Mugs, Murder, and Mayfair

by L. A. Nisula

  Inspector Wainwright came into his office, glanced in my direction, then proceeded to ignore me, which I took to mean he’d expected me to be there and was resigned to it. I considered ignoring him in return, but that wouldn’t get us anywhere on the case. “Any luck?”

  He dropped another file on his desk, then hung up his coat before answering. “We think they caught a cab on Grafton Street.”

  So the trail had ended there. It made sense; the pair wouldn’t want to stay in the area after disposing of the body, especially with Kate’s alarms going off just around the corner. “There are a couple of new reports on your desk. Did Mr. Clairidge own the building or merely rent the office?”

  Inspector Wainwright didn’t answer my question but sat at his desk and picked up the two reports that had been delivered. He read through them slowly, pausing to re-read bits. When he’d finished with both of them, he opened the file he’d brought with him and flipped through it. I was beginning to wonder if it would be more productive to see if anyone had Mr. Frankes’s home address and would give it to me when Inspector Wainwright surprised me by saying. “He rented out the full building.”

  “I wondered. Mr. Frankes kept saying they were turning the office over to the heirs; Mr. Hanson said the building, so he must have known. Are there any tenants upstairs?”

  Inspector Wainwright stared at the closed folders in front of him, then got up without saying anything and grabbed his coat again. “I suppose you’re coming.”

  “It is my idea.”

  He sighed and left the office, calling for Constable Kittering. I followed.

  Inspector Wainwright sent Constable Kittering to try to find keys to the building, either in the evidence room or from Mr. Frankes. As we were walking down to street level, or more properly, as Inspector Wainwright was walking down to street level and I was following him, I thought of something else that was bothering me about our theory. “Are you sure Mr. Hanson didn’t say anything about Mr. Purnell killing Mr. Clairidge?”

  “Quite certain.” At least he was answering me.

  “I wonder why not. I would think he’d realize that he’s the only other suspect in the killing.”

  “Perhaps he hasn’t. Or perhaps he assumes we won’t have any evidence against him, as he didn’t do it and is hoping to continue the blackmail when it’s over and he’s released.”

  Neither seemed particularly logical, but then from the way Mr. Frankes had described him, Mr. Hanson hadn’t seemed particularly competent in the office, so perhaps he was no better at his criminal activities.

  By the time Inspector Wainwright had found a cab, Constable Kittering was back with the keys he’d obtained from the evidence room.

  It was another very silent trip across town; Inspector Wainwright had no desire to chat with us, and Constable Kittering and I had no desire to disturb him. When we got to Ryder Street, Mr. Clairidge’s office building was dark, and the curtains were all drawn upstairs, making it hard to tell if there was anyone there or not. Inspector Wainwright went to the door and began trying the various keys Constable Kittering had found until the lock clicked open. Constable Kittering had brought a dark lantern so went in first, shining a small bit of light on the floor. Inspector Wainwright followed, with me behind him.

  We were barely through the door when we heard footsteps that seemed to come from behind the wall. Inspector Wainwright spotted the door to the staircase first, back in the corner, near the door to Mr. Clairidge’s office. Constable Kittering took up a position near it. Remembering my earlier adventures with Kate, I went to stand by the street door, out of the way and ready to run for help if necessary. Inspector Wainwright went to the staircase door and waited until the footsteps seemed close, then flung the door open.

  “It’s about...” The man standing on the staircase froze when he saw Inspector Wainwright. Clearly, that wasn’t whom he was expecting, but he recovered quickly. “Are you with the police? Thanks be to God. I’ve been trapped, trapped I tell you!”

  “Trapped?” Inspector Wainwright asked in a flat voice. It was quite obvious to all of us that the door to the stairs hadn’t been locked.

  “Yes, trapped. Thomas Purnell. I’ve been missing for ages. Surely someone at my shop reported me missing. I’ve been the prisoner of a murderer.”

  “A murderer?” Inspector Wainwright didn’t sound any more interested in that than he had in the first statement.

  “Yes, Mr. Hanson. He works here. He murdered the owner and because I happened to be in the area when he did and witnessed the whole thing, he abducted me and locked me upstairs.”

  “And yet you just came downstairs,” Inspector Wainwright said.

  “Yes, yes, well, I try the door every so often, just to see, you see.”

  Inspector Wainwright didn’t show any sign that he did see, but Mr. Purnell was too busy looking earnest to notice. “Tell me about this murder.”

  “The man who owned this business. The man you want is Alfred Hanson, one of the employees. There must have been some business dispute because when I happened upon them in the alley, they were yelling at each other about money. And then Hanson shoved the man and knocked him into a box, and there was blood everywhere and...and he grabbed me and dragged the body to another alley so no one would find it, and then he brought me here.”

  That was the version of the crime they had staged, not the one that fit the facts, although quite possibly the one Inspector Fulson still believed.

  “And you could show us where this alley is?”

  “Yes, yes, although I assume someone’s found the body by now.”

  “And the alley where the fight took place?”

  “I don’t know. I was so shocked, I didn’t really notice where I was.” Quite the opposite of what one would expect from an abduction victim, who would more likely know where he’d been when he was taken but not where the abductor took him. And of course, he didn’t want us to see the place on Cork Street where the crime had happened with its bloodless strangling.

  Inspector Wainwright closed his notebook. “You’ll need to accompany me to Scotland Yard and make a statement. Constable Kittering, if you would?”

  Mr. Purnell looked ready to protest, but Constable Kittering already had him by the arm and was leading him out.

  Inspector Wainwright turned to me. “Miss Pengear.”

  “If you don’t need me for the questioning, I’ll go and let Kate know she doesn’t have to worry anymore. She doesn’t, does she?”

  I had thought leaving without being told would put him in a better mood. Apparently, it did, as he said, “No, we should be able to wrap up the case now, without your help. Now that we know Clairidge was strangled, we can prove Purnell is lying, and once Hanson realizes that Purnell is going to pin the entire thing on him, he should be quite ready to tell us what really happened.”

  “Then I’ll leave so you can lock up and get him to the Yard.” I knew getting rid of me so easily would please Inspector Wainwright.

  Outside, I saw Constable Kittering was getting into the cab beside Mr. Purnell, not leaving more than a few inches between them. Even if Mr. Purnell wasn’t under arrest yet—and I suspected that was only because Inspector Wainwright thought he’d be more willing to talk if he didn’t realize no one was believing a word of it—Constable Kittering was not letting him get away. I waved to the constable and turned my steps in the direction of Kate and Ada’s shop.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  The shop was closed when I arrived, but I could see lights inside, which told me Kate and Ada were still downstairs and probably working on the inventory, or at least attempting to. Kate answered the door as soon as I knocked, which told me she had been waiting for me to get back. I was barely through the door when she asked, “Are there any developments?”

  I was very pleased to be able to tell her, “Inspector Wainwright and I found Mr. Purnell. Inspector Wainwright is waiting until he finishes incriminating himself to arrest him.”

  “That sounds promis
ing. I’ll find some tea, and you can tell us all about it.”

  I was just finishing the story of Mr. Purnell’s arrest when there was a knock at the door. Ada went to open it and returned with Constable Jackson. Kate began pouring out tea for him while I passed him the plate of biscuits. As he sat down at once, I knew he was off duty. “I came to tell you my brother liked the books you suggested.”

  Kate handed him his cup. “I’m glad. He’s back, then?”

  “He is. And they’re threatening to sack him since he was late his first day back, although it wasn’t his fault the ship was late getting in. The pump was a huge success, though. He hasn’t mentioned it to them yet.”

  “That’s good,” Kate said. “He ought to go out on his own.”

  “It’s not so easy.”

  “You’re telling us that?”

  Constable Jackson smiled. “No, I suppose you know that.”

  “He should at least look for an employer who appreciates him,” Ada said as she poured out.

  “Not so easy. He’s applied to every gearworks in town and within twenty miles of London.”

  That phrasing brought something to mind. “Has he tried the Verdugo Gearworks?”

  “I’ll ask him, but he hasn’t mentioned them. Are they new?”

  “They are, in England at least. It seems they’re well established in Cordoba. I know someone who works there. I could send a letter.”

  “I’ll suggest it to him.”

  Now that the pleasantries were out of the way, we were free to ask what we really wanted to know. I started. “Has Mr. Purnell confessed?”

  “To everything. Once he realized Hanson was turning on him to get a better deal, he started talking, hoping for the same. Inspector Fulson is furious that his theory of the case fell apart as soon as Hanson started talking. Inspector Wainwright is being very quiet about the whole thing. And Lupo is being very modest about it, although he is collecting a large variety of treats for his role in solving it.”

  “So what exactly happened,” Kate asked.

  “And why did Mr. Purnell draw attention to himself with the broken window?” I asked.

  Constable Jackson settled in with his second cup of tea. “It seems Mr. Clairidge was going to end the blackmail that night. According to Purnell, when Clairidge met Purnell on the street instead of leaving the money as he’d been instructed, Purnell knew something was wrong and panicked and threw the mug, planning to run. Clairidge dragged him to the nearest alley away from the noise of your alarms to finish him off. But Hanson had been following Clairidge, hoping to get in on the blackmail scheme, and saw the whole thing. He followed them to the alley, and he did hit Clairidge over the head, although it didn’t do much damage. But it did surprise Clairidge enough to give Purnell a chance to get the upper hand and strangle Clairidge with the rope he brought along in case things went bad, if you believe Hanson, or the rope Clairidge was trying to use on him, if you believe Purnell.

  “The rest of it is more or less as you’ve figured out. They thought they could make it look as if Clairidge had been killed accidentally in the course of a fight and hopefully blame the broken window on that as well. They realized there wasn’t enough blood for the head wound, so they moved the body, hoping no one would realize where he was killed or how. In the dark, they didn’t realize the marks of the rope would be as obvious as they were, and they tried to scratch up his neck to disguise them and hit him over the head a few more times to make that wound more obvious, which was why the coroner wasn’t sure about the timing. Then Hanson blackmailed Purnell into continuing his blackmail scheme so he could share the profits with Hanson.”

  “And Purnell went along with it?” Kate asked.

  “Purnell knew he didn’t have any real sort of defense. Hanson was the only one who could say that Clairidge was attacking him and not the other way around, and the blackmail plot was enough to get him arrested on its own. He didn’t think he had any choice. And I don’t think he wanted to lose such a lucrative income stream. Hanson knew that Clairidge rented out the entire building and it was safe enough to hide there until they knew Purnell wouldn’t be caught. And since they knew why Purnell was hiding, I don’t think they realized anyone would look into Purnell disappearing as a disappearance. So that seems to settle it, unless you had any questions.”

  I did. “What was Mr. Clairidge being blackmailed over?”

  From his grin, I could tell Constable Jackson had been waiting for someone to ask that question. “Oh, that. Bigamy. One wife in Yorkshire and one in Surrey. Both had been widowed shortly before he met them and left sizable amounts of money. Both saw the obituary and hurried down to see what was what, although neither one seemed to be particularly mournful. Hanson saw them sitting in the waiting area as we were taking him back to the cells and said he didn’t envy us, so he knew all about it. And I think Inspector Wainwright heard Inspector Fulson complaining to the chief inspector about how Inspector Wainwright had taken over his case since, when Inspector Wainwright came into the waiting area on his way to bring Lupo back to the kennels, he said, ‘Inspector Fulson is ready to speak to Mrs. Clairidge now,’ and then left as the pair of them were getting to their feet and realizing what was what. It wouldn’t surprise me if Inspector Fulson is still trying to be heard over them.”

  We had a good laugh at the thought of Inspector Fulson trying to intervene between two widows who’d just learned their husband had deceived them, then the conversation shifted to Constable Jackson’s brother and what I ought to tell the Verdugo Gearworks about him, with plenty of advice from Kate on which of his inventions he should tell them about and which to keep to himself.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  By the end of the week, we had finished the inventory of Kate and Ada’s shop and, on Friday, I was able to get back to the typing that had been waiting for me. I’d spent half the morning sorting the mail that had piled up while I’d been gone when the bell sounded, alerting me to a visitor. I went to check for a calling card and found that the message tube contained one of the plain disks kept by the front door for delivery people to send up so they wouldn’t have to fuss about with cards. I sent the tube and the disk back down so he’d know I’d seen it and went to see what was being delivered.

  There was a boy on the front step holding a large stack of newspapers. From his inky fingers, it seemed delivering them was his job. “Miss Cassandra Pengear?”

  “Yes.” Why on earth was he bringing me a newspaper? I didn’t subscribe to any, merely bought them on the corner when I wanted one.

  “For you.” He held out the papers.

  “The whole stack?” That was even more ludicrous than one newspaper.

  “That’s what he said. Nine newspapers, morning edition, for Miss Cassandra Pengear at 334 Paddington Street, flat B. That’s you,” he said in a tone of voice that told me he would carry out his mission, no matter what objections I raised.

  “It is.” It seemed simplest to accept and be done with it. “What do I owe you?”

  “He paid.”

  That was even stranger. It meant the person actually wanted me to have the newspapers. “Who paid?”

  “The copper that told me to bring them.”

  It was making less sense by the minute. “Copper? You mean Constable Triply?” Why would he send me nine identical newspapers?

  “No, not him. Fancy sort.”

  “You mean like an inspector?”

  “Could have been.”

  Well, if Inspector Burrows had sent them… “A little taller than I am, light brown hair, almost blond, grey checked coat?”

  “No, tall bloke, dark hair, growled a bit.”

  “Inspector Wainwright?” That made even less sense, but he wasn’t the sort to play tricks, so it had to mean something. “Well, I might as well have them, then.” I took the newspapers, which had been wrapped in a piece of plain paper so I wouldn’t be covered in ink before I made it upstairs—I wondered who had been that considerate—and handed the boy a few
coins as a tip, then brought the papers upstairs.

  The headline provided a bit of a clue. Barber Arrested in Blackmail Scandal. Mr. Donovan was mentioned in the article, along with an accountant being blackmailed over funds he’d stolen from pensioners—he’d probably be getting some jail time himself for that—and another businessman who’d been blackmailed over an affair with a chorus girl—nothing particularly damaging to his reputation in that one. There was a sidebar taking up most of one column describing the murder of one of the victims, although Mr. Clairidge’s name wasn’t mentioned. The newspaper did go into great detail describing the wife Mr. Clairidge had in Yorkshire and the four rich widows he’d been courting in London, again not by name, and speculating on whether there were any others hidden around England, although it wasn’t clear if they meant wives or widows. There was no mention of Mr. Grayson.

  The arrival of the afternoon post cleared everything up. Among the advertisements was a thick envelope with no return address. Inside, there was a blank notebook of the sort I normally carried in my handbag, a group of smaller envelopes, and a letter on Scotland Yard notepaper, unsigned but clearly in Inspector Wainwright’s neat hand, consisting of one line. “He lied about the evidence.”

  I opened the first envelope. Inside was a receipt from the Savoy dining room made out to “Daniel Rowley.” I counted the envelopes. Nine. Nine envelopes of materials, nine newspapers with an article on the blackmailer’s arrest. No connection to Inspector Wainwright. I knew exactly what I was expected to do. After I cut out the nine articles on Mr. Purnell, I took out my list of victim addresses and began typing up envelopes, starting with Mr. Grayson’s. A note didn’t seem necessary or desirable under the circumstances.

  About the Author

  L. A. Nisula also writes fantasy novels under the name Lisa Anne Nisula. You can find out more about her and her other books at http://www.lanisula.com and http://www.LisaAnneNisula.com