Deadly Pleasures

by Martin Edwards

  Leicester’s trial proved to be a nine-day wonder. The prosecution alleged that Leicester meant to kill Dalrymple, in order to secure Emily for himself. The defence rested in part on the claim that the intrigue between Leicester and the young woman had reached a natural end. Emily insisted throughout that she had received no word from her lover from the moment she set foot in her sister’s home in Guildford, and Mary and her husband corroborated her testimony. Leicester admitted to being a habitual arsenic eater, hence his purchases from the apothecary. He alleged that arsenic improved both one’s complexion and virility. Dalrymple was, according to Leicester, also a notorious arsenic eater, and Emily confirmed that her husband indulged in various drugs, notably opium. However, she was unable to say where he made his purchases, and the only evidence uncovered indicated a frequent acquisition of modest quantities of laudanum.

  Wisely, Leicester had secured the services of Sir Eustace Pilling, and that doubtless heavy investment reaped its dividend with a closing speech in which Sir Eustace lambasted the prosecution for its temerity in bringing the affair to court. The paucity of evidence to show that Leicester had administered poison to his mistress’s husband was so marked that one would not, he assured the jury, hang a dog on it, far less a man. He said nothing about his client’s morals, but Leicester was not on trial for licentiousness. If ever such ungentlemanly behaviour, however deplorable in itself, became a capital offence, many more notable men than his client, he thundered, would have to swing because of it.

  The jury retired for no more than twelve minutes. Sir Eustace had earned his fee.

  Unusually, however, there was a marked reluctance on the part of members of the public to cheer news of the acquittal to the courtroom’s rafters. In common with almost every person of my acquaintance, when the verdict was delivered, I doubted that justice had been served.

  Yet it was not quite beyond the realms of possibility. And even if Dalrymple had been murdered, it was not entirely certain that Leicester was responsible for the crime.

  ‘What led to your encounter with my father?’ Christabel enquired.

  ‘I must make a confession to you,’ I said, putting down my wine glass. ‘I am possessed of a restless academic curiosity, and I found myself unable to overcome the desire to scrape acquaintance with him.’

  She savoured the claret. ‘But why, Mr Halkett? Following the revelations of his conduct at the trial, most decent folk would be sure to keep their distance from him.’

  ‘Murder fascinates me,’ I said. ‘It has long been my belief that science can answer questions that perplex the most astute legal minds.’

  ‘Mr Trentham told me that you are an adherent of the school of Herr Franz Joseph Gall.’

  I bowed, and moved to refill our glasses. We were sitting in the drawing room of my house in Highgate. Thick velvet hangings at the long windows kept a cold and thick November fog at bay. The fire crackled greedily, and half a dozen candles burned in their silver holders. I care little for ornaments or decoration, save for a curtained alcove above the carved hearth, and two walls lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. My visitor, on inspecting the closely packed volumes, had remarked on the abundance of scientific texts. I have no use for Gothic romance or fantastic tales of mystery and imagination. Facts fascinate me; facts – and theories.

  ‘Most criminals belong to the common herd. Your father, at least, is a man from a higher social echelon than many. I wanted to seek his aid in testing an idea of mine.’

  Christabel frowned. ‘You thought him guilty? Had I known that before coming here this evening—’

  I held up my hand to still her outrage. ‘I will not pretend otherwise. Would you have me lie? But it did occur to me that Hubert Dalrymple’s wife might have had at least a part to play in his death.’

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘Indeed. Her absence from Bryanston Street at the critical times was uncannily convenient, and it suggested the possibility of a plot. I have heard it mooted that there was a conspiracy. Leicester arranged for her to be out of the way when Dalrymple was poisoned, in order to ensure that she could not be accused of the crime. The plan, on this view of events, was for the couple to feign an acrimonious estrangement, and then reunite, perhaps overseas, once the hubbub had died down, enjoying additional wealth from those remaining assets which Dalrymple had not had time to squander before his death.’

  Christabel put a small white hand to her mouth. ‘So you do believe my father is a murderer?’

  ‘Hear me out, I pray. There is a flaw in the analysis I have outlined. As I understand it, Emily continues to this day to lodge with Mary and her husband. It is said that she is distraught, although whether that is due to her husband’s death, her abandonment by her lover, or some other cause remains uncertain.’

  ‘But do you suspect …?’

  I leaned back in my armchair and drained my glass. After studying my expression, she did the same. I was glad to observe her growing realisation that all would soon be made plain.

  ‘I speculated that your father might indeed be innocent. Suppose Emily had slipped away from Guildford? She was not, after all, under guard, and was free to come and go as she pleased. Conceivably, she assisted your father in the act of poisoning her husband. Yet she might have been solely responsible. Indeed, your father, as well as her husband, might have been a target of her wrath. What if she meant to kill them both, and your father was saved merely by his own tolerance to arsenic, resulting from its absorption into his system over many years? The peasants of Styria—’

  ‘The court heard no evidence that he suffered illness after the food and drink he shared with Dalrymple.’

  I shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was too proud to admit it.’

  She shook her head. The youthful exuberance of our first meeting was a fading memory. Her cheeks looked sallow, and her eyes were heavy-lidded. Yet that thick golden hair continued to dazzle in the candlelight. I found it hard to tear my eyes away from it.

  ‘I … don’t know any more.’

  I leaned forward. ‘Suppose for a moment that your father was guilty of the crime. He would never admit the truth, even if I were stupid enough to put the question outright. I could, however, offer him the chance to prove to the world that he had been unjustly maligned.’

  ‘But … by what means?’ She sounded frail and short of hope.

  ‘Bumps,’ I said. ‘To put it with Trentham’s crudity. Or, as I prefer to express it, by practising the science of phrenology.’

  Christabel frowned. ‘Mr Trentham said—’

  ‘Nothing of merit, I would hazard. He lacks all understanding of the finer points of reading character from the contours of the skull. From a single examination, a skilled phrenologist can identify the signs of a criminal personality. We have broken with the metaphysical and theological nonsense of the past, and found an empirical science which explains even the most depraved behaviour. Your father, I fear, was sceptical, but consented to my request to examine him here, subject to an agreement that we observe conditions of strict secrecy. I suppose he thought he had little to lose.’

  ‘He was right,’ she said hoarsely.

  I smiled. ‘He regarded me as a charlatan, but presumably reasoned that if I proclaimed his innocence, it would be to his benefit. For every doubting Trentham, there may be another, more open mind, receptive to scientific proof.’

  ‘You found my father is innocent?’ This was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Alas, I did not. I conducted the most thorough and exhaustive assessment possible, and it left no room for contradiction. Your father, I regret to say, displayed phrenological characteristics more depraved than I might ever have imagined. Like others in my field, I have on occasion been granted the opportunity to study the severed heads of executed murderers. I found it quite enthralling, to come so close to some of the most godless creatures to have walked this earth. Never have I encountered signs of such inbred wickedness as in the skull of William Leicester. I have no doubt that
he murdered Dalrymple, and did not need Emily’s help to do so.’

  Christabel gave a little moan. ‘Then … I am ruined. I shall … I shall never be rid of the taint … of my inheritance.’

  ‘Inheritance, yes.’ I breathed in deeply. ‘You have lighted upon precisely the question that has me spellbound. To what extent are such characteristics passed from one generation to another?’

  She gazed at me in horror. Her rosy lips parted, but no words came.

  ‘You have a contribution to make of the utmost value,’ I insisted. ‘My researches will, in the fullness of time, make the most profound contribution to the betterment of society. Your sacrifice will be repaid a thousandfold.’

  I strode to the fireplace, and took hold of the cord to the alcove curtain. It concealed a shelf that yet had space for a final trophy. ‘You have nothing to fear, I give you my word. The narcotic in that splendid claret has already done its work. You will not feel the faintest nick from the saw when it touches your throat. And there is one last gift that I gladly bestow.’

  She stared at me, unable to speak, but I only had eyes for her golden hair. I have no experience of physical lust, but perhaps the giddy excitement of scientific discovery mirrors its intensity. Once those long locks were shorn, what extraordinary findings would the skull beneath it yield? My mouth was dry, my temples pounding, my flesh aflame with anticipation.

  ‘You may see your father again, one last time.’

  And I pulled the cord.

  KILLING THE SWANS

  Ruth Dudley Edwards

  Ruth Dudley Edwards is an historian and journalist. Her twelve witty crime novels tilt against the establishment: targets so far include the civil service, gentlemen’s clubs, academia, the literati and conceptual art. She won the CWA Gold Dagger for Non-Fiction for Aftermath: The Omagh Bombing and the Families’ Pursuit of Justice and has twice won the CrimeFest Last Laugh Award.

  Pounding, pounding, pounding, pounding; back straight, arms pumping symmetrically, weight distributed evenly, Henrietta George jogged steadily down the towpath. She covered the ground at her customary six miles per hour, which her trainer had assured her was – at her age and weight – her perfect pace. After precisely thirty minutes and five miles, she would turn around and jog home.

  She did not look about her for interesting flora or fauna. Instead she focussed on the path ahead, scanning it for anything she might trip over; an accident of any kind was not something she was prepared to risk in a busy life. She much preferred jogging on the treadmill, which was risk-free, but the gym didn’t open until six, which on crowded days was too late for Henrietta.

  Too early even for the Today programme, rather than putting on her headphones and listening to news programmes she regarded as essentially frivolous, she reflected on yesterday’s triumph. Her performance in the immigration debate had, she thought, been one of her best, if the cheers from her own side and the furious response from her opposite number were anything to go by. And with the elections for the National Executive Committee looming, crowd-pleasing was important. If she was to go up significantly in the party pecking-order, she needed to do better than just scrape in like last time.

  Henrietta was under no illusions that her party would ever love her, but she was prepared to settle for respect. Despite her best efforts to dress less expensively and develop a more common accent and touch, she looked and sounded too posh for the rank-and-file’s plebeian tastes. She had emulated Tony Blair by replacing her received pronunciation with ‘peopw’ instead of ‘people’ and ‘govmund’ instead of ‘government’, but ‘creckly’ for ‘correctly’ had been a bridge too far and Dave had told her she sounded ridiculous and that since she didn’t have Blair’s acting ability she’d better stick to being herself.

  It was all right for Dave, who was probably still slumbering happily, she thought resentfully. His working-class Newcastle accent had survived grammar school and Leeds University, so he didn’t suffer her handicaps in Labour circles. And what was more, he had chosen merchant banking over politics, where it didn’t really matter what you sounded like. He might have done as well if not better than her in politics, if he’d been able to conceal his distaste for it. They could have been a power couple to contend with. But it was not to be.

  As was her custom, rather than dwell too much on her husband’s inadequacies, Henrietta tried to be positive by reminding herself how difficult life would have been without his money. This particular morning she luxuriated in thinking about the Commons debate and her clarion call to cherish diversity over Little Englandism. She smiled happily as she once more recited that excellent line she’d produced to demolish those who were whingeing about all the unexpected immigrants from Eastern Europe. ‘We are proud as a party to have made our country better by opening our hearts and minds and national borders to our friends from the east,’ she had cried, to great applause from the benches behind her.

  ‘Any trouble with the Lithuanians?’ asked Dave, as his showered, smartly-dressed and carefully made-up wife joined him at the breakfast table.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop harping on about the Lithuanians,’ she said, adding yoghurt to her muesli and blueberries. ‘You sound like some Tory bigot moaning about an influx of Eastern Europeans. Where would we be without Agnes?’ Henrietta picked up The Times and found the politics pages.

  ‘And Pavel. And Irenka. And Lucacz. And Krystiana …’

  ‘Oh, do shut up.’

  ‘Sometimes I think we’re well on our way to employing the entire population of Gdansk.’

  ‘It’s not as if they’re expensive,’ she said. ‘And someone has to do all the domestic crap.’ She squealed suddenly. ‘What a bitch that woman is. I don’t hector. And I’m not holier-than-thou.’ Throwing down The Times, she fished in the pile for the Guardian. ‘Where is Agnes anyway?’

  ‘Cooking my breakfast, I hope. Why, are you missing something?’

  ‘I’m off in a couple of minutes. There’s a shadow cabinet meeting at nine and I’ve a ton of briefing to get through first and I need to give her some more instructions about tonight.’

  He groaned. ‘Do I really have to come? Can’t you do without me? You know how I hate that crew.’

  ‘This is important, Dave. You know there are a few political commentators coming too and we have to charm them.’ She hurled her paper to the floor. ‘Even the sodding Guardian sketch-writer has made snide head-girl remarks. It’s so unfair. I hate this class warfare.’

  ‘I thought class warfare was a governing principle of your party’s present electoral strategy.’

  ‘Not,’ said Henrietta through gritted teeth, ‘when it’s directed at me.’

  ‘Did you have to raise the bloody Lithuanians in that company?’ she hissed, as they closed the front door on the last guest.

  ‘It was only a pleasantry. Joe had asked me something about the wildlife on the canal and I just happened to mention the decline in the swan population.’

  ‘And blamed the Lithuanians.’

  ‘He did ask the reason.’

  ‘You could have sidestepped it. You could have found a different reason. But no, you had to make a racist allegation. In front of half the front bench and a sprinkling of hacks.’

  A tall, blonde young woman emerged from the drawing room carrying a tray of dirty glasses. ‘Good night, Irenka,’ said Henrietta.

  ‘Lidka,’ she said. ‘Irenka cousin.’

  She vanished downstairs.

  ‘Where’s Irenka then?’ Henrietta asked her husband.

  ‘Downstairs washing up, I guess. Agnes said she needed reinforcements since she needed to go to bed early.’

  ‘What do we pay her for?’ asked Henrietta crossly, as she switched off the drawing-room lights and headed for the stairs.

  ‘Not for a seventeen-hour day,’ he said mildly, as he followed behind.

  ‘Great do last night,’ said Judith, Henrietta’s closest political friend and ally, as they snatched a quick lunch in the M
embers’ Tea Room. ‘I thought the whole tone was very positive.’

  ‘Except for that Lithuanian business,’ said Henrietta, stabbing viciously at a harmless mound of shredded carrot. ‘I could have slapped Dave. I can tell you I gave it to him with both barrels afterwards. We had a real row on the way to bed. He slammed off to the dressing room for the second time this week.’

  ‘You’re getting worked up about nothing, Hen. It was quite funny really. I’d no idea Lithuanians ate swans.’

  ‘If that’s their cultural preference, that’s their business.’

  ‘Swans are a protected species, though. I don’t think foreigners have the right to come here and barbecue our wildlife even if they are in the EU.’

  ‘We don’t know that happened, Jude. Sounds like tabloid racism to me.’

  ‘But Dave said he found the encampment near you and that he saw what looked like swan carcasses. He seemed particularly incensed about the black feathers.’

  ‘Forget about the bloody swans.’

  ‘Dave said there have been a lot of complaints about muggings too. And drunken carry-ons. That’s why he thinks you shouldn’t run there early in the morning. And wonders why you won’t complain to the council. You are the MP after all.’

  Henrietta put down her fork and looked at her friend with an expression Judith knew well and did not much like. ‘These people are homeless because we have made them insufficiently welcome. I will not be party to their persecution.’ She took one last sip of fizzy water and pushed her chair back. ‘Anyway, I’ve never noticed any of them around at that time of the morning.’