The smell of pipe tobacco prompted Titus to turn toward the door. A man in his mid-thirties with a pronounced square jaw and unkempt black hair sticking out from under his hat gripped the source in his hand. He squinted at the scene before him, then raised the pipe to his lips. Orrin Bates, owner of the Whitby Funeral Parlor. A few steps behind him was a man in work clothes: brown corduroy pants and jacket, a plaid shirt, and knee-high boots. He held a rolled-up canvas stretcher as if it was a pike. The boots made Titus wonder if he was also the gravedigger.
“About time you got here, Bates,” Morgan barked. “And put out that blasted pipe.”
Titus thought the police chief’s annoyance unreasonable. He’d barely decided the funeral director was needed moments ago, and here he’d walked in the door. The lawyer had to assume Bates had heard the news and was already waiting outside when the chief sent someone to summon him.
Mr. Bates removed the pipe from his mouth and placed his palm over the bowl, cutting off the supply of oxygen to the tobacco. “I thought you’d be done here by now.”
“Almost,” the police chief said. His eyes went to Officer Ryan. “It doesn’t have to be the Mona Lisa, Ryan. Just so it gives us an idea of the position of things.”
The young officer nodded and began to put his notebook away.
“Don’t forget the measurements,” Morgan barked.
Abashed, Ryan reversed his intention, then paused. He clearly had a problem and just as clearly feared to tell the chief about it.
Bates huffed in exasperation. “I’m going to go outside and finish my pipe. Call me when you’re done fiddling around in here.”
“Why don’t you let me take the measurements?” Dr. Wood said, guessing Ryan’s dilemma. “I have a carpenter’s ruler in my bag for just such eventualities.” He didn’t wait for a response, but took the folded wooden ruler out of his case and extended it to a length of about a yard. He proceeded to hold it next to all the primary points on the victim and measure the distance of each from the desk as a reference.
When he was done, he compared notes with the police officer, and finding themselves in agreement, told the chief they were finished.
“Go fetch Bates,” Morgan told Ryan. As soon as the three men returned, he said, “We’re done with the body, so you can take that away. But only that, since Officer Kelley is still collecting evidence.”
“Over here, Kip.” Orrin Bates waved at his man as he headed toward the body. Meanwhile, the chief told Officer Ryan to gather up the servants and bring them to the dining room for questioning.
The funeral director and his assistant unrolled the stretcher on the carpet next to the body, the mortician at the head and Kip at the feet. With a nod from Bates, Kip grasped Chapman’s ankles and his boss grabbed the shoulders. Before Titus could stop them, they lifted the body, and the invoice spike fell to the floor with a thud.
The sound stopped everyone in their tracks as all of them turned toward it.
“Criminy!” Morgan exclaimed. “You nearly scared the life out of me. Kelley, pick that thing up and save it for evidence.” Certain that his order would be followed, he marched out of the library.
With the chief gone, Titus moved closer to the stretcher to examine the wound. “Just a moment, gentlemen,” he told the funeral director.
Tim circled the desk and bent down to retrieve the spike. Straightening, he moved as if to return to his examination of the room. Titus gripped his arm.
“Not yet. Do you notice anything strange about the wound?”
Kelley, who had shown little interest in the victim until now, examined the puncture. “It’s awfully bloody. Must have hit a blood vessel. Poor chap didn’t stand a chance.”
“I’m afraid he didn’t. Take another look at that spike.”
Puzzled, the policeman did as he was told, then looked again at Chapman’s neck. “It looks like whoever did this must have wiggled the spike around to make the hole bigger. I wonder why he did that.”
“Perhaps,” Titus said. “But perhaps the spike wasn’t the murder weapon. What if someone had used something with a larger diameter, say an épée or an ice pick, and put the spike in the hole to disguise how it had been made. He took the real murder weapon with him, of course.”
“Are you gentleman going to be done looking at the poor man soon, or should Kip and me put him down again?”
Startled by the question, Titus stepped back, pulling Kelley with him. He hadn’t thought about the two men holding the dead weight. “Sorry, Mr. Bates. I think we’re finished now.”
Bates and his helper lost no time in carrying the body out, leaving Titus alone with Kelley. “Is there a fencing club in Whitby?”
The police officer scratched his head as he contemplated the question. “Not to my knowledge, but with all these swells coming down from Boston these days, you never know what will turn up.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He took a deep breath. He’d have to get Campbell to run that piece of information down. Deciding his work was done here, and surmising that Morgan wouldn’t let him sit in on the questioning of the servants, he thought he might have a chat with Arthur Muir before he headed back into town. “Well, I believe there’s nothing further I need to see here.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your thoughts on who did it?”
“I think you’ll agree that it’s much too early in the investigation to know that for certain.”
“It is, but perhaps you have information that I don’t.”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then I’ll get back to looking through Chapman’s desk. See if I can find any clues there.” Which he did.
As Titus started to leave for his next destination, he took another glance at the place where the body had been. A crushed purple blossom—from a rhododendron, he thought—surrounded by several petals of different sizes, previously hidden by the corpse, lay on the carpet. He lifted his eyes toward the door. A trail of petals followed the way the undertakers had gone.
“What’s this?” he said, talking more to himself than the only other person in the room.
“What’s what?” Tim asked.
“A flower was under the body.”
Officer Kelley came around the desk to see what Titus was looking at. “Hmmm… probably fell out of the vase.” His eyes went to a small vase lying sideways on the desk.
As the lawyer followed his gaze, a drop of water fell from the lip surrounding the top of it and plopped on the rug. An assortment of fading blossoms lay on a dark spot there. “I didn’t notice that before.”
“I did.” The police officer shrugged. “I assumed it got knocked over in Chapman’s struggle with his killer.”
“Aren’t you going to collect it as evidence?”
“What for? It has nothing to do with the crime as far as I can tell.”
“Do you mind if I keep the rhododendron then?” When Tim Kelley didn’t answer right away, Titus explained further. “The purple flower that was under the body.”
“I can’t imagine what you’d do with it, but if you want it, sure, go ahead and take it.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it if you made a note about the tipped-over vase. For thoroughness.”
Tim ostentatiously wrote a new entry in his notebook. The gesture held a hint of amusement. “There. Now may I go back to examining Mr. Chapman’s papers?”
Titus nodded, then picked up the flower and wrapped it in his handkerchief before putting it in his pocket. With what he’d learned not too long ago, he thought it might have more significance than the police officer supposed.
CHAPTER 21
It took Titus a half hour to walk from the Chapman house to Arthur Muir’s cottage. Fortunately, it was a beautiful early spring morning, brisk but not cold, and the sunshine was warm on his shoulders.
“If you’ll wait in the parlor, sir, I’ll tell Mr. Muir you’re here.”
“Thank you,” he said and went into the nearby room as the butler procee
ded to the back of the house. His eyes immediately sought the location where the cuckoo clock had hung on his first visit, and he breathed a sigh of relief at its absence.
“Strong!” Muir’s voice rang out as he entered the parlor. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning. Did we have an appointment?”
Titus turned to face the bicycle tycoon. He was smiling and at ease, showing none of the nervousness you’d expect from a man who had committed murder the night before. “No. Sorry to show up without notice, but there’s been an unanticipated event.”
“There has?” He waved at a nearby set of chairs flanking the front window. “Come, have a seat.”
His host quickly dropped into the nearest one. Were his knees feeling weak? Titus sat in the other. “Where were you last evening?”
Muir’s eyebrows shot up. “Why, home, of course. As a matter of fact, I was trying to work out the best weekend to have the yacht club’s first regatta. Dashed complicated that was, what with taking into account holidays and the Newport Regatta and when the most people might be in Whitby but not otherwise occupied.”
“Did you leave the house at all last night?” Titus pressed.
“I think I already answered that question.” His voice had dropped in pitch as well as volume. “Stop beating about the bush, Strong. What happened last night?”
“Warren Chapman was murdered.” He carefully observed Arthur Muir’s reaction, which consisted of a slight widening of the eyes followed by the slow, labored movement of his Adam’s apple as he forced himself to swallow.
“Where? How?”
“As to where, it was in his study. And as to how, he was stabbed in the neck with the spike he used to hold invoices and other business paperwork. Or something similar. The weapon, regardless of what it was, from the amount of blood, must have struck a blood vessel. He probably bled to death in a matter of minutes.”
“Ghastly. And you think I did it?”
Titus nodded. “Let’s just say I think it’s possible. How badly do you want the commodore’s position?”
“Not badly enough to kill the man!” Muir’s fingers drummed on his thigh, and then he stopped, rose from his seat, and paced across to the fireplace. He picked up a poker and started digging around in the ashes. “He was an irritable sort of person. You knew him. I imagine there are any number of people who might have considered killing him over some matter or other.”
“Would you happen to know the time?”
“What?” Muir’s eyes flicked to the spot where the clock had been; then he reached inside the pocket in his vest and withdrew his watch. “It’s 10:37 A.M.”
Titus vaulted from his chair and trotted over to Muir, hoping to catch him before he put the watch away. He was sliding it into his pocket as the lawyer got to him. He grabbed Muir’s wrist. “May I see for myself?”
Muir hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders and held out the timepiece. Titus took it, examined the fob, then turned it over. The bicycle charm was missing. “What happened to the charm?”
The bicycle magnate turned pale. “The charm?”
Titus dangled the watch in front of him. “I distinctly remember a small gold bicycle attached to this fob. I took particular note of it because of its craftsmanship. And I remember thinking how appropriate it was that you should have it.”
“I must have lost it.” The poker slid out of his hand as if his palms had suddenly gone sweaty. Muir flinched at the clang of the metal hitting the marble hearth. He staggered across the room and sank into his chair.
The man was clearly shaken. Titus responded in a voice as calm as a lullaby. “Do you have any idea where?”
Muir shook his head and swallowed hard again.
“Unfortunately, I do, since I was present when Officer Kelley retrieved it from under Warren Chapman’s desk.”
“Under the desk?” Muir croaked.
The tycoon crumpled and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, and Titus wondered if he were sobbing or trembling with fear. After a few seconds, he gathered himself together, straightened, and lowered his hands. His face was pinched with worry. “All right. I was at Chapman’s last night. But I swear to you, I didn’t kill him. He was already dead.”
The man sounded sincere, but it was possible he was merely a good actor. “Tell me everything. Without the lies.”
“I haven’t been able to sleep at all recently. You’ll find this hard to believe, but I miss the sound of the cuckoo clock. Most people might think hearing the folksong and the gong sounding every hour would keep a body awake, but I’ve grown used to it. Even if it does wake me, it reminds me of Mary, and how I still have a part of her with me, so I go right back to sleep.
“I was tossing and turning, and the time was approaching midnight, and I thought, maybe if I talked to Chapman man-to-man, explained to him how much the clock meant to me, that I was willing to buy it from him even though I’m sure Mary already paid for it, he’d consent to let me have it.”
“Couldn’t that have waited until morning? Midnight is very late to go calling.”
“I know, but I haven’t been myself lately. The lack of sleep, you know. It crossed my mind to wait, but I thought it was worth trying. If no one answered the door, I would return during the day.”
“But someone did answer the door, since you were able to get into Chapman’s office.”
“That’s not how it went,” Muir said. “I remember being glad when I saw a light in one of the windows on the ground floor, because that meant that someone was still up, most likely Warren Chapman himself. I climbed the steps, telling myself I’d have to knock loudly, since he might not hear me otherwise, and the servants would surely have gone to bed by then.
“But when I drew closer, I could see that the door had been left ajar by the pale light that shone through the opening. It struck me as odd, but as fortune allowed me to enter, I took advantage of it. I pushed the door open and went inside, calling out for Chapman as I traversed the hall toward the lighted room.”
Muir hung his head as he continued to speak. “Of course, no one answered, but I wasn’t alarmed until I saw what had happened. I bent over him to assure myself that he wasn’t breathing. I remember the stem of my watch sticking into my ribs, and I reached inside my vest pocket to reposition it. On second thought, it might have been the charm that pricked me, perhaps because it had come loose. It must have fallen under the desk then.”
“Is that when you took the cuckoo clock?”
Muir ran a hand through his hair. “What? What did you say?”
“I asked you if that’s when you took back the cuckoo clock.”
“I didn’t take the clock.” He blinked rapidly.
“Was the clock still on the wall?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“In your state, would you have noticed? You didn’t notice when you lost the bicycle charm.”
“I might not have seen the clock, but I certainly would have heard it ticking. The house was deathly quiet.” He slapped a hand over his mouth as he realized what he’d said.
Titus thought the phrase had been uttered accidentally, but sometimes accidents were a betrayal of what the speaker knew to be the truth.
“Did you see anyone in the neighborhood, either as you entered or as you left the Chapman house? Perhaps some petty thief lurking about looking to take advantage of an opportunity?”
“Would that I had.”
It was true Muir had more than one motive to do away with Warren Chapman. He’d also admitted being in the man’s house the night of the murder. That he had neglected to notify the authorities was certainly suspicious. It wouldn’t take much for him to be accused of the crime. “Sooner or later, the police will figure out who the charm belongs to. When that happens, you are to say nothing except that you won’t speak to them without your lawyer being present.”
Muir leaned toward him and raised his eyes to Titus’s face. “Are you saying that you believe me? That you’ll be my lawyer should I
be arrested?”
“I’ll represent you when you are charged with murder.”
The tycoon straightened up and thrust out his chest as if he were finally in control of himself. “Thank you, Mr. Strong. I promise you, you will be well-compensated for your efforts.”
“I intend to be.”
CHAPTER 22
Elisabeth lifted the coffeepot off the parlor stove in Titus’s office and turned toward Owen Campbell. As usual, he’d appeared almost as soon as the coffee was ready and had been sitting and sipping for at least a half an hour, regaling her with tales of derring-do from his Pinkerton days. “Would you like another cup? I’m afraid it will be either burned or cold by the time Titus gets here.”
Before Campbell could answer, the hallway door opened and, by the rhythm of his footsteps as he crossed the outer office, Titus Strong had finally arrived.
He hung his hat on a hook near the door, then turned and said, “Ah! Good to see there’s coffee left for me. I haven’t had mine yet. I’ve been too busy visiting homes in The Presidents.”
Surprised at the lawyer’s reference to the group of streets at the northern end of the Point, she asked, “What were you doing up there?”
“What presidents live in Whitby?” Campbell asked.
“Not of The Presidents, in The Presidents,” Elisabeth said. “It’s what we call the streets at the north end of the Point, which are all named after former presidents.”
“In that case, whose homes?” Campbell insisted. The detective always wanted to be in the know. Curiosity was a useful trait in a detective, and as a former Pinkerton, Campbell had more than his share.
“I’ll tell both of you shortly, after I’ve had a chance to drink my coffee. Meanwhile, I think you’d better fetch your stenographer’s pad.”
Elisabeth wasted no time in preparing Titus’s beverage exactly the way he liked it, then hurried out to her desk. When she returned, she sat in the chair next to Owen. “Now that I’m prepared with my pad and pencil, would you like to tell me what I should write on it?”
The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5) Page 11