She looked up. “Spontaneous human combustion."
He had half thought that it was a facetious question, but he saw from her face that she was serious; Helena was good at serious, it was part of her beauty. He asked warily, “Why do you want to know?"
She was back in the paper. The DVD continued to show magical mayhem, oblivious that it had momentarily lost its audience. “There's a report here of a man found dead in his house, burned to ashes although the room was barely touched. The police aren't commenting, but the papers are talking about spontaneous human combustion."
He snorted. “Really? Not aliens, then?"
She smiled. “You're not cynical about it, then?"
"Only a lot."
"Why? There are plenty of recorded instances."
"There are plenty of recorded instances of people being burned to death, I'll concede. It's the ‘spontaneous’ bit I can't quite swallow."
"Then how does it happen?"
"I'll give you ten to one that the victim in this case smoked and drank, and twenty to one that he was overweight and old."
She read some more. “It says that there were empty bottles of spirits in the house."
"See? And I bet he smoked too. The vast majority of cases are people who get drunk in a chair or in bed while they're smoking. Nobody bursts spontaneously into flames.” It was perhaps ironic that at this moment he picked up his tumbler of whiskey and took a swallow. “It's a myth that ranks alongside UFOs, poltergeists, and the Abominable Snowman in terms of veracity. It's hogwash."
"Then how come the bodies are burned so completely?"
"If the temperature gets hot enough, animal fat will burn just as fiercely as cooking oil. The more fat, the more fuel you have. Add some alcohol and you've got a highly combustible mixture."
"Why doesn't the rest of the room burn?"
At times such as these, when she seemed to be cross-examining him even though they were at home, he felt she took her legal training a little too seriously. “If it does, it's called a house fire,” he explained. “If the chair or the carpet or the curtains don't catch—hey presto!—you have a ‘supernatural’ phenomenon. Except it isn't..."
She turned back to the paper, reading further. “Aha!” she announced triumphantly after a short while. “It says here that he didn't smoke.” She seemed inordinately pleased that she had found a weapon with which to strike him.
Eisenmenger shrugged, his interest back on the screen. “So it was something else. Perhaps there was a power cut and he had a candle, or maybe he was drying his hair and the dryer malfunctioned."
None of which impressed her.
Into her silence he added, “Mark my words, Helena. There's a perfectly natural explanation for it."
* * * *
"This is Amanda Hunt."
The woman presented to Eisenmenger was perhaps thirty-five; not pretty but nor was she ugly. She had long brown hair tied into a ponytail and a face that was overlain with tiredness but still clearly alert and intelligent. She had gray-blue eyes and thin pale lips; a dusting of freckles was uncamouflaged by any makeup.
She was clearly distressed.
Helena explained, “John, I've invited you here because Miss Hunt has asked me to help her with a problem, and I think you might be interested. She is the sister of Daniel Hunt. You remember? He was the gentleman who burned to death in his house? The gentleman whose habits and characteristics you were able to infer so precisely."
He was caught by surprise. Turning to the woman, he said, “He was your brother?"
She nodded.
He failed to hide his shock. “Forgive me. I had assumed...” He didn't know how to put it and resorted to asking, “How old was your brother?"
"Thirty-two."
He saw Helena in his peripheral vision. Her eyebrows were arched, her mouth shaped into something that could only be described as a smirk. He said to their visitor, “My condolences."
She flashed a brief smile. “Miss Flemming tells me that you're a pathologist, that you might be able to help."
"What with?"
Helena said, “Miss Hunt is dissatisfied with the cause given for his death."
"Which is?"
"Accidental death."
"Why is that a problem, Mrs. Hunt?"
The kind of smile that upsets small children. “Miss."
Eisenmenger did his best to clamber over her chilliness. “Sorry ... Miss Hunt."
She said then, “I know it sounds stupid, but in the last few weeks before my brother died, I thought that he was worried about something."
"Fearful for his life?"
"Oh no. I wouldn't go that far. Just ... perturbed."
Eisenmenger noted the word and liked her for using it. He risked a look at Helena, who ignored him and asked Amanda Hunt, “Did you ask him about it?"
"Oh yes, but he denied it. He said that I was imagining things, but I wasn't."
"About when before he died did this start?"
"I don't know ... perhaps two months, perhaps a little more."
"What did he do for a living?"
A simple question, but she had trouble with it for a moment. “He didn't work,” she said eventually.
"No?"
"He was ill. He had mental problems, and he was epileptic."
Eisenmenger asked, “Did he live on his own?"
She nodded. “He had carers, though."
"Carers?"
"Someone came in morning and evening to make sure that he took his tablets, to feed him, and to get him up and put him to bed."
Eisenmenger asked, “Forgive me for asking, but I assume that he was quite seriously disabled, then?"
She seemed to have problems with his terminology. “Daniel had some problems, yes."
They both heard secrets being danced around. Helena asked, “How long had your brother had these problems?"
She didn't need to think for long. “Eight years."
"What happened eight years ago?"
"He was involved in a car accident. He was in a coma for two weeks; it took another three months before he was out of hospital. After that, he was left not only with the epilepsy but also with severe depression. There was a time when he was having fits almost every week."
"What about recently? When did he last have a fit?"
"Not for a year, maybe fifteen months."
Helena asked, “The police say that they're satisfied that there was no second party involved.” She looked directly at Amanda Hunt. “But you're not."
A shake of an attractive head.
"Do you have any specific reason for disbelieving the police?"
"They haven't explained how it might have happened. All they've said is that they're satisfied that no one else could have been responsible."
"But you're not satisfied with that?"
She frowned. “Would you be? Spontaneous combustion? What kind of way to die is that?"
He tried to suppress his smile but didn't quite succeed as he glanced at Helena, who in turn asked, “I understand that your brother drank?"
She shook her head vehemently. “No."
"But...?"
"He didn't drink. Not anymore. He used to, but he'd given up a year before."
Eisenmenger was just a bit too cynical to swallow that answer without a bit of predigestion. “And when he used to drink, just how much would that be?"
She dropped her gaze as if admitting something shameful. “A lot. Maybe a bottle of vodka a day; sometimes more."
Neither he nor Helena said anything, but that was damning enough. She added, “But I know that he'd stopped. Really stopped."
Which, of course, neither of them could quite believe. Helena asked, “Did Daniel smoke?"
"He gave up after the accident. To my knowledge he hasn't smoked for eight years."
She was, Eisenmenger thought, the kind of person who was always certain about everything.
"Were you closest to him, Miss Hunt? What about your parents? What about friends
?"
"Our mother is dead. Father...” She trailed quite noticeably to a hesitation before, “Doesn't take much interest."
There was something behind that remark, but neither of them felt able to dig deeper.
"And friends?"
A shrug. “Daniel didn't really have any. He didn't go out much, you see."
Having exhausted this particular line of inquiry, he then turned to Helena and opened his mouth to ask for the post mortem report, but was silenced by the fact that she was already holding it out for him to take.
It was a single sheet of A4. He read it while Amanda Hunt stared at him and Helena doodled on a pad of paper; normally he would have considered such a short report to be negligent but not this time. Even Marcel Proust would have had trouble stretching it much further, given that the only parts of Daniel Hunt that had remained were his head and neck, his left arm, and his right foot. The history took up more room than the actual post mortem examination. Eventually he looked up and, as he handed it back to Helena, he remarked, “Your brother was quite severely depressed."
"He was improving."
This defiantly.
Of Helena he asked, “What about the fire investigation?"
Another report was handed over the desk. This one included a photo album, but there were no sea views or smiling, sunburnt faces. Eisenmenger spent a long time first in reading, then in minute inspection of the pictures. “The body was discovered in the morning?” he asked.
"When the carer came in to prepare his breakfast."
"Who was that?"
Helena read from a paper in front of her. “Emma Bell."
"Was the house secure?"
"Yes."
Helena asked, “Were there any signs at all of an attempted break-in? Scratched or forced window frames, that kind of thing?"
"The police checked very carefully for any suggestion of tampering and found none."
"Mmm.” He was barely aware that he said it, but Amanda Hunt was clearly very sensitive.
"I know what you're thinking."
"Do you?"
"You think I'm being stupid."
He tried to make the denial, the one that he genuinely felt, but she rolled right over him. “Well, I'm not. I don't believe that my brother burst into flames, and I don't believe it was an accident. I think that somehow somebody killed him, and I want you to prove it."
Helena's intervention was clear and concise. “Or disprove it, Miss Hunt. We can only uncover what's there, whatever you may want to accept."
Briefly surprised, she quickly accepted the truth of this and said, “Of course."
Eisenmenger was back at the fire investigation report. “The remains were found in the middle of the room. Not near a fireplace, nor near any electrical outlets,” he observed. “There's no evidence to suggest that any accelerant was used."
Amanda Hunt frowned. “What does that mean?"
"No trace of flammable liquids, that kind of thing."
Helena added, “Despite the police saying nothing officially, the local press have played up the idea of spontaneous combustion fairly strongly."
Eisenmenger said dryly, “Well, you can see why they would."
"They're vultures. They wouldn't leave me alone."
There was silence, a look of deep concentration on Eisenmenger's face, while Amanda Hunt looked at him.
"Well?” she demanded eventually.
"I don't see how it could be murder,” he said slowly, aware that it was not what she wanted from him.
"Couldn't someone have knocked him out and then set fire to him?"
Helena said, “John will correct me if I'm wrong, but there was no sign from the remains that your brother had suffered any trauma prior to his death."
"There wasn't much left of my brother from which to draw any conclusions at all.” Amanda Hunt pointed this out with some asperity.
Eisenmenger nodded as if to accept this proviso but then said, “But I don't see how it could have been done, not if the house was secure. Were the doors locked, or locked and bolted?"
He could see that she didn't like it as she admitted, “Locked and bolted."
"So even if we postulate that someone let themselves in because they had a key, or your brother let the killer in because he knew them, there's the problem of how they got out again."
Miss Hunt said nothing to this.
Helena inquired, “Do I take it that the police have checked out the alibis of the carers for the night that your brother died?"
"The police tell me that they're happy that none of the carers could have gone back to the house. He was last seen alive on the evening of the third—the woman who lives opposite saw him through the window of his front room at about eight—and all of them have alibis from then until the morning of the fourth when his remains were discovered."
"By Emma Bell."
She nodded. Then she asked, “Anyway, how much can a pathologist tell from ... from the little that was left? Supposing he was shot ... or stabbed ... or poisoned, even."
Eisenmenger explained, “Generally speaking, shooting and stabbing don't leave a clean environment. As for poisoning, the post-mortem tissue samples revealed nothing on analysis."
She looked deflated, and Eisenmenger felt guilty. Helena asked, “How much did your brother weigh?"
She didn't understand the question. “About twelve stone, I should think."
"Not markedly overweight, then?"
"Not at all."
Helena looked at Eisenmenger, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. She turned back to Amanda Hunt. “I know it's unsatisfactory, but there really is no indication that there was anything criminal about your brother's death."
She nodded slowly, looking not at them but at the floor. Helena turned to Eisenmenger, who hesitated briefly before saying, “But I suppose we could spend a day just looking into it..."
She brightened at once. “You will?"
"We can't promise anything,” Helena pointed out quickly.
But that didn't matter, and as Helena showed her out of the office, she had the feeling that they were just postponing Amanda Hunt's disappointment.
* * * *
"What do you think?” asked Helena as she sat back down.
"I can't see that it's murder,” said Eisenmenger. “And, as I don't believe that it's spontaneous combustion, that leaves an accident."
"But he didn't smoke, and there was no evidence of a candle, and nothing to suggest an electrical fire."
He laughed. “I bet you dinner at a decent restaurant that he smoked. Whatever he wanted his sister to believe."
"He wasn't overweight."
"But we know that he drank."
"So no great mystery, then?"
"I doubt it."
* * * *
"Mrs. Bell?"
No more than twenty-five, she bore enough worry on her face for two lifetimes. She looked startled to be addressed by two strangers, clearly felt that she was guilty of something—anything and everything, even. She wore a simple housecoat in fine blue and white stripes, black stockings, and flat shoes. She was just coming out of a house, not far from where Daniel Hunt had lived and died.
"Yes?” This timorously.
"Do you mind if we have a word?"
"What about?"
"About Mr. Hunt. My name's Helena Flemming; this is my colleague, Dr. John Eisenmenger."
If anything, the look of concern deepened, became almost distressed. “I..."
"It is important. I'm a solicitor, here on behalf of Mr. Hunt's sister."
"How did you find me?” She was looking more and more alarmed with every second that passed.
"The company you work for said you'd be here."
"I don't know ... I haven't got long. I've got to get on to my next client."
"This won't take long."
Her head was shaking, although whether it was a sign of disagreement or a sign of fear wasn't obvious. Eisenmenger said gently, “We know that it was distressi
ng for you to find Mr. Hunt like that. But if you could just answer a few questions, his sister would be very, very grateful."
It was a sunny, humid morning, and they went to a park bench on the small green opposite. She sat down with Helena beside her and Eisenmenger leaning against a tree. The traffic was still loud on the main road, and although they were in the middle of the city, there was an unmistakable rural air; though open fields and woodland were a long way away.
Helena asked, “Did you know Mr. Hunt well?"
"Oh yes. He was one of my favorites. Some of them are a bit nasty—they can't help it because they're old and losing their marbles—but he wasn't like that. He was quiet and some days he was really, really down, but on his good days he was quite charming. He used to ask after my little girl."
"How long have you been helping with his care?"
"About three years."
"Did he smoke?"
She shook her head, but there was an undoubted hesitation. “No."
Eisenmenger smiled. “Not officially, I take it."
She smiled. “He didn't want his sister to know, but he used to have the occasional one—usually a roll-up."
Helena could feel smugness radiating from Eisenmenger like sunshine on cold skin. “Did he drink at all?” was his next question.
She was pained by saying, “He'd begun to drink. Just recently."
Eisenmenger said nothing, but Helena imagined he was silently crowing. She failed to look at him as she asked, “Why? Was there a reason?"
"He'd become very agitated recently. I thought he was worried about something, but he wouldn't tell me what."
"Did he have any enemies?"
"Not that I know of, but I wouldn't, would I? I mean, I only used to see him for half an hour a few times a week."
"When you spoke to him on the third—what was he like that evening?"
"Like he had been for some time. Preoccupied. Depressed. He hadn't bothered to get dressed all day—he'd taken to doing that."
"Was he drunk?"
She hesitated. “He'd been drinking, but I wouldn't have called him drunk."
Eisenmenger asked suddenly, “Do you think he ever saw anyone except you and your fellow carers? His sister tells us that he had few friends."
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