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Diagram
of the first floor (n.b. English system) |
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Diagram of the second
floor (n.b. English system) |
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Reluctantly (as this business with the Doctor seemed jolly interesting, he thought) Oswald led the way downstairs, accompanied by Reginald Staughton, David Smyth and Miles Secord.
"I suggest we do the rooms at the end first," said Oswald, a bit diffident at the thought of searching older and more experienced men's rooms. "That's you, Secord ... and Smyth. Then yours, Staughton.
"If that's all right with everyone," he added, a little unhappily.
Miles frowned slightly at hearing this. He wasn't sure he was all that keen on them starting him first, let alone pawing through his belongings. Oh well, maybe it would be better to get this over with quickly. He smiled weakly and said, "Sure, sounds good to me."
He wished he had had time to grab a drink on the way out of the living room.
Arriving at Miles' door, the quartet came to a halt.
Davyd lit a cigarette and turned to him with a wicked smile on his face.
"What's the hold up, my good man? Worried we'll see a picture of your brother, the German Officer?"
Miles replied casually, "That wasn't my brother, that was my mother. A grand Frau she was: Personal spy and assassin for the Kaiser himself. Of course she's finding herself with too much free time now that the war's over, but she has joined the Long Island Bridge and saboteur's club."
Davyd looked suspiciously at him, unable to discern whether Miles was teasing him or not. He muttered something and stepped back, waiting impatiently for the door to open. Time to pull back the metaphorical veil on this man...
Miles opened the door, and stood back to let the others in to his room. As they noticed the excessive amount of gear in the room, Miles grinned as he leaned against the doorframe.
"Actually, for me, this stop was just the first of a world tour before settling down to run the empire I have inherited from my father."
Most of the gear was pretty straight forward, clothing for every occasion from white tie to hiking the Kenyan Veldt, but there were a few odd items: Some assorted herbs, a German parabellum pistol, an Iron Cross (a German medal), and a map of the front near Ypers written in German with a big splotch of dried blood on the left side.
Secord shrugged, and said, "Souvenirs."
Davyd smiled smugly, his expression freezing as his gaze met Secord's. "Interesting."
Miles simply shrugged in response.
Oswald looked at the latter item a little unhappily. At last he turned to Smyth and burst out, "What did you mean by the remark, Smyth? Secord's a war hero! Everyone knows that!"
Secord said nothing at this remark, but looked uncomfortable and a little queasy.
"Yes," Davyd bit back sharply, then added with more calm. "A war hero that looks uncannily like a German Officer that doesn't like cards. One that killed two of my section. Don't you, Secord?"
Miles raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. You didn't breath down too much mustard gas, or receive a head wound or something, did you?"
Madame Escuskiovna accompanied Lucinda and the parlourmaid to her room to search through her luggage. It was the contents of her carpetbag that she was most concerned about, and Lucinda was no doubt fascinated at the (rather modest, actually) display of occult paraphernalia therein: besides the Tarot cards in their red silk wrapping, there was a pencil-planchette, several books with weird symbols on the covers, and an honest-to-goodness crystal ball (also wrapped in red silk).
The spiritualist made them free of her trunk with a negligent wave of her hand. Besides the clothing (Madame, as might be expected of a woman of her age, still wore corsets, and had a few rather bizarre items such as curly-toed slippers and a feather boa), Lucinda found a sheaf of piano music, mostly by Russian composers. Turning over the stack, she noticed something written on the lower left corner of the yellowed back page of a Tchaikovsky piano sonata, just where a music student might write her name on her music. In a rounded, old-fashioned schoolgirl hand it said, "Anne Marie Estes."
"Oh how odd!" said Lucinda. "Estes ... our Vicar's called Estes in Lower Slaughter. It's quite an unusual name, isn't it? I think he comes from Bristol ... perhaps this once belonged to a cousin of his, Madame Escuskiovna. What fun! I shall have to ask him."
She put the sheet music back down with a friendly smile.
Madame Escuskiovna, by contrast, was staring at Lucinda in what looked like shock.
"Bristol?" she said faintly. "Vicar? Oh . . . Forgive me . . . the music. It is old, you see. One acquires these things . . . second-hand. You may - you may tell him, of course, but with the snow, I am sure it will not be soon, and Estes . . . it is not so unusual a name. Quite . . . quite common, in fact."
Clifford's room was larger than the others'... and he had brought enough luggage to take advantage of that, it seemed. His clothes were tucked in drawers or hung in closets, and consisted of different suits, shoes, outfits, accessories and the like... expensive and colorful materials abounded. There were two very large trunks... one mostly empty, save for the shoes, and one had several rolls of cloth, tailoring equipment, and the like. Empty baggage was also stacked in a corner.
A small, portable dress dummy stood in another corner, wrapped sensuously in some sort of scintillating cloth, which was held here and there with pins.
"Don't mind the mess, I beg you!" Cliff said, as he led the entourage in.
Sitting in a chair next to the bed, he crossed his legs and pleasantly watched as the constable set to work. He had just fitted a fag into its holder and lit it, when he glanced over at a large sketchbook laying on the bed; several pieces of charcoal and pastels lay near it. He seemed to be startled at the sight, briefly, and his glance flicked quickly to Major Dessard before he regained his composure and slowly reached over to close the sketchbook.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and smiled as the search continued.
Dessard watched the Viscount closely, watched him close the sketchbook.
"What have you there, milord?" Dessard asked mockingly, trying to snatch the sketchbook from the table.
You wouldn't think that the grotesquely magnified eyes of the Viscount could widen any further, but they did. Seemingly terrified, he grabbed the large sketchbook as Dessard took it up, and struggled to keep it from him.
"This is a personal sketchbook!" he wailed, and then looked over at the constable. "Constable Welles! Do something!"
Dessard angrily pulled the sketchbook from Fenwick's grasp.
"Here now, take it easy! If you've nothing to hide, back off."
Dessard pushed the designer back and opened the sketchbook, flipping through it to see if it contained anything of interest.
"I'll take that Sir," said the Constable stolidly, twitching the notebook from his fingers.
The Viscount quickly calmed, thinking he had been vindicated. But then the man started to look at the book himself! Cliffie's face fell, and he just watched, dumbfounded.
The Constable perused it for a moment, nodding slowly over the early images, frowning over some. Then, a little over half way through, he paused, and looked up thoughtfully at the Viscount. Then he went back to his perusal, breaking off once more to look at the Viscount ... then Dessard ....
Crossing his arms in anger, Viscount Fenwick glared back with a loud, "Hmph!"
The Constable turned over a final page ... and stopped ... slowly turning a rich beetroot red ...
"I suppose you call this sort of thing Art, do you, Sir?" he said with awful sarcasm.
Thrusting his chin out, the Viscount responded coldly, "Nay, sir... I call it Highly Personal!" and with that, attempted to snatch the book back ...
Dr. Lawrence watched the interaction between the constable, Fenwick and Dessard silently. His earlier rambling had subsided and now he was simply quiet. He leaned against the dress dummy heavily, wishing that he hadn't come here, that he'd never even met Anja, no matter how much she had helped his practice just by being his patient. Watching the reactions to the sketches, a light dawned, and he smirked. The smirk dissolved into drowsiness, and he began drifting off...only to awake with a start as he began to impale himself on one of the many pins in the dummy.
"No...sleeping's definitely a bad idea," he muttered, staying well back from Fenwick's attempts to recover the sketchbook.
The efforts were in vain. The Constable held on grimly, looking rather like a bull terrier.
"No Sir," he said. "I shall keep this for the moment. I hardly think you want the contents made public, after all, do you, Sir?"
"Returning it to me would hardly make it public, Constable!" Clifford shot back. "And I daresay it has nothing whatsoever to do with bloody clothing!"
His angry glare scanned the room quickly before settling back upon the bemused Constable. Raising a finger, he continued, "You have no idea who you are dealing with, Mister Welles," he spat the name with disgust, "but you will find out, if you show that to anyone! I retain more lawyers than you retain yellow teeth, sir!"
The little man was shaking with rage, his lower lip quivering.
The Constable looked at him thoughtfully.
"I am obliged to keep all documents that could have a bearing on this case," he said slowly. "And this is one of them. It is not a document, Sir, that I think you would like to see passed from hand to hand in open court.
"Now, shall we go and look at the major's room?"
"Uh!" came Clifford's high-pitched whine, followed by the dropping of his small jaw. He attempted to speak, but found nothing more to say.
~And to think how tolerant I've been of these lower class fools!~
Taking a few deep breaths, the Viscount calmed. He nodded sharply.
"Fine. Let's get this over with, then. I need a drink!"
He waited haughtily for the others to file out of the room, continuing to smoke a cigarette, and when they were all in the hall he closed the door behind him and followed them on to Dessard's room.
Oswald and his group came to Davyd's room, and the ex-soldier swung the door wide open with a flourish.
"Search away," he said in a bored tone, sitting himself down on his bed.
Oswald went immediately to work, rifling through the bed-side cabinets and finding absolutely nothing inside them. A search of Smyth's bags was slightly more fruitful.
With a perfectly straight face, the young man laid out a pile of clothes, a box of cigarettes, a set of playing cards. And a military issue sheath. One that was missing a military issue dagger.
The cigarette fell from between lifeless lips. "You have got to be joking!"
"Whoa, looks like you got a problem there, Sporty. Never saw it before in your life, I'll bet." Miles looked at the sheath in the other man's hands. "It could be the right...or should I say wrong...one. We'd better wrap it in a handkerchief and take it back with us to match it with the murder weapon."
Oswald nodded, produced a large white handkerchief and wrapped the sheath solicitously.
Davyd's shocked look fell from his face, and he turned vehemently to the other man.
"You," he said, his voice shaking with rage. "This is your doing! I ought to-" He stopped mid sentence. Shook his head and looked at Miles in disgust. "The Constable will sort this all out. Yes, the Constable ..."
"Are you suggesting that I planted that there to incriminate you?" asked Miles cooly. "I'll admit that seems like a good idea....if I had some reason to frame you. But I really must say that you are underestimating me. It would pointless to frame you. I would be more likely to frame someone that had a reason to commit the murders, to give the evidence more weight. To make the frame stick. As far as I know, you have no motive for killing either of those women Mr Smyth....or do you?"
Davyd smiled. "Apart from one of them being the hostess of the worst party I've ever been to in my entire life, no..."
Miss Mulchop led the way to her room in a lively manner. After all she had nothing to hide. Until of course Lucinda opened her suitcase and and a small leather folder used for carrying calling cards fell out, upside down so that the cards themselves fanned out onto the floor.
She'd forgotten about those.
Miss Mulchop bent quickly, but not quite quickly enough as Lucinda grabbed one & read aloud, "Clara Mulchop, Private Investigator ... Why, this is a Pinkerton's card! You're not a secretary at all are you?!"
Miss Mulchop had the decency to look guilty.
"No dear. You're quite right. I'm not a secretary.."
Lucinda then continued through Clara's bag in a bit of a tizzy.
"Well I think it's just horrid of you to lie to Wally like that."
Miss Mulchop shrugged. "I suppose one has to expect that sort of thing when they have illegitimate business dealings. Oh ... oh dear ... " Miss Mulchop finished in a dry tone as Lucinda raked through a file with a list of business contacts Clara had swiped from Emerson's desk.
"Oh ... how could you!" cried Lucinda. "When poor Wally is such an old darling!
"And it seems to me that you're the one who's had illegimate business dealings! Why, perhaps you wouldn't even stop at murder! I think the Constable should see this right away!"
A search of Dessard's luggage revealed little of interest: a conservative suit, a second suit (fashionable last year), well-worn deed to a diamond mine, passport and return ticket to Cape Town via ocean liner.
Lucinda led the way into Jane's room, hoping the other girl had made at least some effort to put some clothes on. The door was still open, and Jane sat looking rather blankly at the mirror. She was wearing a long, thin dress the color of winter wheat, and a thick white mink stole. Or perhaps it was silver fox.
At the sound from the doorway, she turned large, hazel, rather worried-looking eyes on the party, the fur pulled protectively about her face.
"Oh, it's you," she said with a bit of relief.
"We have to search your luggage," Lucinda said. "We need to see if anyone's got blood on their clothes. That could mean that they killed Miss Smithson."
"Oh, yes," she agreed without much enthusiasm. "Yes, go on... but be careful of the beading; some of it is rather delicate."
The search turned up nothing much surprising, except in quantity. It seems Jane came prepared with a huge wardrobe: fashionable shoes, slinky dresses, jewlery-- both real and costume, French perfume, powders, lotions, make-up, tiny silken step-ins (panties)... but there is not a bra or a corset to be found, anywhere.
Lucinda looked thoughtfully at Jane. "And we might find out other things too - like how someone who has a bath and dries herself manages to leave the towels perfectly dry too!"
Jane looked at Lucinda appraisingly, suddenly very focused... as if she was deciding what, exactly, should be her response.
Finally she turned away, and said rather flippantly, "I suppose I should just admit that I wasn't in the bath, and be done with it. "I was in Major Dessard's room."
"Lawks!" said Lucinda, startled and with the candour of youth. "Whatever did you want to go into his room for?"
"I rather thought he was threatening me with something this morning," she said after a moment, her red lips pursed into a tiny rosebud.
"He alluded to something... made it sound like an accusation - for whatever reason, I don't know, as I had thought we were getting along quite swimmingly until then."
"Why that's beastly of him!" said Lucinda warmly. Then she hesitated. "All the same ... I don't see why you want to go into his room though. Especially not ... dressed as you were."
"Well, I was hardly wearing a towel when I went and snuck in his room," said Jane.
Lucinda's jaw dropped.
"Not even a towel?" she almost squeaked.
Jane regarded her a moment, her own jaw dropping in disbelief. At last, she broke into an incredulous laugh.
"Heavens, Lucy! I am a rather free spirit, but there are some things I'll refuse... solitary nude ramblings and murder both included!"
"Oh gosh," said Lucinda, blushing furiously. "Ummm... gosh. Shall we ... er ... go downstairs now? And join the others in the library - if they are finished?"
"Oh, don't be so mortified, cherie; believe me, you've been the highlight of my day so far. Yes, let's go down... but I fancy this won't be as much of a party as poor Anja intended."
With that, Jane gave a malicious little laugh, and headed downstairs with Lucinda.
The search of Dr. Lawrence's quarters went fairly smoothly, despite the unusual circumstances in the other room.
The trunk obligingly provided the bloody shirt, as well as a bloody syringe, tossed heedlessly in. A second shirt had some blood on it, but that was clearly from contact with the other items. A glance into the medical kit revealed a large bottle, plainly marked "MORPHINE." At one time, this bottle must have held quite a substantial supply, but it was now only a quarter full.
The constable held it up to the light and glanced at Dr. Lawrence, who shrugged.
"I've been using that bottle for quite a while, you see..." Viscount Fenwick stood off to the side, the long black cigarette holder extending from his head like an smoldering antennae. Normally in this situation he would have made a flippant remark of some sort, but he seemed somber and lost in his own thoughts.
Rather tense now, Oswald led the way into Reginald Staughton's room. His belongings were quickly searched. The phrase "have seen better days" came strongly to mind ... most of his shirts had been darned, and the seat of his dress trousers was rather shiny. The four of them were turning to leave when Oswald spotted something.
"Hold on," he said. "There's something white shoved down behind that radiator."
He walked over and pulled out a shirt ... white .... but splashed with rusty splotches. Oswald held it up to his nose and sniffed, then made a face.
"Blood ... "
"It's not mine," Reginald said quickly ... perhaps too quickly.
"Really?" said Oswald.
He set the shirt down on the bed and spread it out so that the inside of the collar could be plainly seen. And there was a name tag, bearing a single word. "Staughton."
Davyd looked at the shirt in disbelief. Then at Miles, then Staughton.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, lighting a cigarette and offering the case around the room. "I'm sure we'll all agree that something is not quite right about all of this..."
"Well boys, it looks like we won this scavenger hunt: A possible link to a murder weapon, and possibly the clothing the murderer wore. Of course the placement of these items make little sense," Miles said as he looked at the shirt spread out on the bed. "Let's haul all this stuff off to the constable and see what he has to say about it...unless you've got something to say about this, Staughton."
Reginald Staughton shook his head, tight-lipped. He seemed rather stunned.
End of Chapter 9
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