Sweet Smell of Murder

by Torquil R. MacLeod

  ‘Jack, Jack, calm yourself. Bowser will not be there.’

  Jack paused. ‘How do you know he will not be?’

  ‘Because he will be here. I will invite him to call tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Ha!’ Jack laughed mirthlessly. ‘After last time!’

  ‘Exactly the reason. I will write him a note asking him to forgive me for our little misunderstanding. I will hint that maybe he will not face the same resistance this time.’

  ‘I can see that might attract him. But I have to say that I do not like the thought of the old goat getting his hands on you.’

  ‘I will keep him at arm’s length for as long as I can.’

  Jack frowned. ‘And what about me? How will you explain my absence from here?’

  ‘I will say that I persuaded you to go drinking with Southby so that we could be alone. But you must not be too long. I want you back before Bowser goes too far. I will only be able to fend him off for so long.’

  ‘That will go down marvellously. I caught him last time and it ended up with him threatening me, which seems to be the favourite pastime in this town.’

  ‘All you have to do is make a loud noise when you come through the front door. I will do the rest. You will not have to meet him face to face.’

  ‘Oh, that is a comfort! I have to tell you, Bessie, that I do not like this little plan of yours. It is fraught with danger. More to the point, it is fraught with danger for me!’

  ‘How selfish you are, Jack. I cannot believe you are saying this. I will be in more physical danger than you. If you tarry too long, I may have to succumb to him. Just think of that!’

  ‘I am sorry. But I do have a few difficulties to overcome myself. Firstly, I have to get inside the house without being seen. Secondly, once inside, I do not know what to look for or where to look for it even if I knew what it was. Thirdly, someone might discover me. You may be grappling with Bowser here, but I am sure he has some other unpleasant characters frequenting his house, if Crindle is anything to go by. They might not bother to ask what I am doing there before carving me up into little pieces.’

  ‘Why do you continually throw obstacles in the way?’

  ‘Obstacles!’ He was squeaking again. ‘This is not a confounded game. Bowser and his kind kill folk. I do not intend to be his next victim.’

  Bessie’s features hardened. ‘You have no choice. You are in trouble already. I dread to think what Bowser will do when your fictitious friend, Garrick, does not make his much-heralded appearance. I doubt even the return of his precious snuffbox will placate him at this late stage. And you cannot escape, because Sergeant Axwell will have you arrested the moment you try and leave the town. It is a wonder he has not put you under lock and key already. Unless we prove Bowser guilty – and very quickly – your life will not be worth a groat.’

  Her addiction to home truths was as sobering as it was irritating. And she didn’t even know that he had “lost” the snuffbox. He realised that there was no way out of this ghastly situation. She was right, damn her. He had to go through with it.

  XLIV

  Had he ever been this afraid before? He doubted it. He remembered being scared during his mother’s last illness, though he was very young at the time. He hadn’t wanted her to leave, and when she did, his fear had been replaced by an unexplained resentment. His first day up at Oxford had been unnerving rather than frightening. His stage debut was probably the worst. As his insides had churned up, he had almost been overcome by faintness. It had been the fear of the unknown. He was still nervous every time he trod the boards, but that had more to do with hoping that no one in the audience would throw anything at him.

  This was different. This was raw fear. There were so many imponderables involved. Would he get in? What would he find? Would someone find him? He sat miserably at the foot of Bowser’s garden wall. He had managed to scale it – not without difficulty – and now he huddled pathetically in a patch of damp earth. It had gone dark early that evening and it was freezing; he told himself that he could not move until the flurry of snow had ceased. He knew it was an excuse to put off the inevitable.

  Bessie had given him a passionate farewell kiss, which he had been too preoccupied to reciprocate in kind. That was after she had pressed a knife into his hand. He had looked aghast.

  ‘Do you think I will need to defend myself?’

  ‘No. But you may need to break a lock or force open a window.’

  She had been useful in other ways, too. She had acknowledged the difficulties he faced and had taken measures of her own. She had delivered her invitation to Bowser’s house personally, having already established he would be out at the theatre with Courtney. Goosemoor had shown her in when she indicated that she would await Bowser’s return. She had been put in the first-floor drawing room (‘He had a portrait there, too,’ she reported.) which, in the time she had been left alone, she had searched. It was a formal room, given to entertaining, and she thought it unlikely that whatever they were after would be there; she had been right. Then she had departed before Bowser’s return. Bowser had sent a note agreeing to their assignation and at this very moment was probably making a play for Bessie’s tits. He only hoped she wouldn’t let him. The thought prompted him into action.

  As stealthily as he could, he made his way round to the back of the building. There was a light at the top of the house, so at least one of the servants was about. The ground and first floors were in comparative darkness.

  After discussing it with Bessie, they had decided that the room Bowser had taken Jack into to give him the snuffbox must be where he kept his papers, probably in the desk. Jack hadn’t been sure of the layout of the house, but that room definitely had a window and almost certainly didn’t front onto the street. The safest way was to break in through a window at the back and, with a bit of luck, it would belong to the dining room or Bowser’s inner sanctum. They had also concluded that if he could find Lady Lammondale’s letter, then whatever was with it would be what they were looking for. It didn’t follow, and they both knew it, but it helped to justify the escapade.

  Jack crept forward. Suddenly he felt a sharp jab of pain. He had banged into a hard object. He gave a strangled yelp and danced about on one leg while clasping his stricken knee between his hands. When he had calmed down, his knee still throbbing, he felt for the object – it was a large stone pot.

  Cursing quietly to himself, he tentatively approached the house. The snow had stopped, but there was no moon to help him. He reached the wall and felt his way along it. About chest-high was the sill of a sash window. He peered in. It was too dark to make out which room it was. Gently, Jack pushed the bottom of the frame upwards, praying that the window wasn’t locked. It moved and made – certainly in Jack’s highly nervous state – a loud screeching sound as it rose. He stopped, paralysed. Had anybody heard? Jack was surprised it hadn’t alerted everyone between here and the quayside. He couldn’t afford to wait much longer: his fingers were starting to freeze up. He eased the window up noisily a few more inches, estimating there was probably just enough room for his less-than-sylphlike body to squeeze through.

  He tried to pull himself up onto the window ledge. He fell back onto the thin sprinkling of snow. He got up and brushed down the seat of his breeches, which were now irritatingly soggy. God, why had he agreed to this ludicrous plan? He couldn’t even get into the bloody house! A second attempt failed. His sister, Rachel, would have been through the window like a musket shot. This spurred him on. If she could do it, so could he. This time, he went a few paces back and took a running jump. His fingers curled round the bottom of the window frame and he hoisted himself up. His head went through the gap, followed by his upper torso. He was hanging half in and half out when the upper sash slid down a couple of inches and pinned him. He kicked his legs frantically, but to no avail. Tears of frustration welled up inside; he fought them back with rising panic.

  The window frame was resting on the top of his buttocks. Lying there i
n great discomfort, he tried to think rationally. What movement could he engineer to lever up the frame? He couldn’t reach back with his hands, and leg-kicking had proved useless. What would Bessie do? She was resourceful. It was then that Bessie gave him the idea. He began to move his hips as though he were slowly making love to her. The frame creaked. He continued, and the gap he created began to increase. Within a couple of minutes, he was able to wriggle through. Typically, the window stayed open once he was through and he couldn’t close it after him. He decided he would use it as his escape route.

  The room smelt of food – a pungent, gamey meat to be more precise. At least Jack knew he was now in the dining room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw the embers of a fire at the other end of the room. He tiptoed down alongside the table until he reached the fireplace. Out of his pocket, he took a candle and lit it in the fire. Bessie, ever the practical one, had given him two candles.

  Where was the door that led to Bowser’s inner sanctum? Somewhere in the panelling. Jack wished he had paid more attention on his last visit. He slowly felt his way round the walls until his fingers touched some cold metal. He stood apprehensively with his hand on the little door knob. The candle spluttered. He flinched as the hot tallow splattered onto his fingers. (It was bound to be one of the inferior candles Bowser foisted onto an unimpressed Tyneside public, thought Jack bitterly. They had to grin and bear it because Bowser had sewn up the monopoly in the town. No wonder he was so rich, charging so much for such poor quality. With no competition, you had to pay up or spend your nights in darkness.)

  Jack slipped through the door. The inner room was lit only by the fire, which flickered intermittently. He gave himself a fright when he glanced up and saw Bowser glaring down at him from his portrait. He went over to the desk and lit the candles in the nymph holders. They didn’t splutter. Nothing but the best wax candles for Bowser. Jack blew his own candle out and threw it into the fire. It flared up and disintegrated.

  He was sure the answer to his quest lay on or in the desk. Though still trembling at the thought that someone might suddenly walk in, he forced himself to sit down and he began sifting through bundles of papers. Most were dull business correspondence or lists of merchandise, quantities and prices. Bowser’s interests were not only wide, but also very lucrative from what Jack could judge. Nothing untoward showed up so Jack went through some of the drawers which, to his surprise, were unlocked. In one, there were a few letters. Now I am getting somewhere, he thought. But these were also connected with business.

  The final drawer was locked. He looked around for something to prize it open with. Then he remembered the knife that Bessie had thoughtfully provided him with. With the nervous fumblings of an amateur thief, he made little impression upon the lock. Only panicky brute strength eventually loosened the drawer. Inside was a wooden box. Not another one! Wooden boxes seemed to be plaguing him. He morbidly began to think about the one he would find himself in if he got caught…

  He was about to pick the box out of the damaged drawer when his hand froze – he heard footsteps clomping loudly somewhere above. It was probably the creepy Goosemoor. He held his breath; beads of sweat prickled his brow. Then the footsteps receded and a door was closed. Fingers shaking, he hurriedly replaced the business letters he had scattered on the desk top.

  Then he noticed the cupboard where he knew Bowser kept his fabulous collection of snuffboxes. Pinch one of them and he could afford to bribe his way out of this awful town. But the thick wooden doors wouldn’t budge. The Dutch oak cupboard was solidly built and he wasn’t going to risk trying to break it open, as it was far sturdier than the desk drawers. The noise would soon alert Goosemoor. He was still contemplating his disappointment when he heard footsteps again. This time there was no mistaking where they were coming from. The dining room.

  XLV

  Jack’s instinct was to dive across to the candles and stab them out; he was too panic-stricken to feel the burning on his palms. In his haste, he knocked one of the candles out of its holder onto the desk. Some papers caught alight. He frantically tried to beat out the miniature inferno. He could hear coal being thrown on the fire next door. It would be this one next. In desperation, he scooped up an armful of the burning papers and flung them into the grate. The fire jumped into life, giving off enough light for Jack to look around quickly for a hiding place, for there was no other obvious door to escape through.

  Then he suddenly realised that he had left the drawer of the desk open. On an impulse, he grabbed the wooden box he had seen inside, and shoved the drawer shut with his knee. By the time the door from the dining room opened, Jack was cowering by the side of the oak cupboard, trying to curl his body up into an invisible ball, clutching his stolen prize. He tried to hold his breath. A figure with a candle held aloft came into the room. Jack squinted up and saw the skirts of a maid. Her shoes clattered across the wooden floor. He hoped that the papers had burnt out quickly – he couldn’t see from his hiding place. He heard the rattle of coal being thrown on the fire. The maid seemed to be taking an eternity to stoke it up. Would she notice the nymph’s missing candle? He wasn’t sure where it was himself. In his dash to get rid of the burning papers, had it fallen on the floor or gone into the fire? Now she had stopped stoking the fire, so why wasn’t she going?

  Then there was a clump on the floor, quickly followed by another. Jack’s heart sank. Though he couldn’t see the maid, he could tell she was sitting on one of the chairs and had flipped off her shoes. She began singing some local ditty softly to herself. How long was she going to sit there, damn her? Jack’s joints were stiffening – he was going to have to do something. If he stood up and frightened the girl, she would probably scream the house down. God knows what ruffians would answer her distress call. Could he creep up quietly enough to grab her from behind, hand over her mouth, and hope he could explain his way out of it before she yelled? Not a very good idea. He would have to knock her unconscious. What with? He might kill her, and then he would really be in trouble. He hated violence anyhow, and the silly bitch hadn’t done anything to deserve such an attack.

  ‘Are you in there, my little dove?’ Jack nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the cooing voice.

  ‘Here, Mr Goosemoor. Waitin’ for you.’

  Bowser’s butler appeared at the door, holding a candle. The light from it faintly illuminated Jack’s crumpled body. Fortunately, Goosemoor’s eyes and mind were on other things at that moment.

  ‘Hattie, what are doing in the master’s chair?’ His tone was playful.

  ‘Keepin’ it warm for you, Mr Goosemoor.’

  He moved towards her. ‘You know you shouldn’t do that. And I noticed you hadn’t barred the shutters in the dining room. What would the master say to that?’

  ‘There was a window jammed an’ I was waitin’ for someone strong like you to shut it for us.’

  ‘That’s no excuse, you naughty girl. I’m going to have to spank you.’ The girl giggled. ‘You have the fire going well. It will keep us nice and warm.’

  ‘We won’t be disturbed by the master, will we?’ There was a hint of worry in her voice.

  ‘No. He’ll be pleasuring Acorn’s daughter by now.’ This was accompanied by a coarse laugh.

  Jack seethed quietly at the remark. It also alarmed him. The longer he was stuck here, the longer Bessie would have to fight off Bowser.

  ‘Blow the candles oot, Mr Goosemoor. The light from the fire is good enough to see by.’

  Goosemoor blew out his candle, then hers. ‘How do you want us?’ she asked mischievously.

  ‘Well, you have been most disobedient recently,’ his voice quivered with lust, ‘so I’m going to punish you first.’

  She squealed with delight as his hand slapped her bare rump. The smacks reverberated round the room. Then the childlike playfulness was gradually replaced by serious passion and the couple soon got down to the business of enjoying themselves. Jack wondered if he could sneak out of the room
under cover of the torrent of heavy grunts, muttered pantings and fictitious endearments. They wouldn’t be in a position to chase after him, but they could raise the alarm. He began to inch up off his excruciatingly painful haunches.

  ‘What’s that?’ he heard the girl call out breathlessly.

  ‘Nothing,’ gasped Goosemoor. ‘Just get on with it.’

  Jack was now transfixed, not sure whether to stand up or hunch down again. The animal noises grew rapidly to a crescendo. This was the point where Jack decided to make a break for it. He would take the wooden box – he might as well have something for Bessie, to show that he hadn’t been totally useless.

  He carefully eased himself up. From the light of the fire, he could see the girl sitting astride Goosemoor’s lap. She faced his direction, eyes closed. Jack took one tentative step towards the door. The girl’s eyes opened wide at the climactic moment. Her scream of undiluted pleasure turned into one of unadulterated horror. Jack didn’t wait. He was out of the door in a second. The fire in the dining room, now blazing brightly, showed him that the window by which he had entered was still open; thank God for poor workmanship and the servant girl’s weak arms. Jack heard Goosemoor shouting above the girl’s hysterics. He tucked his booty under his arm, dropped his shoulder, charged the open window and, with some deft athleticism which he didn’t even realise he was capable of, catapulted out into the garden. For a few moments, he lay winded and bruised on the snow-sodden grass. Amazingly, he still had hold of his trophy.

  ‘There he is!’ a voice yelled.