Lestrade’s idea of a good time. But then, he was hardly here to enjoy himself.
‘I have, of course, already made a statement to Inspector Swallow and his constable,’ began Wemyss, ‘but I understand it is police procedure to repeat oneself several times.’
‘Occasionally, new points come to light, sir,’ observed Lestrade. ‘Pray continue.’ And he could have kicked himself for that remark.
‘I was attending a Temperance meeting in Macclesfield. This was, let me see, Thursday. The day before yesterday. I arrived home by trap, early evening. It was already dark. As I alighted and Beddoes was taking the pony, I heard the screams from within the house. I went in and found …’ He paused, but seemed remarkably in control of himself. ‘My wife and my daughter’s governess, Miss Spink, were there ahead of me, both hysterical. The charred thing that was once my daughter was lying on the landing floor …’ Another pause. ‘Unrecognisable.’
Swallow slurped his lemonade at an unfortunate, poignant moment.
‘I should explain,’ Wemyss went on, ‘that my wife and Miss Spink had themselves been absent, visiting the local elderly. They had arrived home moments before me.’
‘And the servants?’ asked Lestrade.
‘Only Mrs Drum was in the house. The maid Hannah does not live in and it was her day off. Beddoes we share with the schoolmaster. He had been on the premises an hour or two only, before I arrived. I never allow him in the house.’
Charity, mused Lestrade, did not begin at home in this establishment.
‘Have you anything to add?’ he asked.
Wemyss stood up, disarranging cats as he did so. ‘God moves in mysterious ways, Inspector. I long ago joined Brutus in his acceptance of death among his dear ones. It must happen one day and, knowing that, I can accept it.’
Lestrade and Swallow found themselves nodding in unison, like things on sticks at a fairground. They noticed each other and broke the rhythm.
‘I’d like to show you something.’ Wemyss selected a faded book from the shelf. ‘The Annual Register for the year of Our Lord 1767. I have taken the trouble to mark the pages.’ He read an extraordinary account. ‘A lady found burned to death in her bedroom in her London house. An old lady, certainly, but there was no source of fire. No candles, no grate, no tallow. Nothing particularly inflammable. She simply burned to death,’ concluded Wemyss. ‘A sort of … spontaneous combustion, I suppose you would call it.’
‘You mean, like a ’orselesscarriage, Vicar?’ asked Swallow, quite perplexed. Wemyss and Lestrade both looked at him, and he sank back in his chair.
‘Can that happen, Mr Wemyss?’ asked Lestrade.
‘According to the Annual Register, it did in 1767, Inspector Lestrade. But no, I think not. You see, I think my daughter was murdered.’
Lestrade looked at the older man. What sort of a murderer would kill a seventeen-year-old girl – the daughter of a vicar? It could have been a sexual crime, of course, but the state of the body made that hypothesis unprovable. It seemed inappropriate to ask the age old question, but he did anyway.
‘Did your daughter have any enemies, Mr Wemyss?’
‘Inspector, my daughter was a shy little girl of seventeen. She had very few friends, poor lamb. We are rather remote up here, you know. But enemies … no, Inspector. She hadn’t an enemy in the world.’
‘Then why do you say she was murdered, sir? And why call in the Yard?’
‘To answer your second question first. I have always insisted on the best for my family – the best food, the best clothes, the best education – which is not, mark you, your North London Collegiate School – and, without wishing to offend Swallow here, the best police.’
Lestrade bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘To answer your first question. Because I don’t believe in this,’ pointing to the Register. ‘I do not believe that a person can burn to death by themselves. There
‘I have, of course, already made a statement to Inspector Swallow and his constable,’ began Wemyss, ‘but I understand it is police procedure to repeat oneself several times.’
‘Occasionally, new points come to light, sir,’ observed Lestrade. ‘Pray continue.’ And he could have kicked himself for that remark.
‘I was attending a Temperance meeting in Macclesfield. This was, let me see, Thursday. The day before yesterday. I arrived home by trap, early evening. It was already dark. As I alighted and Beddoes was taking the pony, I heard the screams from within the house. I went in and found …’ He paused, but seemed remarkably in control of himself. ‘My wife and my daughter’s governess, Miss Spink, were there ahead of me, both hysterical. The charred thing that was once my daughter was lying on the landing floor …’ Another pause. ‘Unrecognisable.’
Swallow slurped his lemonade at an unfortunate, poignant moment.
‘I should explain,’ Wemyss went on, ‘that my wife and Miss Spink had themselves been absent, visiting the local elderly. They had arrived home moments before me.’
‘And the servants?’ asked Lestrade.
‘Only Mrs Drum was in the house. The maid Hannah does not live in and it was her day off. Beddoes we share with the schoolmaster. He had been on the premises an hour or two only, before I arrived. I never allow him in the house.’
Charity, mused Lestrade, did not begin at home in this establishment.
‘Have you anything to add?’ he asked.
Wemyss stood up, disarranging cats as he did so. ‘God moves in mysterious ways, Inspector. I long ago joined Brutus in his acceptance of death among his dear ones. It must happen one day and, knowing that, I can accept it.’
Lestrade and Swallow found themselves nodding in unison, like things on sticks at a fairground. They noticed each other and broke the rhythm.
‘I’d like to show you something.’ Wemyss selected a faded book from the shelf. ‘The Annual Register for the year of Our Lord 1767. I have taken the trouble to mark the pages.’ He read an extraordinary account. ‘A lady found burned to death in her bedroom in her London house. An old lady, certainly, but there was no source of fire. No candles, no grate, no tallow. Nothing particularly inflammable. She simply burned to death,’ concluded Wemyss. ‘A sort of … spontaneous combustion, I suppose you would call it.’
‘You mean, like a ’orselesscarriage, Vicar?’ asked Swallow, quite perplexed. Wemyss and Lestrade both looked at him, and he sank back in his chair.
‘Can that happen, Mr Wemyss?’ asked Lestrade.
‘According to the Annual Register, it did in 1767, Inspector Lestrade. But no, I think not. You see, I think my daughter was murdered.’
Lestrade looked at the older man. What sort of a murderer would kill a seventeen-year-old girl – the daughter of a vicar? It could have been a sexual crime, of course, but the state of the body made that hypothesis unprovable. It seemed inappropriate to ask the age old question, but he did anyway.
‘Did your daughter have any enemies, Mr Wemyss?’
‘Inspector, my daughter was a shy little girl of seventeen. She had very few friends, poor lamb. We are rather remote up here, you know. But enemies … no, Inspector. She hadn’t an enemy in the world.’
‘Then why do you say she was murdered, sir? And why call in the Yard?’
‘To answer your second question first. I have always insisted on the best for my family – the best food, the best clothes, the best education – which is not, mark you, your North London Collegiate School – and, without wishing to offend Swallow here, the best police.’
Lestrade bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘To answer your first question. Because I don’t believe in this,’ pointing to the Register. ‘I do not believe that a person can burn to death by themselves. There
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