A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  Sotheby Manor, located near the village of Wexford Crossing, is currently engaged as a war hospital under the direction of Sir Andrew Sotheby. Miss Ang was frequently required to contribute to the nursing work, an addition to her duties that she took on without complaint.

  “You could not ask for a better worker,” says Sir Andrew Sotheby of Miss Ang. “She was exceptionally reliable and dependable. All the household staff liked her. It wasn’t like her to be late for work, much less fail to appear altogether. When we realised that she hadn’t returned to the house after her day off, we knew something had gone terribly wrong.”

  Miss Ang is known to have left Sotheby Manor on the morning of the 20th and taken the motor coach from Wexford Crossing to Chichester, it being her habit to do so on her days off. The stationmaster, Mr. Reginald Stokes, remembers noting her arrival that day.

  “She was the only Chinese lady for miles around,” says Mr. Stokes. “I came to recognise her very well.”

  Miss Ang was last seen in the company of a sinister-looking man driving a green Crossley motor. They had tea at the Hammer and Anvil, a public house near the Chichester train station, where witnesses describe Miss Ang’s companion as growing agitated to the point of violence. They departed together in the man’s car, after a brief argument in which Miss Ang expressed her reluctance to go with him.

  This man is described as being of medium height, between 25 and 35, with dark hair and an unsavoury beard, and dressed very shabbily. Mr. Stokes, the stationmaster, observed that he did not appear to be the sort of person who would own a motorcar, suggesting that the vehicle might have been stolen.

  A white feather had been left at the table after Miss Ang and her companion departed the Hammer and Anvil. White feathers are often distributed by our patriotic ladies to those able-bodied men they meet who, in spite of their duty to the Crown, fail to enlist for the War. It is believed that this man had been presented with the feather prior to his arrival in Chichester.

  Miss Ang is described as between 5´2˝ and 5´4˝, weighing approximately 8 or 9 stone, with black hair, dark eyes, and no distinguishing marks aside from race. She was last seen wearing a dark brown dress with white collar and cuffs, a light-brown coat, a wide-brimmed brown bonnet decorated with a white ribbon, and low-heeled black leather shoes.

  Any further information that might be of use in locating Miss Emily Ang should be reported to the police in Chichester.

  From the Chichester Observer, dated 16 May 1922:

  UNIDENTIFIED SKELETON FOUND IN BRUTON WOOD

  Ramblers in Bruton Wood made a gruesome discovery yesterday of a skeleton in an unmarked, shallow grave several yards from the road.

  Mrs. Winifred Jones, 34, and her daughter Clara, 9, of Singleton, Sussex, had been taking a walk through nearby Bruton Wood and had just stopped to eat their packed lunch. It was Clara who first spotted what turned out to be a human skull, half buried in the dirt where it had been shifted from its resting place by a burrowing animal. Mother and daughter immediately abandoned their lunches and made their way back to their village to report their discovery to the authorities.

  “Clara’s a brave girl,” says Mrs. Jones of her daughter, “but I worry about the effect this grisly experience might have on her.”

  Miss Clara Jones, seemingly unperturbed, only expresses a desire to one day study archaeology.

  The complete skeleton was unearthed near the skull. It bore no identifying marks, nor were any identifiable objects found with it. It is believed to be of a woman in her twenties, no more than 5´4˝ in height. The case has been referred to the Chichester police, who suspect foul play based on the nature of the burial.

  Dr. Timothy Grey, coroner, has been tasked with determining the cause of death, and whether further inquiries should be pursued.

  “It’s early to say, but I believe we will almost certainly have to proceed with murder inquiries,” says Dr. Grey. “The fact that the skeleton was buried at all indicates an outside party, and the lack of personal effects suggests it had been stripped before being buried. I don’t see an innocent explanation for any of this.”

  Dr. Grey assures the public that the Bruton Wood skeleton had almost certainly been in the ground for a significant amount of time, and did not indicate the presence of a homicidal maniac in the area. Any such danger, he says, will have been long gone by now.

  Further developments will be reported as they become known.

  No further developments were reported. Both stories simply vanished into nothing after those inaugural articles, with no sign of any connection being made between them.

  Eric set the two newspapers down in front of him, open to their respective stories, and leaned back in thought. Late-morning light streamed into the Newspaper Reading Room from the windows on Montague Street, and the scent of strong coffee clung to the threadbare jacket of the elderly eccentric at the desk next to him.

  He had an idea that the man in the green Crossley might be Saxon. He already knew, from matching Saxon’s handwriting to the notepaper scraps taken from Emily Ang’s personnel file, that Saxon had been at Sotheby Manor that day. And he remembered from Benson’s funeral that Saxon drove a green Crossley. Saxon had to have served to qualify for membership at the Britannia, but the evidence about the white feather could probably be discounted: there were countless soldiers who, being home on leave and in their civvies, had been presented with white feathers on the mistaken assumption that they were contributing nothing to the British war effort. Eric himself never had that trouble, as he looked too much like a foreigner for the white feather brigade to care.

  If the man in the green Crossley was, in fact, Saxon, then it was suspicious that he never came forward afterwards.

  The Bruton Wood skeleton, meanwhile, was interesting as much for what hadn’t been said as for what had. How could there have been no further developments, given the coroner’s suspicions? Perhaps the coroner was embarrassed to admit suspecting the worst. But Eric was sensing a pattern of silence and suppressed news here. It wasn’t just about these two articles: there was also the story of Joseph Davis, and all those “accidental” shootings that Bradshaw had effectively confessed to keeping quiet. It was suggestive. And one wondered why anyone would want to keep the news around the Bruton Wood skeleton quiet, if it really were innocent.

  And what had happened to the Bruton Wood skeleton in the end? It seemed to Eric that a visit to the coroner, Dr. Timothy Grey, might be in order. But first, there was the invitation to dine with the Aldershotts. Eric knew that Bradshaw would not be in attendance, but Saxon might; and it might be worthwhile to see what Saxon thought of the whole matter.

  DINNER, I SUSPECT

  MARTHA ALDERSHOTT STOOD among the potted ferns of her drawing room in an Egyptian-inspired silk sheath that floated across her curves with subtle flattery. A cluster of red poppies was pinned to one shoulder strap of her gown—real, on closer inspection, though Eric thought poppies would have stopped blooming by this time of the year. She was the one stab of colour in a forest of black ties and evening jackets; the guest list for tonight’s dinner party included only the other board officers of the Britannia Club and Eric himself, though Eric knew already that Bradshaw had turned down his invitation.

  “My dear Mr. Peterkin,” Mrs. Aldershott said, coming forward to welcome Eric, “what a pleasure to see you! I notice you’ve got yourself one of the Haig Fund poppies for your lapel.”

  Behind her, Edward Aldershott’s stony posture cracked to nod in silent approval, and Eric sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d stopped to ask around about the Aldershotts’ dinner party habits. The Aldershotts, he’d been told, were very active supporters of the Haig Fund for ex-servicemen, and had once got Lord Haig himself to speak for the charity at another such dinner. With Armistice Day approaching, it seemed only wise to wear a poppy for the occasion.

  As Mrs. Aldershott went to mix him a gin and tonic, Eric took in his surroundings. The drawing room was Victorian in its decor, with
green-and-gold wallpaper matching the upholstery on the dark, heavy furniture. The curtains, also dark and heavy, had been drawn against what was promising to be a clammy pea-souper night—the affluence of Mayfair and Marble Arch were no proof against the fog—and the effect was claustrophobic. A highly polished piano stood in one corner, and one of the British Broadcasting Company’s wireless receivers was tucked into a corner behind it. A phonograph filled the room with strains of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, a modern piece recorded only a few months earlier and quite out of keeping with the generally stifling, staid environment. To Eric, the music was something of a breath of fresh air, much as Mrs. Aldershott’s graceful lines were in the midst of all these stiff-suited men.

  Wolfe and Saxon were already present, staying as far away from each other as possible. Wolfe was nursing a mixed drink of some sort, and was as impeccably turned out as always. Saxon’s suit was unmistakably expensive; but he’d managed to absently tug his bow tie apart, and there was a splash of lemonade on his lapel from the glass in his hand.

  Norris arrived right on Eric’s heels. He looked around at the distinct lack of feminine presence with an expression of growing disappointment. “This is looking like much less fun than I anticipated,” he whispered to Eric. Having spent the afternoon with Penny Peterkin, Norris evidently thought he was now the best of chums with her brother.

  “It’s something to do with Benson’s murder,” Eric replied. “That’s the only reason I can see to bring us all together outside of the club. I only wonder what Aldershott wants.”

  “I suppose he expects to settle the matter without involving the authorities. Bradshaw may be rubbing off on him more than I thought.”

  Bradshaw did seem like the expert at keeping things quiet, didn’t he? It made him the perfect accomplice.

  “We really should conduct club business here more often,” Aldershott said as he brought Norris his aperitif. “It would save me the trouble of leaving the house, and I could kick you all out when things don’t go my way.”

  “I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace,” Mrs. Aldershott said.

  “And our meetings wouldn’t last five minutes.” Norris chuckled. “We all know that would make you miserable.”

  Before Aldershott could respond to Norris, Saxon interjected. “You’re up to something, Aldershott. Is this to do with Bradshaw?”

  “Bradshaw wouldn’t come.” Aldershott pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “I was hoping to get together everyone who was involved in this dreadful business—the murder, I mean. Best thing we can do right now is band together, I say.”

  Had Aldershott just drawn a circle around the possible suspects? This sounded like a declaration that the murderer was likely in the room right now.

  “If you’re looking for everyone affected by this, then we’re also missing Old Faithful,” Norris pointed out. “As well as the two night attendants and Inspector Parker.”

  “Faugh, we don’t need them, and we especially don’t need Parker. This is not a police inquiry. Nothing said here needs to go any further than this room.” Here Aldershott gave everyone a stern look, his gaze settling especially on Eric.

  Mrs. Aldershott rolled her eyes. “You men and your games,” she muttered.

  Eric wondered if she fully understood the implications of what her husband had just done. Saxon had stopped in mid-sip of his lemonade to shoot wary looks all around, and even Norris was looking more sober than usual.

  But Wolfe seemed to take it more as a joke. He said, “Are we to be a miniature League of Nations, then, with all sorts of silly rules to keep us from coming to blows? Dibs on Great Britain, and I expect Peterkin here will be Japan. Here, we ought to take some sort of oath.” He lifted his cocktail. “As this gin is my witness, I didn’t end the poor bugger. Of course, I haven’t an alibi, so you’ll just have to take my word for it as a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman!” Norris exclaimed, encouraged by Wolfe’s jocularity. “Where does that leave a poor scoundrel like me?”

  “On the scene, the suspect who’s too obvious to have actually done it.” Wolfe rounded on Mrs. Aldershott. “Where were you, madam, on the night of Friday, the twenty-fourth of October?”

  “Wolfe!” Aldershott barked, but his wife only laughed.

  “I was waiting for my dear husband to get home,” she said. “All those papers he ships over to the club for the week have to be shipped back to his actual office sometime, or so he tells me. If he has a better alibi than that, I’ll scratch her eyes out.”

  “I was home alone,” Eric said quickly, before Aldershott could protest and derail the explication of alibis. “What about you, Saxon?”

  “Home alone too,” Saxon grunted. His focus was on Aldershott. “This is all very convenient for you, isn’t it? Keys to the place, combination to the vault … Benson stabbed with your letter opener. Seems to me you’re the one with the most to gain from settling this quietly.”

  Aldershott’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Eric thought he was about to throw his drink at Saxon. But Aldershott just drained his glass and said, “That proves nothing. Rather the reverse, in fact: as if I’d use something of my own to commit murder! If I were to attempt such a thing, I’d have the sense to use something that didn’t point right back to me.”

  “There is such a thing as a double bluff,” said Norris with a mischievous smile. “In which case, I’d say Wolfe here is our man. Do you remember? Face-to-face with a German patrol, outnumbered and carrying a half-dead mate between us, no less. And you, bold as brass, snarling that we were German stretcher-bearers, wearing British uniforms we’d taken from the English dead because it was the only way to get close enough to the British line to retrieve the German dead. What was it you said? ‘If I really were English, would I be coming up to you in an English uniform? Idiot! I would be a spy and I would be wearing a German uniform!’” Norris laughed. “I’m still amazed that they believed you!”

  Wolfe said, “Of course they did. My German is flawless, whereas your accent is execrable and your vocabulary somewhere beneath that of a kleinkind. Had you tried to speak up, we’d have been gunned down on the spot.”

  There was a chorus of chuckles, and some of the tension ebbed from the room. Aldershott pounced on the opportunity and said, “I’m not accusing anyone here. Ten to one, it was some burglar Benson surprised—my office was broken into, remember? My point is, this is going to get harder for all of us before it gets easier. Not a single one of us here has a proper alibi. We’re each going to come under suspicion, and when that happens, we had better know whom we can count on. Do you understand?”

  As the others hesitated, Mrs. Aldershott clapped her hands. “Very well said. Now, gentlemen, we had better sit down to dinner before Cook has my head for letting it go cold.”

  They finished their cocktails, but Eric noted that Saxon was still darting wary looks at the others. Aldershott’s suggestion of an outsider might have been enough for some, but at least one person in the room understood all too well that it wasn’t over yet.

  The dining room was an equally Victorian chamber even more crowded with potted ferns, with the same heavy green-and-gold drapes to shut out the world. Its only concession to modernity was the electric chandelier. Aldershott took his place at one end of the table, looking for all the world like the chairman of a board meeting, with his wife at the other end. Saxon sat at Mrs. Aldershott’s left, and Wolfe at her right. Eric found himself seated next to Wolfe, with Norris directly across from him. That put Saxon diagonally across the table from him, just visible over the top of the overflowing bowl of poppies that was the table centrepiece.

  As the soup was served, Norris looked from Mrs. Aldershott to the centrepiece and back. “Poppies!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea you were so fond of poppies, though I fancy our friend Peterkin must have had some inkling. Had I known, I’d have picked up one of the Haig Fund’s poppies as well.”

  “Artificial flowers.” Wolfe sniffed. “Hardly the mark
of a gentleman.” He glanced over at Eric and added, “I understand that in certain cultures, however, the colour red is considered highly auspicious.”

  “I hope you’ll wear one in your lapel for Armistice Day, at least,” Aldershott said, his tone sharp. In this matter, he was taking Eric’s side over Wolfe’s.

  Eric, meanwhile, considered his soup. It was a thick cream of mushroom, mildly flavoured. If it were poisoned, he found himself thinking, there would be little to mask the taste.

  “I think the poppy is remarkable as a symbol,” Mrs. Aldershott was saying. “It started with a Canadian poem, which was answered by an American, which then inspired the French, and ended with Lord Haig adopting it for the Haig Fund. It’s as if the whole world were drawn together behind the poppy and what it means to remember.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Wolfe, “but some of us would prefer to forget.”

  This earned a very sharp glare from Aldershott and an exclamation of dismay from his wife. Eric could see that Norris seemed torn—did he, too, prefer to forget?—while Saxon obliviously slurped at his soup.

  “I don’t say that it’s pleasant to remember,” Mrs. Aldershott said, drawing herself up. Eric could see that, as a military nurse handling crises on an hourly basis, she must have been a force to be reckoned with. “I mean that remembering the past helps us to recognise where we went wrong and avoid repeating our mistakes. Of course, I don’t want to relive any of it! When I think back on it, all those wounded, all those rows of cots filled with men who’d been gassed—”

  “Martha!” Aldershott might approve of remembrance as an intellectual concept, but it seemed he had no taste for remembering the gruesome details himself.

  “You of all people know how awful it was,” said Mrs. Aldershott with an air of understatement. Her husband glared at her.

  “We all knew what we were getting into,” Wolfe said. His tone was studied nonchalance, but Eric noted that he was carefully avoiding looking anyone in the eye. “No one joins the Army without being aware of the risks.”