‘We never saw where he came from,’ said one of the constables. ‘Bugger just turned up on King Street.’
‘Well some of them as saw the accident reckon he slunk out of the alley.’
‘Did any of them see him with anyone else?’ Slevin asked.
‘One bloke told me Clapper was seen talkin’ to some lasses. Mill lasses.’
‘Nah!’ said his colleague. ‘He weren’t talkin’ to ’em – he were yellin’ at ’em. They came up an’ said he’d had a right go at ’em.’
‘What did he say to them?’
The first constable screwed up his face to concentrate. ‘Dunno, sergeant. They said it were gibberish. But the bloke who told me, well, he knew Clapper. Or Enoch. Worked with him down the pit an’ he reckoned Clapper were scared. Kept sayin’ to this chap that the Devil had got him.’
‘Got him? How?’
‘God knows. But he also said summat else. Kept sayin’ summat about somebody havin’ two eyes an’ two heads. Tried to get some sense out of him, but by that time Clapper was well gone. Don’t make any sense, does it? Two eyes an’ two heads, he said.’
‘Anything else?’
The two constables shook their heads and Slevin dismissed them. As they left, the forbidding figure of the chief constable replaced them.
‘Another murder, sergeant? Are you collecting corpses, by any chance? How do you know when you’ve got a full set?’
‘Mrs Throstle was poisoned by phosphorus, sir.’
‘And it appears she was murdered under your nose.’
Slevin leaned forward and opened a thin folder. He took out a single sheet of paper and handed it to his superior. ‘Dr Bentham’s preliminary report, sir. You’ll notice the reference to times of ingestion. He surmises that the poison – probably Rodine – was somehow given to the victim a few hours before her death.’
‘Had a chap commit suicide in the army with the blasted stuff. Mixed it in his curry and had the gall to eat it in front of us. Once he’d done, he said it was the best curry he’d ever tasted and he would see us all in Hell. Medic said later his innards glowed like a firework display.’
‘There seems to be a link between the two shows,’ Slevin said, ignoring the digression. ‘That is, the play at the Royal Court and the Phantasmagoria at the Public Hall.’
‘Really, sergeant?’
‘One of the actors, a Mr Herbert Koller, feigned sickness last night and missed the performance. Instead, he stood in for Mr Richard Throstle and gave the commentary to the lantern slides. He had apparently known Throstle personally and was possibly involved in some business deal with him.’
‘Mr Koller, you say?’
‘Yes, sir. Are you acquainted with him?’
‘We have met. Where is the fellow now?’
‘I have constables keeping an eye on his lodging-house in Darlington Street. If he turns up there, they’ll bring him in, have no fear.’
‘Anything else I should know about?’
Slevin told him about Enoch Platt’s accident, and the curious coincidence of the dust matching the asbestos dust on Throstle’s body.
‘Asbestos dust, you say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The chief constable was frowning. ‘It takes me back, sergeant. To India and the Punjabbers.’
Slevin looked up to the heavens for help. Not another reminiscence!
‘We used asbestos dust, you see? Smeared it all over our costumes during our famed production of Ivanhoe. The dust is used to show someone has been travelling, or fighting, or both.’
Slevin recalled the tubs of powder he had seen backstage at the Royal Court. Another connection between the two productions.
‘Two eyes and two heads, you say?’ Captain Bell was shaking his head sadly. ‘What on earth does that mean? Poor imbecile had two eyes and no head. Not to speak of, anyway.’
He smiled at his comment and bade his sergeant farewell.
Two eyes and two heads. Now what indeed had Enoch Platt meant by that?
A sharp knock at the door made him jump. Constable Bowery breezed in with the air of a man confident that the news he brought would excuse any breach of etiquette.
‘Sergeant! That Jameson bloke’s at the main desk.’
‘The manager of the Royal?’
‘Aye. Reckons he has summat we should know about.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘He knows someone who had a bit of a confrontation with Clapper not ten minutes before the poor sod was killed. Says he saw Enoch go up to one of his guests and grab him by the throat. Says he stared into his eyes and yelled out that he was starin’ into the eyes of the Devil.’
Slevin glowered impatiently at his constable. ‘Who was the guest?’
‘Bloke called Jenkins, sergeant. Jameson says he sells hosiery.’
*
It was a problem Benjamin Morgan-Drew had faced several times in his life, although never as intensely as this. Never before had he felt such a burning desire for another human being as he did for Herbert Koller. Now, as the two of them lay together, communicating by the softest of whispers, he knew that his feelings were at war once more. Herbert had lied. He had lied about being ill and he had lied about where he had been. Lies and more lies.
‘You have to speak to the police,’ he said, regarding the ceiling with burning eyes.
‘You mean the ones who want to throw me in prison? The ones who wish to see me dangle at the end of a rope?’
‘That sounds like a line from a bad melodrama, Herbert. You know it won’t come to that.’
Outside the bedroom door they heard Mrs O’Halloran pass noisily along the landing. She had knocked once, and when Benjamin told her he did not require breakfast, she had huffed her way downstairs muttering incomprehensible oaths.
‘How well did you know Mrs Throstle?’
‘I’ve already told you. I have confessed my duplicity, Benjamin.’ He sighed and repeated the tale once more. ‘I met her husband and he asked me if I would be interested in working for him, delivering his vile drivel in public halls to stinking masses across the country. I refused, of course. My loyalty is to you and the company, as you know. But how could I refuse the request of a poor bereaved widow?’
Benjamin gave a sad smile. Trust Herbert to turn an act of betrayal into one of nobility. ‘What, then, do you propose to do? Hide here in this room until you are discovered? Let me accompany you to the police station and explain exactly what your arrangements were with Mrs Throstle. The fact that you were present at her unfortunate demise is neither here nor there. What reason would you have for killing her?’
Herbert turned onto his side, away from Benjamin. ‘And then I would be free to rejoin the company?’
‘Of course. You will be Henry Corkett tonight!’
He watched Herbert take a deep breath and give a slight nod of acquiescence. If he could persuade Detective Sergeant Slevin of the boy’s relative innocence, then perhaps he would see a new Herbert. It was a slender hope, he knew, a candle lit in a blizzard, but any hope at all is better than the dark shadows of despair. He’d seen enough of them.
*
Slevin’s men had been in Georgina Throstle’s hotel room since the early morning, and it hadn’t taken them long to find what they were looking for. Once he had been apprised of the discovery, Slevin arranged to speak with Mr Jameson in the manager’s office about the encounter between Enoch Platt and Mr Jenkins, the hosiery salesman.
‘Last evening, while some of our guests were dining, I saw Mr Jenkins in the foyer,’ Jameson began. ‘He seemed a little – shall we say? – flustered, but I bade him a good evening as he left and turned to resume my duties. Suddenly I heard a strange sound – a clapping sound – and I noticed a man dressed in filthy rags, standing on the steps below Mr Jenkins and clapping in his face. He moved aside to get past, but the man blocked his way. He then grabbed Mr Jenkins by the shoulders, as if he were staring into his eyes. Of course, I rushed to the entrance and imm
ediately demanded he release Mr Jenkins. He kept his eyes fixed on his victim and yelled out, “The eyes of the Devil! The eyes of the Devil!” And then some nonsense about two heads.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Mr Jenkins grabbed him, and there was a struggle. By now quite a crowd was gathering – I did what I could to help, but I can assure you, sergeant, it was most unseemly. With the help of some of my staff we finally managed to extricate Mr Jenkins. I offered to send for the police, but Jenkins said it was of no consequence and we were to let the imbecile go.’
‘May I speak with Mr Jenkins?’
‘Unfortunately, no. Mr Jenkins never returned to the hotel last night. His bed has not been slept in. Not only that, his wardrobe is empty. His clothes have gone.’
‘So he has left without paying?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Jameson with a shrug. ‘But there is a further mystery to compound matters.’
‘Go on.’
‘It is rare for a guest to leave without settling his account – rare, but it does happen. But there is something singular about this occurrence. You see, this morning we found his suitcase in the room.’
‘All packed and ready to leave, no doubt.’
‘No, sergeant. The suitcase was not packed at all. In fact, it was quite empty.’
‘Empty? But that’s –’
‘Yes. It’s puzzling, isn’t it?’
Slevin thought long and hard, trying to assimilate two very disparate pieces of evidence. An empty suitcase and a man with two heads. Suddenly, he gave the hotel manager a beaming smile. ‘Not impossible at all, Mr Jameson. But logical. Oh yes. As logical as a man with two heads!’
*
The Reverend Edward Malvern sat facing Sergeant Slevin in the hotel manager’s office.
‘Naturally I want to assist the police. The perpetrator must be brought to meet the full rigour of the law before justice is pronounced.’
‘He will be, your reverence, you can rest assured on that.’
‘But there are practical matters I need to attend to, you understand, sergeant.’ Malvern gave a frosted smile. ‘I must be allowed to collect my sister’s possessions and take them back to Leeds with me.’
Slevin nodded. ‘Soon, your reverence.’
‘But you have already searched her room for goodness knows what. And that is tantamount to defilement! Surely you see there is something profoundly distasteful in strangers rifling through her personal belongings?’
‘They are policemen doing their duty, your reverence. And there is something even more profoundly distasteful in allowing a murderer to elude justice by failing to uncover all possible evidence.’ He spoke sharply, and Malvern, who evidently was unaccustomed to such pointedness, remained silent.
‘Now, your reverence, would you kindly tell me what took place last night before your sister left for the Public Hall?’
‘We dined.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Would you like me to describe what we ate, sergeant?’
He had meant it as merely as an ironic riposte to what he thought of as unnecessary questioning. He was therefore surprised when Slevin said, ‘In detail, please.’
‘Are you mad, sergeant? What possible use –?’
Slevin held up a hand. ‘Your sister was poisoned by phosphorus, sir. It is a vile-tasting substance that needs a disguise. Something to take the taste away. Perhaps the food she ate last night.’
‘Preposterous!’ Now the reverend looked the detective fully in the eye. ‘Are you suggesting that someone in the hotel kitchen poisoned my sister?’
‘Unlikely.’
His eyes widened as he put his next question. ‘Then are you implying that –?’
‘I imply nothing.’
‘That I . . . what did I do, sergeant? Lean over and drop the substance onto her pigeon? If it is as vile-tasting as you say, then pigeon is hardly a strong enough disguise now, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Well then!’
‘Your sister suffered from neuralgia.’
Malvern’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes. Yes, she suffered greatly. My father used to say it was a curse from Heaven for her disobedience.’
‘Disobedience?’
‘Yes. She had been a governess, a position he found for her and for which she ought to have been profoundly grateful. But she had spent barely a year teaching the wretched child, a girl who grew very attached to her, I might add, when she ran away with Throstle. The girl grew surly and inconsolable, and both her family and my father never forgave her betrayal. Nor did my father ever speak to the man responsible for her fall from grace. Despite my efforts to improve him, Richard Throstle was a vile and calculating man, God rest his soul.’
‘I see.’
Malvern looked at Slevin for a while, then with some hesitation asked his next question. ‘Why do you ask about her neuralgia?’
Slevin smiled and stood up. ‘Because she apparently had an attack last night. During dinner.’
Malvern swallowed hard. His shoulders seemed to sag a little before recovering themselves and being restored to their former rigidity. ‘Perhaps she did.’
‘And you kindly offered to go to her room to collect her medicine.’
‘How did you –?’
‘The waiter saw you leave and return with a small medicine bottle.’
‘It was an act of charity on my part. I offered to bring it. But what does my kindness to my sister in getting her medicine have to do with her death? I hardly think –’
‘We have examined the bottle of medicine in your sister’s room. It contains not only her prescribed medication, but perhaps a very dangerous amount of rat poison. Once it has been examined we’ll know for certain. Ironic, isn’t it, that she died as a result of taking something designed to alleviate her suffering?’
Malvern was open-mouthed. ‘Are you suggesting it was I who . . .’
‘I’m suggesting nothing, sir.’
‘But that is preposterous, man! I am her brother!’
‘And she lacked the obedience you desired. She wouldn’t return with you to Leeds and so you punished her.’
‘I am a man of God!’
The detective sat back and scrutinised him. ‘Tell me about the room.’
‘What room?’
‘Your sister’s.’
Edward looked confused. ‘It’s a bedroom in a hotel.’
‘Yes. But where was the bottle of medicine?’
Edward thought for a moment, as if he were trying to recreate the scene in his head. ‘On the small table beside her bed.’
‘And this was the same bottle you brought over from Leeds?’
‘Yes. She has a standing prescription with her doctor.’
‘Was there anything unusual about the bottle?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Had it been tampered with in any way?’
‘Of course not! Who on earth would tamper with it?’
‘The murderer?’
It was Edward’s turn to sit back.
‘Was the door locked when you got to her room?’
Edward had to think before answering. ‘I rather think it was unlocked. In fact it must have been, for she gave me no key.’
Slevin thought about that for a second.
There was a knock on the door and Constable Bowery entered, whispered something in Slevin’s ear, and left.
‘Well, I think that will be all for now, your reverence.’
Malvern stood up and glared at the policeman, irritated at being addressed like some recalcitrant schoolboy.
‘Then I am under no suspicion?’
‘Let’s say you are low on my list.’ Slevin rose to his feet and faced the man. ‘My men have scoured your hotel room from top to bottom, and examined every single item of clothing, every utensil you brought with you, while you have been here with me.’
‘My . . . all my belongings? Scoured, you say?’
‘Indeed, your reverence.
’
‘Why?’
‘Looking for phosphorus traces. It glows, you see. And smells of garlic. And you will no doubt be relieved to know that we found nothing of interest to us. No drops of phosphorus carelessly spilled in your suitcase. No specks on your clothing, nor on your floor, nor anywhere in your room.’
‘But I could have told you that!’
‘Perhaps I should have asked, then,’ Slevin said with a smile, allowing the reverend to leave the room in high dudgeon, his martyrdom assured.
*
When Mr Benjamin Morgan-Drew stepped out of Mrs O’Halloran’s lodging-house and told the constable standing conspicuously outside the front door that the man they were looking for was willing to pay Sergeant Slevin a visit, having spent the night there, the news wasn’t received with any sense of satisfaction. It meant that one of the four constables who had shared the watch had slipped up and allowed Mr Herbert Koller to gain entry. Luckily, it would be difficult for Slevin to discover who exactly was responsible.
Within half an hour, the constable, Mr Morgan-Drew and Mr Koller were walking through the snow along Darlington Street.
Detective Sergeant Slevin would be with them soon, said the duty sergeant when they arrived at the station. He asked the two actors to wait in the visitors’ room until they could be seen. As they sat down in the bare room with just a single deal table and four chairs, Benjamin and Herbert noticed a large and forbidding shape outside the frosted glass window of the door. It looked as though the police were taking no chances this time.
Furtively, Benjamin reached down and gave Herbert’s hand a gentle squeeze.
‘This will soon be over,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Then we can return to normal.’
‘Normal!’
There was something strange in Herbert’s voice, a combination of incipient hysteria and bitter sarcasm. Benjamin took a deep breath and said, ‘I may have a surprise for you tonight, Herbert.’
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