Death of a Scoundrel Read online

  ‘Thank you,’ Riley replied, shaking the man’s hand. ‘This is, or should I say was, the Honourable Roderick Woodrow, Viscount Woodrow’s youngest and wildest son.’

  ‘Well, the poor fellow won’t be up for any wild antics now,’ Maynard replied, crouching beside the body and conducting a swift examination. ‘Strangled by a male antagonist,’ he confirmed. ‘Strangulation takes considerable strength, even if the victim obliges by sitting still and allowing the killer to get on with it.’ He waited until the photographer had finished before pushing the body onto its side and revealing a small patch of partially concealed blood on the rug beneath it. He pulled aside an area of Woodrow’s thick hair that seemed to interest him. ‘Ah hah! I thought as much.’

  Riley leaned forward and noticed a wound. ‘He was struck before being strangled?’

  ‘Looks that way. This room wouldn’t be nearly so tidy if he had not been.’

  ‘Why not just carry on thumping him until he died then?’ Salter asked. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ He glanced a little sheepishly at Riley.

  ‘The attacker probably didn’t want to risk making too much noise and alerting the neighbours,’ Riley replied. ‘He only needed the victim to be unconscious so that he could finish him off by throttling him.’

  ‘Could he have used his hands?’ Salter asked. ‘If he did, it would explain the lack of a ligature.’

  ‘No.’ It was Riley who answered him. ‘Take a closer look at Woodrow’s neck, Jack. A thin cord of some sort was definitely pulled so tight that it cut into the neck like a noose.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Well, Lord Riley,’ Maynard said, ‘I can officially confirm that life is extinct. He has been dead for some hours. I would say sometime around two o’clock this morning, immediately after he returned from whatever engagement he kept last night.’

  ‘Could he have been killed before he went out?’ Salter asked.

  ‘No. There would be signs of rigor mortis if he had. Either coming on or easing off. It is not an exact science. Besides, he reeks of whisky.’

  Riley glanced at the sideboard, upon which sat an elegant and expensive lead crystal decanter and four glasses. Only four? That seemed odd. Such things almost always came in sets of six. He wondered if the killer had indeed been an invited guest who had taken not only the murder weapon away with him, but the glasses they had drunk from too, just to muddy the waters or preclude any possibility of identification. He suspected that crystal ware of that quality originated from his father’s house. He would make a point of asking about it when he broke the sad tidings to Woodrow’s family.

  ‘There is nothing more I can do here, Lord Riley.’ Maynard’s voice recalled Riley’s attention. ‘If you have no more questions for me, I shall have the body taken away and attend to the post mortem tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Riley said automatically, a little disturbed by the relish he felt at being faced with what might be—at least on the surface—a fiendishly difficult case to crack. Not because he approved of violent death but because he wanted to help enhance the reputation of the relatively new Detective Department at Scotland Yard. Often the subject of vicious criticism, he wanted to prove that specialist detectives could make the streets safer. That they could effectively deter criminals who had once more or less enjoyed carte blanche to do as they pleased. Prior to the introduction of the Detective Department, there had been little risk of such miscreants being apprehended by an overworked, disorganised and lacklustre police force. This was Riley’s purpose, and it gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He too was a younger son, albeit not in Woodrow’s impecunious state. But if he didn’t have Scotland Yard as an excuse to turn down the myriad invitations that found their way to his door, he would be in danger of turning into a social irrelevance, like poor Rod. The ubiquitous “spare man”. He shuddered at the prospect and returned his attention to the task in hand.

  ‘Take a careful look around these rooms, Salter.’ Riley entered the bedchamber and glanced in a wardrobe filled with good-quality clothing. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Decent furniture,’ Salter replied promptly. ‘I’ll wager Woodrow furnished them himself. He wanted to impress.’

  ‘Or was not prepared to lower his standards. I doubt whether he entertained in these rooms. They aren’t big enough. Well,’ Riley amended, ‘they’re big enough to entertain a lone female, but nothing beyond that. He needed the address to maintain appearances, but I don’t suppose he spent much time here, other than to sleep. The rest of his time would have been taken up by his clubs, or dancing attendance upon hostesses in need of his services.’

  ‘Appearances are everything.’ Salter nodded. ‘I suppose these rooms are small by your standards Maybe Woodrow wouldn’t have wanted his posh friends to see just how small.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, conduct a methodical search. I’ll send Carter up to help you.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea, but hopefully something will come to light that points to the reason for the crime. Clearly he’d upset someone. I doubt whether a disgruntled husband would resort to murder, but we cannot afford to dismiss the possibility. There is no sign of a female having been in here recently, if at all. The type who would accompany a gentleman to his rooms would reek of perfume and I can’t smell any. Anyway, we need to learn as much as we can about Woodrow’s personal life, distasteful as I’m sure you will find it.’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘Good man. A diary or an address book would prove particularly useful. Bank statements or anything to do with investments. I want to know how he financed his lifestyle, where he got his money. That, I sense, is at the heart of this mystery. I’ll leave you to it and go and introduce myself to the rest of the tenants.’

  Riley took the stairs slowly, musing upon the senseless waste of a life, just as he always did when called to the scene of a murder. He hadn’t known Woodrow well, but couldn’t find it in himself to approve of a man who chose to idle his time away. The source of his independence troubled Riley. His rooms were lavishly furnished, his clothing supplied by a first-rate tailor. Perhaps he had acquired a wealthy mistress. He had certainly never lacked charm or self-assurance, traits which generally enthralled a certain type of lady, most especially bored and neglected wives with time and money to fritter away.

  Muted conversation ceased when Riley pushed open the door to the parlour into which the residents had been corralled. Two men, a lady and a girl in a maid’s uniform with reddened eyes and blotchy face all looked up at him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I am Inspector Rochester. I apologise for keeping you all waiting. I hope I will not have to inconvenience you for much longer.’

  ‘It’s true, then,’ the lady said. ‘Poor old Rod finally got his comeuppance.’

  ‘I say, Maud,’ one of the other tenants protested. ‘You make it sound as though the chap deserved to be strangled.’

  ‘Strangled?’ Riley raised a brow at him. ‘What makes you suppose he was strangled?’

  ‘Well, it was fairly obvious.’ The remaining tenant came to the first man’s aid. ‘Dudley and I live on the top floor. When Jessie starting screaming fit to wake the dead…’ He covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words. Anyway, when Jessie started screaming it sounded like she was being murdered so we both rushed down to find out what the fuss was about. By then, she’d run into the street and flagged down a policeman, but Woodrow’s door was open. Obviously, we were curious when he didn’t appear to find out what the ruckus was all about, so we went in to investigate and saw him lying there. It was obvious that he’d been strangled.’

  ‘Did you touch or remove anything?’ Riley asked sharply.

  ‘Gosh, no! We got out of there and waited for you lot.’

  ‘Very well. I know you have already given statements to my officers. I would like to speak briefly to each of you individually myself, then you can go about your business.’ He smiled at the m
aid. She looked unnaturally pale and shook like a leaf. ‘Jessie, perhaps you would like to go first. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Chapter Two

  ‘If you would be so good as to follow me, sir.’

  Jessie composed herself after a fashion and led the way across the narrow hallway into what was obviously the communal dining room. A fresh loaf of bread lay abandoned on a side table next to butter, ham and cheese.

  ‘You provide breakfast for the tenants?’ Riley asked, pulling out a chair for Jessie which she seemed reluctant to take. At Riley’s urging she eventually perched tentatively on its edge, trembling with nerves and, he suspected, residual shock.

  ‘Yes, sir. Usually.’ She produced a handkerchief and blew her nose noisily.

  Riley sat across from her and offered her a reassuring smile. Jessie was no more than a child. She was afraid of her own shadow and certainly didn’t have the requisite strength to murder a man twice her size. Even so, she probably knew everything that went on inside the walls of this house, and if Riley hoped to extract anything useful from her, he would have to exercise a great deal of patience. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock,’ he said. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’

  She looked shocked at the prospect of a gentleman waiting upon her, but Riley’s suggestion had the desired effect. She straightened her shoulders and stopped sniffling. ‘Thank you, sir, but no. Finding the gentlemen was the most awful shock, there’s no denying it.’ She mopped up an errant tear. ‘I ain’t never saw the like and hope I never will again. Who would want to hurt Mr Woodrow? That’s what I can’t understand.’ Now that she’d started to talk, she didn’t seem able to stop. It suited Riley’s purpose, and he didn’t interrupt the disjointed flow. ‘He were that nice to me. Always had time for a kind word or a smile.’

  ‘Which is why we must find out who did this terrible thing, and I hope you will help me to do that.’

  ‘Upon my life, sir, I’ll do anything I can. Mr Woodrow was a real gentleman. Not like some as I could name who expect you to fetch and carry for them when it ain’t your job, and never so much as a word of thanks.’

  ‘You live in?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have a room in the attic. I clean all the rooms, make the beds and arrange for their laundry to be done.’

  ‘And prepare breakfast too?’

  ‘Only for Mr Langston and Mr Crawford. It’s not part of my duties, but they pay me extra for it. They both leave early because they have work to go to. Miss Ogden and Mr Woodrow don’t worry about breakfast. Neither of them gets up before noon. Mr Woodrow is always that busy, flitting here and there until all hours...well, he was… He told me once that his services were always in demand.’ She chuckled. ‘He did so enjoy his little joke, did Mr Woodrow. Anyway, Miss Ogden…well, she’s a singer and she’s at the theatre most nights so she sleeps in too and doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

  Riley smothered his surprise, remembering his first impression of the lady he’d seen in the parlour. A singer implied music hall and a music hall entertainer would not earn enough to pay the high rents commanded by this auspicious address. At a glance, Miss Ogden had looked to be well into her thirties and would not have stood out in a crowd. Past her prime, in other words, and unlikely to be mistress material. Perhaps she had private means. It would not to do pre-judge the lady’s circumstances, Riley reminded himself. He didn’t think the crime had been committed by a woman, but it could well have been commissioned by one. A natural and charming flirt of Woodrow’s ilk was bound to have created resentments and jealousies along the way.

  ‘You come down in the mornings by the back stairs?’ he asked, returning his wandering thoughts to Jessie.

  ‘Yes, sir. Always. I wouldn’t presume to do otherwise, upon my life I would not.’

  ‘I would imagine you don’t go up to clean and tidy for the gentlemen until after they have left for work.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ She bridled at the implication but didn’t seem especially shocked by it. Her reaction was all for show. Young as she was, a pretty little thing like Jessie was probably accustomed to being propositioned. Whether or not she gave way to temptation, Riley had yet to decide. Not that it mattered—provided of course that she had not been intimately involved with Woodrow. ‘I only do what I gets paid for.’

  Which was precisely Riley’s point, albeit an unworthy one. Sadly, Riley himself got paid to think the worst of everyone, and it was a hard habit to break. ‘How did you come to discover the body, if you were down here preparing breakfast?’

  ‘Well sir, it was Miss Ogden. She didn’t have a performance last night but did have an engagement early this morning. She asked me to wake her, so I took her up a cup of tea right after going out for bread. And…well, that’s when I found him.’

  And dropped the cup, no doubt, accounting for the dampness he’d noticed on the carpet runner immediately outside Woodrow’s room. Of the cup and saucer there had been no sign. Presumably Jessie had collected them—or cleared up the broken china—as soon as she’d recovered her wits. ‘Explain what you saw. Was his door open?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it were. That’s what was so strange, and why I stopped to look. Mr Woodrow was very particular about his privacy. He had ever such nice things and didn’t like anyone going near them without his permission. I thought maybe he’d come home even later than usual and was…well, you know how gentlemen can be, sir. They do like their brandy and sometimes don’t know when they’ve had enough. He could have been insensible with drink, it which case I would have helped him.’ She sniffed. ‘Only one look at his staring eyes and that dreadful swollen tongue told me he was beyond help.’

  ‘So you looked round the door, saw Mr Woodrow and had the presence of mind to run outside and find a policeman. Well done!’

  Jessie beamed. ‘Like I say, I knew at once he was dead and it gave me a right turn.’ She shuddered. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘That is what I hope to find out, with your help.’ Riley shifted his position on the uncomfortable wooden chair. ‘Do you know what time Mr Woodrow got home last night, or this morning? Think carefully, Jessie, it could be vital.’

  She screwed up her features, but in frustration rather than through the effort of trying to recall a stray memory, since she answered without pausing. ‘I really couldn’t say. My room is at the back in the attic and I sleep like the dead. I do know that he’s always late. Always the last in. Sometimes he doesn’t come home until I’m making breakfast for the other gentlemen and then he would wink at me, tell me he’d had a grand old time and sometimes take a cup of tea before going to his rooms.’

  ‘Did he ever bring anyone back with him?’

  Jessie shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know. Like I say, he was fiercely private.’

  ‘The furnishings in his rooms, he supplied them himself?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. All the rooms are let unfurnished, but Mr Woodrow did his up better than all the others.’

  ‘Who owns this house, Jessie?’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ She looked at him in evident confusion.

  ‘Who pays your wages?’

  ‘Oh, an agency in Oxford Street, that’s all I know.’

  Riley thought it very likely was, so he thanked her and was about to send her on her way when another question occurred to him.

  ‘Mr Woodrow has a handsome decanter on his sideboard but there were only four glasses with it.’

  ‘Oh no, sir, that can’t be right. There are definitely six. I wash them for Mr Woodrow when they’ve been used and he impresses upon me the importance of taking great care. Lead crystal of that quality chips easily, you see, despite it being so heavy, and it would be an awful shame to damage the set. He said as much himself more than once.’

  ‘Thank you, Jessie, you have been a great help. You can return to your duties but please avoid Mr Woodrow’s rooms for the time being.’

  She shuddered and assured him that she had no desire to go anywhere near them.

 
Salter joined him at that point with a disappointingly small sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. ‘Couldn’t find nothing else, sir, sorry. I gathered up all them invitation cards, just in case you want to see if you can decide which one he accepted.’

  Riley would be able to find out where Woodrow had spent his last evening easily enough. The upper classes were no strangers to gossip and once word of his death got out that information would find its way to him, very likely through the good offices of his mother.

  ‘We will look through those documents back at the Yard.’ Riley quickly updated his sergeant on what Jessie had had to tell him.

  ‘You believe her?’

  ‘Woodrow had cultivated her good opinion. She’s a pretty young thing, and he wouldn’t have been able to help himself. But I don’t think it went beyond that. He simply deployed his customary charm to ensure that he was well looked after. She made a point of emphasising that he protected his privacy, though.’

  ‘Perhaps he knew his life was under threat.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Riley sighed. ‘Go and wheel the next resident in. One of the men. They have work to go to. Miss Ogden had an engagement this morning, which she will have missed by now, I dare say, so she can wait until last.’

  The elder of the two male tenants returned with Salter. His name was John Crawford, and he informed Riley that he was employed in a managerial capacity at Waterloo Railway station. A man of forty, he confirmed that he had never been married and had risen to the top of his profession through hard work and dedication, accounting no doubt for his ability to afford the rent on his rooms in this house. Rooms on the second floor wouldn’t be as grand as Woodrow’s, but that was not the point. Through his own endeavours, he enjoyed the advantages of a prestigious address, which was probably all that mattered to him.

  ‘I shall try not to keep you for long, since I am conscious that you have work waiting for you. What can you tell me about Woodrow?’ Riley asked briskly.