Imperfection (DI Gardener 2)

Fitz continued. “It was the next morning before the old lady had been found dead in her room, still sitting in her favourite chair with her novel resting on her lap. According to the report she looked quite peaceful, despite what she must have gone through.”

“So, we’re not talking exactly the same MO here?” asked Gardener.

“She hadn’t been hung and brutalised, if that’s what you mean,” replied Fitz.

“So, the link is the ephedrine?”

Fitz nodded. “Elizabeth Cranshaw had suffered from asthma all her life. The results of the autopsy discovered sherry in her system, believed to be her favourite tipple while she was reading. Mixed in with the alcohol was a pretty hefty dosage of nuts that had been ground into a fine powder. A massive heart attack caused her death. In fact, the report confirms that her heart had been so overworked that it had literally exploded.”

“Was the family she worked for interviewed?” asked Gardener.

“Yes, they were cleared. Apparently, Elizabeth Cranshaw had been to London on a shopping expedition. She’d been out of the house all day. The parents, who were normally at work, had remained home for the day to supervise their son. When the nanny returned, they went back to the studio.”

“Studio?” Gardener asked.

“Pinewood, in Buckinghamshire. The boy’s father was a film director.”

Gardener’s heart sank. In his confusion, his earlier calculation suggested that the killer should be in his sixties, which suspended belief. However, the other option was equally unthinkable. Could he possibly have started something so gruesome at such an early age?

“Who was the boy?”

“William Henry Corndell.”

Chapter Forty-five

Colin Sharp had returned from London during the early hours of the morning. It was early afternoon before he’d found his way to Gardener’s house for a meeting. Malcolm had gone to the cinema to see an old-fashioned black and white double bill that was right up his street. Gardener had asked his father to take a mobile with him, despite knowing he was under surveillance.

Gardener placed coffees on the table, sat down and cleared a space at the table. The files had all been neatly laid out.

Sharp took a sip of his drink. “That tastes good. You don’t know what a relief it is to be back.”

“Not keen on the Big Smoke, then?” asked Reilly.

“They do things differently down there. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, it’s just different.”

“What do you have for us?” Gardener asked.

“He’s definitely an oddball, but there’s nothing concrete here. Having said that, what I’ve found out might be enough to hold him for a while.”

“Go on,” said Gardener. He had a gut feeling that it was going to be one of those cases. William Henry Corndell was probably guilty, but lucky enough to walk free because what little evidence they did have wouldn’t stand up in court.

“Nothing odd about his early life unless you count the fact that he didn’t go to school.”

“He must have been educated somewhere,” replied Gardener. “From what we’ve seen, he’s intelligent.”

“If not a little loopy,” added Reilly.

“Oh, he was educated,” said Sharp, “just not in school. His mother and father paid for a private education at home. He had two different teachers, and they looked after him until he was about fourteen.”

“Did you speak to them?” asked Gardener.

“Only one of them is still alive. The other one died in a traffic accident a few years ago. Anyway, she said the same as you, he was intelligent, but he didn’t always use it, or show an interest. His pet subject was English. He used to love writing stories. They were always gruesome, but she blames his father for that. He used to take him to the film studio a lot, even bought him a make-up kit when he was eight. Eventually, Corndell spent most of his time at the studio. He worked with his dad on the films, and with the professionals in the make-up department by the time he was ten.

“And it was about that time Corndell discovered Lon Chaney, and how good he was. He was never away from the library, or the film studio’s archives, reading everything he could lay his hands on. By the time he was twelve, he’d honed his skill so much that most of the professional actors preferred him to any of the regular crew. The private tutors eventually left, and his mother and father hired a new nanny by the name of Elizabeth Cranshaw.”

“We already know what happened to her,” said Reilly.

“The people I spoke to said she had a stroke,” said Colin Sharp. “She was old.”