"I would appreciate that," Barnett said.
"I shall go and see if he's here." Mr. Palmer excused himself and went off down the dark wood-paneled hallway. Barnett sipped his sherry and considered multiple murder. He composed his thoughts and began to construct the lead paragraph for the article he would write for the American News Service. A bit of philosophy to lead off. It would make the reader feel as though he were exploring the human condition instead of merely indulging a morbid curiosity.
As ripples in a pond, Barnett scribbled in his notebook, radiate from every stone, no matter how casually flung, so do unforeseeable consequences emanate from every human action, no matter how seemingly minor.
Barnett paused to chew on his pencil and stare down at the page. It read fairly well, he decided. After all, as an unforeseen result of this series of murders, Professor Moriarty, who was completely unconnected with the crimes, had been seriously inconvenienced by the unwarranted attentions of Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard. But surely any of the victims would rather have been seriously inconvenienced than have had his throat cut.
Barnett decided to work on the text of his article later, make a few notes first, and try to produce something that was actually worth saying. NOTE: he wrote large on the rest of the page, Murder is the worst crime of all. Why? Because it is the only one which cannot be taken back and cannot be apologized for.
Not a bad thought, Barnett decided, folding his notebook and sticking it back in his pocket. With a little work he should be able to get five hundred to a thousand words out of it.
Palmar came back down the hall. With him was a slender, stoop-shouldered man, whose intelligent brown eyes peered out of a face that was habitually set in a serious mien. "Mr. Barnett," he said, "permit me to introduce Mr. Quimby. Mr. Quimby was, until recently, the valet for Lord John Darby. He has been staying with us since his lordship's unfortunate demise, and has had occasion to become reasonably well acquainted with both Lizzard and Margery."
"A pleasure," Barnett said. "Please, sit here. You don't mind if I ask you a few questions? I trust Mr. Palmar has explained what I'm here for."
"A journalist," Quimby said, continuing to stand.
Barnett sensed hostility. "That's right," he said, trying to look as open and honest as possible. "I'd like to talk to you about your friends Lizzard and Margery."
"Why?"
"I am trying to gather information on the events surrounding the murders of their employers."
"They were not responsible."
"I am convinced of that also," Barnett said. "Scotland Yard does not seem to be. They have been placed under arrest."
"I know. I believe that Inspector Lestrade was acting hastily."
"That's so," Quimby agreed. "And it was the newspapers that made him do it. Long stories about how nobody was safe, not even the nobility. Not even in their own homes, or in their own beds. The people were becoming agitated, and the Home Secretary had to do something. Scotland Yard had to arrest somebody, and right quick, too, just to show they was doing their jobs."
"There may be something in what you say," Barnett admitted. "And if journalistic outcry caused your friends to be incarcerated, then perhaps a renewed outcry can get them released again."
"The authorities will have to let them go soon anyway," Quimby said, nodding with satisfaction. "Five killings all committed the same way, and the last while they were already locked up. It stands to reason."
"Five?" Barnett asked, surprised. "I know of only four."
"Five," Quimby said. "And I'm the one who should know."
"Let's see," Barnett said, counting on his fingers. "There's Venn and Stanhope and Lord Walbine and Sir Geoffrey Cruikstaff—"
"And my late master," Quimby said. "Lord John Darby."
"He was murdered?" Barnett asked. "I don't remember hearing of it. When did it happen?"
"His body was found early in the morning of Tuesday, the fifteenth of February."
"By you?"
"No, sir. By the Earl of Arundale."
"In his bedroom?"
"No, sir. In the dining room."
"I see." Barnett leaned back in his chair, which creaked alarmingly. He shifted forward again. "What makes you think that your master's death is related to the others?"
"His throat was cut. And there was no way for anyone to have got in or out. An impossible crime, Mr. Barnett. The only one who could have committed it was me."
Barnett nodded. "I take it you didn't kill Lord John," he said.
"No, sir," Quimby said. "He wasn't a particularly easy man to work for, but I had no reason to wish to do myself out of a position. Besides, I can't stand the sight of blood."
"I see," Barnett said. "If, then, for some reason you had wanted to do his lordship in, you would have used poison."
Quimby shook his head. "I couldn't do that to good food," he said. "No, sir; if I ever decide to do anybody in, I fancy I shall use a very large, very blunt instrument."
Barnett pulled out his notebook. "May I ask a few questions regarding your late employer and your two friends Lizzard and Margery?" he said.
"I will assist you," Quimby said, "because I live in fear that Inspector Lestrade will decide to add a third manservant to the two he already has in quod."
"That is one of my questions," Barnett said. "Why hasn't he? That is, why haven't I read anything about the death of Lord John Darby?"
Quimby poured himself a glass of sherry from the decanter and then seated himself gingerly on one of the hardback chairs beside the upholstered armchair Barnett had settled into. "That I cannot tell you, Mr. Barnett," he said. "Lord Arundale is a powerful enough man to have the news of the murder quenched, and he has done so. But what his motivation is, I do not know."
"Do the police know of the murder?"
"I am not sure. I would think not. There is a private inquiry agent working with the police—a Mr. Holmes—who does know about it. He has questioned me extensively. He also thinks Lizzard and Margery are innocent; he told me so."
"What did he ask you about?"
"Everything you can think of. He asked me how long I had been employed by his lordship, whether his lordship had any enemies that I knew of, what sort of books his lordship liked to read."
"Books?"
"Yes, sir. That's what he asked."
"And what did you reply? What sort of books did Lord John like to read?"
"I can't recall ever seeing his lordship with a book in his hands, unless it was Bradshaw."
"He restricted his reading to the railway timetables, eh?"
"His lordship did take a newspaper, sir. The Daily Gazette."
"I see. Can you remark on anything else of note, either in Mr. Holmes's questions or in your responses?"
"It's hard for me to tell, sir. Being interrogated is a novel experience for me."
"Well then, did Mr. Holmes seem particularly pleased or distressed at any of your responses?"
"No, sir. He did compliment me on my powers of observation at one point."
"When was that?"
"He asked me if anything was missing from the house or from his lordship's person. I replied in the negative, with the possible exception of a thin gold chain that his lordship wore on occasion around his neck. I said I couldn't be sure it was taken, as his lordship didn't always wear it."
"Did you check where it was kept when Lord John wasn't wearing it?"
"Mr. Holmes asked me that, also. I told him that I couldn't say, because I have no idea where his lordship kept it. His other personal jewelry was kept in a box on the dressing table, but I never saw the chain in there. It was when I mentioned that to him that Mr. Holmes complimented me."
"Was the chain found among his lordship's effects?"
"I don't believe so. I was present at a preliminary inventory, conducted by the family solicitor, and it was not found at that time."
"Did Lord John have anything suspended from this chain?"
"Yes, but I cannot tell you what
. He always kept it beneath his shirt, next to his skin."
"I see," Barnett said. "An interesting idiosyncrasy, although probably bearing no relationship to the crime. The object cannot have been very large, and if it had been of great value, I'm sure its existence would have been known of by some other member of the family."
"That is probably so," Quimby agreed.
"What I find most interesting is the secrecy," Barnett said. "I can see why the murderer wouldn't wish to advertise, but why the Earl of Arundale would want to suppress knowledge of a murder I don't know. But I will do my best to find out. I suppose there is no chance that this earl did your boss in?"
"Did him in? No, sir. The homicide assuredly occurred before the arrival of the earl."
"Pity," said Barnett, with the heartlessness of a true newspaperman. "Now, about Lizzard and Margery. How well do you know them?"
"Fairly well," Quimby said. "As well as one can get to know somebody in a short time. We are all in the same boat, so to speak, and it gave us a strong community of interest. We were possessed of a great desire to discover who committed the murders, and how they were accomplished, even before we discovered that we ourselves might be blamed for them."
"Did you come to any conclusions?" Barnett asked.
"No, sir, unfortunately not. Of course, it is not a field that we are particularly competent in. That is why I was so pleased to discover that Mr. Holmes is taking an interest in the problem. He is highly thought of."
"In your own mind there is no chance that either of your friends might actually have had a hand in the, ah, crimes?"
"No chance, sir. Neither of them had a motive. On the contrary, they both lost good positions upon the deaths of their employers."
"Scotland Yard contends that they were paid off by some third person to either commit the deeds themselves or allow someone else access to the bedrooms."
"I cannot believe that, Mr. Barnett. Neither of them is the sort of man who would murder his employer. Also, neither of them was in a position where a desire for immediate financial gain would outweigh the need for security of employment."
"I understood that Margery was an inveterate racecourse-goer."
"Yes, sir. He has what I believe is called a 'system,' sir. Has put away quite a little nest egg with it."
"You mean he wins?"
"Not invariably, but certainly more than he loses."
"And what about Lizzard? Word is that he has a lady friend in Wembley."
"Mr. Lizzard is seeing a lady who lives in Wembley, sir. That's true enough."
"Was his butler's salary sufficient for his, ah, needs in this regard?"
Quimby pondered this for a moment. "Actually, sir," he said, "the size of Mr. Lizzard's salary is not relevant in this case, the lady in question being the sole owner and proprietress of a public house. She has asked Mr. Lizzard to come into the business as her partner, feeling, as she says, that the presence of a man about the establishment is desirable."
"It sounds like a subtle proposal of marriage," Barnett commented.
"I have no doubt that matrimony is in the lady's mind," Quimby said, "but the offer is a straightforward business offer. I would assume that she's waiting for Mr. Lizzard to do the proposing."
"An enviable position for the gentleman to be in," Barnett said, "if he is fond of the lady. And it would certainly seem from that as though Lizzard was not in any desperate need of funds."
"I would say that was so," Quimby said.
"Thank you for your assistance in this," Barnett said. "Is there anything else that has come to your attention during these past weeks that I have neglected to ask about that you think might have any bearing, however slight, on the question of the murders of your employers?"
"Well, sir," Quimby said, "as I declared before, the field of criminal investigation is out of my provenance; I really can't say what would be of interest to the trained investigator." He paused. "There is one thing, however, which I find interesting."
"And that is?"
"Well, sir, it's possibly only indirectly related to the murders themselves, but it is curious just the same. There has been another gentleman here asking questions. And despite the lack of publicity given to the subject, he seemed to know the details of the killing of my master, Lord John Darby."
"That is curious," Barnett agreed.
"Not only that, sir, but there's something even more curious about it."
"Yes?" Barnett urged.
"Well, sir, he called himself Mr. Plantagenet, but he was the spitting image of Lord John. Could have been his brother."
TWELVE — INTERLUDE: NOT TO BE
The fever called "Living" Is conquered at last.
— Edgar Allan Poe
The night had been long and physically exhausting; but his sport was the game of life, the game of truth, the devil's game, the only game worth the playing. And this night the game had been piquant and especially fine. Desmond Chauvelin had been loath to leave the squalid building wherein lay concealed his very private club.
Two girls this time, the older a hardened street-wise moll, course and foul-mouthed. But the younger—no more than sixteen, slender, with pale, unblemished skin and a fair, frightened face. A delicate flower to find among the street weeds with whom they usually practiced their arts. Where did the Master Incarnate find such a girl? Better, he realized, not to wonder. And, in truth, Chauvelin was really not interested in the girl's antecedents. It was her slender, unmarked body, her youth, her innocence, and her capacity for terror that he found so supernaturally exciting. There is a special quality in tortured innocence—a pain-heightened wide-eyed terror: fear mingled with disbelief, and the constant hope of surcease—that is highly valued by the connoisseur.
The rose-trimmed ebony brougham coursed through the deserted streets of the West End of London, its steel-shod wheels pounding an allegro along the pavement. Chauvelin stretched his plump body across the wide cushioned seat and idly watched the gaslights pass in orderly procession outside the coach window, which was rolled up against the predawn chill. For all that life was tedious and dull, he mused, there were brief moments that blazed out with a hellish fire.
He sometimes thought that at a certain point in the intricate, prolonged ceremonies of this game of games, the slaves became truly aware. He could see it in their eyes: he could watch the comprehension grow with the careful repetition of pain, the measured torment, until it surpassed the fear, and transcended the weak flesh. So it had been with this girl; knowledge had grown under the screams. The knowledge that was greater than wisdom: that all was hopeless and that there was no escape; that life had no more meaning than death, and that pain—physical pain—endless pain—sensual overwhelming pain—was the closest one could come to reality. They all said they were grateful, of course; he made them say it. It was one of the rules. Humble appreciation for the pain that gave them meaning and assured them that they were still alive.
The brougham turned off Old London Road onto Bentham Way, and the coachman slowed up as they approached the gate to Infant Court, the small, private circle on which fronted three residences: that of a duke, another of an exiled queen, and his own.
Chauvelin was roused sufficiently from his reverie by the brougham's slowing and stopping before the gate to watch as two guards—in the comic-opera uniforms of the deposed queen's household troops—opened the gate and waved the coach through. He chuckled as they closed the gate behind him. Guarded like royalty, he was. Buttoning his waistcoat and the top button of his jacket, he allowed the coachman to swing down and open the brougham's door for him and then stepped gingerly out and waddled across to his own front door. The coachman, wise in the ways of his master, clambered back up to the driver's seat and swung the brougham away without pausing for further instructions. Chauvelin expected his servants to behave like automata, without prompting, without recognition, without gratitude. When he stretched his hand out for his evening snifter of brandy, it had best be there. How it arrived ther
e was not his concern.
The butler was neither required nor expected to man the front door after midnight; Chauvelin trusted no man's discretion save his own. He let himself in with his own two keys, lit a taper with a wooden safety match, and thumped his way up the broad staircase to his bedroom.
His bedroom was a rectangular room, much longer than it was wide. The ancestral four-post canopied bed crouched at the far end, away from the windows. Across from the door were three matched chiffoniers and a specially built triple-size wardrobe closet. Desmond Chauvelin did not believe in being far from his extensive collection of costumes and accouterments. Whatever one does, one must be correctly garbed for the occasion; and one might be called upon to do the strangest things on the shortest notice.
The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus Page 41