The Blue and the Grey

by M. J. Trow

  ‘You can turn round now,’ Argyll said.

  Grand twirled slowly, realizing that his back was against the balustrade. To his surprise, he saw that Argyll was wearing his astrakhan coat and launching into a new role already. ‘I’ve no idea how it happened, Officer,’ he was saying. ‘I’d just come in to open the theatre for the afternoon’s performance, and I was making my way to the stage when I stumbled on this man’s body. He must have fallen from the balcony up there, I suppose. But who he was and what he was doing here, I have no idea.’

  In a split-second Grand realized his true situation. If that was the scheme that Argyll had planned, that Grand’s death was to look like suicide or an accident, there would be no place in that for a bullet. How could the impresario square that with the authorities? And if Argyll did not intend to use the gun, then … But the man who had killed Winthrop and helped kill a president was faster. He brought the barrel of the Tranter down with crushing force on Grand’s head, and the man sank to one knee. He was vaguely aware of Argyll’s arms encircling his body and lifting him on to the balcony’s rim. His vision swam, and his head reverberated with noise he could not explain. He reached up and caught Argyll’s left arm, but blood was trickling into his eyes and the man was hugely strong. He brought his head forward to crack against the impresario’s nose, and Argyll roared. A weaker man, one with less commitment perhaps, would have fallen back at that, his nose broken, his eyes brimming with tears. Instead, Argyll used his free hand to slap Grand across the face, and he rammed his jaw upwards so that Grand’s head was dangling over the parapet and his upper body was perpendicular to the balcony. One more shove and he would be tumbling downwards thirty, forty feet to the rows of chairs below, any one of them hard and solid enough to break his back as he fell.

  Suddenly, there was a grunt and a growl.

  ‘You bastard!’ were the only words Grand heard, and then there was a scream as a body hurtled past the American’s blurred vision to land with a sickening thud on the ground below. Grand swerved to get himself off the parapet and looked down. There, his legs and neck twisted to an impossible degree, his face like a devil’s leering up at him, lay the mortal remains of Roderick Argyll.

  Grand’s breath left his lungs with a sharp, painful burst. At his elbow, a distraught-looking James Batchelor was leaning over the parapet with him, staring down at the ghastly sight below. ‘My God,’ the journalist whispered. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘You’ve saved my life, James,’ Grand murmured, his head still ringing from the gun-barrel blow.

  ‘I just saw this lunatic trying to kill you,’ Batchelor said. He felt Grand’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You have my gratitude,’ the American said, ‘and, for what it’s worth, Abraham Lincoln’s.’

  ‘Put the bloody lights on!’

  Both men recognized Dick Tanner’s voice in the auditorium below. There was the thud of running policemen and the green gas lights, courtesy of old Lavenham, glowed into life one by one.

  Inspector Tanner looked up at the two faces looking down at him. ‘Mr Batchelor, Mr Grand,’ he said, crouching beside Argyll’s body. ‘You two do keep turning up in the oddest places, don’t you?’

  ‘There’ll have to be an inquest, of course.’ Tanner slid a mug of tea across the desk to Grand, followed by another for Tanner. It was difficult to say which of the two looked the worse for wear – Grand with his own blood matted in his hair and a nicely developing pair of black eyes, or Batchelor, pale and shaken to the core. ‘It’s just a formality,’ the inspector assured them. ‘From what you’ve told me, it’s a good result. Argyll’s secretary, a Mr—’ he checked the papers on the desk in front of him – ‘Pearson, is filling in the details at the Yard as we speak. He has the dates of Argyll’s visits to America, both this latest one and earlier ones. Who can I check this with, Mr Grand?’

  ‘I’m sure Lafayette Baker would make sense of it,’ Grand told him. ‘He doesn’t know it yet, but he has a photograph of Roderick Argyll taken at Lincoln’s inauguration. Argyll would probably have said it wasn’t his best side.’

  ‘All in all,’ Tanner said with a smile, ‘a very good day. You have your man, and I have mine.’

  ‘Yours?’ Batchelor queried.

  ‘Well, it might strain credulity, gentlemen, but the conspirator of Ford’s Theatre, Washington, is also the Strangler of the Haymarket Theatre, London.’

  ‘What?’ Grand and Batchelor chorused.

  Tanner smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m glad it’s not just me who finds that a bit pat. But, you see, how else do we explain this?’ He pulled something out of his pocket and laid it down on the desk.

  ‘What’s that?’ Grand asked.

  Tanner raised an eyebrow. ‘Mr Batchelor?’

  ‘It’s wire,’ the journalist said, grimly. ‘And it’s my guess it’s the wire used on the throats of the Haymarket victims.’

  ‘It’s the right thickness,’ Tanner said, nodding, ‘and, as you see, it’s formed into a loop. Our murderer has, of course, washed the blood off.’

  Batchelor frowned. ‘But I thought no weapon was found.’

  ‘At the scene of the crime, no,’ Tanner said. ‘But I found this in the pocket of the late Roderick Argyll, not two hours ago. Curious, isn’t it?’

  Number Four, Whitehall Place was under siege by lunchtime. A crowd of disgruntled gentlemen, in silk toppers and tail coats, had formed a disorderly queue up the front steps, pushing and shoving to get in. There must have been fifty of them crammed into the little vestibule where the oil of Commissioner Rowan looked nobly down at them. No one was paying much attention to that gentleman in his scarlet coat. Instead, everyone had fixed their gaze on Sergeant Steers, the hapless desk man at the Yard that morning.

  ‘I can assure you, gentlemen,’ he shouted above the chaos, ‘the fact that some of you have had your name written up in a newspaper has nothing to do with Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Nothing to do with Scotland Yard?’ The nearest top-hatted gent slammed his fist down on Steers’ counter. ‘My name is Jarvis, of Jarvis, Jarvis and Jarvis, and I represent his Grace the Marquis of Grendlesham. The Ebullient is guilty of libel, impugning His Lordship’s character by implying that he frequents places of low repute, viz and to wit the Haymarket Theatre.’

  ‘Then you must take that up with the Ebullient, sir,’ Steers explained, feeling that he had well and truly earned the stripes on his sleeve, and it was not even one o’clock yet.

  ‘We have, you oaf.’ Another gent shoved his head through Steers’ window. ‘Thomas Russell, representing Lord Herbury. That snivelling cur of an editor, Lewes, declined to accept any responsibility at all and told us flatly who had given him the story – total falsehood as it is. His name is Batchelor. He is a freelance journalist. And we want him arrested.’

  ‘We’ll handle the civil side later,’ Jarvis said. ‘For now, we’ll settle for this Batchelor to be dragged through the streets.’

  ‘Er … we don’t do that any more, sir. Dragging people through the streets. Went out with Good Queen Bess, I understand. Now, if you’d care to get along to Vine Street; the name to conjure with is Inspector Richard Tanner.’

  It wasn’t until they were safely back in Alsatia, in front of a comforting fire, enjoying Mrs Manciple’s crumpets with gentlemen’s relish and some tea with – as the cook had told them – ‘a little something in it for the nerves’ that either man allowed any sign of what they had gone through to show. Grand, who had gone through so much already in his life, surprisingly showed it most, curling up in the biggest chair, with the cat on his lap. He ran his fingers through its somewhat mangy coat and derived great pleasure from the creature’s purr, which sounded like the distant drilling of Mr Bazalgette’s latest project. Batchelor took refuge in chat about this, that, and the other, but none of it very relevant or consequential. A nervous laugh was beginning to show at the end of every sentence or so.

  How long this could have gone on was anybody’s gu
ess, but Mrs Manciple turned out to be made of sterner stuff than her bombazined exterior suggested. Once her young gentlemen had eaten and drunk enough to please her, she took them by the elbow and marched them upstairs and put them to bed. In vain did they protest that they felt perfectly well and had things to do. She began by removing coats and waistcoats until they realized that the only way to get rid of her would be to go along with her ludicrous plan. Sleep, indeed. It was hardly half past two in the afternoon – it was no time to sleep. They had caught a murderer. A conspirator in the worst crime of the century. They had places to be. Articles to write. Telegrams to send. But her implacable calm invaded their limbs and, despite themselves, soon they slept like children.

  Mrs Manciple stumped down the stairs to the kitchen and booted the cat off her chair. She had planned a simple supper so that she could have some time to herself. She hadn’t been sure about taking on a post with a foreigner – you heard such things – but so far he and the other gentleman had turned out to be pleasant enough. But bless their hearts! Just like children in some ways, rushing about and coming in as nervous as kittens, all because they had been telling each other some taradiddle about murders and people falling from balconies. Perhaps she ought to give them a less invigorating diet – they were both a little touched, perhaps, poor gentlemen. She congratulated herself again for taking this post – although, of course, since that last time, she didn’t have the choice she once had. But still – she shook herself and levered herself out of her chair to start preparations for supper – beggars can’t be choosers. Now – chops or turbot? Turbot was brain food, but did her gentlemen need their brains exciting? Perhaps something bland …? And so she wittered the afternoon away, while above her Grand and Batchelor slept the sleep of the just.

  Dick Tanner sat at his desk, a coil of wire on the blotter in front of him. As a clue, it couldn’t have been clearer. Here, it seemed to say, is the murder weapon from the Haymarket killings. Ergo, the killer is the man in whose pocket it was found. But it simply wasn’t that easy, tempting though it might be. Previous investigations had shown Argyll to be away for the first murder at least, and he had alibis, although from some rather dubious ladies, for the other two. The ladies, Tanner felt, could be discounted as no better than they should be. But being out of London, en route from Liverpool, was a different thing altogether. He would have to interview Grand at some point to get more detail about the conspirator nonsense – and Tanner was as yet unconvinced that an Englishman could do something so quintessentially un-English as to conspire to kill a president – but Argyll as the Haymarket Strangler just didn’t hold water. He pressed the bell behind him and waited, but as usual no one came. He tried another method of calling his sergeant, the more successful in his experience. Opening the door, he just yelled the man’s name. ‘Hunter!’

  This time, Hunter appeared so quickly that he made Tanner jump.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Oh, Hunter, there you are. Could you step into my office for a minute? I have something I need to talk over, and your ears are as good a pair of receptacles as any other.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Hunter tried to pick the compliment out of that and failed. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’

  ‘It isn’t trouble, as such,’ Tanner said, sitting down and pushing the coil of wire closer to his sergeant, perched on a hard chair on the other side of the desk. ‘It’s this.’

  Hunter looked alert and said, ‘That’s right, sir. The wire from the Haymarket Stranglings. Found in Mr Argyll’s pocket, sir, at the Haymarket this morning.’

  ‘Correct on both counts, Hunter. What do you deduce from that?’

  Hunter was floored by this. Had the Inspector gone a bit simple? Was it a trick question? ‘Er … that Roderick Argyll is the Haymarket Strangler?’ he suggested.

  ‘No, Hunter. That’s exactly wrong. It means that someone else is the Haymarket Strangler and they were hoping to put the blame on Roderick Argyll.’

  Hunter opened his mouth to speak, but Tanner forestalled him. ‘No, hear me out. I think that the Haymarket Strangler feels – wrongly, unfortunately – that we may be getting close to an arrest, so he has planted this wire on Argyll. He couldn’t have known that Argyll would die like this, so he must have planted it and just bided his time.’

  ‘But he might have known,’ Hunter said. ‘Known that Argyll would die, I mean. Batchelor found the first victim and Grand the third. Batchelor killed Argyll, and Grand … well, Grand may have set up the murder. What if they are the Haymarket Strangler? Er … Stranglers?’

  Tanner gave it a few seconds thought and then shook his head. ‘They didn’t meet until after the first two murders,’ he said, ‘and these aren’t the kind of murders men do in pairs. No, we’re looking for someone else. Someone who had access to Argyll’s coat is the first thing we need to bear in mind. Someone who may be a little … unusual, if I can leave it as broad as that.’

  ‘Does it have to be someone who fits the description, sir?’ Hunter asked, sitting up alertly.

  ‘You sound as though you have someone in mind,’ Tanner said, lighting a cigarette and leaning back.

  ‘Well, if you agree with me that the eyewitness accounts aren’t worth a tinker’s cuss, sir, then yes, I believe I do.’

  ‘Who?’ The inspector blew a cloud of smoke in the sergeant’s direction.

  ‘Pearson.’

  ‘Pearson?’ Tanner had expected to recognize the name, but didn’t. ‘Remind me.’

  ‘He’s Argyll’s secretary, general factotum,’ Hunter said. ‘A weird little bugger if you ask me. I’d say he was Argyll’s pimp, if saying things like that about giants of the theatre was allowed.’

  ‘You can say things like that about conspirators to kill the President of the United States,’ Tanner said, ‘so don’t hold back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Pearson was definitely Argyll’s pimp. Oh, strictly high class, of course. Not always working girls either – from what I got from old Lavenham …’

  ‘Again,’ Tanner said, ‘remind me.’

  ‘Hall keeper. Bloke with the mop.’

  Tanner held up a finger. He remembered him. Funny old codger, but straight as a die.

  ‘Lavenham reckons there was all sorts of shenanigans going on.’

  ‘So why would Pearson want to finger Argyll?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘Threatened with the sack? Could see the writing on the wall? I dunno. I just think we should talk to him.’

  Tanner stood up sharply and reached for his coat. ‘You’re quite right, Hunter,’ he said. ‘Shall we go and ask the gentleman to accompany us to the station?’

  ‘I think that is a very good plan, sir,’ Hunter said, with a smile. ‘It’s time the Haymarket Strangler – the real Haymarket Strangler – got his comeuppance.’ And he opened the door for his boss as they went to solve the case, once and for all.

  Mrs Manciple was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Grand and Batchelor made a rather shamefaced reappearance just in time for supper. Although they would never admit it, they both felt better for the sleep, and the smells from the kitchen were making their stomachs grumble. This wasn’t quite the behind the scenes servant situation that Grand had envisaged, but somehow it felt good to hand over the reins to someone else once in a while.

  ‘Supper is in the kitchen,’ the woman said. ‘If you don’t mind, sirs. I haven’t quite got everything organized yet, and—’

  ‘The kitchen is perfectly acceptable, Mrs Manciple,’ Grand said. ‘But before we come down, may I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’ The cook folded her hands in front of her and looked helpful.

  ‘Do you have a cat?’

  The woman was confused. ‘No, sir,’ she said.

  ‘I remember a cat. It was on my lap.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, still helpful. ‘That’s your cat. Mr Batchelor told the cats’ meat man to tell me that I should buy it.’

  Grand looked at Batchelor, one eyebrow raised. ‘J
ames?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Batchelor said. ‘Can we discuss it later?’

  ‘Yes. But we will discuss it, James. A cat, indeed. Anyway, lead on, Mrs Manciple. Whatever it is you’ve made for us, it smells delicious.’

  Lavenham stood, as he always stood, mop akimbo, in the doorway in the approach to Argyll’s private entrance. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Can I help you gentlemen?’

  ‘Come on, Lavenham,’ Hunter said. ‘You know who we are. We’re the police.’

  ‘Bit late, arntchya?’ the old man asked. ‘He’s dead, y’know.’

  ‘Yes, Lavenham,’ Tanner chimed in. ‘We do know that. We’re here to see Mr Pearson.’

  ‘Better ’urry up, then,’ the hall keeper told them. ‘Packin’ up, he is. No job for him, y’see. Not now.’

  Hunter gave Tanner a triumphant look. Nothing pointed to guilt like a man running. He had said it before and he would say it again – show me a man leaving the scene, I’ll show you a murdering bastard.

  ‘We just want a word,’ Tanner said. ‘So, if you’d let us through …’

  Lavenham stood aside and followed the policemen with his eyes. He had no worries about his job. The Haymarket was bigger than any owner, and there would always be a job for a man and his mop.

  Tanner led the way up the stairs, led by the sound of drawers being slammed home and a muffled sobbing. Eventually, the policemen reached the innermost sanctum of Argyll’s rooms, where Pearson was ripping clothes out of presses and into a large, leather suitcase. To their surprise, he was also the one who was sobbing.