An Awkward Way to Die

by Will Thomas

  Barker was taking in all sides of the chamber and I believed I understood why. The chances were good that this artist had carved a pipe I saw my employer smoke during our first case, with the Guv’s own visage carved in it. The pipe had since been destroyed. I assumed he’d like a duplicate.

  “Very nice,” Cleaver said, retrieving his notebook, oblivious to the artistry of the pipes or our reactions to them. “A witness saw you involved in an argument with the late Mr. Dimitriadis yesterday afternoon.”

  “No worse than usual. Vasilios was a passionate person, always ready to argue or bargain. He was an artist himself, of sorts, but he was also a canny businessman. We argued over how many pieces I should finish by the end of the month. If I met all his orders, I would have no time to eat or sleep, or to visit my girl in Poplar.”

  “You have a girl in Poplar, then?” Cleaver asked. “What’s her name?”

  “Annie Sanders.”

  “An English girl, eh?”

  The inspector said no more than this, but the scorn he put into the words at the thought that a Musselman should be accompanying a bloom of English womanhood was unmistakable. Khalif did not react. I’m certain he was accustomed to such comments.

  “So, you argued with the deceased over the number of orders he wanted you to do,” Cleaver stated.

  “Yes, sir, but we always argued. We were bargaining, you see. He quoted too high a number, I too low a number, and—”

  “I’m familiar with the concept of bargaining, thank you, Mr. Khalif. You claim these arguments were habitual and not heated?”

  “No doubt the argument might appear heated to someone else, but I assure you, I might buy the man dinner some evening and play chess with him after.”

  “Did you notice anyone in the shop while you were there?” Barker asked.

  “A couple of old men at a table nearby. There was a woman in the shop, too, I think. What is the English word for when a horse looks ready to bolt?”

  “Skittish?” I supplied.

  “Exactly. She looked skittish.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Barker rumbled.

  Inspector Cleaver stood and nodded to the constable.

  “All right, I’ve seen enough. Mr. Khalif, or whatever your name is, I arrest you in connection to the murder of Vasilios Dimitriadis. Anything you say may be used in court. Fields, clap the darbies on him.”

  So much for Inspector Clever, I thought. Obviously, Scotland Yard made quick decisions due to their heavy caseload. It was always easier to blame a foreigner, as if England had no criminal class of its own. We watched him loaded into a Black Mariah. As the vehicle began to move, Barker shook his head.

  “Let’s go back to the offices. I think we need to do further thinking on this case on our own.”

  Once there, Barker smoked one of his cigars from the box on his desk, a rare occurrence. He sat back and blew a smoke ring into the air and stared out over the courtyard.

  “I knew a Chelsea pensioner when I first came to London,” he said. “We met on a park bench, of all places. We fell into conversation and I told him I intended to be a detective.”

  “Private enquiry agent,” I corrected.

  “No, nothing as grand as that. I still hadn’t made my plans. Anyway, he encouraged me to study the streets of London, and possibly even take the test for cabmen. He took me about the city, street by street. The old man was quite an ambulist. Morrison, his name was. I always called him Mr. Morrison, out of respect.”

  “You never introduced him to me,” I said.

  “Oh, he passed away, not a few months after I passed the test. I attended his funeral. I still miss him at times. It’s good to know a man or two ahead of you in the walk of life.”

  This was a red letter day. I realized Cyrus Barker was revealing a part of his past without being asked.

  “All the same,” he said. “Go to the Chelsea hospital and get the addresses for our pensioners.”

  “Why their addresses, sir?”

  He gave one of his wintery looks.

  “I’ll be on my way, then,” I said, donning my hat and stepping into the street.

  The Royal Hospital Chelsea, being over fifty acres in the heart of the West End, was not difficult to find. When seeking information from a public source, it is best to tell the absolute truth or to create a plausible lie. This time, I chose to go with the first. I was passed from the clerk at the front desk to his superior. In his office, I lay my card upon his desk.

  He glared at it for a moment, trying to take it in.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Two of your out-pensioners were very helpful during one of our investigations recently. It was my employer’s wish to send each a card of thanks, along with a small remuneration. Are out-pensioners’ addresses private?”

  “They are,” he told me.

  “Oh, blast. I was hoping to give the lads a small treat. They really were instrumental in our investigations.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Alfred Stokes and Colin MacKellar.”

  “I suppose I could break the rules this once.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to get you in any kind of trouble.”

  “No trouble. It is up to my discretion. Let me get those addresses for you. Actually, I don’t have to look at MacKellar’s file. He’s one of ours, an inpatient.”

  I took both addresses, but when I delivered them to Barker, he stuffed them absently in his pocket. He’s like that. He’ll praise me for the smallest thing, then take something which required a bit of effort in its stride. But then, I was used to it by now.

  “Take a letter, Mr. Llewelyn,” he said.

  I drew my notebook from my rolltop desk.

  “ ‘Dear Mrs. Hornby,

  I wish to ask you a few questions regarding the death of Mr. Vasilios Dimitriadis. We are not from the official police. Please meet me at our offices tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, or I shall have no concern for your reputation.

  Sincerely,

  Cyrus Barker.’

  Type that for me and give it to a messenger. You should have Mr. Hornby’s private address in your notes.”

  Promptly the next morning, Mrs. Hornby arrived on our doorstep, looking as nervous as a cat with a long tail. She was an attractive young woman with blond hair and blue eyes, approaching thirty. I helped her to the client’s chair.

  “How can I help you, sir?” she asked Barker, clutching her reticule.

  He stood at the side of his desk and looked down at her. The sheer size of him had to be intimidating to a skittish young woman.

  “Tell us, Madam, how long has Mr. Dimitriadis been blackmailing you.”

  Mrs. Hornby looked stricken. There was no way now for her to deny that such an event had occurred. The Guv raised an eyebrow, and his roughhewn face softened a little.

  “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  Barker sighed. “There’s no use for it, Mrs. Hornby. Besides, no doubt you could use someone willing to listen and to help you in any way he can.”

  “At what price, Mr. Barker?”

  “My interest is merely to end my investigation, not to bilk you for more money. I’m certain you have given enough. I don’t intend to go into the unsavory relationship between yourself and Mr. Dimitriadis. I understand he was . . . Mr. Llewelyn, what was the term?”

  “A bit of a dog, sir?” I supplied from my notes.

  “Precisely. What evidence did he have in his possession?”

  “A letter, Mr. Barker,” she said, looking ashen.

  “No doubt in answer to one of his own. You were unwise to set your feelings down on paper.”

  “I realize that now, sir,” she said, squirming in her chair. She began twisting a small lace handkerchief in her hand.

  “Could you provide definitive proof of where you were yesterday morning between five a.m. and noon?”

  “Of course. I saw my husband, Daniel, out the door, and then worked upon the family
accounts. Our nanny was in the house, seeing to little Nicholas.”

  Barker tsked. “A child, Mrs. Hornby? Really.”

  Her face fell. She was almost in tears. Barker generally does not encourage the expressing of emotion among female witnesses—or male, for that matter—but in this case, he provoked it.

  “You knew about the death of Mr. Dimitriadis, I assume.”

  “Yes, Mr. Barker. It was in the late edition. I’m afraid I was relieved.”

  “How much did he demand you to pay, Mrs. Hornby?”

  “Twenty-five pounds a month, sir. It was a good portion of my household expenses. I had to be careful in my accounting to keep every pence.”

  “Do you suspect that your husband might have discovered your affair and killed your lover?”

  “Oh, don’t call him that, sir! We only talked and exchanged letters. I had not realized he was such a cad, but that is no excuse for my behavior. Did he? Do you think my husband killed Vasilios?”

  “No, Mrs. Hornby, he did not. Under such conditions, a jealous husband prefers to strangle his wife’s seducer face-to-face, but locking a man in a chloroform-filled cabinet requires no physical strength. It is a woman’s method.”

  “But, sir, as I said, our nanny was with me the entire time.”

  Barker sat back in his tall, green leather chair.

  “A nanny in your home would be willing to provide an alibi, lest she break up the home and lose her situation.”

  “No, sir,” she replied. “You are wrong. In fact, she would like nothing more than to prove I had gone out. My husband has been having a dalliance with her for over a year, under my very nose. Dan thinks I don’t know.”

  “That explains why you should have fallen to Mr. Dimitriadis’s charms that first time you bought a box of cigars for your husband.”

  “That explains it, Mr. Barker, but it does not excuse it.”

  The Guv nodded, but not unkindly.

  “Did the tobacconist seem different in any way when you saw him yesterday?”

  “No. He was loathsome, as always. He continued to press me for more money. He threatened to send the letter to my husband. Do you have it? Does Scotland Yard?”

  “I haven’t,” the Guv replied. “And I suspect Scotland Yard does not know about it, either.”

  Barker scratched under his chin, a gesture that occurs when he is pondering something.

  “Very well, Madam. I have no more questions at present. Thank you for your frankness. Good day.”

  Our visitor blinked. She made no attempt to rise.

  “But who killed him, Mr. Barker? Who killed Vasilios?”

  “Not you, apparently. I assume you have no acquaintance with the uses of chloroform.”

  “No, sir, of course not.”

  “Then I have no further need to trouble you.”

  He waved her away and reached for the morning post. She looked at me, nonplussed. I saw her to the door and returned to my chair near his desk.

  “That was a bit ungallant, sir,” I dared say.

  “I have no time to soothe ruffled feathers. I have an investigation to conclude. Speaking of which, let’s go, Thomas. We don’t have time to dawdle all morning.”

  A minute later, we were in a cab, heading who knows where.

  “Do you remember the uniforms of the Yeomen Warders at the Tower?” the Guv asked.

  “Of course, sir. Dress red on important days, dress blue on days without ceremony.”

  “The Chelsea Pensioners have a similar dress, both red and blue, but it has to do with distance from the Chelsea Hospital. Nearby they wear dress blue. Two miles or more away, they wear red.”

  “How does that help us, sir?”

  “According to the addresses you procured from the hospital, Mr. Stokes lives in the City, but Mr. MacKellar is an inpatient. He tried to make us believe that he was a long time habitué of Mr. Dimitriadis’s establishment, like Stokes, when in fact, I suspect he wasn’t.”

  “That’s right,” I answered. “He said Houndsditch. But why? Why go to the trouble of appearing as if he were from one area of London and not another?”

  “That’s the wrong question, lad,” he rumbled. “We should ask why he should frequent a tobacconist so far from his residence. And why go in civilian dress when he is permitted to wear the scarlet coat?”

  The hansom pulled to the curb at the hospital as I was contemplating his words. My first thought as we stepped inside the building was that it was rather fine for old soldiers on a fixed budget. They were almost like gentlemen’s lodgings. The porter questioned us severely before leading us to the pensioner’s door. When Mr. MacKellar answered, he was in his dress red with a row of medals on his chest.

  “Ah,” he said. “Yes. Let them in, Smithers. They are my guests. Come in, gentlemen.”

  We entered and I looked about. He had a small spartan but well-furnished flat, dominated by a large painting over the fireplace. I gravitated to it. It was a military scene, soldiers on horseback in battle. I read the legend at the bottom. Sevastopol.

  The old fellow eased himself into a chair, cane at his elbow, and waved us to our chairs.

  “Let us get this over with, gentlemen, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very well, sir,” Barker said, frowning. “At some time in the past month or two you began to frequent Mr. Dimitriadis’s shop. You must have passed several tobacconists in order to reach that one. Why did you travel so far?”

  The old gentleman seemed reluctant to speak, but my employer was adamant.

  “We must get to the truth, sir. We do not wish to expose the young woman to a public trial.”

  “Trial?” MacKellar asked, looking stricken.

  “Yes. With a sympathetic jury, her sentence will be commuted. No sense in hanging a young woman over a cad who was blackmailing her.”

  “Hanging!”

  Barker turned to me. Not only did I know that Mrs. Hornby hadn’t been arrested, I knew Khalif had. I wondered what card the Guv was playing.

  “Lad, you might not be aware that chloroform was first used during the Crimean War, as a way to sedate patients prior to amputation. Sometimes the dosage, given inadequately, would cause the patient to wake in the middle of the surgery. Too potent, and the patient would die, as Mr. Dimitriadis did, asphyxiated by fumes.”

  “I could not overpower a man as young and strong as he!” MacKellar said.

  “No, but you could place a canister of chloroform into the humidor, then request the owner to select a cigar for you. When he entered, you slammed the door behind him and wedged your cane underneath the knob. Then you had the pleasure of watching the man die. Afterward, you removed the canister, and opened the doors, then hid around the corner of the alley until Mr. Stokes came to the front door.”

  “And why should I do all this?” MacKellar demanded.

  “While Mr. Llewelyn went to the Chelsea Hospital this morning, I spent a little time at the Public Records Office. It appears Mrs. Hornby’s maiden name was MacKellar. You are protecting your granddaughter. Perhaps she could not confess what she had done to her parents, but a beloved grandfather would be like a father confessor.”

  I turned to look at MacKellar and his cheeks were damp.

  “And your granddaughter was blackmailed by Dimitriadis.”

  “There was no question he needed to be stopped. I am a feeble old man, but I am skilled with the use of chloroform. I entered the establishment one day and saw the benefits of the humidor to lock the man into. I befriended Mr. Stokes to have a reason to come regularly. On that day, I arrived early and convinced my granddaughter’s seducer to let me in. After I opened the canister, he stepped in to choose a cigar for me and when he died, I opened the door and stabbed him with the letter opener as a coup de grace. I had no sympathy for the blighter. Then I searched his papers behind the desk until I found her letter, took the money, and left.”

  “What did you do with the letter?”

  “I destroyed it.”

  �
�And the money?” my employer asked.

  “I would not profit by this. I gave it to the Salvation Army. It was no more than ten pounds.”

  “Mr. MacKellar, I have no client, and as it turned out my tobacconist was a disreputable fellow. However, you had no right to take a life.”

  “Agreed. What shall you do now?”

  “You shall put your affairs in order, tell your granddaughter what you have done, and turn yourself in at a constabulary.”

  “And if I escape instead?”

  “I was a member of Her Majesty’s army in Shanghai. You know as well as I that it is a matter of honor. If you run, it would blacken the name of your regiment.”

  “I see. Thank you, Mr. Barker.”

  We stood and bowed to the old gentleman and took our leave. Outside, the Guv pulled his pipe and sealskin pouch from his pocket. He stuffed his pipe in his mouth with the last of his tobacco and patted his pockets for a pack of lucifers.

  “Why didn’t we escort him to Scotland Yard, sir?” I asked.

  “The man is seventy-four,” Barker replied. “Either he will do the honorable thing or time will inevitably be his judge and jury.”

  “He’ll turn himself in,” I remarked.

  “Of course. He’s a soldier of Her Majesty’s army. It’s a matter of honor.”

  He struck the match against the wall of the hospital and brought it to the bowl of the pipe.

  “Wait!” I cried.

  “What is it, lad?”

  “Why not take that tobacco to another blender and see what he can make of it?”

  The Guv chuckled.

  “Thank you, Thomas. A capital suggestion. I knew there had to be a reason I keep you about.”

  Read on for a preview of

  Old Scores

  The new novel by Will Thomas

  Available October 2017

  © Will Thomas

  CHAPTER ONE

  I suppose it all began with the garden. Cyrus Barker’s garden, I mean. It was a particularly good year for some reason. Everything came together perfectly. The gardeners were working, hard-pressed to keep the growth from getting out of hand, and anything attempted for the first time grew and flourished. It was too perfect, if you know what I mean. One cannot have the ointment without the fly, the yang without the yin. I should have expected something to happen to balance all that beauty, but I didn’t. Ah, man, the eternal optimist.