INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS

by Jack Ketchum

  “Why, yes,” Gertrude said. “I do believe so.”

  “He’s famous! His picture’s been in the papers!”

  “Our own Sherlock Holmes.” Edmund tugged at his collar. “What was it you were saying earlier, Auntie, about those murder-mystery affairs and whodunits?”

  “I seem to recall saying that I hoped this wouldn’t turn into one.”

  “We should all hope so, too,” said Roddy. “God, King, and Country help whoever that chap decides to twig for the crime.”

  “You were joking about it not twenty minutes ago,” Roger said.

  “So were you!”

  “And you both should have known better,” Elizabeth said, eliciting a fervent nod from her sister.

  “Was there a crime, though?” Louisa clasped Henry’s hands even tighter.

  “Must be, if he’s here,” he said. “But don’t worry, my darling. None of us have done anything wrong.”

  “Which won’t matter a fart in church if he takes it otherwise into his head—”

  “Roddy!”

  “What? It won’t. You know how these genius detectives operate. They make up their minds and that’s that, and they find the evidence to suit.”

  “They can hardly find evidence if there’s none to be found,” said Henry.

  Roger and Roddy gave him the kind of lofty, pitying, you-poor-fool kind of looks that only elder brothers can manage. Meanwhile, Old Bennings the butler stammered a mortified apology to Lord and Lady Fitz-Hughes, something to the effect of the inspector had not given him time to make a proper announcement but insisted on going right in. This was waved off, and Bennings retreated, though of course not so far as to altogether leave earshot.

  Sir Geoffrey and Lord Stafford seemed acquainted enough with all parties to handle the necessary introductions, though it quickly became apparent that Inspector Braithley was not one for idle chitchat and social niceties.

  “Oh, but he’s much more handsome in person, don’t you think?” Caroline said.

  “I think you’ve been tossed over,” Rebecca said to Edmund.

  “I’d only barely been tossed on in the first place.”

  “But what in the world is he doing here?” William Stafford wondered aloud. “He can’t have come all the way out from London already, just tonight.”

  “He must be working some top-secret, exciting case!”

  “Here?” said several of them together, equally askance.

  “At Woadcastle?”

  “Or the village? What could have happened there? Someone steal the vicar’s pig again?”

  “Scotland Yard’s scraping the barrel if that’s the state of things.”

  “He married one of the Durham girls, didn’t he?” asked Gertrude. Leopold curled on her lap, setting his chin on his forepaws, and rumbled a low but steady purr. “I do think he did. Evelyn, the one with the red hair. Such a nice young lady. Quiet, pretty, mild. I know her mother.”

  Caroline’s face fell. “He’s married, then?”

  “Lucky you,” said Rebecca, the words dripping sarcasm. “You might still have a shot.”

  “Shot?” cried Lady Stafford. “He was shot?”

  “Who’s been shot?”

  “Someone’s been shot?”

  “We might have heard a gun—”

  “Nobody’s been shot!” Lord Fitz-Hughes struck the edge of a table with his heavy signet ring, the ring that surely would have been used to seal the envelope for his rewritten new will, if matters had gone the way matters such as this were traditionally supposed to.

  “Then would someone mind terribly explaining what is going on?” Gertrude soothed Leopold, who had twitched to full wakefulness at the loud rap of the ring on mahogany, hooking his claws into thick brocade. “There, there, don’t snag my dress; my maid will have fits.”

  “If I may,” said Inspector Braithley, moving to a spot that commanded the center of attention. The surrounding lamps managed simultaneously to highlight his features in a dramatic fashion and cast an imposing shadow.

  “Oh, quite,” murmured most of the Fitz-Hughes ladies, as Lady Stafford snapped open her fan and Caroline seemed to be having trouble drawing sufficient breath.

  It wasn’t that he was a particularly handsome man in the classical sense. But, the cut of his cheekbones, the set of his jaw, the backswept sleek and shining hair once he’d removed his hat, and those piercing eyes combined for a most riveting effect.

  “To begin,” he continued, with a cool glance at William Stafford, “I have not, in fact, come all the way out from London tonight.”

  The glance shifted to Gertrude’s aged countenance.

  “My wife and I, yes, Evelyn, were over at Durham House in Wilmingtonshire, visiting her family.”

  “Dear me,” she said. “I do hope Lady Durham is in good health.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You will give her my regards, won’t you?”

  “Certainly.” Next, the glance moved—cooling several further degrees as it did so—to Roddy. “And I assure you that if there has been a crime, it is my intention to determine the responsible party based on evidence, rather than take it into my head to twig anyone for it.”

  Roddy was by no means the only one to flush scarlet at the realization that the Inspector had overheard their every word. He was, however, the one to go the reddest ... although Caroline was a close second.

  “A local policeman, one of your Constable Potter’s men, knew of my presence at Durham House and wired me there.”

  “Surprised the stuffing out of me, it did,” Potter said. “I had nothing of it until he showed up, else I would’ve sent word.”

  “Wired you?” asked Sir Geoffrey. “Whatever for?”

  “I can’t imagine why something like this should require an emergency telegram to interrupt your visit,” Lady Fitz-Hughes added. “We don’t even know who the man in the pond is.”

  “As it happens,” Braithley said, “the man in the pond had in his possession and on his person certain papers. Documents possibly pertaining to a complex and highly confidential case with which I am currently involved.”

  This revelation, with its implied deliciousness of secrecy and intrigue, thrilled through the drawing room. Anticipation had them, if not on the literal edges of their seats, at the very least figuratively hanging on his every word.

  “My, isn’t it exciting?” whispered Lady Stafford to the Major.

  He harrumphed. “A spy ring, no doubt.”

  “The nature of the case being, as I’ve stated, complex and highly confidential,” Braithley said, “you’ll pardon me, Major Eldridge, if I do not respond.”

  “Spies?” Lord Fitz-Hughes looked thunderstruck. “Here? What in God’s green earth would spies be doing here?”

  “I’d guess it’s political,” Edmund said.

  “Again, why here? We’ve nothing to do with politics.”

  “There was that fellow, the union agitator—”

  “We’ve nothing to do with unions, either!”

  “No, but, I mean to say, the way he died, that could have been political too.”

  “Who’s this, then, that died?” Louisa asked Henry. “When?”

  “Months ago,” Henry said. “Well before the wedding.”

  “You never told me!”

  “Why would I? And he died in a tavern brawl, that’s what I heard. Nothing political about that.”

  Lord Stafford uttered a disdainful snort. “Any union agitator mouthing off in a public house about his cause deserves anything he gets.”

  “We seem,” said Braithley, his right eye suffering a brief twitch of irritation, “to have drifted somewhat from the matter at hand.”

  “Indeed, yes.” Lord Fitz-Hughes cast about a stern glower. “My apologies, Inspector. Please do go on.”

  “The papers in this man’s possession were water-damaged from his immersion, the ink badly smeared and smudged. The post-marks enabled the policeman to recognize their significance, but it will
take some time to dry and decipher them and reach a conclusion.”

  Lady Fitz-Hughes latched onto this. “You’ll stay here, of course,” she said. “For the night, and for as long as is needed. Bennings?”

  “Yes, m’lady?”

  “Tell Mrs. Harte to have the ...” Her pause as she performed a quick headcount of her guests and compared that to the available rooms was incremental, but seemed eternal. “... the Spruce Room made up for the Inspector.”

  “Very good, m’lady.”

  “And reasonable accommodations for any other officers, staff or personnel. Inspector, you’ll have full use of the study, the library, anything else you require.”

  “That is both kind and generous, Lady Fitz-Hughes. I do appreciate such a gesture, and on such short, unexpected notice.”

  “Nonsense,” Lord Fitz-Hughes said. “Whatever we can do to help. Upsetting to us all, yes, but, a man has died and ...”

  “... and that rather matters more than our inconvenience,” finished Louisa, not without a hint of smugness at reiterating her earlier point.

  “I will need to request,” Inspector Braithley said, “that no one leave the estate until we’ve finished the investigation.”

  “No one would dream of it,” Gertrude assured him.

  The rest of the night, not that there was much left of it before dawn began to color the eastern horizon, passed in a blur of activity.

  Outside, Constable Potter’s men scoured the grounds for clues, poking into hedges and under bushes, dredging the swan-pond, trampling the gardens, tracking mud, and generally making nuisances of themselves.

  Inside, below stairs, the kitchen bustled as the cook and her assistants put together an early breakfast, ran trays of sandwiches and tea out to the policemen, and did what they could to keep the body and soul of Woadcastle together. Housemaids and footmen rushed about their duties, changing linens, sweeping up, seeing everything was in order.

  Inspector Braithley set himself up in Lord Fitz-Hughes’ study, alternating telephone calls with interviews of the family, servants, and guests. A mortuary wagon arrived and took the body to Doctor Lenk’s little hospital in the village for further examination.

  Rampant gossip was the lifeblood of the day. Might they be called upon to testify in court? When none of them knew anything? Would it be in the newspapers? How much of a scandal could they be facing?

  To the great relief of Louisa, the swans were soon cleared of suspicion. They had been safely shut up in their swan-cote for the night, and the dead man bore no injuries consistent with being battered by powerful wings.

  He had also, came the news by way of the gossip grapevine, been drunk. Very drunk. Very, very drunk indeed. No one in the village recognized him either, and he had not taken on such a skinful at any of the local pubs.

  Who he was, where he’d come from, where he’d been headed, and why remained unanswered questions, much to Inspector Braithley’s frustration. The man’s clothes and calluses marked him as a common laborer, possibly a vagrant or a veteran or both. He had no money on him, no identification of any kind.

  More and more, it seemed apparent that he must have made a drunken stumble-blunder into the pond. There, perhaps unable to swim or simply too impaired to do so, he’d drowned. A stupid and senseless accident, but an accident nonetheless.

  Except, of course, for the matter of that sodden, ink-smeared papers he’d been carrying. Papers which, despite great care and attention in handling, proved all but illegible.

  Had he been delivering a message? From and to whom? Did the post-marks have actual significance to Braithley’s case, or was it some sort of strange coincidence? In his line of work, he was not much of a believer in coincidence ... but, try as he might, he could find no connection.

  Two more days passed, during which the other policemen finished up. The restriction against anyone leaving Woadcastle was lifted, allowing the Staffords and Eldriges and those Fitz-Hugheses who had other residences of their own to depart. They all did so with an odd mix of relief and reluctance, and only after obtaining sworn promises from their friends to share any new developments.

  Inspector Braithley lingered to press on with his investigation. He proved, in his working capacity, something less than an ideal guest ... not one for idle after-dinner chitchat, or billiards, or bridge. The offer was extended to invite his wife to come over from Durham House to join him, but he refused, limiting his communication with her to brief telephone calls.

  Lord Fitz-Hughes and Sir Geoffrey seemed to find his company agreeable enough, terse though it was. The initial blush and flutter his chiseled profile had occasioned among the ladies did wane somewhat at his continued reserve and coolness of manner. The Fitz-Hughes sons, Edmund and Roddy in particular, suffered a certain awkwardness in his presence.

  All in all, however, it went tolerably well and without further incident.

  Until it was that, one night in the dining room, the Inspector suddenly uttered a gasp, interrupting a discussion between Lady Fitz-Hughes and her daughters-in-law.

  “Gracious,” said Great-Aunt Gertrude.

  “Inspector?”

  He commenced coughing, thumping a curled fist against his breastbone while attempting to quell the outburst of concern with an apologetic waving of the other hand.

  “Inspector, are you all right?”

  “Something down the wrong way, no doubt.”

  “Whatever is the matter?”

  Rather than clearing his breathing, the fit worsened into a whistling wheeze. His face went the most alarming shade of red, deepening toward burgundy. His eyes watered, his mouth gaped, and in a sudden surge of movement he lunged from his chair with such force that it overturned.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “I don’t think he can breathe.”

  “Give him a glass of water.”

  “Clap him on the back.”

  “Have him bend over and breathe into a bag.”

  “That’s for hiccups, you fool.”

  “Well, someone do something!”

  “He must’ve caught a bone in his throat!”

  “It’s a roulade; there’s no bones in it!”

  “Well, he’s caught something, no bones about it!”

  “I said clap him on the—”

  “I’m clapping, I’m clapping! I clap much harder, I’ll knock him over!”

  The Inspector lurched away from the helpful clapping. He bumped into the table hard enough to make the dishes jump. Several wine glasses tipped with a crash and a splash. Those few of the ladies who had not yet risen to their feet did so with cries of alarm.

  “He’s choking!”

  “Look at his face!”

  The face in question had gone from burgundy to a purple-verging-on-plum. He clawed at his neck, which strained and bulged. His lips, and his rudely protruding tongue, seemed to be swelling before their eyes as if inflated by a bellows.

  “Get the doctor!”

  “Give him some air!”

  “He can’t breathe!”

  “That’s why he needs air!”

  “But he can’t bloody breathe!”

  “Open his windpipe!”

  “With what, a dinner knife?”

  Footmen and housemaids rushed to and fro. Old Bennings, the butler, had to steady himself on the back of a chair. The family dithered about in frantic helplessness.

  Inspector Braithley staggered a few steps, both hands clamped to his neck. His watering eyes rolled madly in their sockets, exposing vein-burst whites. His shins struck the jutting legs of his own overturned chair and he went down with thrashing, bucking convulsions.

  Some days later, Gertrude Fitz-Hughes arranged to have herself driven out to Wilmingtonshire to pay a condolence call at Durham House. She found the place subdued, as was proper for a time of mourning, but was still warmly received by Lady Durham.

  A lovely afternoon tea was laid out for them in a corner parlor overlooking the garden. Gertrude duly admired the china and silv
er, and how well the flowers were doing. Inquiries were made after mutual acquaintances, the weather was discussed, the polite small-talk was done.

  Gertrude also spoke with effusive appreciation that, amid the delicacies, a dish of flaked whitefish, a portion of cold salmon mousse, and a tiny pot of caviar were sent up for the pleasure and privilege of Leopold. Who was, as a gesture of respect, wearing a collar of black velvet dusted with diamond chip.

  Soon enough, the servants went on their way and left the ladies in genteel privacy to enjoy their tea, and the conversation was able to turn to more personal matters.

  “How is your Evelyn?” asked Gertrude, spooning a selection of delicacies onto a saucer.

  “Well, it’s been a terrible shock to her, as you might imagine. A man his age, so fit and healthy ... if he’d fallen in the line of duty, that would be one thing, but ... like this, so sudden, so unexpected.”

  “Yes, very.” The dryness of her tone was not lost on her hostess.

  Lady Durham forced a pained smile as she poured. “I suppose I needn’t talk on that point, should I? After all, it must have been a shock to everyone. I’m so sorry for Lady Fitz-Hughes. Is she well?”

  “Rather shaken, of course. It was something of a scene.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “She’s gotten it into her head now, I’m afraid, that Woadcastle is bad luck, or some such nonsense. Wouldn’t go so far as to say cursed, of course, let alone haunted—Sir Geoffrey’s stepdaughter was kind enough to put forth those options; morbid girl—but Lady Fitz-Hughes does worry it will give the house a difficult reputation.”

  “Hardly surprising, after what happened with the Earl of Falloway.”

  “Fortunately, his widow doesn’t hold it against us.”

  “I understand they’d not been on the best of terms, anyway.”

  “Oh, you know how these things go.” Gertrude glanced around approvingly at the furnishings. “I must say, I love what you’ve done with this room. The new wallpapering brightens it so.”

  “You mean,” said Lady Durham, stirring her tea, “that the old stuff was atrocious, and I’d be the last to argue. I’m thinking we’ll redo Evelyn’s suite next. It might help her feel better, particularly now that she’ll be spending more time here.”