by Alex Pavesi
Laurie knocked on the front door.
A few moments later a uniformed policeman opened it, his face deathly pale. A tiny white cigarette emerged from his mouth: the same colour as his skin but somehow more solid, pointing up like a light switch set into a wall. It shook as he smoked.
‘Thank god you’re here,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this house and these people don’t like me.’
Constable Davis had been holding the pieces of the shattered household together for the last two hours, all by himself. He sat down now and pulled a hip flask from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap, holding it carefully like a rare coin, and took a long, gentle drink. ‘My first, I promise.’
Laurie waved away his concerns. The three men had gathered in Mr Cavendish’s study, their bodies propped against the furniture. Davis continued: ‘It’s horrible up there. When she drowned she let everything go. Blood and bodily fluids all throughout the bath. Believe me, you won’t look at a blonde the same way again.’
The body had been discovered at around half past one. Elise had knocked on the door to the bathroom and got no reply; tentatively, she’d pushed it open. Then she’d stepped forward onto the small emerald rug next to the bathtub, looked down into the water and started to scream. The cook, who had just arrived at the house, hurried up the stairs, saw Alice’s bloodless, submerged face from across the room and ran to get Dr Mortimer, a friend of the family who lived a few streets away. Dr Mortimer called Constable Davis. Constable Davis phoned Scotland Yard.
Mr Cavendish was sent for and came running from his office about fifteen minutes later. Things had remained relatively calm after that until Mrs Cavendish had crawled, wailing, on her hands and knees down the stairs and demanded to see her daughter; Constable Davis, fearing that she might compromise the crime scene, had refused to allow it. She’d sworn and screamed at him. Overwhelmed by his first murder and now in a state of panic, he’d carried her roughly up the stairs and put her back to bed, while Mr Cavendish howled at him that it was ‘all too much’. After that the fragile parents had locked themselves in their room in protest, the maid had disappeared downstairs and Constable Davis had been left to walk the hallways and corridors of the house by himself, a doubtful jailer unsure of what to do next. He’d taken the opportunity to check on the body every time he had passed by the bathroom door – at first the doctor had been hovering over it, then he’d been standing by the window, smoking, then finally he’d left – until it had become a compulsion, and Davis had found himself returning to it every few minutes.
Laurie offered him another cigarette. ‘It’s our concern now. Just tell us everything you’ve managed to find out, then you needn’t be here much longer.’
‘There’s not much to know.’ Constable Davis took another drink. ‘There were three people in the house. The cook was out at the time it happened. She’d gone to the market, which we’ve confirmed. The father was at work, at his office nearby, seen by his colleagues. And the younger sister has been outside playing the whole time. The mother was upstairs, in bed. She’s not well. And the maid, Elise, was cleaning downstairs. A few rooms away from where it happened.’
‘And she didn’t hear anything?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How close was she? Would she have heard if the victim had cried out, or screamed?’
Constable Davis shrugged. ‘Said she heard nothing and saw nothing.’
Laurie frowned. ‘Then it sounds like we need to talk to her.’
‘I sent her to bring the doctor back, in case you wanted to ask him any questions. She’ll return soon.’
‘Very well,’ said Laurie. ‘Then let’s go up and see the body.’
The three men went into the bathroom; there was no steam now and the condensation had dried. The water in the tub was perfectly still and Alice’s head was fully submerged. The towel laid over her body to preserve her dignity had sunk down into the water and settled asymmetrically. It was a cold and unsubtle picture of death. For a moment it seemed impossible she could have been alive earlier that day.
Bulmer whistled. ‘Man, beast or devil?’
Laurie walked up to the bath and knelt down. A chair to one side held a pile of neatly folded clothes. He searched through them briefly, as if he were flicking through the pages of a book, but there was nothing of interest there. He held his glasses in place as he peered over the edge of the bath, and with his other hand touched a fingertip to the top of the water. It was stone cold. ‘She was a beautiful young woman,’ he said. ‘The motive was most likely sexual.’
Constable Davis spoke up. ‘I assumed so too, but it doesn’t make sense to me. She hasn’t been touched, before or after. Someone came here, crazed with desire, just to kill her and leave immediately?’
Laurie turned and stared at him, with the slightest hint of a patronizing smile. ‘Some men have strange fascinations. Maybe he just wanted to kill something beautiful.’
Bulmer, who had never relished the examination of crime scenes and was waiting patiently at the back of the room, took a step closer. ‘Do we definitely know it was murder?’
Laurie plunged his arm into the icy, filthy water and turned the dead girl’s wrists upwards. ‘The left hand is beaten bloody; this was no quiet death. It could have been a seizure of some kind, but the right arm is bruised with four finger marks, as if it was clamped tight in somebody’s hand.’
From his vantage point further back, Bulmer could see a little way under the bath. ‘Laurie, by your left foot. There’s something there.’
‘We saw that earlier,’ said Constable Davis. ‘But didn’t want to touch it.’
Laurie laid his head against the wooden floor; kicked a little way under the bath was a wet black glove. He pulled it out and picked it up; it lay across two of his fingers like a small dead animal. Constable Davis and Sergeant Bulmer both came closer to examine the find.
‘That’s the murder weapon, then,’ said Bulmer.
Laurie held the glove up high and sniffed it; it was still dripping with water and smelled of nothing. Then he tried it on. It was neither too big nor too small. ‘A man. Of average size. Assuming this isn’t a false lead.’ He gave it to Bulmer. ‘Here, you try.’
Bulmer pulled it over his fingers but couldn’t move it past the ball of his thumb.
‘Well,’ said Laurie, ‘we can rule you out as a suspect.’
Constable Davis wasn’t sure if this was meant as a joke or not, and held his breath while the moment passed. Bulmer didn’t react.
There was a knock at the door behind them. Laurie opened it to find an old man with a head as smooth as a pebble. ‘I am Dr Mortimer.’ He held out his hand. ‘I was asked to return in case you had any questions for me.’ Behind him the maid was hovering in the shadows.
‘I am Inspector Laurie and this is Sergeant Bulmer.’ The three men shook hands. ‘There is one thing I must ask immediately. How long would it have taken? For someone that size, I mean?’
The doctor flinched. ‘That is an unpleasant thought. I’ve known her since she was a child.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘About two minutes for immobility, I suppose. Five for certain death.’
‘Thank you. We will have more questions, I am sure. Constable Davis, would you kindly show Dr Mortimer to Mr Cavendish’s study. We will be down shortly. First we must speak to the maid, if you’ll show her in.’
The doctor left with the uniformed policeman and Elise stepped hesitantly into the dim room; the curtain was still drawn across the window. She tried to avoid looking at the body in the bathtub, though the twist of off-white towel kept drawing her attention.
‘There’s no need to be nervous.’ Laurie closed the door behind her. ‘We just need to ask you some questions. My name is Inspector Laurie.’
There was something menacing about the sight of these two men in suits standing beside a dead young woman in a bathtub, and Elise swallowed audibly. Bulmer moved back against the wall. Laurie continued: ‘You ran this bath for Miss Cavendish?’
<
br /> Elise nodded, a glimpse of terror in the unnatural tilt of her head, as if they were implying this tragedy was her fault.
‘And where were you while she was taking it?’
‘I was cleaning the children’s old nursery.’
‘And that room is?’
‘Down the corridor from this one.’ The maid winced, aware of the implications. ‘Three doors down,’ she added weakly.
‘But you heard nothing? No screams, or sounds of a struggle?’
A silent shake of the head. Then an unnecessary clarification: ‘I told the other man that.’
‘And he may have believed you. I’m afraid I am struggling to do so.’
She shook her head again, as if he’d asked her a question. He went on: ‘The problem is – it’s Elise, isn’t it?’ She nodded. ‘The problem, Elise, is that murder is not a quiet event. It’s not a quick event, either. It strikes me as very unlikely that you could have been so close for the two minutes it was happening and heard nothing at all.’ A stronger shake of the head; Laurie’s neutral stare had that hint of a smile again. ‘You are young and unmarried, Elise?’
She was glad of this change of direction, and answered eagerly: ‘That’s right, I’m eighteen.’
‘But you’re an attractive girl. There must be a man.’
Her face fell again. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I can’t help but notice that you’re wearing a bracelet that is both new and a gift. Is that how he paid for your silence?’
She looked at her wrist. ‘How did you –’
‘It’s expensive; beyond your means, I’d suggest. But you wouldn’t wear something so pretty to clean in; it might get damaged. You must have put it on in the last couple of hours, which suggests that it’s new and the novelty hasn’t worn off.’ He shrugged, as if it was obvious.
She shook her head again, softly this time. ‘It’s new, but I saved for it myself.’
‘You haven’t met my colleague, Sergeant Bulmer.’ Laurie gestured to a mirror on the wall opposite the window, and Elise turned to face it. ‘Bulmer has his own methods, quite different from mine.’ She watched through that backwards window as Detective Sergeant Bulmer left his place against the wall and approached the two of them from behind, his face as big as a Halloween mask; her fear held her in place as if she was watching it all happen on a cinema screen, to somebody else. His right hand came slowly up to the back of her head and he guided her to the edge of the bath. A hook of his leg unbalanced her and she found herself falling forward onto his heavy left arm. Then she was lowered, face first, towards the frigid, death-filled water and held there, shaking, scratching with her hands against the enamel and trying to push back, but without any success.
‘One minute,’ he said. ‘That should be long enough. There won’t be any permanent damage.’
Faced with this threat, her head jerked up in horror and she began to talk. ‘I left the house,’ she said hurriedly, almost screaming each word. ‘I’m engaged, he lives near here. I left for an hour while Cook was out. I do it every day, you can check. Please, don’t tell them. I could lose my position. This wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know.’
Bulmer dropped her and she huddled into a ball on the rug. He looked at his partner: Laurie seemed slightly amused.
‘The man who did this will do it again,’ he said, ‘if my experience counts for anything. That blood will be on your hands if you hinder our investigation any further.’ He opened the door. ‘Give your fiancé’s name to Constable Davis and we’ll have him check your alibi.’
Bulmer said nothing, just watched as she scrambled from the room.
‘There are no witnesses, then.’
‘And no credible suspects.’
After quickly comparing notes, the two men climbed the stairs to knock on the door of Mrs Cavendish’s bedroom.
She sat up in bed as they entered: ‘Oh, and who are you?’
The doctor had buried her in sedatives; her puffy head emerged from the flowing white sheets like a cake decoration. Mr Cavendish sat at the end of the bed, slumped forward and silent in his mourning, facing away from the door. Hearing the two men, he leapt up and turned around. Laurie greeted him warmly with a pat on the shoulder.
‘Mr and Mrs Cavendish, I am Inspector Laurie and this is my colleague, Sergeant Bulmer.’
Bulmer nodded; Mrs Cavendish waved half-heartedly from the bed.
‘You’ll understand that we need to talk to both of you separately. Mr Cavendish, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind leaving us and waiting downstairs in your study. You’ll find your friend Dr Mortimer there, so you won’t be alone.’
‘Of course,’ the silent man muttered. He made his way down the stairs, shuffling sideways with both hands on the bannister.
Laurie closed the door and approached the bed; Bulmer moved to the window and stood staring at the street outside.
‘Mrs Cavendish,’ said Laurie, ‘I’m afraid we must ask you a few indelicate questions.’
‘Delicacy is no longer a concept in this world, Inspector Laurie. Not now my little girl is dead.’
‘I am very sorry for your loss.’
Mrs Cavendish reached out and clasped Laurie’s hand like a cat striking at a mouse. ‘I want you to kill him. Either with your own hands or have him hanged. Your colleague downstairs gasped when he heard they were sending you. He told us your reputation. They all pretended abhorrence. Men suddenly grow a conscience when they’re faced with cruelty in the abstract. But I defended your methods. I want you to torture him until he confesses and then kill him.’
‘Mrs Cavendish, do you have any suspicions as to who did this?’
‘I only know that it was a man. This is a man’s crime, through and through.’
‘But there’s no one that you personally suspect?’
She frowned, hopelessly. ‘If I thought that anyone I knew was involved, I would want them hanged just the same as a stranger. But I’m afraid I can’t think of anybody.’
‘Where were you at the time it happened?’
‘Inspector Laurie, before today I hadn’t left this bed in almost three years.’ And she peeled back the covers to display her emaciated frame.
‘Were you asleep?’
‘I close my eyes when I want to rest. I am rarely capable of sleep. But I heard nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, that is helpful in itself. The second indelicate question, Mrs Cavendish, is whether your daughter had romantic relations with any young men, that you know of? Did she have a sweetheart?’
Mrs Cavendish thought about it for a long time. ‘I don’t believe so. Several years ago she was close to a young man called Andrew Sullivan. They were childhood friends; we’ve known his parents for years. But he wasn’t quite Alice’s quality.’
‘Were they still acquainted?’
‘Yes. But we haven’t seen the Sullivans for a year or so. I don’t suppose that’s much help, is it?’
‘It’s worth looking into.’
‘If it was him, I want you to castrate him.’
‘Well, let’s start with his home address, shall we?’
They found Mr Cavendish waiting for them in his study at the bottom of the stairs, alone; Bulmer followed Laurie into the room like a muscular shadow. Mr Cavendish had stood up when the door opened but now that he saw himself surrounded he sat back down, newly apprehensive about this meeting. ‘Where is your friend, the doctor?’
Mr Cavendish cleared his throat. ‘Our maid, Elise, came in to see him. She was in quite a state, he took her out to get some air.’
There was a chess board placed on top of a drinks cabinet in one corner of the study; idly, Laurie began to play with the pieces. ‘We spoke to her quite briskly, but only because she was hiding the truth from us. Mr Cavendish, do you disagree with our methods?’
The quiet man didn’t seem to care. ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ he shrugged. ‘Philosophically, I suppose, I would have to say that I do.’
‘But you want us to
find your daughter’s killer?’
Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. ‘Of course. This must never happen to anyone else.’
‘Then do me the favour of indulging my explanation. You read a lot of detective novels, I see.’ Laurie waved his hand towards a shelf full of cheap paperbacks.
Mr Cavendish looked into the darkness beneath his desk. ‘Those books belong to my wife. She likes me to read them to her. I enjoy them too, I suppose.’ This picture of his domestic arrangements, now changed forever, overwhelmed him. He slipped out of his chair and sat down on the floor with his hands covering his face.
‘I enjoy them myself,’ Laurie went on. ‘But it concerns me that people focus so much on the big denouement, where the murderer is revealed, and never on what happens next, which is usually that the criminal confesses or is caught in the act of repeating their crime. The author puts that in, you see, because they know that the evidence is never enough: when you stand back from it, what do you have? An ink stain, a cigarette end, the corner of a letter in a fireplace. You can’t hang someone with all that. So they concoct this elaborate scene of confession, to cover over the cracks. Do you follow?’
The bloodshot eyes blinked and the man nodded, slowly.
‘Good. The only problem is that it never happens in real life. Nobody confesses of their own volition, and an elaborate trap doesn’t ever work out. So if we have a great deal of evidence that points in one way, and we need a confession to confirm it, our only recourse is to violence. Do you see?’
‘I just want my daughter back, Mr Laurie. Torture whomever you want. Just get me my daughter back.’
Bulmer had waited until this moment to push the door fully closed. It gave a loud click as he did so.
‘Do you know anyone that might have done this to your daughter?’
Mr Cavendish frantically shook his head. ‘Of course not, I wouldn’t associate with such animals.’
‘Your office is a short walk from here, I understand? People must be coming and going all the time; it must be difficult to keep track of who is in and who is out.’