by Robin Paige
“Truffles?” Mrs. Portney frowned.
“Yes,” Kate said. “They are imported from France, you know, and the duty one must pay is simply exorbitant.” She laughed again. “I told his lordship that he should enter a motion in Parliament to repeal the excise on truffles—and that if he were not successful, I should go to smuggling. I am sure there are smugglers somewhere who would be glad to see what a fine profit could be made from such a delicacy.”
There was a space of silence. At last, Mrs. Portney said, cautiously, “It’s possible that truffles might be got fer yer ladyship. Arrangements might be made. Not straightaway, mind ye, but soon. P’rhaps I can speak t’ Mr. Grantly today—it’s my half-day off, ye know. I’ll leave a cold supper.”
“Indeed,” Kate said. “If you find the truffles, I shall be content.” Leaning forward, she patted the cook’s hand. “And you, my dear Mrs. Portney, shall be very well rewarded. Mr. Grantly too, I might add.”
“I shall be grateful, mum,” said that worthy, with a little bob of her head. “Most, most grateful. An’ if there’s anything else I can do, ye’ve only to ask.”
Kate picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “There is one more thing,” she said. “I have it in mind to look for some lace that Amelia might add to the throat of my dressing gown. I don’t suppose, in a village the size of Rottingdean, that I shall find what I’m looking for. Where in Brighton would you recommend—”
“Oh, but ye will find it in Rott‘ndean!” Mrs. Portney exclaimed eagerly. “Mrs. ’Oward ’as quite nice lace in ’er dress shop just down the ‘Igh Street, as fancy as any ye’ll find in Brighton. I know, fer I’ve seen it meself, and even bought a piece or two. Do ’ave a look, mum.”
“Why, I believe I shall, Mrs. Portney,” Kate said, smiling, and set down her cup. “And thank you again. You cannot know just how very helpful you have been.”
17
A weapon is an enemy, even to its owner.
—TURKISH PROVERB
It was past two in the afternoon when Charles and the Chief Constable crossed The Steine and made their way up North Street, then through the South Gate of the Royal Pavilion Estate and along a wide gravel walkway that bisected the western lawns. They passed in front of the huge domed building that had been erected in the early 1800’s to accommodate the royal stables, then let as cavalry barracks in the fifties and sixties and later reconstructed as a concert hall. In Church Street, they walked several blocks in a westerly direction, and turned right into a narrow lane. Several doors up, Sir Robert stopped before an unassuming brick-fronted shop with a painted sign board that read simply R. W. Barker & Son. The mullioned window was protected with iron bars, curtained with gray draperies to deter prying eyes, and topped conspicuously with a burglar alarm. A discreet brass medallion beside the door bore the Royal Lion and Unicorn and the inscription Armorer, by Appointment to Her Royal Majesty.
“The family has been in business here for at least half a century and is considered very reputable,” Sir Robert said. “They provided arms for the cavalry officers when the company was stationed in Brighton. If there is any knowledge in Brighton of a new type of firearm, my lord, we should find it here.”
Charles nodded, hoping that Sir Robert was right. He did not want to take the time to make a trip to London, especially when he had promised Kate that this holiday was to be theirs alone, a retreat from the pressures that had made life so difficult for the past few months, a time to heal whatever rifts had opened up between them. At the thought of Kate, sitting alone at Seabrooke House waiting for him, Charles felt resentful of the task that was taking him away from her, and yet—and yet, there was a certain compelling excitement in it, too. The thrill of the chase, was that it? he asked himself, with a kind of self-mockery. The scent of danger on the wind, the exhilaration of the game? Well, if that was it, he could forget all that heroic silliness. He squared his shoulders. The hunt for a killer was not a schoolboy’s lark but a very serious affair. Two of the Queen’s officers were dead, and unless he was mistaken, the net of treachery that had snared them had been flung very wide indeed.
Sir Robert pushed open the door and Charles followed him into the narrow shop. It smelled richly of gunpowder, machine oil, and leather, and was lit by a row of gaslights along each long wall. The gaslight gleamed softly on the polished wooden butts of the rifles and shotguns that filled the wall racks, and on the glass tops of the oak cases on either side of the narrow aisle down the middle of the shop, in which a wide selection of handguns was displayed. Behind the cases there was a clutter of shooting equipment: gun cases, slings, cartridge belts and holsters, cartridge-filling machines, cartridge magazines.
“Ah, Sir Robert!” A short, slight man with gold spectacles and gray hair came toward them, dressed in an old-fashioned long-tailed coat. “So good to see you!”
Sir Robert smiled cordially and the two men shook hands. He turned. “Lord Sheridan, I should like to present Mr. Reginald Barker. Reg, my friend, his lordship has come down from London on holiday. He has a question for you with regard to a certain new type of ammunition.”
With a slight smile, Mr. Barker rubbed his hands together. “New ammunition, eh, my lord? Shotgun, perhaps? If you’re doing a bit of shooting in the downs, I’m sure you’ll be interested in the smokeless powder cartridges we have just received. A very significant improvement, I must say, over the black powder we are all accustomed to use.” He turned. “Let me show you—”
Sir Robert intervened. “Forgive me, Reg. I should have been clearer. Lord Sheridan was holidaying in Rottingdean, you see, when a pair of the local coast guards unfortunately managed to get themselves murdered. The Prince of Wales—he was down for a visit with the duchess—got wind of the killings and commissioned Lord Sheridan to look into the situation on behalf of the Crown. So you might say—in fact, I suppose we must say—that this is an official visit.” He cocked his head. “If you’ll save me some of those smokeless cartridges, though, I’d be more than pleased to give them a try the next time I’m out shooting.”
“To be sure,” Mr. Barker murmured. “How can I help you, my lord?”
“We believe it is pistol ammunition we are concerned with, Mr. Barker,” Charles said. “An unusual cartridge was recovered at the scene of one of the murders Sir Robert mentioned, and what we assume to be the corresponding bullet was removed from the body of the victim.”
“Removed, that is, by your old friend Dr. Barriston,” Sir Robert put in, “who sends you his regards.”
“Ah, yes. A fine man, Dr. Barriston. Up on the latest medical advances.” Behind his spectacles, Mr. Barker’s eyes gleamed with interest. “An unusual cartridge, you say? You have the specimen with you?”
“He does,” the Chief Constable said. “Although what can be learned from a spent cartridge, I’m sure I can’t say.”
Charles took the two cloth bags from his pocket and shook out the cartridge and bullet onto a nearby counter. “The diameter is right at thirty-hundredths of an inch,” he said. “Thirty caliber, I assume.” He pointed. “But look here, sir, at this oddly pronounced shoulder.”
“You’re confident that this is pistol ammunition?” Mr. Barker asked. “I have never seen a shouldered pistol cartridge.” He picked the cartridge up and turned in his fingers, studying it carefully. “Most remarkable,” he muttered. “Most, most remarkable. Yes, this casing seems too small for a rifle, although it does have characteristics which call to mind certain modern military rifles.” He turned up the base of the cartridge and inspected the number pressed into the edge. “Four-oh-three. Perhaps the caliber, in the metric system?”
Charles shook his head. “I think not, sir. Thirty-hundredths of an inch is just over seven millimeters.”
“Of course. Quite so.” Mr. Barker tapped his forefinger against his teeth. “Well, then, four-oh-three is undoubtedly a manufacturer’s designation. If that is the case, it should shorten our search.”
“You don’t immediately recognize it?�
�� Charles asked, disappointed.
“I’m afraid not.” Mr. Barker studied the cartridge again, more carefully. “I must say, this is most peculiar, my lord. As you have noticed, the ridge at the base is equal to the diameter of the casing. This is not typical of most pistol cartridges, where the protruding rim limits the round from sliding into the cylinder or barrel and catches on the extraction mechanism so that the spent cartridge is ejected.” His voice had become excited. “But this cartridge is rimless, with only a groove for extraction.”
Charles caught his enthusiasm. “Indeed. No doubt the shoulder of the casing performs the positioning function. It is also a clever method of increasing the powder charge which can be used with a bullet of a given diameter, without increasing the length of the cartridge.”
Mr. Barker nodded. “Indeed. It is a technique used with rifle ammunition, as is the full copper jacketing of the bullet.”
“One more remarkable point,” Charles said. “This casing was found approximately seven feet from the point where I believe the weapon was fired, as if it had been thrown there by the weapon. Are you aware of any pistol that operates in this fashion?”
The other man paused for a moment, thinking. “I have heard,” he said slowly, “that one or two German firms are experimenting with self-loading pistols. As I understand the concept—and this is only what I have been told, mind you, I have not seen it for myself—a strip of cartridges is loaded into the pistol’s magazine. When the bullet is fired, the recoil forces the pistol bolt backward and the extractor drags the empty casing with it. When the casing clears the chamber, it is ejected.”
“Ah,” Charles said.
“Indeed. The bolt is then propelled forward by a spring, which in turn forces a new round into the chamber while another mechanism holds the hammer back until the trigger is squeezed again. If the concept could be made to work, the weapon would fire with each squeeze of the trigger until the magazine was emptied—without the operator having to manipulate the hammer or rotate the cylinder.”
Sir Robert’s eyes opened wide. “And that would be revolutionary!” he exclaimed. “It would increase both accuracy and rate of fire to a phenomenal degree. Is it ... is it possible?”
“More than possible,” Charles said gravely. “It is quite feasible, and a very sound design.” He looked at Mr. Barker. “If such a self-loading weapon had been developed, where in this country might one obtain it?”
“It would be the sort of weapon a military officer would covet,” Mr. Barker replied. “It would make an ideal personal side arm. I know of several firms in London that specialize in the outfitting of army officers. Shall I make inquiries?”
“If you would be so kind, sir,” Charles replied, and replaced the bullet and the cartridge in their bags and the bags in his pocket. “Given a weapon so unique, its identification and discovery might very well reveal its owner.”
Out in the street, Sir Robert turned apologetically to Charles. “I’m afraid this was something of a wild-goose chase, Sheridan. I’m sorry Barker couldn’t do more to help us pin down the weapon.”
“Don’t apologize,” Charles replied. “These things take a great deal of time. It is only in Conan Doyle’s fanciful stories that the Great Detective can announce that the game is afoot on page one and cry checkmate on page six or seven, with Dr. Watson applauding from the wings.” He chuckled wryly. “One or two happy observations, a few spectacular deductive twists, and—” He snapped his fingers. “Voila!, the solution, as if by magic!”
Sir Robert gave a bitter laugh. “Well, if you ask me, such stories only make my work more difficult. People who read them get the idea that every crime has a solution, if only the police were clever enough to see it. But the police don’t have some sly author setting up a trail of clues for us to sniff out. We have to do the sniffing ourselves.” He shook himself. “But enough of that. What is your next step?”
“As much as can be done has been done here,” Charles said. “I have several calls to make in Rottingdean and the surrounding area. I’d best get to it.”
“D’you want me with you, or one of my men? I stand ready to provide whatever manpower you need. Were you satisfied that we’ve covered the crime scene thoroughly?”
“Very thoroughly, thank you, although I may make another visit there this evening. For the moment, what has to be done in Rottingdean is best done by someone unconnected with the police, I think. You’d better contact the Home Office and let them know what we’re up to. We don’t want officials of the coast guard hot-footing it down here to begin their own investigation. They would only get in the way.”
“I’ll telegraph London immediately.”
Charles nodded. “If Lady Luck is with us, though, a time will come when I shall require your help. Where can you be reached?”
“Ah, yes, Lady Luck.” Sir Robert sighed, fishing in his pocket. “The Great Detective may repudiate her entirely, but the rest of us know that she’s responsible for apprehending most of the criminals brought before the bar.”
“In the future,” Charles replied, “science will give Lady Luck a hand. But we’re not there yet. In the meantime, perhaps you would be good enough to loan me a side arm. I’d prefer a Webley, if you have a spare.”
Sir Robert eyed him. “Expecting trouble?”
“The killer was armed with a formidable weapon. It would be prudent to have insurance.” Charles pocketed the card the chief constable had handed him. “I will send you word of my progress. Let us hope that Mr. Barker’s inquiry brings us some useful bit of information.”
18
“Shopping is very demonstrative.”
—LORD MELBOURNE TO QUEEN VICTORIA
A woman’s guess is much more accurate than a man’s certainty.
—RUDYARD KIPLING Plain Tales from the Hills
It was hardly the usual thing, Kate thought, as she put on her tweed jacket and pinned her felt walking hat securely to her massed hair, that a seaside village so small as Rottingdean and so near to a major city should have a dress shop. Most ladies able to afford a smart gown would travel to London to buy it ready-to-wear in one of the large department stores in Regent Street, or hire a local dressmaker to construct it for her from a pattern in The Ladies’ Monthly Review or The Metropolitan Catalogue. But having talked to Mrs. Portney, Kate was coming to suspect that there were many unusual things about Rottingdean, and she was curious to investigate this one.
Ladies’ Fashions for Fashionable Ladies had a wide bow window level with the street, which displayed a sample of the wares to be found within. Kate paused in front of the window, surprised by what she saw. At the left stood a handsome mannequin figure with wax head and wax hands, dressed in an elegantly tailored green moire gown with huge leg-o’-mutton sleeves and a fashionable gored skirt trimmed in black ribbon, every bit as fine as a similar gown Kate had recently seen at Harrod’s. Beside it stood a milliner’s hat stand with an elaborate blond coiffure, on which was displayed a delectable green hat trimmed with an ebullience of green and black feathers. And in the folds of the velvet window draperies stood a pair of fetching black boots, black elbow-length kid gloves, a pair of black cashmere ribbed hosiery, and a green moire-covered purse.
Kate lingered for a moment, thoughtfully calculating the total cost of the items and weighing the probability that such fashionable goods might be found so elaborately displayed in an ordinary seashore resort. But as there was more to be learned within than without, she pushed the door open and went in.
A slender, brown-haired woman in a simple blue merino dress was standing behind a counter to the left of the door, folding the length of fabric she had just cut from a bolt of gray watered silk. Scissors in hand, she looked up with a smile that, Kate thought, seemed anxiously hopeful. Perhaps she had not had many customers today, or this week.
“Good afternoon, madam,” the woman said, and smoothed her hair back with her hand. “May I help you?”
“Good afternoon,” Kate said, going t
o the counter. “I am Lady Sheridan. Mrs. Portney, at Seabrooke House, where my husband and I are holidaying, has told me that Mrs. Howard has a selection of laces here. I am looking for something that might be suitable for a dressing gown—Chantilly, perhaps, or Valenciennes.”
“Of course, my lady,” the woman said, and Kate caught the overtone of eagerness. Yes, there could not have been many customers today, and the woman was anxious for a sale. She turned to put up the bolt. “I am Mrs. Howard. If your ladyship would be pleased to step to the rear, you may see my laces. I have quite a fine variety.”
As Kate followed the woman toward the back of the shop, she looked around. The shop itself did not quite have the elegance promised by the front window, but it came very near. Along one wall were shelves that held bolts of practical cottons, warm tweeds, smart wools, and stylish silks, artfully arranged to disguise the fact that the selection was quite small. Pinned to the shelves were drawings illustrating the latest fashions in skirts, waists, and sleeves, and another wall displayed trimmings of braid, fringe, fur, and feathers. On a counter nearby were several hats, including a narrow-brimmed white straw boater trimmed in green silk cord, with a single green tulle rose.
“Oh, what a sweet hat!” Kate cried, although in truth she was not terribly fond of boaters. “I simply must have it!”
“It suits you very well, my lady.” Mrs. Howard smiled. “I am glad you like it, for I made it.”
“You are the milliner, then?” Kate asked. She took off her own hat and set the straw one on her head at a rakish angle.
“And the dressmaker,” Mrs. Howard said, handing Kate a mirror. “Oh, how becoming!” she exclaimed. “If your ladyship will forgive the presumption, your hair is so lovely and so warm a color that a fussy hat would detract from it. You should always wear something simple.”