The Plague of Thieves Affair

by Marcia Muller

  “Last time?”

  “Before I arrange for shipment to his final resting place in Chicago.”

  “View him there before he’s buried, can’t you?”

  “No. He’s to be cremated.”

  This brought a censorious frown to the attendant’s pinched face. “Don’t approve of burning up the dead. Downright unchristian, if you ask me.”

  “It was the deceased’s wishes,” Charles the Third said, abandoning his faux British accent in favor of an American one that betrayed his Midwestern roots. “Now kindly be so good as to honor Mrs. Fairchild’s request. She is under a severe strain, as you can well imagine.”

  “You also a relative of the deceased?”

  “No. I am John Mycroft, Mrs. Fairchild’s attorney. I, too, wish to view the remains.”

  “That so? Why?”

  “I have just told you, my good man. I am Mrs. Fairchild’s attorney, engaged by her only this morning to safeguard her interests. I have not yet had an opportunity to observe the, ah, damage that was done to my client’s husband. I assume that an autopsy has yet to be performed, not that one would be necessary under the circumstances.”

  “There’ll be one, like as not, but I don’t know when.” The attendant scratched his white mane, then added in an aggrieved tone, “Nobody tells me nothing.”

  Charles said, “I suggest a regular application of one-quarter cup apple cider vinegar mixed with water.”

  “Eh?”

  “There is no more effective cure for dandruff.”

  The attendant gaped at him. “How’d you know I had dandruff? Can’t see it on my coat from where you’re standing.”

  “But I can. I could also tell by the manner in which you scratched your scalp. I have keen vision and I am a trained observer of trifles—”

  Sabina prodded Charles’s shin with the toe of her shoe, none too gently. “May we view my husband’s remains now, sir?”

  “Apple cider vinegar, eh? Never thought of that. I’ll sure give it a try.” The attendant produced a ledger and slid it onto the counter. “Have to sign your names before I can let you inside.”

  Sabina signed first, then Charles with a Spencerian flourish. The attendant stood after removing the book, plucked a ring of keys off a wall peg, and came out to unlock the door to the cold room. He led them inside, saying, “Don’t want to stay in here too long, folks. Too cold, might catch your death.” An old, unfunny, and rather offensive joke; he barely managed to suppress a chuckle at his half wit.

  The cadavers were kept inside wooden drawers that opened out from the wall on rollers. The attendant slid one open, drew the sheet back to reveal the corpse of Roland Fairchild. Sabina winced in spite of herself when she saw the wounds that had crushed her former client’s skull; they had obviously been struck with considerable force.

  Protocol demanded that the attendant remain in the room with them, so Sabina’s task now was to distract him while Charles the Third examined the body. After a few seconds, she moved away to stand to one side and somewhat behind him, so that when she said, “Do you have many cadavers here at present?” he had to turn toward her to answer the inane question.

  “Nine. Two homicides, two drownings, four natural causes.”

  “Is that an unusually large number?”

  “Nope. Had near twenty once, a while back, most of ’em heathen Chinee killed in a tong war.”

  Charles had produced a large magnifying glass and was peering at each of the head wounds. She heard him murmur, “Plain as a pikestaff,” but if the attendant also heard, he gave no indication of it.

  She said, “But there are only twelve drawers. What was done to keep the rest?”

  “Laid out on the floor. Heathen Chinee, like I said, so it didn’t matter none.”

  Now Charles drew the sheet down to the corpse’s waist, lifted the left hand, and squinted at it briefly through his glass. Then he lowered it and picked up the right hand to study. “Ah! Just as I expected,” he said, and this time the attendant heard him.

  “Here now, mister. What’re you doing there?”

  “Merely examining the deceased.”

  “With a glass? What for?”

  “Thoroughness, my good man. I am nothing if not thorough.”

  “You ain’t supposed to touch the bodies.”

  “My apologies, sir. I’m afraid I became carried away.”

  “Some folks got no respect for rules and regulations,” the attendant muttered. He moved over to the drawer, drew the sheet back up over the corpse’s face, then slid the drawer back into the wall. “I think you folks better leave now.”

  “Indeed. With all dispatch.”

  They had just stepped out of the cold room when the anteroom door opened and a uniformed policeman entered—a sergeant according to his stripes. Sabina held her breath, but he did nothing more than remove his cap in deference to her apparent bereavement, and barely glanced at Charles the Third. They made their exit without incident.

  As they stepped outside Sabina murmured, “Do you suppose the attendant will say anything about your close examination of the corpse?”

  “We needn’t worry about that. To his sparsely populated brain attic, it was merely a minor breach.”

  Neither of them spoke again as they passed out of the shadow of the Hall of Justice and safely across Portsmouth Square. The temperature in the morgue’s cold room mingled with that of the overcast, windy morning had chilled Sabina to the bone. Charles the Third must have felt it, too; he offered no objection when she took his arm and steered him into the warmth of a small and mostly empty café.

  Over cups of steaming liquid, coffee for her, English tea for Charles, she said, “I take it you found what you were looking for in your examination.”

  “Quite.” His British accent was back in place. “Evidence that will help to exonerate me and place the burden of guilt where it belongs, on the Fairchild woman. You know the nature of the evidence, of course?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was sure you did. Your brain attic is quite in order, as always.”

  Sabina ignored that remark. She’d heard more than enough of the brain attic metaphor to last her the rest of her days. “But we both know it’s not enough to convince Lieutenant McGinn.”

  “Not by itself, no.”

  “There may not be any more proof. Mrs. Fairchild has had ample time to see to that.”

  “Has she?” Charles sipped his tea. “Perhaps not.”

  “She’s far too cunning not to dispose of anything that might incriminate her, and the morgue evidence is inconclusive. Without something more, your innocence and her guilt can’t be proven beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “Ah, but it can. By means of careful arrangement.”

  “Arrangement? Of what?”

  “A damning confession delivered in front of witnesses, which the evidence will then conclusively support.”

  Sabina looked at him askance. “A coldhearted, clever murderess such as Octavia Fairchild would never willingly confess, especially not in front of witnesses.”

  “Witnesses need only be ear, not eye. And ‘willingly’ is a relative term.”

  “Surely you’re not thinking of using force—”

  “My dear Mrs. Carpenter,” Charles said in an offended tone. “Sherlock Holmes never resorts to crude physical tactics. Never!”

  “Well, in any case, returning to the Baldwin Hotel to confront her would be a foolish risk.”

  “Indeed it would.” He tapped his temple with a bony forefinger. “No, what is in my brain attic is far more provocative.”

  Brain attic again. As John would say, faugh!

  “Well, then?”

  “If Muhammed is unable to go to the mountain, then the mountain must come to Muhammed.”

  “For heaven’s sake, stop speaking in riddles. How do you expect to make her confess?”

  “I don’t,” he said through one of his sly smiles. “That task, dear lady, is to be yours.”

&n
bsp; 23

  SABINA

  Charles the Third’s method of inducing a confession from Octavia Fairchild had merit, though whether or not it would work was problematical. It depended, among other factors, on how well Sabina played her role and how easily the Fairchild woman could be duped and manipulated. But as he pointed out, there was no other logical way to prove his innocence and thus “restore the good name of Sherlock Holmes.”

  The plan, unlike the one for access to the city morgue, required a considerable amount of preparation on Sabina’s part. Her first step, upon leaving the café near Portsmouth Square (minus mourning veil and red wig), was a short trolley ride to the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. Where Charles was bound he wouldn’t tell her, saying only that he would meet her there at the agreed-upon hour. It was her hope that John would be at the agency; despite the amount of explaining necessary to elicit his aid, he was naturally her first choice as the primary witness to her forthcoming playlet with the Fairchild woman. But he wasn’t there. Hadn’t been there at all since she’d last seen him on Thursday afternoon, judging by the absence of messages and the vague mustiness that always accumulated when the agency had been untenanted for a couple of days.

  At her desk, with the window behind her open to let in fresh air, Sabina composed a carefully worded, cryptic note on the agency’s letterhead. Since the time had yet to be determined, she left that space blank for the present.

  Mrs. Fairchild:

  I know that you and not Charles Fairchild the Third murdered your husband. I know your motive for the crime, and I am in possession of proof of your guilt. You would be well advised to present yourself at my office at the above address at o’clock this afternoon for a private discussion of the matter.

  Sabina signed her name, folded the letterhead, slid it inside a matching envelope, and put the unsealed envelope in her handbag. In the event John should put in an appearance, she then wrote a note to him asking that he wait for her return and placed it on his desk blotter.

  Leaving the window open slightly, she locked up again and went downstairs to the offices of Archer and Boone, Searchers of Records and Conveyancers—a firm which specialized in the examination of titles and abstracts in counties throughout the state, and whose services she and John had utilized on more than one occasion. Edward Boone, a spear of a man with an elongated head and the longest, thinnest neck on any human being she’d ever seen (John referred to him privately and amiably as “the giraffe”), was his usual accommodating self: he agreed, once she briefly explained the situation to him, to act as the necessary witness.

  A cab delivered Sabina to her rooms, where she changed into her normal business attire, and then took her to the Baldwin Hotel. This was her most important stop. If the plan were to be put into action this afternoon, Octavia Fairchild had still to be in residence there and either present or soon to return. Luck or divine providence, as it turned out, was on Sabina’s side. Yes, the desk clerk told her solemnly and warily, Mrs. Fairchild was still registered, though she had been given different accommodations; and yes, she was in her room, though she had left instructions not to be disturbed.

  Sabina gave him her card, explaining that her business with Mrs. Fairchild vitally concerned yesterday’s tragic events. Would he have one of the bellboys deliver a sealed note to her? Yes, he would. At a lobby writing desk, Sabina filled in the time of 2:00 in the blank space in the note, sealed the envelope, and handed it to the clerk. No, she said, it wouldn’t be necessary for her to wait for an answer.

  She took another hansom to the agency offices, but before entering she bought a packet of fresh shrimp, a soft pretzel, and a large apple at the market across the street. She hadn’t eaten anything except two biscuits all day and her stomach was making rumbling demands. John still hadn’t returned. She ate at her desk, then cleaned up some of the clutter in the small closed alcove where records and supplies were kept. The space was small, but sufficient for two persons to stand together with the door drawn to. A walk down the hall to the bathroom facilities, a walk from there downstairs to confirm her arrangements with Edward Boone, and a check of her Remington derringer and placement of it in her slightly open desk drawer used up a few more minutes. The time then was 12:48.

  Everything was in place, all the preparations completed. There was nothing to do now but wait. Soon Charles the Third would arrive, then Edward Boone. And then Octavia Fairchild. If Sabina’s and Charles’s assessment of the woman’s character was correct, she would come alone and in a coldly controlled fury.

  * * *

  Charles, predictably enough, wore his Sherlock Holmes outfit of Inverness cape and deerstalker hat; he was even smoking his long, curved meerschaum pipe. When she told him all was in readiness, he said, “Splendid, splendid. I felt certain that it would be,” and then made himself comfortable behind John’s desk. Sabina hid a smile when she imagined the expression on her partner’s face if he were to walk in just then and find his nemesis occupying his chair.

  Ten minutes later, at 1:30, Edward Boone appeared. His eyes widened and his Adam’s apple twice traveled up and down the long column of his neck when Sabina introduced Charles as Mr. S. Holmes. He said impulsively, “The fellow who claims to be the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Claims, my good man? Claims? I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  Edward somewhat bewilderedly appealed to Sabina. “But … he’s wanted for the murder yesterday at the Baldwin Hotel. Surely you’re not harboring a fugitive mental—” He caught himself before finishing the sentence, his Adam’s apple bobbing again.

  “Mental case, sir?” Charles said stiffly. “Hardly. Mrs. Carpenter evidently failed to explain that I am neither a mental case nor a murderer, but the victim of false accusations and an attempted conspiracy.”

  “Yes, and I apologize for my omission of those details,” Sabina said. The fact was she had deliberately omitted mention of Charles the Third’s identities, real and assumed, for fear that Edward would not agree to act as a witness if he knew in advance. “Mr. Holmes is indeed the victim of false accusations and an attempted conspiracy. As we hope to prove when the real criminal arrives shortly.”

  “And whom would that be?”

  “The dead man’s wife.”

  No more information was required to convince Edward; he had been exposed often enough to the exploits of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, to trust in their judgment. This was fortunate in more ways than one, for there came a sharp rapping on the office door which Sabina had locked after Edward’s arrival—Octavia Fairchild, ten minutes early.

  Sabina quickly shooed Charles and Edward into the alcove, its door left open a crack so they could hear more easily. Then she admitted their quarry and the game was on.

  There were no outward signs of the anger and consternation the Fairchild woman must be feeling. Her face reminded Sabina of an ice sculpture. The blue eyes, fixed and unblinking, were glacial; even the strip of court plaster covering the gash on her cheek seemed frozen in place. She wore an expensive muskrat coat and matching hat, both of which looked to be brand-new and probably were—gifts to herself for what, until receiving Sabina’s note, she must have considered to be a perfect crime.

  “Do you always lock your office door when you’re expecting a visitor?” The woman’s voice was as icy as her appearance.

  “Only when the visitor is a murderess.”

  “That is an abominable accusation. I could very easily sue you for defamation of character.”

  “You could if the accusation were false, which it isn’t.”

  “Of course it is. Utterly false, utterly preposterous.”

  “Then why are you here? Why didn’t you take my note to Harold Stennett or another attorney? Or to Lieutenant McGinn?”

  Octavia Fairchild’s chill gaze roamed the office, much as her husband’s had on his visit; her rouged lip curled upward far enough to expose her gums. “What a nasty hovel this is. Exac
tly the sort of place I expected.”

  “You haven’t answered my questions, Mrs. Fairchild. Why didn’t you take my note to an attorney or the police, instead of coming here as directed?”

  “I intend to do both after I’ve heard what evidence you claim to have against me. And I expect to make an additional charge.”

  “Oh? What would that be?”

  “Attempted blackmail.”

  “Is that what you think? That I intend to blackmail you?”

  “Why else would you have arranged this meeting? How much do you want?”

  “How much will you pay?”

  “Not one penny. I won’t be blackmailed and I won’t be bluffed.”

  “I am not bluffing. Why would I?”

  “Then why haven’t you gone to the police with this evidence of yours, if it’s so damning?”

  “Do you think I won’t?”

  “That is precisely what I think. You won’t because you haven’t any evidence, you couldn’t possibly have because none exists.”

  “Oh, but it does. One piece, in fact, is in your possession.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The murder weapon, of course—your husband’s hound’s head walking stick.”

  The statement caused a slight eye-widening, a twitch at one corner of the rouged mouth—the first thin cracks in the ice mask. Sabina smiled and went to her desk. Octavia Fairchild remained standing, her hands thrust into the pockets of her muskrat coat.

  “You felt no need to dispose of it, once it was cleaned of all traces of blood and other matter,” Sabina went on when she was seated. “Even if you had, it would not have been as easy to spirit away as whatever bloodstained garment you wore. You might have concealed the stick under that coat you’re wearing, but a stick is a cumbersome object that might well be noticed. No, it’s still among your husband’s effects at the hotel.”

  “Yes, it is. Clean and polished, as Roland always kept it. It could hardly be proven to have been used as a weapon.”

  “But it can. The wounds on his skull were made by its distinctive elongated knob and can be matched to it.”