“We don’t know about motives yet,” Flynt repeated. “Perhaps there aren’t any, but for the moment, he’s our only suspect.”
“Ah, now, that’s not quite true, is it?” Thwaite was still looking at Billings. “Detective Sergeant Billings is a suspect too.”
“You don’t seriously think I could have killed her?”
“No, we don’t, Billings,” Flynt reassured him. “But until the killer is found, you remain suspended. That means you can’t help us with the investigation. At least not in an official capacity.”
“It also means that you will have to remain in Edinburgh,” Thwaite added. “Preferably in this hotel. However, there is something that you can do while you are here.” The inspector reached for his briefcase and took out a photograph, which he laid on the coffee table. “This is the picture of the crime scene you asked for.”
“What is that?” Flynt asked, looking with curiosity at the photograph.
“Detective Sergeant Billings asked us to photograph the crime scene.”
“Why?”
“A book you were reading, wasn’t it? About some Frenchman.”
“Alphonse Bertillon,” Billings explained. “It’s about the importance of documenting the crime scene and about a new technique that is currently being used by the French police.”
“Good lord!” Flynt exclaimed with a look of disgust on his face.
“Well, he asked for the picture to be taken,” Thwaite continued. “We did so. Here it is. Let him do with it what he will. Who knows, perhaps it may be useful.”
“I doubt it.”
“On another topic,” Thwaite was keen to move the conversation on, “how is Miss LeFevre?”
“Not well,” Billings answered. “She’s still convinced she saw her daughter’s ghost.”
“Her daughter’s ghost?” Flynt suddenly sat up on the sofa and pricked up his ears.
“It was probably a hallucination brought on by stress,” Billings said.
“How do you know?”
“It seems the most logical explanation.”
“But what if it really was a ghost?”
“Well…”
Billings, Thwaite and Clarkson all looked at each other, wondering whether they should take Flynt’s last remark seriously.
“We should get that clairvoyant to come up,” Flynt suggested. “The one who helped us in the Dunne-Smythe case. What was her name again?”
“Madame Bovlatska,” Clarkson said.
“Yes! She was very good. Helped us enormously. We should summon her from London. Get her to contact the girl’s spirit and ask her who killed her.”
Again, the three gentlemen looked at each other.
“Are you serious?” Thwaite asked him.
“I am absolutely serious.”
“You don’t really believe all this table-rattling nonsense, do you?”
“Not normally, no. But Madame Bovlatska is something else. I tell you, she can perform miracles. I’ll go to the post office straight away.” Flynt got up from his seat and headed for the hat stand. “I’ll send a telegram to Scotland Yard and get a constable to send her over.” He put on his hat and coat and rushed out of the building, leaving the other three gentlemen looking at each other in bemusement.
As Billings returned to his room, he found Westbrook standing by his door. His first instinct was to do an about turn and head back down to the lobby, but it was too late. Westbrook had already spotted him.
“You’re avoiding me, aren’t you?” he said.
Billings didn’t respond and tried to brush past him into his room, but Westbrook grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“You blame me, don’t you? For Kitty’s death.”
“You shouldn’t have left her on her own,” Billings responded.
“You left her on her own too, didn’t you? When we were outside kissing.”
Billings frowned upon hearing this.
“I suppose you blame me for that too? I suppose you think I seduced you.”
“Keep your voice down!” Billings looked up and down the corridor to make sure nobody heard.
“Well, I didn’t seduce you!” Westbrook continued in the same tone. “You wanted it as much as I did!”
Billings quickly opened the door and rushed inside, dragging Westbrook with him. “What do you want?” he asked, shutting and locking the door behind him.
“I have something to confess to you. It’s been weighing on my mind these last few days and I need to tell someone.”
“What is it?”
“Can we sit down first?” Westbrook sat down on the bed and patted the mattress beside him.
Billings hesitated. He walked towards the desk and pulled out a chair instead. “What is it you want to confess?” he asked.
“I sent Kitty away.”
“What do you mean?”
“That night, in the dressing room. When you were doing your rounds. She woke up confused and started to cry. She didn’t know where she was. I tried to explain to her that she was in the dressing room, but of course she hadn’t seen that dressing room before. It wasn’t anything like the dressing room she was used to in London. She wanted to go back to her hotel room. Well, I didn’t know what else to do. She was crying loudly and… well, I was getting irritated. This wasn’t the way I had planned to spend the night. I had other plans.”
“What other plans?”
“I wanted to spend the night with you.”
“With me?”
“We don’t often get to be alone together, and I had a feeling that that night would be the night when you and I…”
Billings had no desire to hear Westbrook put into words the shameful thing that happened between them and interrupted him. “So what did you do?”
“I sent her back to the hotel.”
“You sent her back?”
“I gave her my coat – she was wearing her nightgown, you know, and it was moist outside, so I sacrificed my coat for her. And then I accompanied her to the stage door and told her to turn right and walk straight down the road to the hotel. I’ve no idea how she ended up in that close.”
“You sent a frightened nine-year-old girl out into the dark? In a strange city where she doesn’t know the way?”
“Well, I’m not very good with children. Ask Carola, she’ll tell you. I’m really quite hopeless and irresponsible. But the hotel isn’t hard to find. Just walk down the road and it’s right there in front of you.”
“She wasn’t wearing a coat when they found her.”
“Well, perhaps it was stolen. It was a nice coat. Burgundy coloured. Double breasted. There was even some money in the pockets. Perhaps that’s why she was killed. For the coat.”
“How much money was there in the pockets?”
“Not much. Just some pennies, in case she needed it.”
“How many pennies?”
“I don’t know. What does it matter?”
“Everything matters!”
“Ten or so. Enough to buy me a pint of beer. Carola gave them to me. So I could go out for a drink during the show.” He hung his head, embarrassed. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”
Billings agreed with him but didn’t say anything.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Westbrook raised his head and looked Billings in the eye.
“Of course I’m going to tell. What are you thinking?”
Westbrook hung his head again. “Of course. I almost forgot. You’re a policeman.”
“You had better go back to your room now,” Billings suggested.
Westbrook didn’t respond. He remained sitting on the bed, looking down at the ground. “I did it for you, you know.”
“Did what?”
“I wanted to be with you. Because you liked me. Nobody ever likes me. It’s Carola they all want. But you liked me. I could see it in your eyes that day when we were introduced to you in London. You liked me. And I wanted to be with you. That’s why I sent her away. I did it for you.”
<
br /> Billings got up from his chair and walked towards the window, turning his back to Westbrook. “You had better go now,” he said.
He had to make it clear to Westbrook that whatever he might have felt for him before, he felt it no longer, and this rude and dismissive posture felt like the best way of doing so.
Westbrook got the message and, still looking down at the ground, got off the bed and shuffled out of the room.
Billings, Flynt, Clarkson and Thwaite were standing in the lobby when Madame Bovlatska walked into the hotel. For such a short woman, she made quite an impression. Her face was encrusted with makeup, which was meant to give her the appearance of having a dark complexion. She wore an ill-fitting jet-black wig under a moth-eaten black bonnet (from which blonde and grey hairs clearly stuck out) and a faded black dress patched up with boot polish. But the thing that most impressed the people who saw her for the first time was her enormous crinoline – something that had long gone out of fashion and was rarely seen anymore.
Thwaite, who was the only one of the four gentlemen never to have met Madame Bovlatska before, watched open-mouthed as the woman approached him. Her crinoline kept getting in the way. It nearly got stuck in the doorway, and while she walked towards the detectives, the hoops of her crinoline kept brushing against other people’s legs, making them turn and look at her with a mixture of offense and bemusement.
“Good evening, Inspector Flynt,” she said with what sounded like a Central European accent. She was smiling from ear to ear. “So glad to see you again.” She held her hand out to Flynt.
Thwaite watched with amazement as Flynt took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, as if she were an empress and he a lowly sycophant.
“Good evening, Madame Bovlatska,” Flynt said. “You remember Detective Sergeant Billings and Detective Constable Clarkson, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” She held her hand out to the other two gentlemen, who likewise raised it to their lips and kissed her knuckles.
“And this is Inspector Thwaite,” Flynt now pointed at the Scotsman. “He’s from the Edinburgh Police and he is leading the investigation.”
“How very nice to meet you,” the lady said and held her hand out to him.
“Likewise,” Thwaite replied, but he did not kiss her knuckles, choosing to shake her hand instead, albeit rather awkwardly.
“I hope you had a pleasant journey,” Flynt said.
“I did, Inspector Flynt. Thank you.”
“And you will be going back to London tomorrow, will you not?”
“I am indeed.”
“A flying visit to Edinburgh, then?”
“But I hope I will be able to do some good.”
“I’m sure you will. I have arranged with the hotel to give us a private lounge for the seance. It is quiet and dark. And there is a special little something waiting for you there. Follow me.”
Flynt put his arm around that of the medium and led her to the private lounge. The other three men followed them, looking at each other amusedly at Flynt’s overly affectionate interaction with their visitor.
The private lounge was dark. The hotel staff had closed all the blinds, as instructed by Flynt, and dimmed the lighting by placing coloured glass on the gas lamps. In the centre of the room there was a round table with four chairs around it, and in the centre of the table were placed a small green bottle of absinthe, a glass, a bowl of sugar cubes, an absinthe spoon and a carafe of ice water.
Madame Bovlatska shrieked upon seeing this. “Oh, you remembered!”
“Of course I remembered,” Flynt said proudly.
Thwaite looked confused. “Just the one glass?” he whispered into Billings’ ear. “What about the rest of us?”
Billings smiled.
“Let us all sit down,” Flynt said, and the four of them took their seats around the table. “How do we begin?”
“We begin with this.” Bovlatska grabbed the bottle of absinthe and poured some into her glass. She then picked up the spoon and balanced it on the rim of the glass. On the spoon, which was slotted, she placed a sugar cube. Then she grabbed the carafe of water and started dripping water onto the sugar cube, so that it slowly dissolved and seeped through the slots into the green drink.
Thwaite looked on enviously. “Shall I get the waiter to bring us three more glasses?”
This was met by an angry and disapproving look from Flynt. “Madame Bovlatska needs this to clear her mind,” he said. “It is not a refreshment!”
“I see.” Thwaite watched how Bovlatska took the spoon off the glass, tipped the glass to her mouth, then sighed with pleasure after swallowing her sip.
“I think I am ready to begin now,” Bovlatska said, then closed her eyes and began to hum.
Thwaite looked on, confused. “Does she know who we are looking for?”
“Shh!” Flynt scowled at him and put his finger to his lips. “She has been fully briefed in London. Now, be quiet. Madame must have complete silence.”
“Give me your hands,” Bovlatska said, with her eyes still closed, and grabbed the hands of the two men sitting beside her. “Our life force will rush through our bodies and form a circle of energy.” She was speaking with a deep, booming voice. “This will be the beacon with which we can summon the spirits.”
They waited in silence. Bovlatska kept her eyes closed and furrowed her brow. Flynt and Clarkson also had their eyes closed. Only Billings and Thwaite had their eyes open and looked at each other, sceptical about the charade that was unfolding.
Suddenly, Bovlatska jolted in her chair. “Who’s there?” she said, still with her eyes closed.
Flynt jumped and squeezed Thwaite’s hand tightly.
“Who are you? What is your name?” Bovlatska moved her head from side to side as she spoke. “I have a girl here who says her name is Kitty.”
Flynt gasped. “That’s the one! That’s the one we want to talk to!”
“Kitty, tell us what happened.” Bovlatska went silent. By the squinting of her eyes and the movement of her eyebrows, the others could tell that she was listening intently to someone speaking in her head (or at least pretending to). “She says there was a man. A man walking behind her as she hurried towards the hotel.”
“What did the man look like?” Flynt asked.
“She doesn’t know. She didn’t look back, because she was scared. She started to run. But the man ran after her. Calling her. ‘Moira!’ he said. ’Moira, wait!’”
“Moira?” Flynt said. “Who the devil is Moira?”
“She says that the man caught up with her and grabbed her arm. ’Moira, stop!’ the man said. ’Why are you running away from me?’ Kitty says she tried to pull her arm away. ’Leave me alone,’ she said to him. ’My name is not Moira.’ But the man got angry and dragged her into the close. ’You’re a spoiled little wench, Moira,’ the man said and pushed her against the wall. ’You’re going to stop ruining my life!’ She says that the man then grabbed her throat and started squeezing it tight.”
“Ask her what she can see,” Flynt said. “Can she see the man’s face? His clothes? His shoes? Anything.”
“Tell us what you see, Kitty.” The medium waited. “Kitty? Are you there? Kitty?” Suddenly Bovlatska opened her eyes. “She’s gone,” she said. “Kitty’s gone.”
8. Bunny McVey
As Billings came downstairs for supper, he saw Flynt pacing restlessly in the lobby. He was wearing his hat and cape, ready to go out. Suddenly, Clarkson came running up the stairs, also wearing his coat and hat. He bumped into Billings as he ascended.
“Sorry, mate,” he said. “Left me notepad in the room.”
He was about to continue his dash up the stairs when Billings grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Where are you going?”
“Police station. There’s been a development. It seems they’ve made an arrest.”
“What?”
“Another man was caught trying to attack a little girl. He was stopped by some passers
-by, who alerted the police. We may have found the killer, Billings! But I can’t talk. Flynt is waiting for me.” He continued running up the stairs to his room.
Billings walked down to the lobby and approached Flynt.
“Clarkson told me they’ve made an arrest.”
Flynt looked at him and frowned. “Clarkson needs to keep his mouth shut!”
“Are you going to interview him?”
“Inspector Thwaite is going to do the interview. Clarkson and I will be observing.”
“Can I come?”
“Of course you can’t, Billings. You’ve been suspended.”
“But I have some information.”
“What kind of information?”
“Kitty was wearing a coat when she left the theatre. An expensive double-breasted burgundy-coloured frock coat. Mr Westbrook gave it to her when he sent her back to the hotel. She wasn’t wearing a coat when they found her. She may have been killed for it.”
“Who’d kill a little girl for a coat!”
Billings shrugged. “It’s the times we live in. Please let me come. I won’t say anything. You did say I was allowed to help behind the scenes. It would be useful to listen to the interrogation first hand.”
Flynt hesitated. Before he could answer, Clarkson came running down the stairs, waving a notepad in the air. “Got it!” he called.
“Let’s go,” Flynt said and headed for the doorway. Clarkson ran behind him.
“Wait!” Billings called, turning towards the staircase. “I need to get my hat and coat.”
“No time for that,” Flynt said. “We’re running late already.” He and Clarkson rushed out the door. Billings tagged along behind them.
Thwaite and the suspect were sitting across from each other at the interview table. Flynt, Clarkson and Billings were standing behind the inspector, observing the interrogation.
“What is your name?” Thwaite asked.
“Bunny.”
“No, not your nickname. Your real name. What where you baptised as?”
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