The Body Snatchers Affair

by Marcia Muller

  “Apparently he made no secret of the fact. She was hurt, of course, but she cared enough for him, or the income from his Hip Sing activities, to put up with it.”

  “This Dongmei. A prostitute, one of the flower willows?”

  “Possibly a courtesan. Mrs. Scarlett knows little about her, other than the woman was the one who introduced her husband to opium.”

  “Ah. Before or after he became involved with the Hip Sing?”

  “Shortly before, she believes.”

  “Does she know where Dongmei resides?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll find out.” John had been scribbling notes to himself. He finished with a flourish, folded the paper, and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Now then—tell me about the rest of your day. You saw the widow Blanchford as scheduled, I trust? And we’re now in her employ?”

  “Yes to both questions.”

  “Who was it who was kidnapped?”

  “I heard her incorrectly on the telephone,” Sabina said. “It was her late husband’s body that was abducted. From the family crypt.”

  “What’s that? Another body snatching?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what purpose, in this case?”

  “Ransom. Seventy-five thousand dollars for the body’s safe return.”

  She went on to explain about the demand note, the gold ring, and the triangular piece of satin cut from the lining of Ruben Blanchford’s coffin. What she didn’t confide to him was the seemingly impossible element to the crime. He fancied himself an expert on that sort of mystery, with some past justification, and if he knew about the locked-crypt business he would be sure to insinuate himself into the investigation. This was her case, as the Scarlett homicide was his, and she intended to be the one who solved it.

  “Nasty business,” he said.

  “Nasty and cruel.”

  His pipe had gone out; he paused to relight it with one of the large sulphur matches he preferred. “First Bing Ah Kee, now Ruben Blanchford. An odd sort of coincidence.”

  “If it is a coincidence.”

  “You don’t suppose there is any connection? A Chinese tong leader and a wealthy white philanthropist?”

  “Not directly, no,” Sabina said. “Most likely it was the newspaper reports of the Bing Ah Kee snatch and Ruben Blanchford’s death and burial arrangements, both on the same day, that generated the idea.”

  “Ah. A copycat crime.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Have you any leads to the identity of these modern-day William boys?”

  “William boys?”

  “William Burke and William Hare. Irish immigrant murderers hanged in Scotland some seventy years ago. Graverobbers to begin with, supplying doctors at Edinburgh Medical School with dissection cadavers for anatomy lectures. When the supply of newly buried corpses grew short, Burke and Hare turned to murder. Killed sixteen people and sold their remains to a doctor by the name of Knox.”

  Sabina felt a slight frisson. Mass murder was the most heinous of all crimes, and the impetus for the slaughter John had described struck her as a particularly grisly one.

  “Famous case in its day,” he went on, “one known to most Scots worldwide. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a story about the Burkers, as they were called. And children made up a grisly skipping rhyme.” Which he proceeded to quote:

  Up the close and down the stair,

  In the house with Burke and Hare.

  Burke’s the butcher, Hare’s the thief,

  Knox, the boy who buys the beef.

  “Delightful,” Sabina said sardonically. “But to answer your question, no, no direct leads as yet. An idea, however, of where the truth lies and how to go about finding it.”

  He grinned. “Woman’s intuition?”

  “Hunch,” she said.

  Her gaze dared him to argue the semantic distinction. To his credit, he didn’t.

  “Do you want to discuss it?” he asked.

  “No more than you’re willing to discuss yours.”

  11

  SABINA

  She was even happier than usual to return to her suite of rooms on Russian Hill. It had been a long, tiring day, and she looked forward to settling in for a quiet, contemplative evening and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow promised to be another busy day.

  Adam, as always, rushed to meet her. The sharp-eared, long-tailed Abyssinian and Siamese mixture leaped into her arms and briefly cuddled before jumping down and running to his food bowl. Sabina spooned into it some of his favorite fodder, a glutinous, evil-smelling blend her butcher made up for her from God knew what scraps. Satisfied rumbles came from him and his golden fur rippled with pleasure as he tucked into his feast.

  She really did need to find him a companion, she thought. He was alone too much. One of the “black, wiggly, and charming” kittens Carson had told her about, perhaps. In the press of business matters, she’d forgotten about interviewing his relative’s litter. She would have to remind him when she saw him again on Saturday night for their Baldwin Theatre date.

  Watching Adam appease his hunger increased her own. The icebox yielded cheese, fruit, and milk; a tin of sardines completed her meal. Sated, she went into her sitting room. Cold air trickled in around the window frame, and she made a mental note to ask the building’s owner to have it recaulked. No, better make it a written note: There were too many other things on her mind to trust memory alone. She used a tablet and pencil on the side table, then turned up the gas fire and sat in her favorite Morris chair, curling up under an afghan that had been crocheted by one of Stephen’s three aunts in Missouri whose names she could never keep straight.

  Her thoughts shuttled back and forth between the Blanchford case and the perplexing business with Carson and the crackbrain Sherlock. But there was nothing definite to be concluded about either matter until she had gathered more information. Now that Andrea Scarlett was in safe hands, she could devote all of tomorrow to that goal.

  After a while the combination of full stomach and warm fire made her drowsy. She was on the edge of falling asleep when her front door buzzer sounded. The sudden ratchety noise jerked her upright in the chair. Blinking, she peered at the Ansonia clock on the mantelpiece. It read 8:20. Who would be calling at this hour?

  It turned out to be a uniformed young man from one of the messenger services. She felt a nasty sense of foreboding as she accepted the sealed message, but when she opened the envelope what she found was merely perplexing and not a little irritating.

  My dear Mrs. Carpenter:

  We must speak in person tonight on a most ticklish matter. I am sure you are aware of the Crocker Spite Fence in Huntington Park, Nob Hill. I will await your arrival no later than 10 P.M. You will, I believe, find our colloquy most interesting.

  Your obedient servant,

  SH, Esq.

  The aggravating Mr. Holmes. But if he wanted to speak to her, why hadn’t he simply called on her here? Why send a cryptic message? And what did “ticklish matter” mean? It smacked of one of his typically annoying melodramatic gambits, like the assuming of outlandish disguises for no sensible purpose. He never did anything in a normal, straightforward fashion—one of the reasons John considered him a lunatic best confined to an institution.

  The Crocker Spite Fence in Huntington Park. That was at the very top of Nob Hill, not far from the mansion built by Carson’s father, Evander Montgomery, a prominent stockbroker, where Carson resided. Was that why Holmes had stationed himself in such a curious place after dark, to continue his shadowy watch on Carson? And was that why he wanted to see her, to impart information about his motives?

  She would have to meet him, of course, even though it meant a pair of somewhat lengthy cab rides and a late hour before she finally went to bed. Whatever was on his skewed mind, she had nothing to fear from him; he may have been an addlepate, but judging by past experiences he was a benign one. Besides, Nob Hill was among the city’s safest neighborhoods at any hour of the night. And Hunting
ton Park, with its fountain and many trees, paths, and benches, was located more or less in the shadow of Grace Cathedral. If the good Lord couldn’t protect her there, where could He?

  Nevertheless, she made sure the pearl-handled Remington derringer she kept in her bag was fully loaded before she left her rooms.

  * * *

  The chilly hansom ride to Nob Hill increased her agitation toward the crafty Mr. Holmes. She was in no mood for any more of his silly games when the cab arrived at their destination. She asked the driver to wait for her, and when he asked for payment in advance before agreeing, her irritation rose another notch. Did she look dowdy enough not to belong in the rarefied atmosphere of Nob Hill?

  Now where did that thought come from? I’m not dowdy! I dress well, even if Callie says my wardrobe could do with a little pick-me-up.…

  Sabina ventured along the graveled walk into Huntington Park, her high-button shoes whispering through a carpet of fallen autumn leaves. The charming little park, with its newly installed electroliers, appeared deserted at this hour. There was no sign of Holmes as she walked uphill toward the spite fence.

  The unattractive fence, well-known among city residents, was a monument to greed and belligerence. After railroad magnate Charles Crocker had purchased the top of Nob Hill in the mid-eighteen-seventies, he discovered that he had neglected one small parcel—a patch of land belonging to prominent undertaker Nicholas Yung. When Yung refused to sell the parcel for what Crocker considered a fair price, the tycoon contrived to drive him out of his home by erecting a high wooden fence that blocked out most of the light and views. To Yung’s credit, he and his family continued thereafter to refuse all of Crocker’s subsequent offers of purchase. His wife, Rosina, had a considerable estate of her own, and had been quoted in one of the newspapers as stating that the Yungs “took great pleasure in keeping our lot from the grasping hands of that dreadful old greed merchant.”

  The night was quiet here, the only sounds those of distant carriage wheels rumbling on cobblestones and water splashing musically in the fountain. Except for the pale glow of the scattered electroliers, the trees and shrubbery were shrouded in shadow. Lights outlined the towers of Grace Cathedral at the far end, and windows in the elegant homes that surrounded the park. One of the nearby homes, she knew, was the Montgomery mansion where Carson resided.

  She reached the fence, still without seeing any sign of her annoying summoner, and moved along its perimeter. One of the little benches was set under a tree near where another path diverged from the one she was on. As she passed it, a dark shape suddenly materialized from behind the tree, stepping out in front of her. Startled, her hand darted inside her bag to touch the derringer’s handle.

  But of course it was only the would-be Sherlock Holmes. He swept off a top hat, bowed, and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Carpenter,” in his familiar, British-accented voice. “How lovely to share your company again, even under difficult circumstances.”

  “Bah,” Sabina said angrily, using one of John’s favorite expressions to tell Holmes how unlovely it was to share his company again. Not that it fazed him in the slightest. “Did you have to jump out of the shadows like a footpad?”

  “My apologies, dear lady. A small lapse in judgment. Apologies as well for requesting a meeting at such an unconventional place and time.”

  “Then why did you? Why didn’t you simply call at my rooms like any normal person?”

  “I am not a normal person,” he said, a statement with which Sabina agreed wholeheartedly. “I am Sherlock Holmes, as you well know, the world’s greatest detective. No offense to you and your estimable partner, merely a simple declaration of fact.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Shall we sit down on yon bench to continue our discussion?”

  He attempted to take her elbow, but she shrugged off his hand and went to seat herself without aid. He plopped down beside her at a respectful distance, holding his hat on one knee and his blackthorn walking stick upright alongside. The nearest electrolier was some distance away, so she couldn’t see his face clearly. But she could make out that in addition to the top hat, he wore an unbuttoned greatcoat that revealed striped trousers and a cutaway coat with a large white boutonniere. Not his usual attire, but also not one of his weird outfits, thank heaven; more or less appropriate attire for this exclusive neighborhood.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” she said. “Why didn’t you call at my rooms instead of opting for melodrama?”

  “Melodrama? Mais non! Decorum and necessity dictated our meeting here.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Decorum because I deem it unseemly for a gentleman to visit a lady in her home after dark. Necessity because I am engaged in an investigation which requires my presence here until midnight at the very earliest.”

  “What sort of investigation?”

  “I believe you have already deduced that it involves your swain, Carson Montgomery.”

  “Carson Montgomery is not my swain, merely a casual acquaintance.” Sabina said this sharply and without hesitation. It was true, of course, but why had she been so abrupt in denying it?

  She thought she saw the Englishman smile, though she couldn’t be sure in the darkness. “As you wish,” he said. “A matter of semantics, eh?”

  “What is this ‘investigation’ of yours all about? Why did you summon me here?”

  Instead of responding, Holmes in his unpredictable fashion commenced to sniff the air like an animal keening scent. “You have excellent taste in perfume,” he said after a few seconds. “I detect attar of roses, orange blossoms, and gardenias. An interesting and unusual blend of fragrances. Distinctly Parisian. Marquis St. Germain number three, is it not?”

  Sabina had long ago ceased to be surprised by one of Holmes’s irrelevant observations; they were invariably and uncannily correct, which made them even more exasperating. The expensive French perfume, only a tiny dab of which she wore, had been a gift from Callie last Christmas.

  Before she could speak, the Englishman sniffed again and then declared, “Ah, green apple, pilchards of the herring family Clupeidae, and the American version of bleu de Gex, an adequate fromage though of course vastly inferior to our English Stilton. I trust you enjoyed your simple evening meal, dear lady.”

  “Such delicate nostrils you have,” Sabina said acidly.

  “Indeed. My olfactory sense is almost as well developed as my powers of observation and ratiocination—”

  “Why are you investigating Carson Montgomery?”

  “At this point in time I am not at liberty to reveal the exact nature of my inquiries. Suffice it to say that the matter is well in hand and Mr. Montgomery appears to be in no imminent danger.”

  Sabina seldom lost her temper. When she did, it was exactly opposite of the way in which John lost his; instead of explosively fulminating, she became as cold and hard as a block of ice. “Mr. Holmes,” she said in frigid tones, “have you ever been shot?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Shot. Had a portion of your anatomy perforated with a bullet.”

  “No, although I once suffered a painful knife wound during the course of one of my adventures. And I have on occasion been forced to use my Webley Bulldog pistol in self-defense. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re about to be if you don’t stop dithering and answer my questions.”

  “Dear me. Would you really shoot me with the Remington double-barrel derringer you carry in your handbag?”

  “I might very well—” Sabina broke off abruptly. “How do you know the type of weapon I carry? Or that I carry one at all? I’ve never drawn it in your presence.”

  “I know many things, as you are quite well aware. Yes, indeed. Many, many things.”

  “Are you going to explain yourself? I warn you, you’ve sorely tried my patience and I am not a woman to be trifled with.”

  “I never for a moment believed you were. I certainly
have no intention of trifling with you, or incurring your wrath to the point of violence.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I requested this meeting because of your association with Carson Montgomery. I was not aware of your unfortunate liaison with him until I saw you dining together at the Palace of Art restaurant.”

  “Unfortunate? Why did you use that word?”

  “I consider you a friend as well as a colleague,” the Englishman said. “It would distress me if you were to be placed in difficult circumstances.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Should you become more deeply involved with Mr. Montgomery.”

  “That’s an evasive answer. Are you trying to tell me he’s in some kind of trouble?”

  “Such a conclusion may be drawn, yes.”

  “And that he’s a criminal?”

  “I made no such allegation.”

  “You implied it,” Sabina said. “It’s a preposterous notion. Carson Montgomery is a paragon of respectability.”

  “None of us is a true paragon, Mrs. Carpenter. We all have secrets, shameful fragments of our past that make us susceptible.”

  “Susceptible to what?”

  “The acts of other, unscrupulous individuals. Extortion and blackmail, for instance.”

  “Now what are you saying? That Carson is being blackmailed over something in his past?”

  “Do you find that beyond the realm of possibility?”

  “For heaven’s sake, stop being so mysterious! If he is the victim of blackmail, why and by whom?”

  “As I told you, I am not at liberty to divulge the details of my inquiries. However…” Holmes paused. “Are you familiar with the Gold King scandal of several years ago?”

  “No. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Then the name Artemas Sneed is likewise unfamiliar.”

  “Completely. Who is he? What is the Gold King scandal?”

  “A competent detective such as yourself will surely be able to find out and proceed accordingly.”

  “Why can’t you simply tell me yourself?”

  Just then the cathedral bells tolled the hour. Holmes stirred on the bench, clamped the top hat firmly on his narrow skull, and rose to his feet so quickly it was almost a jump. “Ten o’clock,” he said. “I must be off.”