A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  The door opened suddenly behind Eric, snapping him out of his reverie. He turned and nearly fell over a rotund little Roman Catholic priest, who peered up at him as though thoroughly befuddled by the encounter.

  “My apologies,” Eric said, moving to let the cleric pass. “My fault for lingering in doorways!”

  “We often dwell too much on our perceived faults, I find,” the priest said, before offering his own apologies and wandering off down the street.

  Eric went inside. For some reason, he found himself thinking of Parker kneeling in his pew while the congregation at Benson’s funeral trooped down for Communion.

  Norris had been installed in the upstairs front room, in a comfortable armchair by the window overlooking the street. Filgrave had wrapped him up in a tartan blanket so that only his head and right hand were visible. His natural buoyancy hadn’t quite returned; he looked barely animate—a broken toy soldier, Eric thought, remembering Bradshaw’s words. Norris looked up and attempted a smile that quickly resolved back into a tired, irritable pout.

  “I’ve you to thank for my present predicament,” he said. “I ought to be grateful, or so I’m told. I hope you won’t mind waiting for my thanks.”

  “How are you feeling, Norris?” Eric asked politely.

  “Lousy. You know that perfectly well.” Norris blew his nose on a sodden handkerchief and scowled at it. “Come back tomorrow. Or next week. I’m no fun right now.”

  If Emily’s photograph of Norris was a picture of the rightness of things, the reality now was of the wrongness. Norris looked defeated. His shoulders slumped under the blanket, and his nose was red. He was barely recognisable as the cheerful rogue of one week ago who’d accosted Eric in the corridor wearing only a towel.

  As he had with Bradshaw, Eric tried to picture the other faces of Norris. Norris the soldier, firing a pistol—the “Red 9” he remembered from Aldershott’s study—into an enemy back. Norris the soldier was a bold fellow, swift to seize opportunities as they arose. Pragmatic, too, not shying from making an attack from behind. Eric imagined Benson sliding to the floor to reveal Norris standing behind him with the letter opener, blood splashed like the mud of Flanders across his sleeve and face. His expression was both grim and regretful: he’d only done what he had to do.

  “What on earth are you looking at?” Norris said. “I’ll bet there’s something on my nose. There’s always something on my nose.” He blew it again. “You don’t have to be so rude about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eric said, blinking away the bloodied letter opener and the smoking Mauser. Norris, still bundled up with one hand tucked under the blanket, stared at him unhappily. “I was just wondering—” Eric began.

  “What your sister sees in me? I wonder that myself.”

  Eric pulled up another chair and sat down, facing Norris with the light from the window spilling out between them. “We need to talk.”

  Norris rolled his eyes. “All right, Peterkin. If you really must. But get me a glass of something strong first. Your doctor friend must have a bottle of whisky stashed around here somewhere.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise, Norris.”

  “At this point, I’d drink rubbing alcohol,” Norris muttered. He frowned at Eric, and then the words poured out. “I expect you must know the whole story by now—my so-called Italian tour and everything. But you do also know I never really intended to get back on the dope, don’t you? I don’t know why I suggested going to Brolly’s that night. Tempting fate, I suppose. I wound up spending all the next morning on one of Breuleux’s mattresses getting … reacquainted, and almost missed the appointment to meet Penny that afternoon. I wonder that she never noticed.”

  Eric stared at him, then sighed. “I was afraid of that,” he murmured.

  “That was the whole morning wasted,” Norris continued earnestly. “I practically ran back to the Britannia to splash some water on myself and put on something decent for Penny. Old Faithful must have thought I’d spent the night with some lady friend—”

  Eric held up a hand. He didn’t want to hear any more.

  “I realise I’m not much of a catch.”

  Eric turned his back on Norris’s pitiful expression and leaned against the window, staring out into the street, where the schoolchildren of Lambeth were trooping back into their houses after a day of lessons. One or two had already been ejected again, to spend the last remaining hour or two of daylight out from under their mothers’ feet.

  “So what happens now?” Eric asked.

  “Aldershott will probably think of something,” Norris replied. “He always does. A sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, perhaps. That would be fun. Or look for a miracle at Lourdes—less fun, but for the French food and French ’demoiselles. It won’t be the same, though. Strangers. Foreigners. I’ll miss Benson, no doubt about it. I wonder if you understand what his murder did to me, Peterkin.”

  Eric looked around at Norris, who had his face buried in his handkerchief again. He hadn’t shown much distress at Benson’s death when it was first discovered, Eric thought. But then Eric himself had been dry-eyed at his father’s funeral. Each in their own way was as much a master of the stiff upper lip as Wolfe.

  “Tell me something, Norris,” Eric said, pushing himself away from the window. “Saxon said you were helping Benson look into the matter of Emily Ang. What happened there? What do you know about his investigation?”

  Norris made a face. “Straight to business, is it? You really are a bore. I can’t imagine how a girl like Penny could be your sister. One of you must be adopted.”

  “Norris. I’ve had a rough few days. Don’t make me take it out on you.”

  “Your doctor friend’s whisky,” Norris said firmly. “Or whatever else he’s got that’s like it. Get it. Now.”

  “Fine.”

  Eric felt Norris’s eyes burning into his back as he left, and he pictured the Mauser beneath the tartan blanket. But no shots came, and Norris’s eyes lit up with unholy delight as Eric returned with the bottle and a pair of glasses. Eric poured out a measure for Norris and thrust it into his hand.

  “Ah,” sighed Norris after a sip. “It’s the cheap stuff, but that’s where you get the heartbeat of the street, eh? The drink of the common people, Peterkin—sometimes it’s sweeter than champagne.”

  “I didn’t think you were a socialist, Norris.”

  “God, no. I just love the poetry of the idea.” Norris swallowed the rest of his glass and held it up for more.

  Eric held back the bottle and said, “You were going to tell me what you knew about Benson’s investigation.”

  “Was I? There’s actually not much to tell. Benson spoke to me first because we’d just spent three months under the same roof, and he thought he knew me best. He had an idea about claiming a skeleton somewhere that he thought was Emily. He didn’t want Bradshaw’s help, so I introduced him to Saxon instead and left them to it.”

  Eric poured another measure. “Why Saxon?”

  “Why not?” A mischievous smile broke across Norris’s face, and he almost looked his old self again. “Saxon’s got all sorts of advantages he never thinks about, and he was Emily’s cousin, besides. I thought it would be funny to take him out of himself for a bit. Give him something to think about that wasn’t a dusty old thing by Cicero and an apple core.”

  “I begged this bottle off old Filgrave for that?”

  Norris shrugged. “On the bright side, now you have whisky.”

  Eric poured out a measure for himself and knocked it back. When Norris held out his glass again, Eric shook his head. “You still owe me, Norris. So tell me something else: Why hasn’t anyone mentioned that Parker was a sergeant in the same regiment where you, Aldershott, and Wolfe were officers?”

  “How would I know? It just hasn’t come up in conversation. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know why Aldershott and Wolfe would keep mum. Now give.”

  “Bother Aldershott and
Wolfe. Why haven’t you mentioned it? He was a major part of that story you told at Aldershott’s dinner party—”

  “The hell he was!” Norris snapped. “I just wanted to show you all what a brilliant liar Wolfe can be when he puts his mind to it. Parker didn’t come into it at all. Life’s too short to remember the miserable pieces of the past, Peterkin. I choose to remember the happy, funny parts, and Parker wasn’t one of them.”

  It didn’t look as though Norris was remembering anything happy right now. Eric poured him another tot of whisky, and the momentary irritability faded again. The whisky brought colour back to his cheeks. He’d been popular with the nurses, Eric remembered.

  Eric imagined Norris by the window again, this time meeting Emily Ang—a dashing soldier and an angelic nurse—and their hands clasping as they smiled into each other’s eyes. Then later, Norris slipping into the dispensary to help himself to the morphine, overhearing the conversation between Saxon and Emily, realising that a pregnant Emily couldn’t be so easily discarded—not with the Saxons of Bufferin behind her—and seizing the opportunity to be rid of her, just as he’d seized the opportunity to be rid of the German soldiers barring his way back to the British line.

  “One last question, Norris. Were you and Emily Ang lovers?”

  Norris choked on his whisky and fell into a coughing fit. Eric started forward to catch Norris’s expression, but his eyes were screwed shut with the effort of recovery. Eric wondered if the fit was real or just a helpful prelude to further prevarication.

  “Good heavens, Eric! Are you trying to murder him?”

  Penny’s voice cut through Norris’s coughs with the clarity of a church bell, and Eric looked up in surprise. She was the last person he’d expected to see, but there she was in the doorway: pink cloche hat, red cardigan, grey pleated skirt, as neat as any military nurse. She kicked the door shut behind her and marched over with a sense of purpose that reminded Eric of Mrs. Aldershott brushing past the Britannia Club attendants, and began rubbing Norris’s back.

  “What are you doing here?” Eric asked her. “I thought you were going straight home after the Cambridge weekend party!”

  “Filgrave sent me a wire. It got to me this morning just as I was about to set out for the station.”

  Norris, mostly recovered by now, said, “Thank goodness you’re here, Penny. It’s been just awful. Your brother’s a monster. He’s tried to shoot me in the head three times already. Thankfully, I have no brains to speak of.”

  “You are a ridiculous man,” Penny told him. Their hands clasped as they smiled into each other’s eyes. Then Penny straightened up, took off her cloche hat, and shook out her curls. “All right,” she said. “I’m here. Now, what’s the problem exactly? The message just said that Patch was here and I should come.”

  “Filgrave’s blown things out of proportion,” Eric said quickly. He glanced back at Norris, and his eye fell on the sodden handkerchief in his hand. “Norris has a nasty case of the flu, that’s all.”

  “Ah, your brother’s being a gentleman,” Norris said, before Penny could express her disbelief. “In fact, he’s just rescued me from a ghastly opium den. I’m damaged goods, I’m afraid—a slave to dope. You have no idea.”

  Norris met Eric’s gaze with the sure but hollow eyes of an old roué. Then the whole story of his trouble with morphine came pouring out, and Penny’s disbelief slowly gave way to astonishment and then to pity. Yes, Norris knew exactly what he was doing, thought Eric.

  “You poor dear,” Penny murmured as she gave Norris a sympathetic hug. Over her shoulder, Norris shot Eric a knowing wink. He certainly didn’t seem to mind remembering the miserable bits if it meant wringing some feminine sympathy out of Penny.

  “I did think you seemed strangely anxious that day at the zoo,” Penny said, settling on the arm of Norris’s armchair instead of in the seat Eric had vacated for her. “Now I know. And, Eric, how wonderful of you! Daddy would be proud. But this business about the morphine does sound serious.”

  “Unfortunately so,” Norris replied. “You don’t hate me for it, do you?”

  “What a ridiculous, melodramatic thing to say! Of course not. You said you’d got over this once before, so I know you can do it again. This one little slip barely even counts. You just want someone to hold your hand through it all.”

  As the conversation turned back to an intimate exchange about Norris’s trials and tribulations, Eric found himself more and more shunted into the position of a glowering chaperone.

  “Eric,” said Penny suddenly, “I don’t suppose you could give Patch and me a few minutes of privacy? Only it’s rather difficult to be as affectionate as one likes when one’s brother is looming behind like a portent of doom.”

  Eric crossed his arms. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “You see what I have to put up with,” Norris told Penny, who let out a little huff of annoyance and got up to push Eric over to the door.

  “I hope you’re not suggesting that poor old Patch is a danger to me,” she whispered. “He’s just been through hell.”

  “We’ve all been through hell. And it’s turned some of us into monsters.”

  “Well, if Patch turns out to be the monster you seem to think he is, he’ll find that I can be a bit of a monster too. Don’t worry about me, Eric. Go home.” Behind Penny, Norris waited in his armchair, the jagged, broken edges of the toy soldier wrapped up in the tartan blanket.

  “I need a few words with Filgrave,” Eric lied. “I assume you’re staying with Dottie Moffat as usual? I’ll drive you there afterwards.”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said. Firmly, she pushed Eric out the door.

  “Peterkin,” Norris’s voice rang out.

  Eric stopped and looked back.

  “I meant what I said about Benson,” Norris told him. “I miss him.”

  THE MAGICIAN BEHIND BARS

  EVEN IN POLICE CUSTODY, Wolfe contrived to look impeccably groomed. He took his seat in the visitation room with the air of a royal dignitary granting an audience. The police constable watching from the corner seemed more his servant than his guard.

  Wolfe arched one brow as Eric took a seat across from him. He drawled, “I wasn’t expecting a visit from you, Peterkin. If you expect me to challenge the motion to expel you from the Britannia, you’re clearly quite desperate. I am, to put it mildly, indisposed.”

  Eric remembered the austerity of the interview room in the Chichester police station. It was much the same here, and sitting on the other side of the table didn’t make it any less so. The walls were drab and the lighting was stark; the one real spot of colour was the wine red of Wolfe’s cravat.

  “You don’t seem remotely concerned,” Eric remarked.

  “I expect to be out of here soon enough. The case against me is preposterous.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Wolfe. Did I ever tell you why I started looking into Benson’s murder in the first place? It’s because I saw Parker pocketing a photograph of Emily Ang from Benson’s room at the Britannia. He’s not an impartial outsider—not that he ever was, but I don’t think you can depend on any old regimental connections to tip the scales in your favour.”

  “Don’t insult me, Peterkin.” Wolfe put on an expression of exaggerated boredom. He made no note one way or another on Eric’s reference to Parker’s regimental connections; perhaps he really did think Eric had always known. “I don’t depend on anyone. Unless it’s a valet. I don’t suppose you’d consider throwing a fist at my esteemed guard over there, would you?”

  “And get myself thrown in a cell for assaulting a police officer? I’ve already done that.” The policeman, who must have overheard Wolfe’s suggestion, nevertheless remained motionless at his post.

  “Have you, now?” Wolfe smiled, interested. “One generally avoids employing a valet with a police record, but these are difficult times.”

  “I didn’t come here to interview for a position as your valet, Wolfe
.”

  “Oh no? What did you come for, then?”

  “Let me put this to you, Wolfe. Benson was killed because he was getting too close to the truth about Emily Ang’s disappearance, and very likely Mrs. Benson was killed for the same reason. Emily Ang didn’t just disappear—she was murdered. Her body was found buried in Bruton Wood two years ago. Parker was a patient of the hospital at the time of her murder, but his records have been doctored to show that he’d actually left a week earlier. I happen to know that Emily Ang was last seen in his company. What do you think that means?”

  “It means you ought to be speaking to the counsel for my defence. I haven’t had one appointed yet, so you’ll simply have to wait.” He smiled again. “Oh, this will be entertaining, Peterkin. I can’t wait to see you in the witness stand, telling old Parker to sod off. Do me a favour and avoid mentioning this to Bradshaw, won’t you? He’ll just pull a string to have Parker reassigned, and there’s no fun in that.”

  “I already have. And Bradshaw’s chosen to throw his lot in with Parker.”

  “What?” Wolfe actually looked annoyed. “Because Parker’s a VC, no doubt. How inconvenient. Aldershott—”

  “You remember his reaction when I brought up Emily Ang at dinner that night. And consider this: If Emily Ang was murdered, someone had to have moved the body. Someone with a motorcar, like Aldershott, who’s had his Austin since before the War.” Eric paused to let this sink in. “I hope you’re not expecting Saxon or Norris to come to your aid.”