A Better Quality of Murder: (Inspector Ben Ross 3) by Granger Ann Page A
Authors: Granger Ann
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got along best with the cook. That same cook who didn’t mind baking shortbread biscuits for the companion to carry up to London and the meetings. ‘The name Benedict means nothing to you, Bessie?’
Bessie shook her head. ‘I don’t know any one called that. Do you want me to take that vegetable dish?’
When Bessie had gone, I observed to Lizzie, ‘It seems the reason you didn’t meet Miss Marchwood last Sunday was because with Mrs Benedict first being missing since the Saturday afternoon before, and then the discovery that she was dead, the household at The Cedars was in turmoil.’
‘She might be there this coming Sunday,’ said Lizzie, adding casually, ‘I was thinking of going again with Bessie to hear Mr Fawcett speak. It was quite entertaining.’
‘Lizzie!’ I said as sternly as I could, knowing that any objection on my part would be useless. ‘I don’t want you to be involved in this!’
‘But you would like to know if Miss Marchwood shows her face on Sunday; and what sort of state of mind she’s in, if she does,’ Lizzie pointed out.
‘Would she know who you were?’ I asked, after a pause. ‘I mean, would she know you are married to me and what I do for a living?’
‘If she doesn’t then either Mrs Scott or Mr Fawcett himself will tell her, I dare say. I think Mrs Scott does know who you are. I fancied she was a little suspicious of me.’
‘Well, don’t go rousing more suspicions. Just go and see if Marchwood is there and how she seems. No quizzing her, mind, or referring to the murder directly!’
‘As if I would!’ said my wife indignantly. ‘Really, Ben.’
‘Of course, I know you will be tactful,’ I hastened to say. ‘But I don’t want Marchwood more frightened than she is.’
Lizzie’s sharp ear caught my choice of word. ‘You think she is afraid? Not just very shocked and distressed?’
‘Yes,’ I told her, ‘I have been thinking it over and I am sure Isabella Marchwood is very afraid. But I don’t know of what or of whom.’
Chapter Five
Inspector Benjamin Ross
BY THE following morning, much to Superintendent Dunn’s anger, the gentlemen of the press had found out about the River Wraith. Together with the discovery of the body of a beautiful woman, lying strangled in Green Park (and one whose husband owned a gallery in Piccadilly), it must have given them more material than they could have dreamed of in their wildest moments. Naturally the two stories were linked. I was as irritated as Dunn was. In my mind there was still no proof that the River Wraith had killed Allegra Benedict. The press, however, was in no such doubt.
The resultant story was splashed prominently across the newssheets beneath banner headlines. Nor was it only the popular press which made such a furore about it. The Daily Telegraph ran to half a page. It even earned a long paragraph in The Times (with an observation from a leading churchman about lawlessness on the streets). The hullabaloo was set to last until we made an arrest. In the following days there were letters to the papers; a Question was even asked in parliament. The Home Secretary, no less, was forced to rise to his feet to try and answer it. He insisted that the streets of London were quite safe for respectable women. This brought more letters to the press. The image of the River Wraith depicted by several artists with varying degrees of imagination, but invariably lurid, appeared everywhere. The idea of such a strange prowler seized all imaginations.
Of course the police force was somehow blamed for the whole thing, as was usual. The writers of the letters to the newspapers were particularly anxious to point out that we were never around when needed. The words ‘taxpayers’ money’ were much used.
‘How do they know?’ demanded an exasperated Dunn, thumping his fist on the outspread newssheet on his desk. ‘They know of a woman found dead in the park, that’s to be expected. But how do
Bessie shook her head. ‘I don’t know any one called that. Do you want me to take that vegetable dish?’
When Bessie had gone, I observed to Lizzie, ‘It seems the reason you didn’t meet Miss Marchwood last Sunday was because with Mrs Benedict first being missing since the Saturday afternoon before, and then the discovery that she was dead, the household at The Cedars was in turmoil.’
‘She might be there this coming Sunday,’ said Lizzie, adding casually, ‘I was thinking of going again with Bessie to hear Mr Fawcett speak. It was quite entertaining.’
‘Lizzie!’ I said as sternly as I could, knowing that any objection on my part would be useless. ‘I don’t want you to be involved in this!’
‘But you would like to know if Miss Marchwood shows her face on Sunday; and what sort of state of mind she’s in, if she does,’ Lizzie pointed out.
‘Would she know who you were?’ I asked, after a pause. ‘I mean, would she know you are married to me and what I do for a living?’
‘If she doesn’t then either Mrs Scott or Mr Fawcett himself will tell her, I dare say. I think Mrs Scott does know who you are. I fancied she was a little suspicious of me.’
‘Well, don’t go rousing more suspicions. Just go and see if Marchwood is there and how she seems. No quizzing her, mind, or referring to the murder directly!’
‘As if I would!’ said my wife indignantly. ‘Really, Ben.’
‘Of course, I know you will be tactful,’ I hastened to say. ‘But I don’t want Marchwood more frightened than she is.’
Lizzie’s sharp ear caught my choice of word. ‘You think she is afraid? Not just very shocked and distressed?’
‘Yes,’ I told her, ‘I have been thinking it over and I am sure Isabella Marchwood is very afraid. But I don’t know of what or of whom.’
Chapter Five
Inspector Benjamin Ross
BY THE following morning, much to Superintendent Dunn’s anger, the gentlemen of the press had found out about the River Wraith. Together with the discovery of the body of a beautiful woman, lying strangled in Green Park (and one whose husband owned a gallery in Piccadilly), it must have given them more material than they could have dreamed of in their wildest moments. Naturally the two stories were linked. I was as irritated as Dunn was. In my mind there was still no proof that the River Wraith had killed Allegra Benedict. The press, however, was in no such doubt.
The resultant story was splashed prominently across the newssheets beneath banner headlines. Nor was it only the popular press which made such a furore about it. The Daily Telegraph ran to half a page. It even earned a long paragraph in The Times (with an observation from a leading churchman about lawlessness on the streets). The hullabaloo was set to last until we made an arrest. In the following days there were letters to the papers; a Question was even asked in parliament. The Home Secretary, no less, was forced to rise to his feet to try and answer it. He insisted that the streets of London were quite safe for respectable women. This brought more letters to the press. The image of the River Wraith depicted by several artists with varying degrees of imagination, but invariably lurid, appeared everywhere. The idea of such a strange prowler seized all imaginations.
Of course the police force was somehow blamed for the whole thing, as was usual. The writers of the letters to the newspapers were particularly anxious to point out that we were never around when needed. The words ‘taxpayers’ money’ were much used.
‘How do they know?’ demanded an exasperated Dunn, thumping his fist on the outspread newssheet on his desk. ‘They know of a woman found dead in the park, that’s to be expected. But how do
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