“Which way was the foot facing?” he asked Mr Church.
“The ankle was pointing towards the television and the foot towards the kitchen.”
Urban-Smith gazed at the ceiling. “It is exactly as records describe; the vile smell, the curdled grease upon the ceiling, and the lack of fire damage about the periphery of the victim.” He indicated an armchair adjacent to our position. “He has fallen asleep in this chair and slept heavily, probably encouraged by that bottle of Château La Dégoûtant on the coffee table. I see two glasses; he has been entertaining.” He uttered a short bark of triumph and sank briefly to the floor. “New slippers,” he announced, returning to the horizontal and displaying said items. “With a red fluffy lining, as I surmised.”
I nodded in acquiescence, for a shinier, fluffier pair of scarlet slipshoes I had never witnessed.
Urban-Smith indicated a door at the far end of the apartment.
“I will wager that the bedroom is in disarray following a frenzied bout of vigorous, or even violent, intercourse, following which the bed has been rendered too unpalatable to sleep in. Our Mr Ferno has paid his visitor for their services (his open wallet upon the floor here still carries a significant amount of ready cash), but has found himself too fatigued to change his bedding and air the room. Instead, he has elected to sleep in this armchair, slumbering so heavily that he has been unaware of the presence of flames until he is fully engulfed. He has attempted to seek assistance, but has only managed one or two steps before collapsing and being incinerated where he lay.”
Urban-Smith spent several minutes examining the rest of the living room, dining room and kitchen, finding particular interest in the half- empty wine bottle.
“A 2003,” he observed, examining the label. “The late Mr Ferno selected this bottle from a collection of several others within this apartment, but it was his visitor who opened the bottle and poured the drinks. They have embraced passionately here before retiring to the bedroom to begin their lovemaking.”
Without pausing to explain his reasoning, he set off across the apartment and through into Mr Ferno’s bedroom. Although the door had been closed, the room was heavy with the rancid smell of Mr Ferno’s fiery demise, but nothing could obscure the truth of Urban-Smith’s assertion. The bedroom was in disarray, and although the bed was clearly the epicentre of the activity, the sheets torn, stained and twisted, the frenetic action had spread to involve the dressing table and windowsill, with ornaments, photograph frames and prophylactic packets strewn about the carpet.
“Seems there was quite a tussle,” remarked Urban-Smith.
“Tussle?” I spluttered. “It’s like El Alamein in here.”
“Clearly he had his money’s worth,” replied Urban-Smith, as he roamed the room’s periphery, taking care not to step in any biological material. This completed, he spent a short while in Mr Ferno’s en suite bathroom, taking particular interest in the area around the wash basin.
“Come,” he demanded, returning to the apartment’s main area once more. “There is nothing further that I can add, Mr Church. Presumably the police forensics team have completed their examination.”
“Of course.”
“Did they discover any accelerants or inflammatory chemicals?”
“The preliminary report suggests not.”
“Very well.” Urban-Smith buttoned his coat, having presumably decided to brave the chill London air upon his departure. For the first time, I saw a look of uncertainty pass fleetingly across Church’s revolting, but impassive, features.
Urban-Smith saw it too. “You wish to ask how I knew who had poured the wine.” A statement, not a question.
“You can read minds, Sir.”
“Ha,” barked Urban-Smith. “Not at all, but your expression speaks volumes. The matter is a simple one.
“There is a pair of reading spectacles on the kitchen work surface, yet no reading material nearby, so the spectacles have been used to examine the wine labels whilst a selection is made. I would hazard that the wine is stored in a cupboard either directly above or below their position.
“I observed that Mr Ferno owns a left-handed corkscrew, but the person who opened this bottle is right-handed, and has found the task rather vexing. The cork that lies beside the open bottle has been quite thoroughly destroyed, and there are excoriations upon the foil around the neck of the bottle, indicating some difficulty in removing the cork.
“Finally, note the indentations upon the carpet, indicating the usual position of the coffee table. The table has been moved a few inches to the side and not returned to its usual position. I suspect that Mr Ferno has embraced his visitor as they poured the drinks, and they have lost their balance slightly and stumbled against the table.” Urban-Smith shrugged nonchalantly. “Have I illustrated anything to you that you could not observe for yourself?”
“Indeed not,” he conceded. “Once explained, it is almost absurdly simple.”
“It is not enough to look, Mr Church. One must also be able to see.”
Urban-Smith turned upon his heel and headed for the door.
“Come, Rupert. Let us take a stroll in the fresh air.”
*
So rapid was Urban-Smith’s departure, I had to jog to keep up with him as he marched out from the building and away down the street towards the Fulham Road. As we passed Mr Church’s sedan, I was aware of the driver’s hard gaze following our progress.
The sky was sombre and grey, and I pulled my collar up against the drizzle and gusting wind, the dregs of Hurricane Kylie blowing in from the Atlantic. I glanced over my shoulder to see if we were being followed, and walked into the back of Urban-Smith with an, “oof.”
“Rupert.” Urban-Smith turned to face me. “There are peculiarities about this case.”
“Is there anything about it that is not peculiar?” I asked, removing my spectacles and attempting to clear them with my sleeve.
“What can you say about Mr Ferno’s visitor?”
I reattached my glasses, tutting with annoyance as the drizzle quickly rendered them smeared once more. “I know as much as you have already deduced, Fairfax. She is a paid escort, she is right handed, she is partial to a drop of wine, and she has intercourse with men for money.
“And ‘she’ is a ‘he’.”
I started so violently that my spectacles almost fell from my face, and I clutched at them with both hands. “A male escort?” I demanded. “How can you be sure?”
“I briefly examined the bathroom. Mr Ferno had recently shaved, leaving a few scraps of greying stubble about the rim of the basin. Our visitor has short brown hair; I found such a hair on the pillow. The hair had a slightly gritty texture, indicating the presence of gel or similar styling product. Clearly this is a person who cares about their appearance, yet there were no lipstick traces upon the sheets or wine glass.”
We began walking again.
“Why did you say nothing of it to Mr Church?”
“Do you recognise Mr Church?” Urban-Smith asked, and for a moment, I rankled at his infuriating way of answering my questions with one of his own.
I shrugged. “Did he play one of the dinosaurs in ‘Jurassic Park?’”
“Ha ha.” Urban-Smith threw back his head and guffawed. “My dear Rupert, at times such as these I can only thank the gods that I have you here at my side to furnish me with your erudite wit.” We turned left onto the Fulham Road and sought refuge beneath a bus shelter. “I suspect neither of us could forget a face such as Mr Church’s,” he continued, “but that driver of his, there was something familiar about his manner, but I am unable to place him.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Fairfax. Why did you not confide in Mr Church?”
“I don’t know, Rupert.” He looked thoughtful. “I just feel uneasy about the whole situation. It may be that, on a subconscious level, holding something back empowers me, makes me less …” he searched for the correct word, “…dispensable.”
A hundred yards down
wind, the number 211 bus hove into view, and I hurriedly checked the route on the side of the bus shelter.
“This bus takes me back to St Clifford’s.” I hailed the bus. “I still have work to finish.”
“Very well, Rupert. I shall amble over to Battersea Park and spend some time amongst the greenery. I shall see you tonight. Toodle pip.”
*
After supper, Urban-Smith and I retired to the sitting room to watch the news. Kevin Ferno was reported to have perished in a house fire in the early hours of the morning. There was no mention of Mr Church, disembodied feet or male prostitutes, and I felt that the whole story was all the poorer as a result.
“They are, of course, assuming that the foot belongs to Mr Ferno,” said Urban-Smith, reaching for his drawing pad. “Tell me, Rupert, have you been presented with body parts before, as opposed to the complete package?”
“Absolutely,” I confirmed. “Accident victims, dismembered murder victims, and the like.”
“So, when confronted with a single foot, as you have been today, how does one set about confirming the identity of said foot?”
“Dental records,” said I, attempting to keep a straight face.
Urban-Smith threw back his head and brayed with laughter. “Ha-ha. Well done, Rupert. Ha-ha-ha.”
“Woof-woof.” In response, Gonzáles had come charging out from the kitchen, and was now racing around the sitting room, with Mrs Denford in hot pursuit.
After a few minutes of this unexpected, but welcome, half-time entertainment, Mrs Denford finally shooed the little Bichon Frise out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
“In answer to your question, Fairfax, the job of identifying the body parts falls to the police’s forensic department, who will compare a tissue sample with a sample of hair from a brush and see if there is a match. Other options include comparing the DNA with a close relative. In this case however, I don’t think it will prove necessary.”
“Do you discount the possibility of a third party’s foot having been placed at the scene, perhaps to obfuscate a kidnapping? Perhaps Mr Ferno has faked his own death.”
“I do not discount the possibility,” I conceded, “but I feel that the idea lacks credibility and is thus improbable. Have you any reason to suspect a counterfeit limb?”
“I do not, but nor do I reject the idea.”
“That is where you and I differ,” I replied, rising from the sofa. “And now I must shower and change, for I have arranged to meet Nell at her flat for a quiet evening of physical intimacy.”
“Before you go, Rupert, might I ask a favour?”
“Ask away,” said I, although a little warily.
“I am expecting a visitor tomorrow evening, a Mr Weathers. He wishes to seek my counsel. I would be very grateful if you could join us.”
“Of course, dear fellow.”
A wide smile split his features.
Excellent, Rupert. I wish you Godspeed, and we shall meet again on the morrow.”
*
3. Drake Weathers
Tuesday 23rd
Drake Weathers arrived at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews at just after six on Tuesday evening, seeking Urban-Smith’s counsel on a matter of rightful inheritance. He was a young gentleman of handsome countenance and muscular aspect, dressed in smart yet casual attire. He stood tall and proud, and his handshake was firm, but not overbearing. Both Urban-Smith and I took an immediate liking to him.
The meeting had been initially requested via e-mail, and although Urban-Smith had replied that this was a case for a solicitor, not a detective, his prospective client was most insistent on a consultation, and so the three of us took to the living room to confer. Mrs Denford had brought us a tray of tea and crumpets, and we were forced to conduct our business between delicious mouthfuls.
“For those matters which fascinate me, I work without remuneration,” Urban-Smith explained, “but where the primary motivation is pecuniary, I must insist on a fee.”
“I will agree any reasonable fee,” stated our visitor, “but you may find this matter of greater interest than you currently anticipate.”
“We shall see, Sir. We shall see.”
“Will you also require a fee, Dr Harker?” Mr Weathers asked me.
“Oh no,” said Urban-Smith, answering for me as was his habit. “Rupert works pro gratis in these matters. The sating of his thirst for knowledge and the euphoria of helping his fellow man are reward enough for his saintly heart.”
“Good show! Well, I know that your time is precious; I will get to it. My late mother was the adult entertainer, Stormy Weathers. You may have heard of her.”
“I confess I have not, but I am sure Rupert here is familiar with her work.”
“Indeed I am,” I confirmed. “What that woman could do with a jar of pickles makes the mind boggle. I am sorry to hear of her passing. Pray, what happened?”
A tear formed at the corner of the young man’s eye. “As a medical man, you will be familiar with a condition known as stripper’s heel. Years of wearing clear stilettos had taken a dreadful toll on my mother’s arches. There were some days when she could barely dance the pole unless heavily medicated with strong opioids. One evening, she was returning home from a photo-shoot involving several young gentlemen members of the Putney Athletics Society, when her ankles failed her, causing her to topple from the kerb and into the path of the number sixteen to Chingford.”
“How ghastly!” I exclaimed. “When did this happen?”
“Four months ago. It is her accident that brings me to my current situation. My mother left me a letter, only to be opened after her death or on the occasion of my twenty-first birthday, whichever were the sooner.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a piece of writing paper, and handed it to Urban-Smith.
“It is a sheet of unscented, pink writing paper with a picture of a cartoon cat at the top,” observed Urban-Smith. “The letter is written in a woman’s hand, and dated the first of October, nineteen ninety-six.”
“My eleventh birthday,” clarified Weathers.
For my benefit, Urban-Smith read the letter aloud.
“My Dearest Drake,
I love you more than I have loved any other in this world. I have never found a need to speak of your father, as there is more love in my heart than any ten fathers could ever give, but I know that one day you will need to know more about your lineage. Today is that day.
When I was early in my career, a mere girl of nineteen, I attended a private party hosted by the Duke of Krill at his home, Muntjac House, in Krill, Surrey. It was a celebration of the Duke’s twenty-third birthday, and it was a most splendid affair with dancing, drinking and laughter. A birthday cake had been fashioned in the shape of a muntjac, from which I was to burst forth clad merely in G-string and furry ears in order to sing, ‘Happy Birthday.’
So stirred was the Duke by my performance, that he invited me to join him that night in his chambers. I was fascinated by his rugged looks, sturdy brown beard and proud family heritage, and my judgement had been sullied by several glasses of champagne; as a result, I neglected to insist upon the proper prophylactic indemnity.
Though remorseful for my lack of discretion, there will never be a quantum of regret in my heart, for that night produced the finest son a mother or Duke could ever hope for. When you are old enough to receive this letter, I urge you to approach the Duke, in order to claim what is rightfully yours. As his eldest son, you are heir to his title and his estate.
Happy birthday, darling.
Your loving mother.”
Urban-Smith refolded the letter and returned it to Weathers. “Did you approach the Duke?”
“Of course. We met at Muntjac Hall.”
“What was his reaction?”
A look of disdain passed fleetingly across Weathers’ handsome features. “He was utterly objectionable. He compared my mother most unfavourably to the FBI criminal database, in regard to the number of men’s DNA contained therein.”
/>
“The scoundrel!” I expectorated.
“Absolutely. He refused to discuss the matter any further and instructed me to communicate with his solicitor.” ”
“What was your impression of the Duke?” asked Urban-Smith.
“I found him most unpersonable; rude, hostile, arrogant. Upon further enquiry, I learned that he possessed many poor qualities. He was a prolific womaniser, drinker and gambler. He was wont to beat his wife and servants with alarming regularity over the most trifling of matters. Additionally, he had allowed the estate to fall into debt, and I suspect that there was little capital left to inherit.”
“Yet you pursued the matter?”
“Indeed I did. I contacted the Duke’s solicitor, a Mr Barnabus Hunt, of Hunt and Hunt, Golders Green, but within a week, I received a letter requesting that I temporarily desist my enquiries out of respect to the Duke, who had just lost his brother in a skiing accident in Austria. The Duke and his wife had been holidaying with him at the time, and had been most deeply affected.”
“I notice,” said Urban-Smith, “that you refer to the Duke’s behaviour in the past tense. Has he recently exhibited a change of demeanour?”
“That he has. Following the death of his brother, there has been a dramatic transformation in the Duke’s attitude.”
“It is not uncommon to experience a prolonged bout of melancholia following an unexpected bereavement,” I pointed out.
“To the contrary, Doctor,” he replied, “the Duke’s personality has been transformed for the good. He has renounced gambling and womanising, used his brother’s life insurance to pay off all debt, and has become a more agreeable man all round, even acceding to my request to provide DNA for paternity testing.”
“And he has been true to his word?”
“He has.” Weathers reached into his pocket and withdrew a type-written letter. He handed it to Urban-Smith, who read it, then passed it to me. I inspected the letter, which purported to be from Utterly Legal Genetic Services Ltd, based in Harlchester. The letter was dated the fifteenth of December, and addressed to Barnabus Hunt, the Duke’s solicitor.
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