Laugh Out Dead

by Rupert Harker

  “As for the children, he has fresh scuff marks at the knees of his trousers from kneeling to attend to a small child, no older than three. An elder sibling has contributed the purple ink stain on the left arm of his shirt, made with a felt-tipped pen.”

  “Could they not be one and the same child?” I asked.

  “Having established the fastidious nature of the wife,” replied Urban-Smith, “I think it unlikely that she would allow a toddler access to a felt-tipped pen.”

  “Were you able to deduce anything further?” asked McKendal.

  “He is left-handed yet plays his guitar right-handed, has right-handed parents, speaks with his mouth full and is in the habit of walking barefoot in his office. Other than that, I can add very little.”

  “I’m sorry, Fairfax,” I said incredulously, “surely now you take things too far?”

  “Not at all, Rupert.” Urban-Smith indicated the dead man’s waist. “Notice his belt. It has been fed through his belt hooks in a clockwise manner, with the buckle at his right hand, whereas the right-handed gentleman does the contrary. You will see from his shoes that he was taught to fasten his laces by a right-handed parent. The guitar playing is obvious from the toughened skin at the finger ends, especially the index and middle fingers where he has fretted the strings with his left hand. He is more Mark Knopfler than Jimi Hendrix in this respect.”

  “And the bare feet?”

  “One of his socks is inside out. His wife would not have placed them in his drawer like that; he has clearly removed them at some point during the day. That he speaks whilst eating is demonstrated by the small food stains upon his tie, the tie itself being relatively new.” Urban-Smith eyed me appraisingly. “Have I illustrated anything to you that you could not observe for yourself?”

  “You have not,” I conceded.

  “It is not enough to look, Rupert. One must also be able to see.”

  “I think we should now discuss the facts of this man’s death,” said Detective Sergeant McKendal. “Perhaps Dr Harker would be kind enough to furnish us with a medical explanation.”

  “I shall try. What exactly happened?”

  McKendal produced his notebook. “According to witnesses…”

  “Mr Urban-Smith?”

  We were interrupted by a sombre, grey-suited, dark-haired man in his late thirties or early forties.

  “I am he,” confirmed my esteemed companion.

  “My name is Viktor Gulin. I am the senior counsellor at the embassy.”

  “A pleasure, Mr Gulin. May I introduce Dr Rupert Harker and Detective Sergeant Wendell McKendal?”

  “Thank you for agreeing to attend, Mr Urban-Smith,” said Gulin. He wrung his hands fretfully. “This has been a most terrible day.”

  “Indeed it has. Did you witness the incident?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I would be grateful if you could relate to us the details of today’s events. Please be thorough, leave nothing out.” Urban-Smith withdrew from his pocket a notebook and pencil and began sketching. “Pray do not mistake my doodling for disinterest, Counsellor. It helps to focus my attention on the matter at hand.”

  “Of course, Sir, of course. As you see, the Embassy was playing host to members of the Vietnamese Consulate to commemorate the signing of the 1978 treaty, and Ambassador Vishminakov was due to make a speech to the assembled guests at one-thirty. Just before twenty past, his mobile telephone rang, and within a minute of answering the call, he began to laugh. The laughing became more and more frenzied until he collapsed backwards onto the floor, shaking violently for several seconds before becoming still. One of the guests was a doctor and rushed to his aid, but there was nothing they could do. That’s all I can tell you, Mr Urban-Smith. It was as if the telephone call moved him so greatly that all the life left him in one great burst of merriment.”

  Urban-Smith continued his scribbling. “Had you observed any recent change in the Ambassador’s demeanour or temperament?”

  “No. None.”

  “Did you see him answer his telephone?”

  “I did. I heard the theme tune from my favourite television programme, Cooking With Chester, and I turned to locate the source. I saw him reach into his inner jacket pocket and withdraw the phone.”

  “Did he appear to fumble or struggle with it?”

  “Not that I observed.”

  “Before the Ambassador’s phone call, did you notice any peculiar sensation or emotion?”

  Counsellor Gulin seemed puzzled. “I am unsure what you mean.”

  “Were you struck by any feeling of impending doom or imminent danger?”

  “No, Sir. Not at all.”

  “Thank you, Mr Gulin,” said Urban-Smith, handing me his notebook. “You have been most helpful.”

  Urban-Smith had sketched a most engaging cartoon rabbit dressed in military regalia, a hammer and sickle insignia upon its breast and toting a large machine gun. I uttered a sharp bark of mirth and turned away, pretending to be in the throes of a coughing fit.

  “Are you alright, Rupert?” enquired Urban-Smith. “Is it the King’s evil?”

  “I’m fine, just fine,” I spluttered as the tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “Mr Urban-Smith?” The Chief Consul was becoming agitated. “What do you make of it all?”

  “At present, I can draw no firm conclusions. The information will require time to ferment, but I assure you that I shall give this matter my fullest attention.”

  “I am grateful for your interest, gentlemen.” Counsellor Gulin shook hands with Urban-Smith and McKendal and bade each farewell. “I hope you are feeling better soon, Doctor Harker.”

  “Thank you,” I gasped, waving my arms as if trying to ward off a swarm of bees. “I’m sure it will pass.”

  So placated, Mr Gulin took his leave.

  “Pressura sub gratia, as always, Rupert,” Urban-Smith offered helpfully. In response, I threw his notebook at him, which he deftly caught and tucked into his pocket.

  “The Consul’s account corresponds with those of the other witnesses,” said McKendal. “Any opinion, Doctor Harker?”

  “At present, the death seems indistinguishable from that of Professor Gorshkov.”

  “Who is Professor Gorshkov?” asked McKendal.

  “A fortnight ago, Urban-Smith and I were approached about a death that occurred in almost identical circumstances.” I briefly related the details of the Professor’s demise.

  McKendal stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “The cases sound remarkably similar.”

  “Hmm,” murmured Urban-Smith. “I concur. Have you examined the Ambassador’s telephone?”

  “It has been sent for analysis. I was considering the possibility of it having been tainted in some way.”

  Urban-Smith stood rigid. “Good heavens! I should have thought of it sooner. Rupert, you recall that Professor Gorshkov was seen to fumble with his telephone before answering it. Could it be that somebody exchanged his phone for a counterfeit in order to bring about his demise, and that it did not respond to the Professor’s touch in quite the same way as his usual telephone? And perhaps that same person, whilst appearing to administer resuscitation, was in fact exchanging the telephones again to conceal their crime?”

  “A poisoned telephone? I suppose it is possible,” I conceded, “but the perpetrator would need to wear gloves to protect themselves from a similar fate.”

  “Wendell, did anybody touch the Ambassador’s telephone without gloves?”

  “I hope not; it has yet to be examined and fingerprinted.”

  “Perhaps we are onto something.”

  “I don’t know,” said McKendal. “I fear that we are straying too far into the realm of speculation for my comfort.”

  “We need more information,” said Urban-Smith. “We require the autopsy reports of both the Ambassador and his mobile telephone. Rupert should be able to apprise us of the Ambassador’s results, once available. Is that correct, Rupert?”

  “Yes, in
deed. I’ll find out who’s performing the examination in the morning.”

  “And the phone’s analysis should be complete in a day or two,” said DS McKendal. “We should liaise after that.”

  We shook hands and parted company from the Detective Sergeant. Urban-Smith spent a little time inspecting the room, but his scratching and sniffing yielded no further evidence of value, so we returned by taxicab to the warmth and comfort of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, where Mrs Denford had prepared us an exquisite rabbit stew.

  “If I am to be reincarnated as a rabbit,” said Urban-Smith between mouthfuls, “I hope to be as delicious as this specimen.”

  “Whilst on the subject of furry creatures,” said I, “I could not help but notice DS McKendal’s moustache. Never before have I seen such a lustrous and impressive maxillary topiary.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Urban-Smith. “It has made him a regular fixture with many of the female officers of the London Met. He has sported it since his first year at Eton.”

  “His first year?” I spluttered.

  “Oh, yes! A most precocious boy even then, and he has never lost his vitality. Once he scents blood, he has the tenacity of a piranha in a frenzy.”

  Urban-Smith brandished his fork with ardour.

  “Rest assured, Rupert, we shall not falter in his footsteps.”

  ◆◆◆

  10. IT JUST ISN’T QUEENSBURY!

  Monday 6th November

  At half past seven on Monday morning, I was to be found in the kitchen, demolishing a delicious breakfast, courtesy of Mrs Denford, the housekeeper.

  “Have you seen today’s paper?” asked Urban-Smith, taking a seat at the table. He handed me his morning edition of The Scrump.

  “Ah,” I exclaimed, perusing the front page, “That footballer’s son is sporting a new hairstyle.”

  “Indeed,” said Urban-Smith. “Young Master Perkham’s bouffant has pushed the late Ambassador back to page seven.”

  I turned to page seven, where the headline screamed, ‘Joked to Death,’ and beneath that, ‘Russian Ambassador gags at gag.’

  “I see that The Scrump has decided to cover the story with their usual tact and sensitivity,” said I.

  The article read as follows.

  “Calamity struck during a function at the Russian Embassy yesterday lunchtime, when the Russian Ambassador, Rostislav Vishminakov, choked to death during a hilarious phone call. Witnesses report that Mr Vishminakov, aged thirty-nine, answered his mobile phone during the elegant dinner and was promptly seized by a fit of giggles and guffaws. Comedy changed to tragedy, however, as Mr Vishminakov evidently inhaled a mouthful of food while laughing at the unknown joke. Despite fellow diners’ valiant attempts, he died at the scene.

  ‘It appears that Rostislav has had the last laugh,’ quipped one onlooker.

  Police are investigating the incident, but have not yet released any further details.”

  “Beautifully read,” said Urban-Smith. “Who will be performing the autopsy?”

  “Stockford handles all the high-profile cases, but I’ll join him and see whether the Ambassador has indeed choked to death, or whether he has suffered a peculiar form of stroke, like Gorshkov and Dolfin. Do you care to sit in?”

  “No thank you, Rupert. I have made my examination of the body, but await with keen interest the results of yours.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, Gorshkov and Dolfin. It sounds like a Russian facsimile of Abbott and Costello.”

  I polished off the last of my egg and soldiers.

  “I’m meeting Stockford at eleven. I should have news for you this evening.”

  “Good old Beefy! Knew him at Eton, you know. Which school did you attend, Rupert?”

  “Scruff’s Hill Grammar in Earls Brufton.”

  “Was it a good school?”

  I shrugged.

  “It served its purpose.”

  “Ha!” snorted Urban-Smith. “And thus was Scruff’s Hill Grammar damned with faint praise. Ha ha.”

  *

  After breakfast I shaved, showered and dressed, then made my way by foot to St Clifford’s, arriving at the mortuary just before eleven o’clock. I found Dr Carlton ‘Beefy’ Stockford, Senior Forensic Pathologist, about to commence the autopsy.

  “Good morning, Rupert. Come to sit in?”

  “Yes please, Beefy.”

  Dr Stockford rubbed his hands gleefully. “Fascinating case, this. Fellow received a phone call that made him laugh like the Dickens for a minute or so, then, apparently, the poor chap went down faster than a one-legged prostitute on the Titanic. Most singular.”

  “Fascinating, but not singular.”

  Dr Stockford’s eyebrows shot to attention. “Good Lord! You mean you have encountered this before? Do tell!”

  Stockford listened attentively as I related the tale of Professor Gorshkov and his demise.

  “Remarkable,” he gushed. “And you say he developed rigidity of the limbs as he fell?”

  “So I am told.”

  “If this Gorshkov fellow died from coning,” said Stockford, “then I believe that you are describing decerebrate posturing, rather than a convulsion.”

  “Yes, that would make sense.”

  If a victim’s lower brain or brainstem is severely compressed, they may display a characteristic positioning of the limbs and body known as decerebrate posturing; the arms and legs are held rigidly out, and the neck is arched backwards.

  “Right then,” said Stockford, pulling on his rubber gloves, “let us put the chap to the knife and rent him asunder.”

  First, we examined the Ambassador from top to tail, then we drained fluid from his eyes with a needle and syringe, and then we split the unfortunate gent down the middle, removed his offal and dissected each component. We emptied his stomach of its contents and sent them for toxicology. We cut his brain into sections and prepared slides. When we were done, we returned his giblets to him and restitched him with a mattress suture until he was shiny and new again.

  I was not surprised to discover that the Russian Ambassador had died as a result of a series of small bleeds within and around the thalamus and hypothalamus, causing an obstruction to the brain’s circulating fluid. The resultant rise in intracranial pressure had forced the base of the brain through the opening at the bottom of the skull (coning).

  “I cannot understand how this could occur so rapidly,” I said, “nor why the pattern of disease is so well localised in the brain.”

  Stockford agreed. “I wonder if anybody else has had experience of this sort of thing. I’ll circulate an e-mail, see if someone can shed some light.”

  “Thanks, Beefy. One for the journals, perhaps?”

  “Do you read journals, Rupert? I thought that your reading was confined to pictures of young ladies in a state of disarray.”

  “Well, you know how it is, Beefy. A man in my position has to keep abreast of the latest developments.”

  *

  It was after five-thirty when I arrived back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews. Mrs Denford had prepared a light supper which Urban-Smith and I demolished with gusto. Once we were sated, our conversation turned to the strange deaths of Professor Gorshkov, Doctor Dolfin and Ambassador Vishminakov.

  Urban-Smith was unsurprised to learn of Vishminakov’s post-mortem findings. He produced his pencil and notebook and began to doodle, a sure sign that his intellect was being taxed to its fullest.

  “It is still possible that these events are unconnected,” said he, “but I feel it is improbable. When I boxed for Eton, we had a saying for when your opponent caught you below the belt; once is overenthusiasm, twice is carelessness, but three times?” He shook his head severely. “It just isn’t Queensbury.”

  “Interestingly, it may not have been a seizure that each victim suffered,” I explained. “Stockford suggested that they were in fact displaying decerebrate posturing.”

  I reiterated the mechanism by which pressure can rise within the skull and push the brainstem
downwards through the foramen magnum. “Coordinated movement involves a balance between opposing muscles, for example, the biceps and triceps. If you incapacitate one of these two muscles, the other will be unopposed.

  “When the brainstem is compressed, there is an inhibition of those muscles which flex the limbs, and this causes the arms and legs to be held rigidly straight. The same happens to the neck, and the head is thrown backwards.”

  “Very interesting,” said Urban-Smith. “I wonder if we can access any security footage from the Embassy and determine whether this posturing affected the late Ambassador Vishminakov.”

  “Surely the matter is now academic? We have the results of the post-mortem.”

  “Of course, Rupert. We should turn our attention to the unresolved aspects of the case; the telephone for example. I am rather taken with the idea of the victim’s telephone being used as a source of a poison or toxin, one which is either absorbed through the skin or need only be ingested in tiny amounts, such as Sarin. Both Gorshkov and Vishminakov had been eating, so may have easily transferred poison from hand to mouth. Gorshkov was observed to struggle with his telephone as if unfamiliar with it, leading me to ponder whether his telephone had been substituted with a counterfeit during the evening.”

  “That does sound feasible,” I said, “but rather tricky to pull off, even for the man with the nimblest of fingers. I must also confess that I am not aware of any toxin or poison that would cause this peculiar pattern of bleeding.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes as Urban-Smith scribbled in his notebook.

  “Do you really think that these deaths may be deliberate?” I asked, but he did not reply, merely tore off a sheet from his pad and thrust it towards me.