Dear Laura

I should like to thank the Borough Librarian of Merton, Mr E. J. Adsett, F.L.A., and in particular Miss Lynn Evans and her staff at Wimbledon Park Branch Library. My vague request for ‘Anything you can find about the late Victorians’ produced an avalanche of books, chosen with both imagination and discrimination, and my gratitude is endless.

T
HE
villa, built in 1808, stood apart and slightly back from its neighbours on Wimbledon Common. In that dim February
evening
towards the end of the nineteenth century, it gleamed dully and then more radiantly as the lamplighter touched gas to flame and walked on.

From his vantage point at the far side of the Common, Dr Padgett saw the whole establishment as a citadel in state of siege; or a doll’s house in the distance; so minute were its appointments, so perfect its evolvement. He reined his pony to walking pace, and reflected.

He knew the barren regions of the attics, where the servants had their sleeping quarters, and whose plain furniture was a medley of cast-offs and poor relations to the richer pieces below. He knew each bedroom on the second floor, called there to consult a range of childish ailments and to assist in the drama of childbirth. He was familiar with the dark ornate rooms on the first floor, where the Croziers entertained themselves and others. He had trodden the elegant staircase many times, carpeted in thick crimson Wilton, curving up and round a wall which was papered in heavy crimson flock.

Even now, he mused, Mrs Crozier might be descending it, fresh from the hands of Kate Kipping. Fair head inclined to droop under so much trouble, fair arms glittering with husbandly tributes, black dress trailing and rustling from step to step. Down and down, to sit alone and stately in the sombre dining-room, to toy with the relentless march of courses.

He could picture Mrs Hill the cook, on the ground floor, moving deliberately from oven to table and back again,
conducting
an epicurean symphony; and the more rapid movements of the maids, starched caps perched saucily, black ribbons astir. And, sunk three feet below the ground, the cellars carried their army of provisions: regiments of bottled fruits and preserves,
slabs of butter, wheels of cheese, sacks of flour, and the late Mr Crozier’s fine selection of wines and spirits.

‘Ah, poor fellow!’ Padgett murmured to himself. ‘He will never crack another bottle of that 1884 champagne again – and at 72s. the dozen that seems uncommonly hard. Well, well, well, well.’

His pony had almost halted and the doctor sighed and stirred himself, for the thought of dinner at the Croziers’ reminded him of his own.

I should not mind so much, he mused, if there was justice in this situation, but there is none. Such a respectable family,
standing
so high in the City and in their social circle. What damnable meddling with a gentleman’s private affairs! What an
unwarranted
intrusion on
her
grief.

He flicked the reins on the pony’s neck, and his trap bowled towards a less exclusive part of Wimbledon and a patient wife, whom he greeted with abstract affection.

‘There is an inspector waiting to see you, my dear,’ she began, a little tremulous between distaste and curiosity. ‘I told him you had not yet dined but he said that time was no object. I did not know where to put him. I do not know where one does put a police inspector. But he is in the parlour. I offered him a glass of Madeira. I hope I was right? In any case he refused it. Shall you see him now or later?’

Dr Padgett hesitated. He was hungry but the matter was important.

‘I had better see him now,’ he replied at length. ‘Indeed, I shall not relish my dinner with a policeman in the house. A sorry business. In the parlour, my dear? Very well. And I shall take a glass of Madeira to keep out the cold, whether he wishes to join me or no.’

One kept oneself above the common herd, cared for one’s patients, provided for one’s family, worshipped on Sunday,
revered
one’s Queen and Country, and closed one’s front door on the world. And, on a sudden, all was a chaos of scandal, and nothing would seem the same ever again.

What of
her
feelings. He was not an imaginative person but it seemed to him that the house no longer shielded her from the vulgar gaze, had been torn open.

‘Inspector Lintott? I am Doctor Padgett. I understand you wish to speak to me?’

Intrusion, he thought. Intrusion.

The intrusion was stolid enough to give the impression of a foot wedged firmly against a closing door. The inspector
intended
to stay until he had got what he wanted, whatever that might be. His apologies were purely formal, his presence implacable.

‘You have seen Mr Fitzgerald, the family’s solicitor, I believe?’ said Padgett, switching the tails of his frock-coat aside, sitting down in his armchair.

‘Yes, sir. Earlier this evening. A very precise gentleman. Very
concise,
too. He covered the professional side of this business as well as anybody could have done. It’s the personal side that you might be able to advise me on, sir. You know the late Mr Crozier’s household from the viewpoint of a family doctor, which means intimately.’

‘I also respect my patients’ privacy, and would not dream of betraying the confidences I regard as sacred.’

‘There
is
no privacy in a murder case,’ said Lintott bluntly, ‘or in a case of suicide. Whichever it may be. That’s what I’m here to find out.’

‘The oath of Hippocrates …’ Padgett began ponderously, and was checked.

‘Three grains of morphine, to my mind,’ said Lintott, ‘is sufficient reason to set aside any oath that I know of, except a Bible oath when you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. And that’s all I want, sir. Now I
understand
from Mrs Padgett that you’ve had a long day and no
dinner
– which puts you in the same position as me – so I’ll make this as quick and easy as I can. I hope you’ll do the same.’

Demolished, the doctor inclined his head, and set his hands palm to palm judiciously.

‘Now how long have you known the family, sir?’

‘Some fifteen years, if I recollect aright. Mr Theodore Crozier had just married a girl – as she was then – of good family and great beauty, with money of her own I understand. Her father was a Bristol merchant, name of Surrage. Both parents have died since. She is quite alone in the world, poor lady.’

A pale oval above the mourning, pale head inclined, dining in solitary state beneath the three gas globes of the chandelier.

‘You were the late Mr Crozier’s physician previous to his marriage, sir?’

‘No, no. I was recommended to him. He had just set up house in Wimbledon. I believe he lived in rooms close to his business in the City before that. But, being newly married, he wished to have a physician close at hand. Naturally. A young wife. The
expectation
of a family. Also he never enjoyed very good health himself.’

‘Something of a hypochondriac, judging from your statement at the inquest, sir. Am I right?’

‘He was of a nervous disposition, Inspector,’ said Padgett coldly.

‘And his wife? Is she of a nervous disposition also, sir?’

‘Her constitution is a delicate one. Easily upset. Headaches, sleeplessness and so on. Nothing organically wrong. A highly sensitive lady. We must spare her as much as possible.’

‘I see,’ said Lintott, seeing a great deal. ‘Would you have said they were happily married, sir?’

Padgett shifted his chair and frowned.

‘He was not an easy man,’ he said carefully, ‘but I should have always described him as a devoted husband and father. He
provided
for his family most liberally. The two boys are at Rugby, the little girl has a governess. No expense was ever spared. Mrs Crozier, for instance, has what one might call an extravagant taste in dress. She must have cost him a pretty penny! But he was very proud of her appearance, quite indulged her. I do not blame him for that.’

The wide straw hat, caught up on one side with a pink rose. Five pearl buttons harnessing the high collar of her blouse. The blown flower of her summer parasol. The bow glimpsed for a moment on one small shoe.

‘Would you have called Mrs Crozier a happy wife, sir?’

The soft cheek proffered dutifully, and quickly withdrawn. The anxiety underlying her soft voice. The sadness into which she lapsed when she was silent. One must not remember this. It might tell against her, who knows how? She must be protected from the eyes of the world, from prying, from further suffering.

‘Mrs Crozier is not of a light disposition,’ Padgett said
awkwardly
. ‘That is to say, in the bosom of her family. In society she is most agreeable. At home, as is right and proper, she is modest and quiet. Her late husband was a quiet gentleman. They seemed to suit admirably.’

‘You have known them for fifteen years,’ said Lintott. ‘Was he always the same? A quiet gentleman?’

‘Always the same. Reserved, grave, some called him stern. But he was just. He required no more of his family than the standard he set himself.’

‘Perhaps it was too high?’ Lintott suggested idly.

Padgett looked at him sharply, but the inspector’s face was impassive.

‘And was Mrs Crozier a quiet and retiring person, when they were first married for instance, sir?’

‘Naturally, a woman changes with the responsibility of a household. The charming frivolity of a girl of eighteen does not suit the dignity of a lady in her – good heavens!’ Lintott waited. ‘Mrs Crozier must be in her thirty-fourth year,’ said Padgett, amazed. ‘How time flies!’

‘So the lady changed and the gentleman did not, sir?’

‘I suppose you could put it like that, Inspector.’

‘I should be obliged if you would give me a list of the servants employed in and about the household, sir. Just names and duties, briefly. Servants,’ Lintott added drily, ‘often know more about their masters than the masters know.’

Remote and beautiful, the white walls of the house were
dissolving
into dust. Behind them glimmered Laura Crozier. She had never appeared more vulnerable.

‘There is Mrs Hill, who acts as cook-housekeeper and has been with the family from the beginning. Then Miss Alice Nagle, the children’s nurse, who was employed when their first child, Edmund, was born. A coachman, Henry Hann, inclined to the bottle, I’m afraid. Kate Kipping, who acts as Mrs Crozier’s
personal
maid and also as parlourmaid. Harriet Stutchbury the housemaid. And I think they have a new kitchenmaid, but I
cannot
recollect the girl’s name. It is not important.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. I shall not keep you above a few
minutes more. There’s one person I haven’t mentioned yet. The late Mr Crozier’s brother. Mr Titus Crozier. Quite the ladies’ man by all accounts.’

‘I utterly repudiate any malicious gossip concerning Mrs Crozier and her brother-in-law!’ cried Padgett, with the only heat he had shown so far.

‘Just so,’ said Lintott. ‘Only, it has been mentioned and must be investigated, sir. What might your personal opinion of him be?’

Padgett replied stiffly, ‘Very charming. The antithesis of his late brother, in fact. Very popular. He lived with them, or at least he used the home as his background, for a number of years. When they were early married. The three of them were devoted,’ he cried again with the same asperity. ‘I have never known two brothers so close. The late Mr Crozier acted in the capacity of a father to Mr Titus from the time of their own father’s death. And being much of an age – I think he is one or two years older than Mrs Crozier – Mr Titus and she got on admirably. There was never a suspicion of scandal. In fact,’ said Padgett
triumphantly
, ‘I would have said that Mr Titus was the link that held them together!’

‘Fancy that,’ Lintott observed with immense satisfaction. ‘A strange marriage that requires a third party to keep it together!’

‘I am fatigued, Inspector, and hungry,’ said Padgett,
concerned
, ‘and I may be choosing my words badly. I did not mean to imply anything of the sort.’

‘Well, sir, I’ll leave you to the enjoyment of your dinner and go home to mine. There’s just one thing I should like to mention, and I say this with all due respect. You certified the late Mr Crozier having died of a cerebral haemorrhage, yet the autopsy proved that he died of an overdose of morphine. I take it that the symptoms are pretty much the same?’

‘They are, Inspector. And his medical and personal history was, of course, well known to me. I did not for a moment suspect morphine poisoning.’

‘Quite so,’ said Lintott, rising. ‘Appearances can be very
misleading.
That’s the difference between your work and mine. Appearances mean nothing to me, sir. I take no account of them.’

“Nevertheless, I trust you will deal with Mrs Crozier in as delicate a manner as possible. Speaking in the capacity of her medical adviser I would caution you. She is a highly strung lady in a state of shock. I cannot be answerable for the consequences if your approach is too direct.’

‘I’ll be as meek as a lamb with the lady,’ said Lintott mildly. ‘You needn’t fear, sir.’

And yet Dr Padgett did fear, sitting in the lighted room until his wife reminded him twice that his soup was upon the table.

Only once, in the turmoil of mind which must seek some relief, did he attempt to communicate with Mrs Padgett.

‘I should have said that the late Mr Crozier was devoted to his wife, would you not, my dear?’

She reflected, unsure how truthful one could be without overstepping the bounds of good manners.

‘I always thought his behaviour highly correct,’ she replied.

‘And his treatment of Mrs Crozier liberal almost to prodigality‚ my dear. Would you not have thought?’

Mrs Padgett, who would never receive such material tributes‚ said wistfully, ‘Mr Crozier gave her a most exquisite brooch on Christmas day. She has many valuable pieces of jewellery. But‚ of course, she has set most of them aside for the mourning period as being unsuitable. Only jet, and pearls, and amethysts and her diamond ring.’

‘Who could have known that this would be their last Chrismas together? The time of goodwill towards all men, when on rejoices in the bosom of one’s family. And then, a few weeks later … well, well, in the midst of life we are in death. Which among us knows when he shall be called?’