A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  This wasn’t how the world of the Britannia Club was supposed to work.

  Turning on his heel, Eric strode out onto the landing overlooking the lobby downstairs. Up above, clouds raced across the face of the sun, and the skylight showered the marble floor with intermittent bursts of sunlight and shadow. He could just see Old Faithful pacing agitatedly behind the front desk. People had to know, from the fellow’s behaviour, that something was up. Aldershott had finally gone to Bradshaw’s office to wait for the police, and Bradshaw was with him—hopefully keeping him out of trouble.

  Eric frowned. Given the way Benson was dressed when they found him, he must have spent the night here after all, instead of at Saxon’s. He looked as though he’d come down in a hurry, barely bothering to do up his trousers … could he have left his door unlocked behind him? When did the custodial staff set about cleaning those rooms, anyway?

  It took Eric a moment to remember Old Faithful’s real name. “Cully!” he called. “I say, Cully! No, wait right there; I’ll come down to you.”

  Eric made his way down the stairs and over to the front desk. “Benson spent the night here, didn’t he? Which room was he in? We can’t let anyone in there until the police get here.”

  Old Faithful’s eyes went wide. “You’re right, sir! I never thought of that. Come with me, sir.”

  They hurried up the main staircase to the first floor, and then up a smaller set of stairs to the second. “Here we are, sir.” Old Faithful stopped in front of a door and opened it. “I should have known there was something amiss when I found it open this morning, but it looked like he’d only stepped out for a moment, maybe to use the facilities. I just closed the door without locking it. I’m quite sure nobody else has been in there yet.”

  Eric knew better than to enter a room that the police might want to examine, but from his vantage point he could see quite a good deal. He’d nearly forgotten how windy the day was: the window was open, and some soot and detritus had blown in. That window overlooked the utility court beside the building, and all the sounds below came funneling up and echoing back against the hard brick of the building opposite.

  Old Faithful shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and Eric said to him, “Benson wanted this room last minute, did he? I thought he had other arrangements planned for last night.”

  “I reckon he did, sir. It was quite late—nearly ten o’clock—when he rang me bell and said he was going to be spending the night after all. Not but it hasn’t happened before, with other gentlemen. Things happen of a sudden, and then plans have to be changed, and what can you do?” The old man fidgeted again, and went on, more anxiously: “This … this murder, though—it’s murder, isn’t it? Man doesn’t stab himself in the neck, either on purpose or on accident. Never seen the like of it, sir, not in all the time I’ve been here. And I never saw nor heard nothing. I waited downstairs until half eleven in case any other gentlemen decided they were in no fit state to go home to the missus after last call at the pubs, and then I went back to me own little flat, upstairs from the staff room, and went to bed. The night attendants will vouch for me, sir.”

  “No one’s accusing you of anything, Cully.”

  It seemed ridiculous to think of Old Faithful as a suspect in a murder, but then it had seemed ridiculous to think of the Britannia as the scene of a murder, too. Unwilling as he was to consider it, Eric had to admit that Old Faithful was a suspect … unless the night attendants really could supply him with an airtight alibi. And why on earth would Old Faithful, permanent fixture as he was, want to injure a member of the club to which he’d devoted his life?

  “I think it’s only a matter of time, sir,” Old Faithful went on, his voice dropping to an anxious whisper. “They’ll know I’ve been down in the vault, too; my fingerprints will be on the vault door. And nobody touches that door but me.” The poor fellow had no idea about the bet.

  “But turning that wheel is your job,” Eric said. “Everyone knows that. I’d be more worried if your fingerprints weren’t on it. If they’re there, it’s really more a sign you’ve got nothing to fear.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  Eric nodded, and felt the tension ease out of the man beside him. Old Faithful had always treated him as a proper member, he thought, never as an interloper. It was something Eric had grown to take for granted, and he reminded himself now to be grateful for the old man’s service.

  The lodging rooms of the Britannia were fairly spartan, each containing a single bed, a washstand, a chest of drawers, and a single chair that had probably seen long years of service in the public rooms below before being retired to the lodging rooms above. Benson’s room had an armchair similar to those in the lounge, though considerably more threadbare; his jacket and waistcoat were flung carelessly over its back, and his necktie lay on the floor beside it. His hat, a grey felt cap better suited to the countryside than to the city, had fallen from the hook behind the door and now lay on the floor against the corner of the door. The bed itself, positioned lengthwise about a foot from the window, was a similarly untidy situation: its covers were heaped up on the near side and practically spilling over onto the floor, as if violently cast aside.

  Eric’s attention was arrested by a photograph lying on top of Benson’s chest of drawers, among the toiletries. This one was a studio portrait of a young woman, a different one from the nurse who’d been the subject of the now-missing photograph from the vault. There was no mistaking the eyes, the cheekbones, or the nose … Eric wanted to say she was Chinese, if only because his mother had been, but she could easily have been Japanese or any of the Far Eastern races. Who was she, and why did Benson have a picture of her on his chest of drawers? Wasn’t he supposed to be married to the “Helen” of the other photograph?

  Could this be the Emily whom Mrs. Aldershott had referred to last night?

  “Peterkin!”

  The hearty slap to the back nearly sent Eric tumbling headlong into the very room he was trying to keep people out of. He caught himself just in time and turned around. “Norris,” he said, recognising the man who was now grinning mischievously at him—and wearing nothing but a towel. Evidently, Patrick Norris had spent the night here too, and had only just stepped out of the bath.

  “Lieutenant Norris, sir!” Old Faithful exclaimed. “You’re not decent!”

  “I don’t think I ever was,” Norris replied with a laugh. “What? We’re all men here; I’m sure you’ve seen worse in the barracks. I know I have.”

  “You’ll catch your death of cold!”

  “Certainly, if you insist on leaving that door open. There’s a nasty draught … Oh, someone’s left the window open, has he? In October, no less …” Here, Norris attempted to enter the room, and both Eric and Old Faithful hauled him back out. Norris turned to them in surprise. “I say! What’s got into the two of you? Such grim expressions you’ve got! You’d think someone died.”

  “There’s been a murder, sir!” Old Faithful burst out.

  Norris’s eyebrows shot up into his damp-tousled curls, and he turned to Eric for confirmation.

  “Albert Benson,” Eric clarified. “He was found in the vault not half an hour ago with a knife in his throat.”

  “I see. Well, that’s one way to ruin a weekend.” Norris’s tone was light, but his expression was anything but. “I reckon I’d better get dressed in a hurry, then. Wouldn’t do to meet the bobbies in the altogether.”

  Eric motioned to Old Faithful to stand guard, and followed Norris as the latter trotted down the corridor to his room. “I take it you spent the night as well, then?” he said, more as a way to tag along than to confirm what he already suspected.

  “I’m between lodgings at the moment. Rather bad luck: it’s no fun being woken up at all hours by people knocking over dustbins outside your window, but this time I’ve got a quiet room, at least.”

  Patrick Norris was the last of the five board officers after Aldershott, Bradshaw, Saxon, and Wolfe. He was a wiry little
terrier of a man built on much the same lines as Eric himself, and with similarly dark colouring. But Norris was of unquestionably Anglo-Saxon descent, and he had the roguish, scruffy charm of an unrepentant ne’er-do-well. This was a different sort of scruffiness from Saxon’s: where Saxon looked as if he simply didn’t care what you or anyone else thought, Norris looked as though he was just so happy to see you that he couldn’t be bothered to quite finish knotting his tie before taking you out for a night on the town.

  “Damned shame about Benson,” Norris muttered as he rubbed his towel vigorously over his wet hair and then carelessly cast it aside. “We were just discussing the fellow’s membership yesterday morning. I’ve been meaning to talk to you as well. I’d like to pick your brains about what it’s like as a … well, you know, living in two worlds as you do. For this stage production I’m collaborating on.” Norris made his living as a musical composer and had garnered a moderate degree of success. His work was largely for the stage, and he often had as much interest in the play itself as in the musical accompaniment. The fashionably Oriental villain of his last collaboration had been suspiciously Eric-like.

  “I’m here nearly every day,” Eric said. “Now seems like an odd time to bring it up.”

  “I know, I know, but I actually just met with my playwright friend yesterday afternoon. This next production is going to be a full-blown opera, Peterkin.” Norris gave a proud wave to the music score pages scattered around the armchair, and promptly lost his cufflinks. “This murder, though. Terrible,” he went on, opting to roll his sleeves up over his forearms instead of hunting under the bed for the missing cufflinks. “Do we know who did it? No? I heard about that bet poor Benson had with Wolfe and Aldershott … I reckon that means Wolfe will be the prime suspect. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Should I shave?”

  “I don’t think there’s any hot water in the jug,” Eric said, peering at the washstand. “And the police will be here by the time you’ve had an attendant fetch some … or fetched some yourself.”

  Norris set his razor aside with an air of regret. “I reckon you’re right. And I reckon a man’s got a right to a certain amount of stubble on a Saturday. Don’t tell Wolfe I said that.” He rummaged around in his chest of drawers and emerged with a silver cigarette case. “I think I’m as presentable now as I need to be. Cigarette?”

  Eric accepted the proffered cigarette, lit it, and, occupied as he was, promptly forgot about it. “Wolfe was with us when we found the body. He seemed as surprised as we were. I don’t know if he’s so good an actor, or if he has quite the bloody cheek to stick around after doing the deed.”

  Norris blew out a smoke ring. “Wolfe’s got plenty of cheek. That’s what I like about the fellow. But I don’t see him doing a murder, not if it means getting blood on his precious shirt cuffs. Depend upon it—it’ll be some burglar whom Benson caught unawares. The blighter struck back, killed him, got cold feet, and did a flit.”

  “How’d he get in the vault, then? We’re supposed to be proof against that sort of thing.”

  “Wolfe found a way. And that, by the way, is a waste of a perfectly good cigarette.”

  Eric looked down in surprise at the tower of ash extending from the filter between his fingers, and quickly disposed of it. Meanwhile, Norris went to open the door, and the soundproofed silence was broken by the tramp of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

  “Here’s the police,” Norris said, “right on schedule. And it looks like we’re in luck. That’s Detective Inspector Horatio Parker himself. They say he’s an absolute wizard at the Yard. Aldershott’s been trying to get him to join since the dawn of time—he’s a Victoria Cross, you know, and Aldershott positively worships that sort of thing—though maybe it’s just as well Parker never took up the offer … Would be a conflict of interest otherwise, wouldn’t you say? Mark my words, with Parker in charge, this whole thing will be over and done in an hour, tops.”

  Horatio Parker?

  Wasn’t that the name on the medical report that had gone missing from Benson’s box?

  The first thing one noticed about Detective Inspector Horatio Parker was the scar that went from cheekbone to temple on the left side of his face, pulling the flesh towards it and shining like silver in the light. Another inch up and it would have blinded him. Eric imagined it might have been a duelling scar, left a little too long before being given medical attention.

  Parker himself was slightly built, his whipcord-thin body lost under the layered fabric of his trench coat and suit, and his untidy dark hair was shot through with grey. Eric guessed him to be just past thirty-five, though there was a haggardness about his cheeks that suggested a much older man. He works too hard, Eric thought. That much was obvious.

  He’d seemed much younger in the now-missing photograph from Benson’s box. Oh yes, Eric recognised him now as one of the patients crowding around the nurse whose birthday it was, though the scar hadn’t been present then.

  Funny that both articles referencing the inspector directly should be the ones to go missing first. Eric had an idea that Detective Inspector Horatio Parker was the last person who should be handling this murder inquiry.

  The inspector pulled out a pocket watch to check the time. The dull brass gleamed like an echo of the scar on his cheek. “Mr. Cully here,” he said, “says it was your idea to guard the dead man’s room and see that no one got in.” Hard eyes scanned Eric from head to toe before boring into his eyes. “Good thinking,” he barked suddenly, in much the same tone as one might say, “Go to hell,” just as Eric opened his mouth to inform him that he might be an interested party.

  “I’ll want to take your statement later,” the inspector said. “For now, I must ask you to wait.” He looked down the corridor to the doors of all the club’s lodging rooms. “Alone, if you don’t mind. It reduces the potential for collusion.”

  He suspects me, Eric thought, and why am I not surprised?

  Not that there was much choice about it. Without waiting for a response, the inspector had turned to enter Benson’s room, and Old Faithful was now apologetically tugging at Eric’s arm to take him to the nearest lodging room. Norris had long since retreated to his own room and locked the door.

  A loud crash from the stairwell interrupted them. It was followed by sounds of a struggle, and a stream of bitter invective. Old Faithful dropped Eric’s arm to stare down the corridor. Eric turned around to address the inspector, but stopped.

  Inside Benson’s room, Inspector Parker had picked up the photograph from Benson’s chest of drawers—the portrait of the Chinese woman—and folded it into quarters.

  He tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.

  Before Eric could say a word, a pair of constables erupted into the corridor with Oliver Saxon, snarling like a savage animal, held tightly between them. Saxon stopped abruptly as Inspector Parker stepped out of Benson’s room and fixed him with a stern glare.

  “We caught this one sneaking in from the back entrance,” one of the constables announced. “Mighty suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

  Saxon glared back at the inspector and spat on the carpet. “You,” he growled. “I might have known it would be you.”

  INTERROGATION

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR HORATIO PARKER quickly determined who all the main players in the drama were, and they were shuffled separately into empty lodging rooms to await their turn to speak with him. Not everyone took this well: Aldershott was very vocal about the indignity of it all, and Saxon’s mood grew blacker than Eric thought possible. Wolfe, accosted in the lounge, simply picked up a magazine and sauntered upstairs with an injunction that they try not to bore him too much.

  Eric was in one of the front rooms, overlooking King Street and the St. James Theatre opposite. The wind hadn’t abated since this morning. Overhead, kites leapt like anxious dogs on long leads at the clouds racing by, while down on street level, the wind plucked at the posters of the St. James Theatre and sent at least one hat scuttering across the p
avement. Eric wanted to lean his head out of the window and hold his face against the fresh blast of air, but found that this window was painted shut. He could only stand in the stifling stillness and watch the restlessness outside, through ancient glass whose slight distortions turned smooth movements into a vaguely drunken weave.

  The leering yellow face on the theatrical posters filled Eric with unease. English society liked to paint the Celestial as subtle, treacherous, and too clever for his own good. It was not a characterisation Eric had to think about much, but now it seemed painfully relevant to his situation. He had no doubt that he’d be the last suspect to be interviewed, if only so Parker could have everyone else’s statements on hand to catch Eric out in a lie.

  I’ll simply have to be very sure of my facts, he thought.

  He cast his mind back to the image of Albert Benson lying dead on the vault floor, and tried to fix in his mind where everything had been.

  The table had been bare but for Benson’s vault box, he remembered, and the box had been empty. Yes, he was very sure of that. And the little door to its compartment had been open, revealing an empty space within. The murderer must have taken the remaining contents of the box away with him. That would be the hypodermic kit, if Wolfe was to be believed. But why would the murderer want that?

  It didn’t look as if the murder had been premeditated. Benson wasn’t even supposed to have been in the club that night: he was supposed to have spent the night as Saxon’s house guest. There were few signs of a struggle, though, implying that the killer had caught Benson by surprise—from behind, no doubt—and the position of the wound therefore indicated a right-handed blow.

  The letter opener had severed at least one of the major blood vessels to the brain, if the spray of blood was any indication. Eric had seen enough to know this. Was it luck or skill? Eric imagined stabbing someone as the murderer must have stabbed Benson. He’d get blood on himself, surely. But it was late October, and he could pull on a coat over his bloody clothes; people on the street might not notice anything at all. Once home, he’d only have to burn the clothes and take a bath …