Flowering Death

by Angus MacVicar

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And is there anything suggestive about that information?”

  McGonagle glanced swiftly at Spike.

  “Well, sir, one of the gardens mentioned by Sir William belongs to Lord Eustace Sanders, Minister for Naval Affairs. The garden of his country house in Sussex. Spike has told you already that the Hon. Miss Nancy Sanders, the Minister’s daughter, was recently a visitor at Arundel House. She spent some time with Dr. McIntee.”

  Sir Percival’s sandy eyebrows shot up.

  “And the Hon. Nancy’s reputation is, to say the least of it —”

  “Exactly!” murmured Spike.

  “Hum!” The Assistant Commissioner frowned. “We have, I see, a definite line of investigation in this direction.”

  “If I may anticipate you, sir,” remarked Spike, putting out the stub of his cigarette in an ash-tray, “we have three other separate lines which may be worked concurrently — that is, if Mexico Madge and Italian George remain obdurate. One is in Limehouse. We must find an ailing Chinese girl — though how she is going to help us, if we do make a discovery, I haven’t the slightest idea. Another depends upon Mrs. Parkinson. She hasn’t, so far, been able to give us a hint as to how she was inoculated with the germ of the flower-disease; but I am hopeful of results. The third line is with Miss Nevinson. I am convinced that she has information which she does not, at the moment, consider significant.”

  Sir Percival bowed slightly.

  “Very well then, Spike. It is your show. I leave it to you and to your McGonagle and Spring.”

  The atmosphere of the room was genial. McGonagle and Spring were sitting bolt upright, chests protruding. But, on a sudden, Spike’s words brought a chill into the comfortable apartment.

  “I am afraid,” he said quietly, “that the crime may not be quite so simple as we have persuaded ourselves to believe at this conference. I am not given to scare-mongering as a rule, and I don’t think my worst friend would call me fey. But I repeat: I have a queer intuition that this case is one upon which grave issues depend. I can’t explain the feeling. And I may be proved entirely wrong. I sincerely hope that such will be the case.”

  For a while no one spoke, and the silence was broken only when the black and silver clock chimed midnight.

  The Assistant Commissioner stirred.

  “Home to bed, Spike!” he ordered. “McGonagle and Spring — the best of luck!”

  PART II

  CHAPTER VIII

  Wednesday

  SPIKE went home; but he did not sleep for several hours. He was dog-tired, too, having been on constant duty since early in the morning. His brain, however, was working at a furious pace, reviewing, guessing, deducting. And then, to make matters worse, he knew that in the adjoining bedroom Joan Nevinson lay — probably asleep, and he had almost come to the conclusion that he was in love with her.

  This, he was aware, represented monumental foolishness on his part; for it tended to warp his outlook upon the murder case as a whole. To his emotional faculties Joan was innocent and lovely, the embodiment of all his suppressed ideals of womanhood; but to his scientific faculties she was, like all the other members of the McIntee household, still under suspicion of having murdered the old doctor. She would remain under suspicion, too, until the murderer had been arrested.

  The evidence of the open window in the library, coupled with the remarkable dovetailing of the stories told by each separate person in Arundel House, led to the theory that the crime had been committed by an outsider; but, in his heart, Spike knew that this theory could be very completely upset. The murderer, it was just possible, might have been a resident whose cunning, speed in action and careful planning had received its due reward.

  There remained with Spike, however, four difficult questions. First, how had Dr. McIntee been lured from his bed lo the library at five o’clock in the morning? Second, why had the room and the body been covered with flowers? Third, what had Mexico Madge and Italian George to do with the affair? And lastly, what had been the motive?

  This motive business puzzled Spike, and it was the one deterrent to his entertaining confidently the idea of a resident having been the murderer.

  Rapidly he went over in his mind the personnel of Arundel House. There was Fayne, dark and somewhat mysterious, but, by all accounts, a decent fellow and under a deep obligation to Dr. McIntee. There was Lancaster, a relative of the dead man’s, who did not stand to gain by the latter’s demise and who was, moreover, scarcely the typical murderer. There was Seale, devoted servant; Mrs. Parkinson and Mary Daw. The two women, Spike believed, were ruled out of the affair by their obvious inability to handle a revolver to proper advantage ... And then there was Joan, who now fell heir to her guardian’s considerable fortune. Spike tossed restlessly. It was all so damned queer. There was some important point which he had missed. Of that he was certain. There was some clue, were he but fortunate enough to single it out from many others, which would lead to the core of the mystery. But, ponder and worry as he might, he could not pick out that clue. If only one suspicious finger-print had been found in the library ... And at this point there came to him once more the strange premonition of a coming crisis at which he could not even guess.

  Fiercely he crushed down his fears. He tried to arrange in his mind plans for the morning.

  First of all he would have to question Joan, in an attempt to learn from her some item of information — an item of information, perhaps, that she was unaware of possessing — to account for her abduction. Then there was the matter of Dr. McIntee’s movements on the afternoon preceding the murder. The yellow face-powder on his jacket and the special type of mud on his boots, along with the discovery of the coin in his pocket, led Spike to believe that he had been tending a Chinese girl somewhere in Limehouse, in a locality where damp ground might be discovered. And it suddenly struck the head of Department Q7 that the fungoid growth with fresh blood at its roots, which had been found by McGonagle among the flowers at Arundel House, might have been taken from the body of such a person ... He would, at any rate, have to find this unknown girl, even though, as he suspected, the discovery might have no bearing at all upon the murder.

  A more hopeful line of investigation, he thought, concerned Mrs. Parkinson, who, if she were well enough, might be able to give him some idea as to how she had been inoculated with the germs of the flower-disease. Another concerned that exotic young lady, the Hon. Nancy Sanders, in the garden of whose father grew the rare type of rose, Lady Charlotte Hamilton.

  The Hon. Nancy Sanders. Spike smiled as he compared her with Joan. He lingered over the comparison. The Hon. Nancy was a hot-house plant, clinging, sweet-scented, forced: Joan was fresh as the dew, fragrant with natural loveliness.

  And he would see her in the morning ... His Aunt Margaret and he would have her to themselves at breakfast. Damn Scotland Yard! Why couldn’t the three of them be friends, quite naturally and without an ogre of suspicion rearing his ugly head in their midst? Why ...

  He fell asleep; and Joan, who, in the next room, had listened to his tossing for an hour, wondered if he had come any nearer to solving the mystery. She was almost certain that he had: she possessed complete faith in him.

  *

  And in the morning, on coming down to breakfast clad plainly in a brown knitted jumper and a skirt of Harris tweed, she was surprised to note how fresh he looked. She had expected to see him a little tired about the eyes, his big mouth, perhaps, drooping at the corners. Instead, she saw him jump from his chair to greet her, his clean-shaven, dark cheeks alight with pleasure. His eyes sparkled, and there was a virile swiftness in his movements ... She trembled ever so slightly; but her trembling was not caused by fear.

  The white-haired lady seated before the cups at one end of the table put little firm fingers on her guest’s arm.

  “Good morning, my dear. You must excuse us beginning breakfast before you came down. Spike is in a hurry to get across to the Yard.”

  Joan
smiled. She was glad that she had not returned to Arundel House on the previous night. She would have had no one to bring brightness into the tragedy which had overtaken her guardian. There would have been no Spike to bow her, half-mockingly, into a chair at the breakfast table. There would have been no kindly old lady to pour out coffee for her and to fuss about her appetite. She would have had no sense of security and safety.

  For the first time Joan realized that she knew little about the true meaning of home life. She had been at school when her father and mother were killed in the railway accident near Bombay. Then there had been Dr. McIntee and the big, unhomely Arundel House to look after. There had been Lancaster and Fayne, rivals for her beauty — or for the money which she would one day possess. She had few friends like — well, like Spike. And there had been no charming old ladies in the circle of her acquaintances to whom she could talk as every girl has a right to talk to an older woman.

  “You were perfectly right to begin without me, Miss Dorrance. I’m a sleepy-head.”

  Spike grinned.

  “Good Lord! Don’t call her Miss Dorrance. No one calls her that. She loves everybody who addresses her as Aunt Margaret.”

  Joan’s white teeth bit into a piece of toast. She laughed outright.

  “What a family!” she cried. “First of all, there are demands for the name of Spike. Then Spike’s aunt has to be Aunt Margaret ... Obviously you must call me Joan.”

  “Of a verity I shall call you Joan,” announced Spike. “It’s a darlin’ name.”

  Miss Dorrance shook her head. She was small and her actions were gentle; but there was a firmness about the set of her mouth quite evident to the girl. And it was clear that she adored her unconventional nephew.

  “One gets used to him, Joan,” she murmured. “He is, I believe, quite harmless.”

  “Well — I don’t know about that. You should have seen him deal with Mr. Mallinson of Aldersyde, Somerset Street!”

  There was sudden pain in Miss Dorrance’s eyes; but she strove to speak steadily.

  “He can look after himself, you know. Sometimes, however, I wish —”

  “Look here!” said Spike. “I’m blushin’ up to the ears. Have you forgotten I’m a-listenin’, as the old song has it? More coffee, if you please, Aunt Margaret.”

  Joan smiled across the table at him. Then suddenly she looked down at her plate.

  “I don’t suppose I ought to ask you this, Spike. But I’ll risk it. Have you any ideas about — about the murderer?”

  The sparkle faded out of his eyes, and she caught her breath as she divined the rush of his thoughts ... She had not considered before this aspect of the matter. Before he could reply she had amended her question.

  “I’m sorry. I ought not to have spoken. I know what you’re thinking, Spike. I’m under suspicion, too.”

  He tried to protest.

  “Oh, that’s not true —”

  “It is true, Spike.”

  Miss Dorrance patted the girl’s arm, and her brown eyes were soft.

  “Spike has to do his duty, Joan. He must not disclose police secrets. He isn’t a free-lance like a private detective. I know his ways. And it is true that he suspects you — officially. Unofficially he believes you to be innocent as much as I do.”

  Joan glanced gratefully at the old lady; but a sudden, rather numbing idea possessed her. Had Spike taken her to his home so that lie, or his aunt, might keep a closer watch upon her? Had she been persuaded to leave Arundel House so that, if she were guilty, they might have an opportunity of surprising the secret from her when she least expected?

  There was a hurt expression in her eyes when she glanced up at Spike; but next moment she forgot her suspicions.

  “You little fool, Joan!” said Spike soberly. “You aren’t the only person in this house entitled to be called a thought-reader. And if you think I asked you to come here, so that Aunt Margaret and I could spy upon you more easily, you are at liberty to return to Arundel House this very minute.”

  She bit her lip. There was a sudden smarting in her eyes. Then she flung up her head proudly, and Spike wanted to kiss her — most desperately.

  “I beg your pardon — Aunt Margaret and Spike. You must think me rather a rotter.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Miss Dorrance who had scarcely followed the semi-telepathic conversation of the young couple. “What are you talking about, Joan?”

  “I — I don’t know,” returned the girl. “Never mind me, Aunt Margaret. Spike, if I could help you in any way —”

  “Yes. By Jove, you can, Joan ... Listen. We have a theory at the Yard as to why you were abducted. It is this. After the murder you learned some new fact. It may be quite a trivial fact which, to your mind, has no bearin’ upon the case. But the murderer must have discovered that you had heard of it. He must have realized that if you told the police it would put them on his track. You see the idea?”

  “I do.” Joan’s brows were puckered. “But really — I can’t think of anything. And why — why did they not try to murder me, too, in that case?”

  Spike flushed.

  “Well — er — you see, you’re rather lovely.”

  “Oh!”

  “But, Joan! Isn’t there anything you can remember? Any little piece of odd news?”

  She shook her head. There was a long silence broken at last by a peal on the door-bell.

  “The morning papers!” murmured Miss Dorrance. “I’ll get them, Spike.”

  As she left the room Joan looked up.

  “I’m sorry, Spike. I can’t help you — yet.”

  “Leave it until to-night,” he advised, trying to appear less disappointed than he felt. “Keep thinking about it — all day.”

  She nodded.

  “Very well ... And, Spike.”

  “What is it, Joan?”

  “You can keep me under suspicion if you like; but — but I didn’t kill Dr. McIntee.”

  Miss Dorrance came into the room, glancing at the headlines of the Daily Star. Joan saw the gentle eyes suddenly flash with interest and apprehension. The little mouth hardened.

  “Aunt Margaret!” exclaimed Spike. “What’s the matter? Mussolini assassinated at long last?”

  She laid the sheet on the table before him. The smile at the corners of his mouth faded.

  “Read it, Spike!”

  And, with his two companions looking over his shoulders, Spike read. The item of news which had disturbed Miss Dorrance ran as follows:

  THE FLOWERING DEATH

  LONDON ATTACKED BY MYSTERIOUS DISEASE

  IS THERE NO CURE?

  ALARM SPREADING

  By Peter Todd (Daily Star Special Investigator).

  I have regretfully come to the conclusion that London is threatened by a scourge worse by far than war or famine.

  Early this morning it was brought to my notice that fifteen separate cases of the mysterious flower-disease were admitted to hospital. And as I write I am told that five other persons have reported to their medical advisors suspicious symptoms.

  It will be recalled that some time ago a British soldier in India was attacked by this strange malady, for which no cure is thought to exist. he died within a week. Now, unless medical knowledge can meet the crisis, there are scores of people in London who will die of the dread disease.

  I appeal to doctors all over the world for guidance. Can nothing be done to prevent a panic in Britain worse than the panic of war? A week ... There is a week in which that question may be answered in the affirmative. After that it will be too late.

  The victims of the scourge who have, so far, been notified to the authorities are: Mr. Archibald Tyrone, the famous flyer; Mrs. Parkinson, housekeeper to the late Dr. Abraham McIntee, the victim of yesterday’s mysterious crime; the Rev. Alfred Davidson, rector of St. Leonard’s, the popular wireless preacher; Miss Elizabeth Rank, the authoress ...

  *

  Spike did not read more. He leaped to his feet, bringing his fist down wi
th a bang on the table. His eyes were as hard as flint.

  In Joan’s glance there was a question.

  “I’m goin’ to give Mr. Peter Todd the scare of his young life!” he exclaimed. “ ‘Panic,’ remarks Mr. Todd! He’ll be panic-stricken before I have finished with him. I know the blighter well, both personally and by reputation ... This newspaper racket must be stopped or —”

  The telephone bell whirred in the hall. Spike had his ear to the receiver in half-a-dozen seconds.

  “Spike,” came the voice of the Assistant Commissioner, strangely distorted. “You’ve seen the papers?”

  “Yes. We’ll soon put an end to that kind of thing.”

  “God! We must. There will be stark, raving anarchy if it continues ... But that is not everything. I’ve just had a letter from an unknown individual which practically holds Britain up to ransom. Come round at once, Spike. At once, I say ... I cannot tell you over the wire of this last damnable development.”

  CHAPTER IX

  MCGONAGLE and Spring entered the Assistant Commissioner’s room on Spike’s heels.

  The Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department was pale. His eyeglass was screwed tightly into its place. His thin lips were closed and his jaw jutted like a steel trap.

  Sir Percival Merridew had just finished at the telephone and had confirmed the truth of every statement made by Mr. Peter Todd. He had begun to realize that every victim of the mysterious disease was a well-known personage, whose death would be a shock to the whole community. Archibald Tyrone, the famous pilot and Atlantic record-holder; Mrs. Parkinson, in the public eye through the bizarre murder of her master; the Rev. Alfred Davidson, whose broadcast sermons brought comfort to a thousand homes each Sunday evening; Elizabeth Rank, the novelist whose books sold in tens of thousands ... The devilish ingenuity of the unknown criminal was apparent to the Assistant Commissioner.

  “There must be a connection,” he said without preliminaries. “I’ve tried to get Mexico Madge and Italian George to speak; but they’re as dumb as doornails. There must be a connection ... The fungoid growth was found beside the body. The housekeeper has been attacked by the disease. Flowers ... the whole ghastly affair is based upon a flower theme.”