by T E Kinsey
‘So, do we suppose it’s a Guy Fawkes dummy covered with a black cloth? That’s a little theatrical for a village Bonfire Night display, don’t you think?’
‘Theatrical is probably exactly the right word,’ I said. ‘Do you not think we ought to do something about it?’
‘Not quite yet,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what transpires, shall we? I wonder where Simeon has got to.’
‘Did someone mention my name?’
We turned to see Dr Simeon Gosling striding towards us. He was barely recognizable with his muffler up to his nose and a heavy cap pulled down almost to his ears, but there was no mistaking his voice or his manner.
‘Simeon, darling, how lovely to see you,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait to see what you yokels get up to on Bonfire Night.’
‘I think you’ll be surprised tonight,’ she said. ‘Did you see Sergeant Dobson on your way in?’
‘I did. He asked me to tell you that “Me and Hancock will be ready and waitin’.” Doughty chap, that sergeant. Ex-military?’
‘I’ve always assumed so,’ she said. ‘One doesn’t like to pry.’
‘You rotten fibber,’ I said. ‘You like nothing better than prying.’
‘Armstrong’s not wrong, old girl,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been partial to poking your nose in.’
‘You’re both right, of course. Unpardonably rude, the pair of you, but unquestionably right. I shall endeavour to uncover the story of Sergeant Walter Dobson’s life in due course. But for now we should keep our eyes open for something out of the ordinary. My money’s on that black shape on top of the bonfire.’
I caught sight of some movement to our right. I nudged Lady Hardcastle and pointed out what I’d seen. ‘Cheetham’s here,’ I said.
‘So he is.’ She gave him a wave but wasn’t to be distracted. ‘Eyes on the bonfire,’ she said. ‘I think we’re under starter’s orders.’
As we turned again towards the bonfire, we saw Lady Farley-Stroud, flanked by two burly men from the rugby club, each holding a flaming torch.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of Littleton Cotterell,’ boomed Lady Farley-Stroud in her best parade-ground voice. ‘Thank you for coming to our little celebration. The fireworks will begin in just a few moments, but first we must light the bonfire. Gentlemen? If you please . . .’
The two torch bearers turned and marched towards the base of the bonfire. In perfect unison, they bent forwards and applied their torches to bundles of straw piled on either side of the huge stack of wood. The straw caught at once and the flames spread quickly. To judge from the smell that wafted back to us on the warm breeze, it had been soaked in paraffin oil to avoid the embarrassing spectacle of a Bonfire Night bonfire that wouldn’t light.
There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd as the field filled with light and warmth.
The flames climbed higher until they caught the edge of the black cloth covering the object at the top. It disappeared with a flash of light and another gust of heat.
The sudden intake of breath as every villager gasped in shock seemed to pull even more heat towards us. Standing atop the burning pyre, bound to a sturdy stake, was Zelda Drayton.
The crowd was momentarily stunned into silence and inaction, but one voice rang out.
‘Zelda!’
Nolan Cheetham started to run towards the fire.
As he took his first step, Zelda also moved. Her right arm raised and she pointed directly at him. He took two more steps before clutching his throat and pitching forwards. He lay flat on his face, completely still. There was another flash from the top of the fire and Zelda was entirely engulfed in flame.
Chapter Sixteen
There were screams and shouts. The crowd began to surge forwards. Lady Farley-Stroud was still standing between us and the fire. She had turned to face us when Zelda pointed, and now raised her hands commandingly.
‘Stay back!’ she bellowed.
We were jostled a little, but such was the force of Lady Farley-Stroud’s will that most obeyed. Lady Hardcastle caught Lady Farley-Stroud’s attention and we were beckoned forwards.
Dr Gosling examined the prostrate form of Nolan Cheetham.
‘He’s dead,’ he said after a moment. ‘I can feel no pulse, see no breathing. The body is unusually rigid, as if all the muscles had spasmed at once. If I hadn’t just seen him fall, I might have assumed that rigor mortis had set in.’
‘Like Euphemia Selwood’s body,’ I said. ‘She was stiff as a board when we found her. Lady Hardcastle had to lever the apple from her hand with a spoon.’
‘I wish I’d had a chance to examine her body,’ he said.
Volunteers from the Guy Fawkes Night Committee had already started to try to extinguish the bonfire, but it was too well established by now. They managed to throw half a dozen buckets of water on it, but the only result was steam and a scattering of ash. After a brief confab with Lady Farley-Stroud, they turned their attention to controlling the crowd instead.
Lady Hardcastle, meanwhile, was no longer calm.
‘I never saw this coming,’ she said. ‘I thought I had it fathomed out when we found the dummy. I never expected her to kill Cheetham.’
‘Her who?’ said Dr Gosling.
‘Zelda Drayton.’
‘She’s behind all this? But she’s dead now – we just saw the poor woman go up in flames,’ he said.
‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘That was a dummy. We saw it this afternoon while we were snooping.’
‘A damned realistic one,’ he said.
‘It’s her job,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Making false things look real, I mean. She’s an actress, after all. We completely fell for her “terrified” act.’
‘But why?’ he said. ‘Why burn a dummy of herself?’
‘So that we’d all think she was dead. She could get away with murder if we all believed she had died in a fire.’
‘But we’d find the dummy in the ashes,’ he said, still very much unconvinced.
‘I believe she thought of that,’ I said. ‘You noticed how the dummy’s black cloth cover disappeared? I believe it was a variation of something that stage magicians use. Have you heard of flash paper?’
‘I don’t get to the music hall nearly as much as I’d like,’ he said.
‘It’s a flimsy material made from—’
‘Nitrocellulose,’ interrupted Lady Hardcastle. ‘The same stuff they make photographic film from, actually.’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said. ‘Nitrocellulose. It burns with a bright flash and leaves no ash. Magicians use it as a special effect in some of their tricks. I’d be willing to bet that she found a way to rig the dummy with something similar. The face was wax so that would melt. If the clothes and all the parts that made it look like a person went up in a flash, all that would be left would be some charred pieces of the wooden frame. And who’s going to think it unusual to find charred wood in the remnants of a village bonfire?’
‘You paint a convincing picture,’ he said, ‘though I confess to being at a loss to work out why she would kill all her friends.’
‘You’re not alone in that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I was planning to ask her when we caught up with her.’
‘And how did you plan to do that?’ he asked.
‘She has some accomplices. They brought the dummy here and I was going to follow them. I reasoned that they’d want to hang around to make sure that everything went according to plan and they’d head back to their lair once the show was over. They left themselves a bit of work to do back at their hideout – tidying and whatnot – so I intended to follow them and see where they led me.’
‘How will you know them?’ he asked.
‘I was hoping you would,’ she said. ‘They’re your mortuary men.’
Before he could say anything, two members of the crowd pressed their way past Lady Farley-Stroud’s volunteers and approached us.
&
nbsp; ‘I do beg your pardon,’ said the elderly gentleman, ‘but did I hear someone say that this poor fellow is Nolan Cheetham?’
Dr Gosling stood. ‘It is. And you are . . . ?’
‘My apologies, sir,’ said the man. His protruding front teeth made him whistle slightly on the ‘s’s. He produced a calling card from his coat pocket. ‘Dr Wilfred Peneger, at your service. This is my daughter, Ellen.’
‘How do you do? I’m Dr Gosling, the Bristol police surgeon. And, yes, Lady Hardcastle has identified this as the body of Nolan Cheetham.’
‘The body?’ said Dr Peneger. ‘He’s dead?’
The young woman gave a yelp of shock.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Dr Gosling.
‘The cause?’
‘To be determined. I shall have to conduct a post-mortem examination.’
‘Well, I fear there’s nothing I can do. I saw that he had collapsed and I came to offer my services. It seems I’m too late.’
‘Sadly, yes,’ said Dr Gosling. ‘But thank you for taking the trouble.’
‘It was no trouble, sir, I can assure you. One does what one can. Come along, Ellen. We should leave this to the police.’
And with that, they left.
‘Someone you know?’ asked Dr Gosling once they were out of earshot.
‘Never laid eyes on him until just now,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘I thought you country types knew everyone in your little villages,’ he said.
‘We do, dear, but they’re not from the village. They could be visitors from Chipping, or perhaps even further afield.’
‘Well, it was jolly good of him to come and offer to help.’
‘It was, dear,’ she said. ‘We’re like that in the countryside. Helpful.’
‘There’s nothing more we can learn from leaving the body in situ,’ said Dr Gosling. ‘Do you think you can you get some of your helpful countryside pals to move him to the police station for safekeeping while we wait for the mortuary van?’
‘I don’t think you’ll have long to wait,’ she said. ‘Look over yonder.’ She pointed towards two uniformed men who were walking towards us.
‘What the devil?’ said Dr Gosling.
‘Your mortuary men seem to be very efficient.’
‘My mortuary men?’ he said in some surprise. ‘Those aren’t my chaps. Never seen them before. And how on earth did they know to come here?’
‘We shall find out in due course, I expect,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Don’t challenge them. Just keep mum and let’s see how this unfolds.’
‘I’m not about to let two strangers carry off a body,’ he said.
‘Trust me, Simeon,’ she said. ‘Just trust me.’
He frowned his disapproval, but said nothing.
The two men finally reached us. One of them was carrying a stretcher.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
They took in the tableau. They’d seen Lady Hardcastle and me before, but from the panicked glances they shared, it seemed that they had no idea who Dr Gosling was.
‘Evenin’, m’lady,’ said the one I knew as the driver.
‘Dr Gosling has confirmed death.’
The driver looked relieved at having had the stranger identified to him.
‘Dr Gosling,’ he said affably. ‘Pleasure to meet you at last, sir. Lewis and Jenner, sir. We keep missing you back at the mortuary.’
‘What happened to the other two chaps?’ asked Dr Gosling. ‘And why on earth are you here of all places?’
‘Both off sick, sir. We was drafted in from Stroud to cover. And as for being here, we might be sort of skiving . . . as it were. We’ve been up here a few times this week and we saw the signs for the bonfire so we thought we’d come along, like.’
Dr Gosling’s look of disapproval was unchanged, but at least now it seemed to be directed at the two ‘mortuary men’.
‘Well, since you’re here you might as well make yourselves useful,’ he said. ‘You have your van?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Then get this chap back to the mortuary. I’ll . . . deal with him in the morning.’ He glanced towards Lady Hardcastle for confirmation. She gave him the tiniest of nods.
‘Right you are, sir,’ said the driver. ‘Come on, Jenner. If we hurry, we’ll have time for a pint in the Eglington.’
With unhurried efficiency, they put Mr Cheetham’s body on the stretcher and carried him off towards the gate.
‘What now, then?’ asked Dr Gosling. ‘I’ve just lost another body. This isn’t going to make an impressive entry in my record.’
‘Your motor car is nearby?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘A little way down the lane,’ he said. ‘But they’ll have a couple of minutes’ head start on us and we’ve no idea where they’re going. They’re certainly not taking him to the mortuary.’
‘We know exactly where they’re going,’ she said. ‘And if you let me drive, we can be there before them. I know a shortcut.’
Not only did Lady Hardcastle know a shortcut, but she was also prepared to drive it at considerable speed. Dr Gosling’s motor car was a good deal more powerful than our own, and she was making the most of its capabilities.
‘I say, old girl,’ said Dr Gosling. ‘Steady on.’
‘We need to get there before they do. It always helps to have the drop on the other chap in situations like this.’
He was clinging nervously to the dashboard and I thought a distraction might be in order.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ I said. ‘What exactly is a pufferfish?’
‘A fish from the tropics,’ said Lady Hardcastle. I had hoped Dr Gosling might answer, to be honest. ‘Ugly little fellow. Inflates himself with water when threatened. Do you remember we had some hétún in Shanghai that time?’
‘The poisonous one that had to be prepared by an expert in case we died?’
‘That’s the chap,’ she said. ‘Eat the wrong part and it’s all over but the shouting.’
‘So a jar labelled “Madame Thibodeaux’s Pufferfish Powder” isn’t likely to be a patent, nostrum, or specific for scrofula, ague, and pains of certain areas?’
‘Hardly,’ she said. ‘It’s more likely to be a poison.’
Dr Simeon’s grip loosened as he thought about what we were saying.
‘When I was training in London,’ he said at length, ‘we treated a chap who had been in the West Indies. Dipsomaniac. Poor chap’s liver was done for. Nothing we could do for him but treat him kindly and let him die with a little dignity. I sat with him one night. It was quiet and there was nothing else for me to do. By jingo but the man had some stories. That night he was full of tales of voodoo. He said he’d spent some time on Haiti, where he’d met practitioners of their local religion, d’you see? Voodoo. Have you heard of “zombies”, either of you?’
‘I can’t say I have,’ I said.
‘They’re the slaves of dark sorcerers, made from the reanimated corpses of the dead. He told some chilling stories about the dead rising from the grave after a day and a night and roaming the island, sowing terror and panic. Sent chills through me, I can tell you. When I was obviously good and hooked, the chap started laughing. Told me it was all nonsense. Said voodoo was descended from an old African religion and had nothing to do with dark sorcery. But he said something interesting about zombies. The chap reckoned there might be some truth in it, and was convinced it had something to do with pufferfish poison.’
‘What sort of something?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘He said that a low enough dose of the poison could make a chap appear dead without actually killing them. Pulse slows and weakens. Respiration, too. Even the most attentive physician might presume death. After “some hours” – he was a bit vague on the details – the poison wears off and the dead chap miraculously returns to life.’
‘Well I never,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Haiti, you say?’
‘That’s where he saw it,�
� said Dr Gosling. ‘Though he said that there were voodoo practitioners all over the place. Some even in America. Louisiana, for instance. Quite a thriving voodoo community in New Orleans, he said.’
Lady Hardcastle was silent for a moment. ‘I think that explains it all,’ she said eventually. ‘We’ve been terribly dense.’
The pieces were definitely falling into place.
With a squeal of brakes, Lady Hardcastle pulled in beside the gate we had used earlier.
‘Everybody out,’ she said. ‘Up the hill towards the trees as fast as we can.’
With Dr Gosling to hold us back, we made stumblingly slow progress in the moonlit gloom. He was not a man of action. Thanks to Lady Hardcastle’s terrifying driving, we had a few minutes’ advantage over our quarry, which meant that there was no one there to hear his intemperate swearing as he managed to fall over every lump and bump in the field.
We made it to the stand of trees just as the mortuary van sputtered its way to the cottage’s front door, its feeble headlights barely illuminating the rutted track in front of it. There was time for one more thud, and a winded ‘Oof!’ as Dr Gosling walked into a tree before we fell silent and peered towards the van to try to see what was going on.
The driver and his mate jumped down from the front of the van. While the driver unlocked the padlock on the cottage door, his mate opened up the back of the van. Four people climbed out, then the driver’s mate and one of the passengers manhandled the stretcher out of the van and in through the front door. The others followed, and the last one in shut the door.
Lamps were lit inside, and with one final entreaty to Dr Gosling to please, for the love of all that’s holy, look where he was going and not make a sound, we crept stealthily across the open ground to the cottage. I risked a careful look through the kitchen window.
Two of the party were there. I had only seen them before by the light of the Littleton Cotterell bonfire but I was ready to swear that they were Dr and Miss Peneger. He bustled about putting a kettle on the range while she spooned tea into the teapot. Once the enamelled mugs were lined up to her satisfaction, she unpinned her hat and took it off, letting her long blonde hair fall loose. She set the hat on the table and then pulled two more pins from her hair. She grabbed a handful of hair above her forehead and pulled upwards. The wig came free, revealing her own jet-black hair underneath.