The Lexington House Murder
~ Chapter Two
Chief
Constable Thomas Dobbins was seated in the Crane’s small
downstairs
reception room. He was a man of about 50 years with distinguished
white hair, trim mustache and beard. He had been Chief Constable for
both midtown and downtown Manhattan for over 10 years. Started out as
a part of the street patrol unit almost 20 years before that. He had
a reputation of patience, wisdom and fierce loyalty to his men.
The
local magistrate, John Mailer, a tall lanky man, about 30, with dark
hair and an outrageous handle bar mustache, was pacing anxiously up
and down the room, nervously picking up and placing down objects from
the mantel and tables. Mailer had only just taken the job of
Magistrate of this district a few months before. Dobbins had received
excellent reports from his former employer in Philadelphia. He liked
Mailer, thought he had good instincts, but damned the man if he
wasn’t such a restless jack-a-napes! Forever seeming to hop
about
from leg to leg, fingering every item within reach, or gesturing
wildly in the air with his long thin hands. Still, the report from
Philadelphia had been excellent.
Both Dobbins and Mailer
looked up immediately when Ichabod Crane walked into the room.
Dobbins remained seated, but extended his hand to Ichabod.
“Constable Crane, forgive us for barging in on you and your
family so early in the day. But as Mailer here will tell you we have
a most unusual problem. John Mailer, this is Constable Ichabod Crane.
Crane, this is our new magistrate John Mailer.”
The two
shook hands and Ichabod gestured for Mailer to be seated. He himself
swung a desk chair around and took a seat, facing his visitors.
“What
is the problem you wish to talk to me about?”
Dobbins spoke
first, “I have told Magistrate Mailer about your amazing work
on
the Sleepy Hollow case. With your particular skills and experience,
we felt that you may be able to lend…”
Mailer leapt up
from his seat, interrupting his superior, with a swooping motion
brought his rather thin nose within an inch of Ichabod’s
startled
face.
“A heinous and dastardly crime, Crane. Murder most
foul. A young housemaid has been viciously slaughtered. If in fact
your eerie experiences in Sleepy Hollow did not discourage you from a
career in criminal detection, than, surely here is a case which will
test your metal.” Mailer stepped back and began to pace about
the
room.
Ichabod, forehead furrowed, reached for his notebook
and pen. “Please gentleman, know that I am willing to help in
what
ever capacity the Chief Constable feels I may be useful. Can you give
me the facts so far as you know them?”
Dobbins frowned at
his young associate. “Mailer, you are no doubt about to wear
a hole
in Mrs. Crane’s new carpet or destroy some brick-a-brac with
your
flailing about. Please contain yourself, be seated and allow me to
tell Crane the facts in a cool and orderly manner.”
Mailer,
threw himself down in one of the chairs, but continued to cross and
uncross his long legs, and stroke his mustache in such a vigorous
manner, Ichabod half expected him to begin tearing bits of it out.
“Before you begin, may I have our Cook, bring you coffee or
breakfast?” Ichabod asked.
Mailer was again immediately on
his feet. “We have no time, man! We must return to the scene
of
crime and take charge before valuable clues are lost.”
To
Dobbins, he said, “Can we not fill in the good Constable on
our way
back to the house? I fear for every moment we spend here, the police
foot patrol will be tracking muck over everything, disturbing items.
And moving the body.”
Upon hearing this, Ichabod also rose
to his feet, “I agree then we make haste back to the crime
scene.
It is a grave mistake to allow anyone to disturb the scene of the
crime, and of course,” with a nod toward Mailer,
“you must never
move the body. I’ll fetch my instrument bag and be with you
immediately. Your carriage is outside?”
Dobbins nodded
slowly. “Perhaps it would save time to tell Constable Crane
the
facts of the case during the ride back to Lexington House.”
Crane
closed and locked the cabinet door from which he had removed his
detecting bag. He turned slowly toward the elderly gentleman.
“Did
you say Lexington House? I assumed the crime took place in one of our
more unsavory neighborhoods?”
Mailer clapped a hand on
Ichabod’s shoulder, “No, my good man, that is the
surprising part
of this. The filthy deed was done right in the midst of one of New
York’s most prestigious families. The venerable house of
James
Wellington-Trumbell. One of his young staff maids – that is
our
victim.”
Mailer gathered up his greatcoat and that of
Dobbins, helping the older man into his. “We must hurry.
Please,
Crane, you must come with us now. We can tell you of the facts on our
way.”
“Well, then I think perhaps we should be leaving.
Cook!!” He came close to colliding with a pleasant middle
aged
woman who had appeared from around the corner carrying a tray of tea
and biscuits. “Sorry Cook, we shan’t have time for
tea. Please
tell my wife that I have been called away on an investigation and
remind Jonathan he is to meet me at my office at noon.”
Although
in an obvious hurry to herd the others out of Crane’s front
door,
Mailer, none the less, paused to take two warm biscuits from
Cook’s
tray, stuffing one in his pocket and the other into his mouth.
“Let
us be on our way then,” he mumbled, mouth full of biscuit.
Crane
and Dobbins exchanged looks of surprise at the younger man’s
manner, but obediently followed him out of the door and climbed into
the carriage at the curb.
Once seated inside the comfortable
conveyance, Mailer stuck his head out of the window, and shouted to
the driver, “Turn around, man, take us back to the Lexington
House,
as fast as you can.”
The carriage, bumped along the
streets, at first full of the noise of peddlers, tradesman and shops.
As it headed north the sounds quieted and the streets became lined
with businesses, legal firms; then almost completely residential.
Each block boasting larger and more elaborate homes. But the three
passengers barely noticed the changing surroundings.
Mailer
twitched and fiddled in his seat, looking at times like an over-eager
greyhound, straining at the leash. But wisely he remained silent and
allowed his superior to relate the story to Ichabod.
Dobbins
drew a few sheets of notes out of his pocket, and begin to speak
slowly and deliberately to Ichabod.
“Our office was
contacted this morning at 4:30 am by a member of the
Wellington-Trumbell household, a driver I believe. He was agitated
and said he had been sent to fetch the police immediately. The body
of a young woman in the employ of the Wellington-Trumbell’s
had
been found dead in the sitting room on the ground floor of the house.
Three patrol officers were dispatched immediately to the house. Upon
arrival the house was in an uproar, as you can imagine. One of the
officers on site sent back a message to the Constabulary immediately,
asking for senior officers to come as soon as possible. A young
woman’s body was indeed lying in the middle of a large
sitting room
on the first floor of the house. Death apparently due to a deep
penetrating wound to the neck. There were other wounds to the body,
but I would prefer for you to see for yourself, before I
comment.”
“Why call for me, Chief Dobbins, the Lexington House would
come under the jurisdiction of the mid-town constabulary. Why come to
lower Manhattan for me?
“That’s just it, Crane…”
Mailer practically leaped into Ichabod’s lap.
“That’s just it,
you see. The entire household has lost its wits, one woman has even
said…”
“For the love of god, Mailer, can you please
shut it, while I tell Constable Crane the details in my own
way?”
Dobbins face was red with irritation.
Mailer immediately
collapsed his extended frame into his corner of the carriage. With a
shake of his head, Dobbins continued.
“You see, Constable
Crane, there was a witness to the murder. The head housekeeper, who
has been in Lexington House over 35 years. She told the police on
scene that she was investigating a noise which had wakened her in the
middle of the night. When she saw a light from the sitting room she
looked in. She states that she clearly saw Thomas
Wellington-Trumbell, the younger brother of James, bent over the body
of the girl wielding a knife in his hand.”
Crane looked up,
somewhat puzzled. “Excuse me sir, is this housekeeper quite
sure of
what she saw? No doubts? No chance of hysterics of any kind?”
Dobbins shook his head. “She seemed a sensible woman when
questioned; she swears it was Thomas with the knife.”
Crane
asked, “Is it known whether this brother Thomas is still in
the
vicinity? Has he been arrested?”
Again, Mailer pounced.
“That is why we have come especially for you, Constable
Crane. You
see, Thomas Wellington-Trumbell has been dead and buried for the last
five years!”