Sydney Drakeford, Detective

By Dawn Pitts

Who murdered William Winthrop? His wife, Lydia, had the greatest reason for his demise, but he had just attended her funeral! His children all had reasons to take his life as did his work colleagues and their associates. Yet, was it one of them, or someone not so evident, for someone was guilty of the crime. Margaret Winthrop was facing court and a lengthy time behind bars. What will the trial bring to pass? You the reader, look carefully to the clues, and see if you come up with the same result as the jury.
The story takes the reader on a journey back in time to the sinking of the HMS Titanic in 1912 and to the time of the court hearing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawn Pitts
• Release date: Aug 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370412891

Dawn Pitts

My writing career began in 1999 when I was led to write a children's book. A few years earlier I was working as a Library Assistant in a high school and soon discovered that a number of young teenagers had reading difficulties and that there was no suitable material for them to read. This was the seed that grew a few years later when I was walking regularly in an effort to lose weight when I heard a voice tell me to write a children's book. My reaction was, "No way. I'm not good at that sort of thing and where would I start." Feeling smug I continued home and tried to put the idea out of my mind. A few days later the Reader's Digest arrived in the letterbox and in it was a course for Writing for Children. I almost died."Over the next six months I completed the course and then had the confidence to join a local writing group. Since then I've have had success entering both local and national competitions. I now teach classes as a volunteer and enjoy passing the knowledge on to other authors.I have three adult children and five adult grandchildren.

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SYDNEY DRAKEFORD DETECTIVE

By Dawn Pitts

The hardcopy is published under the pseudonym of K G Belle

This book is copyright and apart from any fair dealing for criticism or review under the COPYRIGHT ACT no part may be reproduced by any process without permission from the author.

ISBN 9781370412891

SYDNEY DRAKEFORD, DETECTIVE

Copyright © 2007.

Printed in a limited number by the author

Cover by the author ©

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank those who have read and re-read the manuscript for me, and who gave me helpful suggestions. I thank my sisters for their permission to use the photo of S W Peak, our late father, on the cover, and I agree with their remarks that ‘he’d be delighted to be a detective. Author Dawn Pitts.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my family and to those who encouraged me to write it.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About Dawn Pitts

Epilogue

Other Books by Dawn Pitts

Connect with Dawn Pitts

SYDNEY DRAKEFORD, DETECTIVE

By Dawn Pitts

CHAPTER ONE

Sydney Drakeford watched the jury file back into the courtroom eight men and four women; their poker-faced expressions gave no indication of emotion.

Will the accused please stand? the judge commanded.

Sydney Drakeford watched the form of a tall, slim woman stand. Margaret Winthrop’s pale face framed with short curly hair gave her intense brown eyes a bird-like appearance. He held his breath and waited for what seemed to be an eternity, and his mind returned to the phone call of 22nd March 1967.

Sydney Drakeford, he answered, silencing the shrilling instrument that sat on the corner of his solid timber desk.

Is that Detective Sydney Drakeford? a woman’s quavering voice asked.

Speaking, he said, wishing the voice would go away, yet knowing by the intensity that it wouldn’t. It was a lovely autumn day with just a hint of rain. Sydney worked from home and on that particular day his appointment book showed a free afternoon from 2 pm, and he had envisaged a few holes of golf.

I really need to talk…I’ve found…. Drakeford heard her gasp for air, before she continued. He’s dead…and I don’t know what to do!

Who are you? And where are you? Drakeford asked, seeing his day’s activities fade from his mind. She gave details and directions to her residence and he hurriedly wrote them down. Before he left the office he phoned his long-time friend and colleague, Julius Martin, a brilliant defence lawyer and requested he join him at 13 Mill Road, Sunbury. Being particular in his preparation, he picked up his attaché case and rested it on the office table. He withdrew several plastic bags from a compartment and shoved them into his trouser pocket, while mentally noting the specimen jars, tweezers and other bits and pieces that, over the years, he had found to be extremely valuable when arriving at a crime scene. As per his instructions he found the open gate that had clearly displayed across the centre of its iron frame, carved into a wooden plaque, in capital letters, the name ‘WINTHROP’. The gravel lane separated cleared blocks where cattle grazed on dry grass that showed a hint of green from the autumn rain of the previous week. He noted that the bales of hay left out, had drawn groups of animals together to feed. Some chewed their cud, watching him with silent curiosity that gave him a peaceful picture of life in the country. The car slowly bumped along the tree-lined lane and as he passed through the open gate into the house block, he noticed the dozen or so vehicles parked beneath the tall trees to take advantage of the shade, and he was reminded of the funeral that had taken place that morning for a Mrs Lydia Winthrop, one of the prominent citizens of the town.

What a lovely old house, he muttered, as he took in the sprawling building before him. It was situated on the outskirts of town, secluded in the jarrah forest, while the circular drive enveloped a mature rose garden. He stopped the car at the front door.

Sydney took a deep breath, grabbed the case from the back seat and closing the door firmly, strode up the few steps to the verandah and knocked on the frame of the flywire door.

The sound of hurried steps told him that the wearer wore stiletto-heeled shoes and he stepped back from the door to allow entrance.

Are you Sydney Drakeford? she whispered urgently.

I am indeed, miss, he said, showing her his identification badge. She pushed the door toward him and beckoned him to enter.

I don’t believe I have ever come across a flywire door that hasn’t squeaked, he said, hoping to help her relax.

I’m Margaret Winthrop, she said, introducing herself, and, ignoring his remark about the door, added. Or Lydia Margaret Winthrop, to be precise. I am referred to by my second name.

Pleased to meet you, miss. I took the liberty to call my colleague Julius Martin, a lawyer, to join me here, and I expect him to arrive shortly.

I won’t need a lawyer you know, because I didn’t kill my grandfather.

I didn’t say you did, miss, but Julius has a way of interpreting…not what people say, but what they don’t say. Their body’s movements often give a different story. May I call you Margaret?

Of course, she said and gave a slight nod of her head.

Sydney followed her down a long passageway and as they reached an open doorway he saw several people gathered, talking in whispers. She paused and said, These people form part of my immediate family; come in and I will introduce you. They entered the room.

As you can see by the sombre dress of those gathered here, we are having a wake after the funeral of my grandmother, Lydia Winthrop, Margaret said.

I see, Drakeford replied. I have had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Winthrop senior on a few occasions while attending community activities. She appeared to be involved with many charitable organizations, he commented.

With the brief conversation completed, the family members moved outside to join the other mourners.

He’s this way, Margaret stated.

Drakeford was led to the back room where she lifted a sheet from the body of a grey-haired man still grimacing in his death mask. He appeared to be about seventy-five years old, and lay in a pool of dark congealed blood; a bloodied letter opener was in his hand and a trail of bloodstained shoe prints led from the room.

Where do they lead? Drakeford asked.

I don’t know. I rang you, then told the others about my grisly find. Follow me, Margaret said.

Together they walked through a doorway and onto the back verandah, being careful not to contaminate the clear footprints that led them down the step and less clearly, along a gravel path to the side of the house and eventually to a rubbish bin. It was a dented aluminium bin with garden clippings protruding from beneath a battered, ill-fitting lid. Drakeford lifted the lid and found a shoe, half hidden in the debris. ‘Rather obvious,’ he thought, while retrieving one of the plastic bags from his pocket, and holding its base, slid one hand into it, turning it inside out with his other hand. Placing the lid on the ground, he grabbed a garden stake leaning against the wattle and daub wall, and lifted the rubbish. With his covered hand he took hold of the shoe and held it towards Margaret. Her eyes opened in fear, as she saw the insole stained red.

It’s mine, she said huskily…so is the letter opener…I didn’t kill him…look? My feet are clean…see! she said, and slipped her feet from her shoes to show him her clean, stockinged feet.

You have had time to wash them, he told her.

But I didn’t, honest, she declared emphatically.

Then looking her squarely in the face Drakeford asked. Did you kill him?

No, never! Her damp eyes revealed honesty, and a pleading that spoke far more than her words.

I believe you, he told her, securing the evidence, as they moved into the kitchen.

Thank you, she muttered. Then as the tears welled in her eyes, she quickly brushed them away with the back of her small, work-soiled hand.

I’ll do all I can, Sydney Drakeford told her, hoping the words held some comfort.

Excuse, me, she said at the knock on the door. That may be your friend Mr Martin. She excused herself and her slim-heeled shoes clicked as she moved away with each step. She returned moments later with Julius Martin, Sydney’s friend and colleague of many years.

Excuse me, Mr Drakeford, what will I tell the guests? My father has been entertaining the family and friends with food and drink and so far you haven’t met him. All we said was that grandfather was feeling unwell and is resting, but that was almost an hour ago…we will have to tell them something?

She’s right you know, we do have to tell them something, her father stated, entering the room behind Margaret.

Oh, Dad, you startled me. I didn’t hear you approach. Dad, these gentlemen are Detective Sydney Drakeford and Mr Julius Martin. Mr Martin is a lawyer, she told her father, Joshua Winthrop.

It won’t come to that surely? Joshua demanded.

That will depend on what the police find when they arrive. I can’t say anymore just now, Sydney Drakeford replied.

Drakeford and Martin shook Joshua’s hand and offered their condolences.

We still have to tell them something, Joshua stated, and what will that be?

Tell them that the shock of burying his wife has been too much and he has collapsed, Drakeford ordered and then added. Tell them you have phoned the doctor and he will organize an ambulance. That should keep them talking for a while longer. Then after Doctor Finlay has examined him, you can inform everyone that he passed away soon after they arrived, Drakeford paused for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. I will then explain the need to conduct an investigation, Drakeford said stamping his authority on the situation. He watched father and daughter move from the room and close the door. He listened to them walk along the back verandah and the ‘Oo’s and Ah’s told of the guests being informed of Mr Winthrop senior’s decline in health.

Now that they we’re alone, Julius said. Hello, Sydney, what have we got here? It was his normal greeting.

You must have said that to me a thousand times over the years, Julius,

Yeah, you’re right, he replied.

They spoke for a few minutes and then Sydney concluded with, Now that you’ve been brought up to date, let’s get cracking. I’ll just call the ambulance guys and tell them to pick up Doc Finlay on the way. Margaret showed me where the phone is, Drakeford told his friend.

You’ll be reprimanded for this, you know that don’t you, Syd? The book says…

Yep, but what can they do, eh? I’m semi-retired and have an agreement with the department to work part-time for a year or until they can find a suitable replacement…and I am committed to any clients until their cases are closed…it was the only way I’d stay working and they know it.

Julius gave him a boyish grin. You’re a rogue, that’s what you are. And you get away with it.

Sydney watched the phone dial go laboriously around the circle of numbers with each number dialled and gave his orders to Doctor Finlay. Let’s get to work. I reckon we have ten or fifteen minutes. I always like to have a good look around before all and sundry begin to clutter the place.

They worked in silence, while Syd scraped as much congealed blood as he dared from beneath the body into a glass tube, corked it and placed it in a metal clasp to hold it securely. Julius took photos and made notes of the room, as to where each piece of furniture was placed in connection with the other, and noted the scratches on the polished boards where furniture had recently been moved, and indents in the carpet rug where the coffee table had been moved to make room for Margaret’s folder bed.

"I’m finished