by Mark Walker
Riggs was instantly awake. He made straight for the bathroom, took a quick, hot shower, and shaved. As far as he was concerned, this stuff in the detective stories about the hero taking a stinging-cold shower was a lot of bunk. Having lived in the rain, mud, and cold wet trenches for three months without a break during the war, Kelly Riggs appreciated hot water, even after all these years. Sixteen minutes after waking, tie perfectly tied, hat at a jaunty angle, he was putting on his coat and walking out the door. Ten minutes later, after roaring through the almost deserted early morning streets in the Dasher, he was pulling into the tall gates at the Yard.
He checked in with the duty officer to hear the latest news. It was shocking. A lady in black had visited the hospital to inquire after the librarian. She brought flowers and asked to see the patient. The nurses thought there was no harm, being completely unaware of the news about a mysterious malefactor matching that description.
“She had only been there a few minutes, and when the nurses went to check on the patient, she was dead. Apparently killed by this woman. Time: 4:40 a.m. Barely an hour ago. Inspector Blaney took the call, sir. He’s still there. We’ve already informed Sergeant Bellows, and he’s on his way to the scene. The guv’s already in, sir, and he’s been told as well.”
“Well, that’s torn it,” said Riggs. What a way to start the day! Mildly disconcerted, he took the lift up to his office and awaited the return of DI Blaney with his report.
The first thing he did was order coffee brought up from the canteen, as he opened the window to let in some fresh air from the Embankment. He stretched, went over to a large map of the city, and stood in front of it for several minutes. Then he checked over last night’s reports that had been left on his desk, looking to see if anything had come from the Rogues Galleries, but, as he expected, nothing had. It was a disappointment, but not a terminal setback. At least not like the terminal setback for Miss Minerva Chillglass, he thought, grimly shaking his head. Had she been the target after all, and the ruby necklace only a blind, or a false trail? He pondered the questions for a moment, and filed them away in his subconscious, seeking insight to answer them soon.
It was quiet early in the morning, with the great machinery that was Scotland Yard humming silently in the background. Rainwater dripped from the gutter outside, making a steady plop, plop that was both comforting and mildly depressing. But the fresh cold air helped focus his thoughts, and the occasional toots from the barges on the river added a cheerful rhythm to the plops of the rain. He had set to work adding some notes to the paperwork, when the lad from the canteen brought up his pot of coffee.
After his experience in the army, Riggs was very particular about his coffee. He could still taste the week-old, bitter-tasting mud they had drunk, almost as thick as the mud of the trenches and the wretched No Man’s Land. It was then he had made up his mind that never again, if he could help it, would he drink sludge. Most mornings, his housekeeper, the ever-fawning Mrs. Wiggins, would make him a special blend of the best coffees she could find or afford. Strong and black, or doused with cream and demerara sugar or honey, it was one of the highlights of his day. But since he was often on the job, he had persuaded the canteen to adopt some of the special “Wiggins Blends” and have them on hand. Not that he minded tea, for he had many happy memories of childhood that revolved around tea.
He went over the first rough report on what had been learned so far about the victim, Miss Chillglass. Miss Minerva Paulette Chillglass. Unmarried, thirty-eight years old, almost thirty-nine. D.O.B.s 25 November, 1896. A sibling, female, name and whereabouts unknown. Parents deceased. No other family in the Greater London area. Worked at the London Library fifteen years, two months. Excellent work record. Kept to herself, with no known friends or associates. No previous work history or record to be found. Home address in the East End. And that was all.
An entire life—thirty-eight years—reduced to a paragraph on a single sheet of paper. He closed the file slowly, thinking there was something he should have seen and hadn’t.
The day dawned overcast and dreary, under heavy clouds that threatened more rain. Just as daylight was etching the window glass behind Kelly Riggs, Inspector Blaney came blustering in. Riggs was glad to see him, and said, “Hi ho, old man. Fresh coffee in the pot. Grab some while it’s hot and give me the low-down.”
Blaney pulled up one of the wooden chairs and sat backward on it, taking a sip of coffee. He tilted his hat back on his head and said, “We’ve got deliberate murder now, no question, sir. She didn’t stand a chance. If only we’d got out the word on the lady in black.”
“Dick, there was no way to know that the librarian was being singled out. There’s still a chance the attack in St James’s Square was totally random. And even with the theft, why take such a chance to finish her off? There was simply no reason to expect anything like what happened at the hospital. But mark you, we’ll find who did it. What else have you got?”
“Sergeant Bellows is there now, sir, arrived just before I left. It’s a full crime scene investigation, and he’s already at it, so if any evidence was left he’s sure to find it. But I’m afraid I have more bad news. From yesterday, we only have one footprint of the three we found.”
“The rain?”
“Yes, the rain. The plaster just hadn’t set up. We did get good photos of all three, and the one plaster we got is a full print. The lab should have the size and brand shortly after they open up at 7:30.”
“Right. We need to send a plainclothesman and an officer out to the librarian’s flat. After Fred reports in, he can join them there. Also, send a man to make inquiries at the box office at the Criterion Theatre in Piccadilly. It will be open after ten. But our top priority should be to find out all we can about the librarian. As soon as I speak with the lab, I’ll be joining the hunt. Start looking up everything you can find on the late Miss Chillglass.”
At that moment there was a knock on the open doorframe, and a large, dark-blue-serge-suited form filled the space.
“G’morning, gentlemen.”
He came in and stood just inside the doorway. Detective Chief Superintendent Makepeace was Riggs’s immediate superior, and as wily and experienced an old detective as had ever served at Scotland Yard. He stood holding a big bundle of file folders that rested across his paunch (the paunch being the result of too many files and too much deskwork). Above the files, a black string tie showed against an old-fashioned stand-up collar. He had most of his hair, mixed shades of blonde and grey, making little wings over his ears, the forelock hanging untidily over his forehead. His face was etched with lines, his brows arched with two deep furrows between them (also from the files and too much deskwork). He peered over rimless reading spectacles, smiling like a benign, beardless Father Christmas as he nodded to both of them.
“So, now we have murder on our hands. And I don’t have to tell you what will be hitting the proverbial fan any minute now. Every newspaper and GD … the GD … GDR …” he sputtered, “Gloom and Doom Reports,” he exploded, “in London will be on top of us, and then the public will follow, so we need to work quickly, gentlemen. I’m sure you understand. All resources at are at your disposal. And Inspector Riggs, since there’s a bare possibility of a connection, I’m transferring the Blood Star investigation over to you. Inspector Japp was on it, but now he’s off on another caper with that little Belgian detective.” (He spoke of the latter with some distaste, for the “little Belgian detective” currently running rings around Scotland Yard, solving cases, was Hercule Poirot.) Then he sighed and shook his head.
“Right in the middle of St James’s Square is shocking enough, but now this business at the hospital. And if there’s even a whiff of it having to do with the theft of the Blood Star… Just wait until that gets out!”
And indeed, the chief superintendent was correct.
Dawn found the newspapers and street placards plastered with even more lurid headlines than on the previous day, and the half-hour wireless broad
cast GDRs were filled with misinformation, speculation, and mostly inaccurate and wildly varying accounts of the St James’s Case.
The Morning Tell told:
BLACK WIDOW-HORROR AT ST JAMES’S SQUARE!
The Startle-Gram cried:
WHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS LADY IN BLACK?
The Thames Herald heralded:
LADY IN BLACK DEALS DEATH!
The Oracle predicted:
BLACK WIDOW’S ATTACK TURNS DEADLY!
The Daily Globe groaned:
LADY IN BLACK’S DOUBLE VICTIM: MURDERED IN HOSPITAL!
There would be many more, to be sure.
“Riggs, you know I have every confidence in you,” Makepeace said, smiling his cunning smile. “You still have too much imagination for a policeman, but this case sounds just your cup of tea. If anyone can make sense out of it, you can.”
Chief Superintendent Makepeace nodded rather absent-mindedly, as was his way, gave a final word of encouragement, and was gone.
A rosy Mrs. Peach reported for duty as she always did, punctually at a quarter to eight, fifteen minutes before she was officially due. Her arrival gave Riggs a comforting feeling of normality that portended good things for the day. He heard her order another pot of coffee, and the click-clack of her Smith-Corona made him smile.
A few minutes later, Sergeant Bellows arrived back from the hospital. Instead of his usually jolly expression, he looked grave.
“Great Galloping Gollywhoppers! What a case! A rotten business over at the Woman’s Hospital, I’ll say.” He tossed his hat and coat onto a rack, poured some coffee, and sank into one of the leather chairs. All evidence of his usual jolly demeanor had vanished, and his eyes were hard as he spoke.
“Our lady in black is purposeful, adept, and quite lucky. The nurses hadn’t left the victim alone for more than two minutes. And that’s all it took for our lady to make her move. Yes, she was very clever. The nurses got a good look at her, but there was nothing unusual about her. About medium height. She was wearing gloves, a heavy veil, carrying a purse, and had a pot of red roses. Head always bent a fraction, so they never got a really good look at her face. No difference from yesterday’s descriptions: our lady of the night’s outfit was modern and sophisticated. The roses were a distraction, and whilst the nurses were fiddling about with them, that’s when our black widow struck. Used a needle. I found the mark after a good deal of searching and consulting with the head nurse. The ME will let us know exactly what it was after the postmortem. Then there’s the evidence of the roses and the card. Standard pasteboard card.”
He held up a clear plastic packet with white card and the printed words: Get Well Wishes. “We might be able to track the roses or the dirt to a specific shop or nursery area. It’s not much, but it’s a chance. And get this, sir. Just for theatrics, and the only other evidence, she left one of her black gloves and a black rose on the body before she made her exit. Stealthy it was, too, as soon as the nurses turned back round, she had vanished. Then they saw the glove and the rose and checked the patient.”
“So our Miss Chillglass never regained consciousness?”
“No. She was still in a coma, so at least her death should have been painless, poor thing. I suppose we’ll look like fools with this.” He shook his head.
“I was just consoling Blaney along those same lines. How could we have ever expected something like this? It was looking like a theft, but now that’s an open question. The black rose is a sign of vengeance and death. We just have to man up to this and move forward. The lab will be open in just a few minutes, and we’ll see where the evidence takes us.”
Here he paused, hesitating to tell Bellows about his experiences of the previous night. But he knew better than to hold anything back from his old friend and partner. He told him in detail about his tail, finishing, “But Fred, whatever is going on here is devilish business, and obviously more complicated than we now know. Let’s get cracking!”
Scotland Yard had interviewed more than twenty people, and Riggs and Bellows pored over the witness statements. Four of the witnesses had been from the library, the others from the square. All four librarians had noticed the ruby pendant, and two had remarked on it to Miss Chillglass, who had remained tight-lipped and noncommittal since she had shown up with it that morning. And the first thing they all said about the ruby itself was that it was quite large and had a star in it.
Just like the missing Blood Star.
Mrs. Peach stuck her head in the door to say the lab had just called to say that the report was ready on the shoe print, and would Riggs like to go down? He took the lift down to the lab and discovered they had a perfect cast of a right shoe print. It was a Jacquerelle woman’s size six, medium heel, available in many shops in London.
Riggs stopped in at the Incident Room to pass the report on to Blaney and send a team off to track down the source of the shoe. He had just returned upstairs when Brendalynn Welles, Toby Knockknees, and the children arrived, escorted by WPC Hopkins. Riggs gave them the bad news about Miss Chillglass, which they took solemnly.
A police sketch artist came in and sat with Jen and Michael for half an hour, drawing up a good likeness of the mysterious lady in black. Unfortunately, because the face was not readily visible, it resembled a fashion portrait from a magazine, but it definitely caught the hat, veil, and general countenance of the original. Then the artist met with the two nurses from the Women’s Hospital to draw up a likeness based on their recollections and compare the sketches.
Riggs took another call on the candlestick phone and announced, “The lab’s come up with some interesting information on rubies, and they’ve got some progress to report. Why don’t we all go down, and you can start your tour from there.” There was a buzz of excitement as they readily agreed. They took the lift to the new basement laboratory that was the pride of the Yard.
WPC Hopkins rode down with the children and explained, “You’ll be meeting “Snuffy” Franks, the head of the lab. Of course he practically lives down here. That’s Doctor Ronald Franks, the head of the new Scientific Lab. He has degrees in biology, chemistry, and psychology. I think you’ll like him.”
The lift sighed to a stop, and the operator opened the doors. They stepped into a scientific wonderland.
chapter eleven
Connections in the Bowels
THE BASEMENT HEADQUARTERS OF THE Scientific Laboratory, although brand-new, already seemed crowded. The lab was housed within white subway-tiled walls, with fan-shaped windows at street level. There was a constant burp and gurgle coming from the water and heating pipes that hung above all the rooms, and from the presence of a multitude of chemistry and lab equipment: worktables contained Bunsen burners, tubes, glass phials, beakers, retorts, microscopes, special lamps, vises, tools, and strange items that turned out to be various bits of evidence from different crimes. A few men and women wearing white lab coats were busy at the tables. A distinguished chap separated himself from the group and came toward the visitors.
“Snuffy” Franks was a tall, wiry, wizened man of about fifty, with a full head of slicked back, prematurely silver hair, a moustache and a neatly trimmed, pointed beard. His thick, wire-rimmed spectacles enlarged his eyes. He smiled at the children.
“Back again, I see! Just can’t keep away!” he called cheerfully to Riggs. “We’ve just got in the evidence from the hospital affair, and we’ll take a look at it directly. Now, we’ve discovered some important evidence this morning. Come this way.” He led them to one of the worktables where two pieces of broken golden chain and the crooked umbrella lay.
When she saw the umbrella, Jen’s eyes widened and she tugged on her sister’s sleeve. She exclaimed, “That’s it! That’s the crooked brolly!”
“Ah yes, the crooked brolly,” said Franks, and his eyes twinkled. “But first…” He lifted the pieces of chain by two needle-nose pliers. “These are definitely from the same piece of identical chain. No doubt about it. These two pieces would make up about three
quarters of the entire chain necklace. Gold plated. This piece broke here, at the bottom by the pendant, and here, where the two sides were latched together. Probably the assailant,” and here he demonstrated using Riggs, “grabbed at the pendant and pulled violently—using his left hand, as you see. Now, the shorter piece was torn off at a later time. And just after seizing the pendant, your assailant apparently struck the victim using the umbrella, with the results you see here.”
He turned the crooked umbrella and indicated a small area near its handle. “Here we found makeup. Just a tiny smudge. But what you thought might be fingerprints on the chain is actually makeup as well. However, it differs somewhat from normal cosmetics, and I’ve asked Scotty to make some comparisons. I’ll introduce you to Scotty in a minute—he’s our top lad, by the way. What we need now, though, is a definite match. When we find where the makeup was sold and get an actual sample, it will put us that much closer…”
He trailed off and shook his head, smiling. “There’s always something, usually quite small, that the criminals will overlook, which trips them up in the end. Details, details. Criminals mostly don’t worry about details—they worry about this and that—but details are all we worry about down here in the deep dark bowels of Scotland Yard.” He laughed. “And while I’m on the subject of the deep dark bowels, Inspector, I wonder if you would be so good as to pass on to the “powers that be” upstairs, that we could really do with a bit more heat down here.
“Anyway, as I was saying, we can identify most any article—animal, vegetable, or mineral—by analyzing its properties, and then we match it against other articles or pieces of evidence. Yes, down here we deal in details and facts. Impartiality is the hallmark of forensic science. Ah, I can see by your faces Constable Hopkins hasn’t explained the word forensic to you yet.”
“Excuse me, Doctor Franks,” interjected Brendalynn,” but I think I know the answer to that. I’m studying law right now.”