Dr. Louise D’Acre stood and glanced at Hennessey. “Well, all I can do is confirm Dr. Mann’s finding. Life is extinct. There is no obvious cause of death, not that I can see. They look as though they are sleeping, no putrefaction, just the hint of rigor, but they are definitely sleeping their final sleep. If you have done here, they can be removed to the York City Hospital for the postmortem.” Dr. D’Acre was a slim woman in her forties, close-cropped hair, a trace of lipstick, but very, very feminine. She held a momentary eye contact with George Hennessey and then turned away.
“Yellich.” Hennessey turned to his sergeant. “Have we? Finished here, photographs, fingerprints?”
“Yes, all done and dusted. Still to sweep the field, though.”
“Of course.” Hennessey turned to Louise D’Acre. “All done.”
“Good. I’ll have the bodies removed, then.” She placed a rectal thermometer inside her black bag. “As soon as they’ve been identified, I’ll see what I can find.”
“Identification won’t be a problem.”
“You think so?”
“Two people, young, wealthy, both married, probably to each other... they’ll be socially integrated and easily missed. It’s the down-and-outs, estranged from any kin, that take awhile to be identified.”
“I can imagine.”
“Nothing so useful as a handbag or a wallet to point us in the right direction. Strange, really. If they had been robbed, their watches would have gone.”
“There’s definitely the hand of another here, though.” Louise D’Acre spoke quietly. “What I can tell you is that they died at the same time, possibly within a few seconds of each other, as if in a suicide pact, but with such a pact, we would expect to see some evidence of suicide, a bottle of pills, a firearm. Death came from without, most definitely, by which I mean they didn’t die of natural causes. Two people, especially in the prime of life, do not die from natural causes at the same time in the same immediate, side-by-side proximity of each other. They just don’t. But I’ll get there.” She smiled and nodded and walked away across the meadow of green grass, ankle-high buttercups, and the occasional fluttering blue butterfly, to the road where her distinctive motorcar was parked beside a black, windowless mortuary van.
Wealth. It was the one word which spoke loudly to Hennessey. He’d used it in talking to Dr. D’Acre earlier that morning and now, examining the clothes, he used it again. “There’s money here, Yellich. Real wealth.”
“There is, isn’t there?” Yellich examined the clothing. All seemed new, very little worn, even the hidden-from-view underclothing had a newness about it. His offhand comment about there being nothing useful like a name stitched to the collars earned him a disapproving glance from the chief inspector. “Well, I don’t know about the female garments,” Yellich struggled to regain credibility, “but you know, sir, there’s only one shop in the Vale of York that would sell gents’ clothing at this quality and price and that’s Phillips and Tapely’s, near the Minster.”
“Ah... I’m a Marks and Spencer man myself.”
“So am I, sir, police officers’ salary being what it is, but you can’t help the old envious eye glancing into their window as you walk past. Only the seriously wealthy folk go there, only the Yorkshire Life set. So I believe.”
“Be out of my pocket as well, then. Right, Yellich, you’ve talked yourself into a job. You’ll have to take photographs of the clothing, especially the designer label, and take the photographs to the shop...”
“Phillips and Tapely’s?”
“Yes... The actual clothing will have to go to the Forensic Science lab at Wetherby to be put under the microscope.”
“Of course.”
“Every contact leaves a trace, and often said trace is microscopic. I’ll ask the advice of the female officers about the female garments, they might suggest a likely outlet.”
Yellich, being a native of York, knew the value of walking the medieval walls when in the city centre, quicker and more convenient than the twentieth-century pavements below. That day the walls were crowded with tourists, but it didn’t stop his enjoyment of the walk — the railway station, the ancient roofs, the newer buildings blending in sensitively, and the Minster there, solid, dependable, a truly magnificent building in his opinion. Without it, there just wouldn’t be a city. He stepped off the wall, as he had to at Lendal Bridge, walked up Museum Street and on into Drummon Place, and right at the Minster, where stood the half-timbered medieval building that was the premises of Phillips and Tapely’s, Gentlemen’s Outfitters since 1810. Yellich pulled open the door, a bell jangled, and he stepped into the cool, dark silence and, he found, somewhat sleepy atmosphere of the shop; with dull-coloured rather than light-coloured clothing on display, and wooden counters and drawers constructed with painstaking carpentry. A young man, sharply dressed, near snapped to attention as Yellich entered the shop. “Yes, sir, how can I help you?”
“Police.” Yellich showed his ID, and was amused by the crestfallen look on the assistant’s face as he realised he wasn’t going to sell anything, that this caller was not a customer. “I wonder if you can help me?”
“If I can, sir.”
“I have some photographs here...” Yellich took the recently produced black-and-white and colour prints from a brown envelope and placed them on the counter. “Of clothing, as you see...”
“Yes... We do sell clothing like this. I presume that’s what you’d like to know?” Said with a smile, and Yellich began to warm to the young man. “The jacket particularly, and the shoes... the label ‘Giovanni,’ an Italian manufacturer, very stylish, favoured by the younger gentlemen... We are the only outlet for ‘Giovanni’ in the north of England.”
“Good, progress.” Yellich handed the shop assistant a photograph of the male deceased, who appeared as though he was in a restful, trouble-free sleep. “Do you recognise this gentleman?”
“As a customer? No I don’t, but we don’t have many such young customers... Mr. Wednesday will help you if anyone can. Top of the stairs, turn left. Mr. Wednesday is the under-manager. I’d escort you, sir, but this is what we call the ‘door’ counter, always has to be staffed. I welcome and say ‘good day’ to customers as they enter and leave, as well as sell, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Just keep walking when you turn left, his office is the door just beyond ‘Evening Wear.’”
“Just after evening wear,” Yellich echoed.
“I’ll let him know you’re on the way up, sir.” The assistant reached below the counter and lifted a telephone.
James Wednesday, for that was the name on the door at his office, was a short and portly man, rather severely dressed, to Yellich’s taste, in his black suit. He had the appearance of an undertaker, and Yellich found him also to have the sombre, serious manner of an undertaker. His office window looked out onto Minster Yard and the Minster itself. He invited Yellich to sit in the upholstered leather chair which stood in front of his desk. The chair creaked as Yellich sat.
“This photograph, Mr. Wednesday.” Yellich handed the photograph of the deceased male to the under-manager. “Do you recognise him? One of your customers, perhaps?”