, it would be the first thing we’d look for. So Terrance did the next best thing, and tried to make it seem as though Susan had killed herself in a fit of conscience.’
‘A right clumsy attempt it was too,’ Salter said, curling his upper lip disdainfully. ‘Trouble is, sir, if anyone other than you was investigating, they would likely be intimidated by Lord Ashley into accepting that it actually was suicide.’
‘Which is perhaps why they delayed summoning us. Ashton would have known from…’ He glanced at Peterson, unwilling to express his suspicions about Danforth in front of such a junior officer. ‘Let’s just say, he knew we intended to interview Grant first thing this morning. He had probably also been informed that charging the young man would be a formality.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Salter flashed a mirthless smile. ‘From the Yard’s perspective, it was safe for Lord Ashton to assume that Emily’s case would be closed. There would be no reason to inform you of a servant’s suicide, so a more junior officer would have been despatched to investigate it.’
‘Fortunately for Susan, that didn’t happen, and I don’t intimidate easily.’ Riley’s expression was grim. ‘This isn’t looking good for Terrance. And I don’t enjoy being taken for an idiot.’
‘Arsenic would be readily available in a household of this size, sir,’ Peterson said, clearly eager to make another contribution. ‘They use it to kill rats and the like.’
‘Inconvenient servants too, it seems.’
Farlow’s stately gait could be heard on the stairs as he led Doctor Maynard and two mortuary assistants up them.
‘Ah, Lord Riley, we meet again,’ the doctor said, wiping perspiration from his brow. ‘Two bodies in the same house in a matter of days.’ He shook his head. ‘Makes you wonder.’ Farlow tutted his disapproval at the implied criticism and removed himself from the scene. ‘Let’s take a look then. Good lord, what a pong.’
His examination was brisk and professional.
‘Almost certainly poison,’ he said. ‘The girl was fit and healthy. No reason for her to turn up her toes otherwise. I will do the post-mortem later today and let you have my findings by tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you. Be so kind as to analyse the contents of this glass as well, and let me have the results from the earlier glasses as soon as you have it. I’m fairly sure there’s arsenic mixed with that wine.’
‘Ah, but who did the mixing, Lord Riley, that’s what you need to decide.’
‘Indeed,’ Riley said with a droll smile.
The doctor beckoned to his assistants. They covered the body with a sheet, fastened it to the litter with black straps and hard steel buckles and made their way awkwardly down the stairs. Riley knew that they would have to use the main staircase. The servants’ stairs would be too narrow and they ran the risk of dropping the body if they attempted to negotiate them. The Ashtons, he suspected, would be clustered behind closed doors, hoping the removal of the body would be the end of the matter.
Riley set his lips. They were about to discover that any such hope would be in vain.