A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  Aldershott had gone white with anger. He’d been too shocked and angry to interrupt Eric’s speech, but he found his tongue now. “I think you should leave now, Peterkin,” he said, keeping his voice steady with some effort. “Leave before I have you thrown out.”

  “Were you wearing gloves that night, Aldershott?”

  Aldershott said nothing, but reached for the bell pull that would summon the butler.

  “I think you weren’t wearing gloves that night. Why should you? You weren’t there to commit murder, and you cannot have expected the door would be dusted for fingerprints. But it does mean that your fingerprints are in fact all over the door wheel. Even if the police have identified those prints as yours, they probably haven’t attached much importance to the fact. You’re the club president, and you have the combination by right. Your fingerprints should be all over the place. But how many people go down to the vault unattended by Old Faithful? Except for Bradshaw, who changes the vault combination from time to time, no one lays a hand on the vault door but Old Faithful himself. Everyone else waits while it’s opened for them.”

  Aldershott gave the bell pull a vicious yank. Eric thought he could hear the bell jangling all the way from the servants’ hall.

  “I just want to know about those two items,” Eric said quickly. “The photograph of Helen Sotheby’s birthday party and the medical report for that scar on Inspector Parker’s face. What have they to do with each other, and why did you leave the other items—the surgical scissors and the hypodermic kit?”

  “We’re done here, Peterkin. Or more precisely, you’re done. I’m having you thrown out of the Britannia Club so hard, your sorry yellow arse will bounce off the pavement.”

  The door cracked open to admit the butler, and Eric reflected that this hadn’t quite gone as planned. He was sure he’d deduced the truth, but it took a little bit more than that to shock anything out of Aldershott, it seemed.

  “That’s all right,” Eric said, moving away from the butler. “I can find my own way out.”

  “Good-bye, Peterkin.”

  Eric didn’t protest as the butler took him by the elbow and firmly propelled him out of the study.

  He was just being shown the door when Mrs. Aldershott, coming down the stairs, hailed him. In her habitually sober everyday clothes, she looked at first glance like a no-nonsense governess or schoolmistress, but she was smiling in equal parts welcome and amusement.

  “You’ve been speaking with my husband,” she said. “Let me guess: it was an unmitigated disaster. Was it about Emily?”

  Eric tried to collect himself. “In a way.”

  Mrs. Aldershott let out an indulgent huff and dismissed the butler. She drew Eric into the drawing room just in time to avoid being seen by Aldershott, who stormed through the hall and slammed out of the house. She said, “I haven’t had much opportunity to question him about it since last night, and he’s been more obstinate than usual. It makes me almost wonder if he were involved in some fashion.”

  She said it as though she thought the idea preposterous, but Eric had no doubt whatsoever that Aldershott was involved. “I think it is a little early to be expressing my suspicions, ma’am.”

  “Because I’m his wife, no doubt, and it might cause irreparable damage to our marriage! I’m made of sterner stuff than that, I hope. Edward likes to kick up a fuss about every little thing, but there’s not much bite to him in the end. Underneath that prickly, standoffish facade, he really cares almost too deeply about people.”

  He did seem to care enough for Norris, and Eric recalled what he’d learnt earlier this morning about the club’s secret practice of offering lodging to ex-servicemen on the street. Eric could believe it. “He hides it very well.”

  “Oh, it’s absolutely true. There’s not a day goes by without him worrying about what the Britannia Club is doing for its shell-shocked members. All he ever reads is literature by very learned men about the nature of shell shock, or war neuroses, or whatever they’re calling it these days.”

  They were back in the entrance hall now, and Eric noticed that, indeed, there were two new books sitting on the hall table. “Shell Shock and Its Lessons,” he read. “Bradshaw has a copy of this. I saw it in his office Saturday morning.”

  “That would be Edward’s old copy. He’s been trying to get Bradshaw interested.”

  The second book was Psycho-Analysis and the War Neuroses. Eric flipped it open. “Karl Abraham and Sandor Ferenczi. This one has an introduction by Sigmund Freud—I’ve heard of him …”

  “It’s really quite fascinating, this study of the war neuroses, or however you want to call it. War strain, battle fatigue … Edward prefers to call it shell shock, but, well, leave it to a soldier to define everything in terms of war—”

  “How clinical.” So they were calling it a madness now. People did talk about shell-shocked soldiers going a little mad, but now it was official. Eric felt his hackles rise.

  “Edward says the primary function of the Britannia Club is to provide a safe place for affected ex-servicemen to gather. He’s a firm believer in the benefits of camaraderie in the face of crisis.”

  “The gentlemen of the Britannia are perfectly sane,” Eric snapped. “I know a lot of us haven’t been able to look at fireworks the same way since the War, but that’s just the way of things. We’re not mad.”

  “Nobody says you are.”

  Eric hefted the second book in his hand and brushed a finger over the title. “You’ve got doctors who specialise in madmen calling this a ‘neurosis.’ How else should I take it?”

  His little flashes of unbidden memories were not a neurosis.

  “But you do admit that something has changed. It doesn’t matter what people call it: the fact remains that, since the War, some people have terrible nightmares, some people have difficulty adjusting to peace, some people react badly to loud, sudden noises … They’re sane in all the ways that matter, Mr. Peterkin, but has no one ever jumped on you to protect you from a Christmas cracker?”

  “Oh, Wolfe.” Of course, last night’s slip must have also occurred elsewhere and in other contexts. “Wolfe has things under control. It isn’t a … a neurosis; it’s simply the way he’s been trained to handle things. The man holds himself so steady all the time, I reckon he’s allowed an odd quirk or two.”

  Mrs. Aldershott shook her head. “I was thinking of someone else. It doesn’t matter whom I meant, but it just goes to show that it’s hardly exceptional. And I’m not surprised to hear about Mr. Wolfe. He pretends to be so utterly unflappable, but really he’s just doing his best to put a brave face on things. I have it on good authority that once, while he was lodging at the Britannia, he spent half the night cowering under the bed because someone had upset a dustbin under his window.”

  Eric winced. He really should have been more careful and circumspect. Now he’d gone and given Wolfe away, and the man would hardly thank him for it.

  Mrs. Aldershott continued. “He feels this need to keep everything under control at all times. Of course, he was a touch demanding even before the War, but my understanding of it is that the War made him absolutely unbearable. Meanwhile, other men have sought comfort in their excesses—drink, or drugs, or … or other vices.”

  Wolfe’s self-control had fooled Eric, at least until last night. Before that, Eric would have called Wolfe one of the sanest men he knew.

  Eric tossed the book back onto the hall table. There seemed to be little else to say about it. “‘We’re all mad here,’” he quoted sarcastically.

  “We are.”

  Eric looked up. Mrs. Aldershott’s expression was serious.

  “Mr. Peterkin,” she said, “did you wonder, at dinner last night, why there’s no mustard in our cruet? It’s because neither Edward nor I can abide it. It sets us to remembering things we don’t care to relive. You must know that Edward survived a mustard gas attack, and he was lucky to do so. Many of the men who’d been with him died of it, days afterwards, and i
t haunts him terribly. And I remember those cots, all those men who could bravely endure bullet wounds and shrapnel and broken bones in silence, all of them wailing and crying … and me not being able to do anything about it except wash their boils and eyes, and hope … One whiff of ordinary table mustard and I’m there all over again. Does this make us mad, Mr. Peterkin?”

  Eric laid a hand on her arm, and she shook herself, clearing her head. He didn’t want to call it madness, but it wasn’t quite normal, either, and Mrs. Aldershott made it sound like the brink of insanity. And it sounded uncomfortably similar to his own unpleasant memories, rising unbidden in moments of stress. They were not a neurosis, he told himself again, but with somewhat less conviction than before.

  Perhaps they weren’t. That didn’t mean they weren’t there. And if both the Aldershotts had had the same sort of experience—if Wolfe’s reactions to loud noises were the same sort of thing, and if even Norris had had trouble coping—then he was not alone.

  He was not alone.

  “I had better go,” he said quietly. “There’s a man I need to see in Chichester before the day is out.” He was thinking of Dr. Timothy Grey, the coroner who’d examined the Bruton Wood skeleton. Eric didn’t want to interrupt him at work, nor did he want to intrude on him on a Sunday. That left today, Saturday afternoon, as his one chance for a visit.

  “Is it about Emily?”

  Eric nodded.

  “Then you had better go. Tell me whatever you’ve learnt, when you’re done.”

  Eric returned to the street, giving it a cautious scan for hidden gunmen before heading down in the direction of the parking garage where the family Vauxhall was stashed. He was thinking of his men in the light of what Mrs. Aldershott had said. It was easy to see that one or two had been affected by the War in some way, but most had seemed normal enough. He thought it unlikely that they’d all been affected, but it seemed just as unlikely that none of them had. One maintained a stiff upper lip, and this sangfroid let one carry on while all around were collapsing in hysterics; but that didn’t mean one wasn’t possessed of human emotion.

  Eric was halfway to his destination when a dark grey Austin pulled up beside him.

  “Mr. Peterkin!”

  “Mrs. Aldershott?”

  Mrs. Aldershott was indeed driving the motorcar. She beckoned for him to get in, and he did. “I assume,” she said, “if you’re going to Chichester that you’re headed for Victoria Station. But if so, you’re walking in the wrong direction.”

  Eric shook his head and gave the address of his parking garage. “I’d rather motor down,” he said, looking around the Austin. It was a pre-War model, but very well maintained. “Of course, I shan’t expect you to take me all the way there. Doesn’t this model of motorcar use a hand crank to start?”

  “Which makes it therefore an unladylike choice?” The hand crank had a tendency to break its operator’s wrist. “I’m not so delicate as that, I assure you. Edward’s had this since before the War, and he doesn’t like to discard anything. It’s still a perfectly decent motor, hand crank or not.”

  “Well, I thank you for the ride.”

  “Think nothing of it.” She paused to negotiate a corner, then said, “Listen, Mr. Peterkin. I think I’ve said already how much I want to know about what happened to Emily. I’d always assumed that the police had already done everything possible, and I didn’t think an outside inquiry would yield much more. Certainly, the newspapers didn’t have anything to say. But it occurred to me, just after you left, that if you’ve connected her disappearance to Benson’s murder, then you’ve got a lot further than anyone ever did. So, if there’s anything I can do to help you along, I’ll do it.”

  “Your husband doesn’t seem amenable to that.”

  “Edward can go jump in the lake. It’s not his sister we’re talking about.” There was that brisk, businesslike ruthlessness that carried Mrs. Aldershott past the attendants at the Britannia and, no doubt, many a blustering general during the War. “I was technically Emily’s next of kin, you know, at least as far as the English authorities were concerned. All her things were passed on to me after the police were done with them. I’ve had a look over them from time to time, but nothing’s stood out for me. Perhaps you’ll see something there that I’ve missed.”

  Eric turned to her and broke into a broad grin. “That would be a godsend, Mrs. Aldershott. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Oh, I’m just doing this for my own satisfaction, believe me. I’ll let you have today for whatever errands you have in Chichester. But tomorrow evening, I’ll come find you at the Britannia Club and we’ll go over Emily’s things together.”

  “No, not the Britannia.” Word would get back to Aldershott if his wife were to seek Eric out at the club; and after their earlier interview, Eric didn’t want another confrontation just yet. “Do you know of the Arabica coffeehouse, near Soho Square? Meet me there. I’ll be in the booth right at the back.”

  It was a date. Mrs. Aldershott dropped Eric off in front of his parking garage, then set off for home while Eric turned his sights on Chichester and the Bruton Wood skeleton.

  EXIT THE HIGH PRIESTESS

  DR. TIMOTHY GREY was a big man, over six feet tall and a solidly built nineteen stone. His craggy features were terraced by a short white beard, and wisps of white hair floated across a mottled pink forehead. He was newly retired, and enjoying the prospect of never having to conduct another inquest again. Eric found him at the Green Elephant inn, right next to the Chichester train station, after having spent an hour trying to look him up at his home address.

  Chichester was something of a central hub for the surrounding villages, with an ancient cathedral and a direct line to London. On this Saturday afternoon, the streets swelled with men and women searching the stores for the more specialised items that they couldn’t find at home. The Green Elephant’s maze of low-ceilinged, half-timbered public rooms was already busy with people looking for a bit of relaxation after a long week, and no doubt the rooms upstairs were full of commercial travellers preparing to either move in or move on.

  Dr. Grey was banging out a tune on a standing piano as a gang of rowdy locals joined in song. His own voice was a booming bass that more than carried the room.

  “What’s the use of worrying?

  It never was worthwhile!

  Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag;

  And smile, smile, smile!”

  Eric waited until they were done before cutting in to get the former coroner’s attention and drag him from the piano room to a more discreet corner of the inn.

  When he wasn’t singing, Dr. Grey’s voice was a deep rumble. He looked down at Eric’s card, then up again. “Peterkin, you say? Of the Peking Peterkins?”

  “I’m not aware of any family out that way, but—”

  “It’s a joke. I meant that you don’t look much like the sort of person to be called Peterkin. You look more like a … Sheringham.”

  Eric blinked.

  “That’s another joke.” Dr. Grey chuckled and handed the card back. “What can I do for you?”

  Eric signalled for two pints of beer to be brought to their table, then turned to Dr. Grey and said, “I wanted to ask you about the Bruton Wood skeleton. You examined it when it was first unearthed, I believe.” When Dr. Grey shook his head in doubt, Eric added, “It was a woman’s skeleton, described as under five foot four? Discovered by a mother-and-daughter pair from Singleton? They’d stopped to eat a packed lunch.”

  Dr. Grey’s brow finally cleared. “Oh, that.” His sigh was another deep rumble. “There’s nothing to tell. I told the Observer that it would likely lead to a murder inquiry, but decided in the end that it was not worth pursuing.”

  “Why not?”

  Dr. Grey shrugged. Their beers arrived, and he took a moment to pull at his before wiping his mouth and saying, “There was nothing to identify her, and she’d been in the ground for too long. The medical examiner and I did as much as we c
ould, but there seemed to be no reason to go on. And the papers, thank goodness, didn’t seem interested in pursuing it either, or I’d have looked like quite the fool.”

  “Can you tell me anything more? I mean, could you tell the cause of death? How was she lying? Were there really no personal effects to be found?”

  “One thing at a time, Mr. Peterkin!” Dr. Grey chuckled. “My goodness, you really are interested … but might I ask why?”

  “Oh, it’s … for a book.” Eric took out his other card, which showed his work affiliation rather than his club. “Research, you see.”

  Dr. Grey examined the card doubtfully. “Looming Press? I’ve seen some of their books. Whoever picks their literature needs to be shot.” He took another pull of his beer as he considered Eric’s question. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Well, it’s no matter to me. Honestly, it’s nice to talk about an unsolved mystery sometimes.”

  “You must see a lot of those,” Eric said.

  Dr. Grey let out a booming laugh. “You’d never believe some of the things I’ve had to deal with! The Bruton Wood skeleton, now, let me tell you …” The former coroner’s speech took on a more modulated tone as he dropped back into reminiscence. “First of all, there were no personal effects around the body. We did find a few linen scraps that hadn’t completely decomposed yet. The distribution seemed to indicate a very large sheet of material—a bedsheet or a tablecloth, perhaps. I think she’d been wrapped in it when she’d been buried. Her legs were straight, her hands were crossed over her chest, and she was lying on her back—the usual attitude of a corpse laid out in a coffin.”

  “There’d been some gesture towards a respectful burial, you mean?” Eric pictured the scene: A man was digging the grave in the middle of the night. There was no time for a proper six feet, so a shallow scrape would have to do. The man lifted Emily’s body in his arms and carefully deposited her into the grave. Her weight and the relative depth of the grave made it awkward … No, he lay her flat on the ground at the head of the grave, then took her by the ankles and dragged her in. Or did he have help?