by Issy Brookw
Cordelia had flung a light pelisse around her shoulders, and wore her thinnest bonnet, but she was still uncomfortably warm. She discreetly lifted one edge of her skirt a little higher to let a swirl of air curl around her legs. When one looked carefully, one could see that most of the women were doing the same.
She longed to be able to throw off her tight bodices and jackets in seasons such as this. She was on holiday, for goodness’ sake! Alas, she knew she would never go as far as the fabled Ladies of Llangollen or their local imitators, Miss Scott and Miss Walker. Cordelia envied their casual dress but not their strange position in society, even worse, in some ways, than her own.
Her armpits prickled. Ruby had ensured there were fresh dress protectors in all her garments, but the small pads of fabric were soon soaked through.
“Summer is not really for women, is it?” she muttered.
“My lady?” Ruby glanced to her side. “Oh, my lady, we did not put enough powder on your face. You are glowing.”
“I am sweating,” Cordelia said. “Does it seem to have grown warmer to you? I had expected the day to have cooled by now.”
“It is becoming oppressive,” Ruby said. “I hope we have a good thunderstorm to clear it all out.”
“But not the rain,” Cordelia said. “The place cannot take another flood. Ah! There is young Evans, hailing us from the door.”
Constable Evans hurried them into the small, dark room that served as the main office, waiting room and general everyday room of the over-grandly-titled “house of correction.” There were two cells there, whose open-barred doors opened directly into the main room. Everything was dark wood and smelled strongly of beeswax polish. It was not the odour that Cordelia had expected. She had been in the cells of Bow Street Station House — indeed, as an unwilling occupant for one short time — and the smell there would never leave her memory.
But looking around this provincial town’s lock-up, she realised that the two constables had very little to do from day to day. Cleaning and polishing was probably their biggest task.
“Good evening, Constable Evans,” she said to the head constable, though both policemen looked around and nodded at her greeting.
“My lady,” the head constable said. “Iolo, fetch the lady a chair and some refreshments.”
The junior constable scurried to his task and while he went out to fetch them some cool lemon cordial, Frank Evans explained why he had called Cordelia.
“You had mentioned Davies the Scavenger to me,” he said. “But I dismissed the idea, I think, for various reasons.”
“And you are, perhaps, correct to do so,” she said. “I think he has an alibi for the day, though I have sent for more information on that point. Let me ask you: do you think the poison was added to the sugar bowl that very day?”
“I do,” he said. “Who keeps their sugar out from day to day? Mice will have it. And no decent housewife would be so slatternly. The ladies might not have been wives but they were proper.”
“I await confirmation,” she said. “But it seems that Davies was in the Ship Inn all day, and that he was even arrested late that day.”
“Affray, was it?” Constable Evans said. “That would be his usual. It’s not often, mind you. But a few times a year, he gets the devil on him.”
“I see. So it is in character, then?”
“It is. But now here is the curious thing. For I received an anonymous note today, and it claims that Davies is the source of all our troubles, and indeed, that he is the murderer.”
“May I see it?”
It was unremarkable and she could discern no clue from the paper nor the handwriting. It was a basic, off-white scrap, with no tell-tale watermark, and three cut edges. The fourth was a rough tear. The letters were rounded capitals, in brown-black ink, with no curious spellings or unique phrasing to identify someone.
And it simply said: Davies is the killer. He has poison in his house.
“Poison,” said Cordelia. “I wonder if this is an attempt to frame him? It seems likely. Surely they would have named the poison if they really knew.”
“And if we go to his house and search, and do find sugar of lead? What then? I suppose we arrest him.”
“That would be interesting, but it would not be proof, I think,” Cordelia said.
“It is proof of one thing, my lady, sir,” Ruby said, interrupting them. “It is proof that the murderer is still in the town, and that they are worried you are close to them, and that they have some link to Davies to want to implicate him. Oh, and that you have considered Davies to be a suspect. Otherwise why would they point at him?”
“You make excellent points,” Cordelia said.
“She does,” Constable Evans agreed. The door slammed open and young Iolo Evans came in with some cool drinks for them. He spilled some on Cordelia’s dress as he set the jug on the table, and the head constable sighed. “You clot! May I exchange my assistant for yours, my lady?” he asked.
Chapter Twenty-One
Cordelia handed Constable Evans the anonymous note back, and took a refreshing sip of the lemon drink that the other Evans had brought. “So, what is your plan?” she asked.
Frank Evans sighed. “I rather hoped that you would have a plan,” he said. “All I can think is that I must investigate this note, but my heart tells me it is some kind of trick.”
“Perhaps we can uncover the trick,” she said.
Ruby said, “And if it is not a trick? If Davies really is guilty?”
“There is that,” the head constable said. “And for that reason, that tiny slim chance, I do fear that I must go to Davies’ house and search it for poison. He would have no reason to have any, so if I find some, then that opens more questions, does it not?”
“It does,” Cordelia said.
“But I cannot go,” Constable Evans said.
She wondered if he were about to reveal that he had sighted some omen or other. With trepidation, she asked why not.
“Because the council would not allow it!”
“But justice insists on it,” she said.
“I know,” and he looked very glum.
“We will go together, tonight,” she told him. She stood up. “Ruby, you stay here with young Evans.”
“But my lady, it is utterly inappropriate—”
“No, Ruby, I am not ‘my lady’ at this moment. I am a detective in partnership with Constable Evans, am I not, sir?”
“You are indeed,” he said, rising to his feet and taking his truncheon in his hands. “Would you like a weapon?”
“I — ah, no,” Cordelia said.
“Yes,” Ruby said, very firmly. “My lady, if you really are a detective, then you must be protected. If I cannot come with you, and as Geoffrey is not here, then you must be armed as best you can. Also, who will take you seriously?”
Cordelia took hold of the wooden baton. It was smooth and heavy. “And where do I strike someone?” she asked.
“Wherever you can,” she was told.
She looked out of the window. “We have at least another hour until sunset,” she said. “And an hour more until full dark. Do we wait?”
“We must wait, yes,” Constable Evans said. “And if we are lucky, Davies will be out drinking.”
“And if we are unlucky?”
“If we are unlucky,” Evans said, “he will be at home, and we must do all we can to maintain the pretence that we are on official business. I am in uniform and I must ask you, my lady, to stand to the back. Even though you are now armed. I know we are partners in this matter, but…”
“Yes, I understand,” she said, trying to rise above the unfairness of it. “Well, as we are to wait, Ruby, will you organise a meal for us while we wait?”
Ruby flapped her hands and rolled her eyes. “Here, now, out of thin air?”
“Yes. I trust to your expertise.”
“Flattery,” Ruby said, “is not as useful as money.” She held out her hand.
“First Geoffrey
and now you,” Cordelia said as she doled out some coins from her rapidly dwindling store. “Ensure the food is good.”
***
The food was good, but as the minutes ticked by, Cordelia found herself losing her appetite. Eventually they deemed it dark enough to leave the house of correction and make their way to Davies’ house. Cordelia held the truncheon to her side, trying to get it to lie along her arm and not be obtrusive.
Davies was obviously doing very well for himself, and lived in a fine-looking tall house of four stories with big bay windows and thick stone mullions, painted in varying shades. She could not tell what colours they were as there was no moon and no street lighting. Only Evans’ lantern, held up high, gave an orange glow to their immediate surroundings.
There were two windows lit in the house. Right at the top, from a small square window under the eaves, came a faint glow. And by the front door, under the porch, was another lantern which was fast running out. It was just a candle in a small enclosure and it was guttering and flaring as the wick burned down low.
“He could be in bed,” Cordelia whispered.
“He is more likely to be drinking,” Evans said.
“Should we go to the Ship Inn to check?” Cordelia said, stopping suddenly.
“There are dozens of public houses in Aberystwyth,” Evans said, “and he could be drinking in any of them. The Ship is usually just one in his list. No, let us knock and see.”
“Knock?”
“We cannot break and enter,” Evans said. “I am hoping that only a servant is within and then we can easily persuade them to let us search the place.”
Cordelia, who had played a part in some breaking-and-entering when she was in London, was slightly disappointed. She had worked herself up to the potential drama of it. Still, her heart was in her mouth when Constable Evans rapped hard on the front door.
If Davies were to answer or be at home…
But their luck was holding. After a length of time, the dancing pale light of a candle grew larger and illuminated the glass in the window to the side of the front door as a figure within came closer. She did not hear any bolts being drawn back; only a key was rattled into the lock and then turned, before the door swung open and a pale-faced, yawning maid stood there, blearily.
“Oh!” she said. “Oh. I thought it to be the master forgotten his key again. Constable Evans, sir. He is not at home, sir.”
“Do not worry, Elsie,” Evans said, reassuringly. “We are here to have a look through some things.”
“But master is not at home,” Elsie said, standing as firmly in the entrance as her small frame would allow. She was bare of foot and dressed only in a long nightdress with a shawl wrapped around her. “You will have to wait.”
“This is police business,” Evans said, gently. “We cannot wait. You must step aside.”
“He cannot have done anything wrong,” she said. “Well, nothing really wrong.”
“You have been here for years, have you not, Elsie?” Evans said.
“Since I was thirteen.”
“So you know him well, as do I. I know he will be angry, but he will be angry with me, and I am the law. You are only a maid and do not have to make decisions like this, do you? You have no choice. You must stand aside. Anyway, your feet are getting cold.”
Elsie jiggled from foot to foot. She said, “You must tell him I tried to stop you.”
“Of course we will! Go on, now. Go upstairs and leave us to our jobs. It is better this way.”
Constable Evans entered as the maid began to retreat, and Cordelia followed. She called out to Elsie, saying, “One moment, Elsie. May I ask you a few questions?”
Evans shot her a sideways look but he nodded. Cordelia didn’t need his approval; she was going to speak anyway.
“Madam?” Elsie said, stopping. “I am doing as the constable directed. I should go up to bed. This is nothing to do with me.”
“Of course,” Cordelia said smoothly. She smiled and tried to look approachable. “How does your master feel about the ladies, Miss Scott and the tragically late Miss Walker?”
Elsie’s eyes were big and she shrugged, looking to Evans for help and guidance. “I don’t know, madam.”
“Have you any suspicions about him? Your master, I mean?”
Her eyes grew even larger, and she squeaked when she replied. “I am sure I don’t know, madam!”
A third question looked likely to send the poor girl into palpitations. Cordelia relented and waved her away. “Thank you. Yes, off you go to bed.”
Evans was already hunting his way through the entrance hall. “There isn’t likely to be anything here,” he said in a low voice.
“I agree. I doubt we’ll find anything at all,” Cordelia said. “Not in the hallway; and not in the whole house.”
“I hope not,” Evans said. She knew he meant that he didn’t want to have to accuse a member of the council of a crime. “Let’s try the kitchens.” He spun around, and Cordelia pointed along the corridor.
“That way, I would guess,” she said.
The kitchen was a long room, and dark. Evans’ lantern glinted on the copper pans hanging up and they threw great looming shadows up behind them on the walls. He hung it from a meat hook so that he had both hands free, and it continued to swing for a while after he had left it. Evans went to one side and Cordelia hunted along the other, poking into tubs and tins and boxes, lifting them high in the air at an angle to try and use the weak light from the lantern to illuminate their contents.
“It is a pretty sparse sort of place,” Cordelia commented.
“He is a bachelor,” Evans said. “Elsie does for him but I doubt he’s home enough to cause her much work. She has a nice enough life here.”
Cordelia doubted that very much, but it certainly seemed that it was nice enough to keep the servant’s loyalty, at any rate. She worked her way into the scullery, which had pools of water still in the stone sinks and a few bowls that had not been put away. She examined them, but Elsie was clean, even if she was not tidy.
She came back out into the kitchen. “There is nothing,” she said.
“Where else might someone keep poison?” Evans mused.
“No,” she said, “I think we are asking the wrong question. I have a very bad feeling about this. Where else might someone plant poison on another? Where would be easiest to do that, if indeed it had been done?”
“A public room,” Evans said, nodding. “The hallway, then, and … well, he is a bachelor. His study, perhaps.”
Cordelia and Evans went back out into the corridor and they paused in the main hallway. Evans held his lantern high. The candle in the lantern by the door was nearly out now.
Unlike the kitchen, with its emptiness, the hallway was decorated and furnished to impress. Even in the half-light, Cordelia could see the Scavenger was a wealthy man. There was a rug on the floor that nearly went to the very edges of the room, and a set of easy chairs by a fireplace that would be lit to welcome people to the house on party nights and gatherings. The entrance hall was basically another functional room, making the place feel more like an old-fashioned Tudor hall than a modern nineteenth-century dwelling. It must cost a fortune to heat in winter, she thought, then forced her mind back to the task in hand. There was one long table here, in dark wood, with elaborately carved legs, and next to that was a hat-stand and umbrella cage. There were a few objects around on the table in a neat row — a marble head, a vase, and two china figurines.
And one thing that was not in line.
“Constable,” she said, pointing to the table.
He saw it immediately. In between a china shepherdess and the vase was a small package, wrapped in linen and twine.
“It could be nothing,” Evans said.
“We know that it is not nothing,” she said. “Why, it might as well have ‘poison’ stamped upon it.”
And she was correct. Evans put the lantern on the table and pulled at the twine which unravelled from its c
unning knot very easily. Too easily. The linen unfurled and there was a small pasteboard box within.
He lifted the lid, and brought it to his face, half-looking and half-smelling the contents.
“Well,” he said at last. “We have it.”
Cordelia looked to the door. Light flared and then a shadow fell upon them.
“What?” Evans said.
“Sorry,” she said. “I expected him to come crashing through the door at that moment, shouting wildly.”
Evans packaged away the evidence and picked up the lantern. “Do not fear,” he said as he led her across the hallway to the exit. “It was only the candle blowing out. It doesn’t mean anything unless—”
The candle was out because the door was opening and a dark figure had stooped to blow it out.
The figure straightened up, confused by the light he could still see.
“What in blazes—?”
***
The constable raised his lantern high and said, in a placid manner, “Ah, good evening, sir.”
Davies was drunk, and angry, and rather unsteady on his feet. He stumbled into the entrance hall and peered at them, shading his eyes from the lantern in some affective gesture; the light it cast was not very strong, but in his inebriated state, it must have hurt his vision.
“Constable, beth sy’n bod?”
There followed a tirade of Welsh from both sides, with Cordelia standing out of the way. There were points and gestures in her direction and eventually Davies screamed something very loudly, Evans grabbed her arm, and they made a sudden dash for the door. Davies was standing to one side of it, and Evans elbowed him sharply so that he fell against the wall.
“Let’s go!”
She didn’t need telling. She wrestled her arm free, and gathered up her skirts so that she could run alongside the panting portly Evans. She risked a glance over her shoulder, but there seemed to be no sign or sound of pursuit, though in the unlit streets it was more of a hope and an assumption than a reality.
Soon their pace slowed. They came out onto Great Darkgate Street, which had a few people going about their business even at this late hour. Evans caught his breath.