Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  'This is a beautiful place,' Warren said after a long pause.

  'It is. I love it here. When the winds are high, you can hear the sea beat against the shore. It's like listening to Nature's heart.'

  'I think I know now what you meant when you said you employ family.'

  Somewhere in the depths of the house, Margery scolded Zach. 'Do you think me the Queen of the Bleeding Fairies? I just polished that!’ Zach responded with apologetic mumblings. Something about “just making a couple of pancakes" and “a starving hole in my stomach."

  'She hates it when he touches the range,' I said under my breath. 'It's spotless. One has to approach it with utmost caution.'

  'Terrifying!' Warren made big eyes, barely able to conceal a grin.

  I poured us a second cup of coffee and said, 'I don't need your private detective. In fact, I don't want him. Too many cooks spoil the porridge.'

  'Really? Is that why the police putter about aimlessly? Too many detectives?'

  'One leading investigator per crime,' I pointed out. 'Not two. Your private detective is a man. He won't let me lead my own investigation. I'm better off alone.'

  He looked hurt, so I hastened to add, 'Besides, I have you and Hattie. I don't need anyone else.'

  Turning his attention back to the garden, he said, 'Well, I might ask him to find the two missing pages of my sister's diary.'

  'All you will accomplish is giving the murderer ample warning that he's hunted not only by the police, but by a private detective and several amateur detectives also. Which might actually delight him, because all those people would be tripping over each other, blocking each other's view.'

  He studied me then. 'And you know that how?'

  I smiled and lifted an eyebrow.

  Huffing, he turned away. After a long moment, he cut a glance at my daughter who was deeply immersed in a book about songbirds. ‘Have you found out anything useful yet?'

  'I'm not sure. Do you know the names of the new cooks your parents employ?'

  'No. But I can ask.'

  'Good. And I need to know who had access to Hattie's purse.'

  He dipped a biscuit into his coffee. 'Careful. Insinuating that someone took something from Hattie's purse that night is the same as pointing a finger at Grimshaw. That something was taken the following morning, that’s…a little different. Several strangers were in the house for whom the butler had no responsibility. But suggesting it happened on Grimshaw's watch…' Warren shook his head. ‘Accusing the Lords Wray would be even worse. Father would make sure your reputation was ruined and that no one would ever offer you a post. You'd have problems up to the hilt.'

  'So you want me to keep my mouth shut. Leave my daughter and myself unprotected?' I nodded in Klara's direction.

  'That's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying you need to be careful. Let me do the asking.'

  'You are not a detective.'

  ‘And you are?' He set the empty cup down a little too hard. Klara looked up at him, tilted her head, and then continued reading.

  'Have you read the morning papers?' Warren asked.

  His tone raised all the tiny hairs on my neck. 'No. Why?'

  'Another body was found. Two days ago in Back Bay Park near the Boston and Albany railroad line.’

  'Did they give a name?'

  'Millicent Dowling.'

  Relief washed over me. I bent over Klara and kissed her hair. I didn't really listen to Warren blathering on about how short the article was, that no details were given on where she had lived, and that the police were keeping the news reporters on a tight leash.

  All that mattered to me right then was that I didn't know this woman. I could let myself believe that the connection between the first two victims and me was only coincidence.

  16

  I was still clutching his note when the door to McCurley's apartment creaked open.

  'Good evening, Dr Arlington. Thank you for coming.' He stepped aside and offered to take my jacket.

  I snarled at him. 'Am I to assume we are to keep playing this charade of doctor and patient? Are you aware that what you are doing is illegal?'

  'Tea?' he asked.

  I threw the crumpled note in his face, hung my jacket, walked over to a chair, and sat. 'Where are your case notes?'

  He picked up a teapot and two cups, set them on the table, and pulled a thick folder from a leather briefcase that was worn beyond its years. The folder landed on the table with a thud. 'You are welcome.'

  I narrowed my eyes at him. He remained standing, hands in trouser pockets. Hadn't he planned to interrogate me first? Well, I was certainly not going to remind him.

  I pulled the folder toward me and snapped it open, quickly rifled through post-mortem reports, notes, sketches, and photographs to make sure everything I expected to see was there. And then I found notes from his search for me in Europe. I stared at them for a moment. Then crumpled them.

  McCurley drew a sharp breath. I slipped the balled-up notes into my pocket, snapped the folder shut and looked up at him. 'You asked why your Chief Superintendent hinted at a diplomatic incident between England and America. I was surprised to hear that my…friend had gone that far. However, after thinking it over, I believe the measures he took aren't entirely misplaced.'

  McCurley pulled back a chair and sat across from me, the thick file, teapot and cups between us. An almost casual encounter.

  'I witnessed a crime that threatened the very…' I cut a glance at the door to Ms Hacker's room.

  'They are sleeping,' he said, as he poured tea.

  I shrugged. 'It doesn't matter. I cannot divulge sensitive information. The British government has a vested interest in keeping me safe, including all the information I have relating to the crime I witnessed.'

  'All right.' He sipped at his cup, never taking his eyes off me.

  All right? I placed a hand on the case folder, and pushed it toward him. 'Walk me through it.'

  'Just one question.'

  My hackles rose.

  'You mentioned the other day that you started — I quote — playing detective long before you met your friend, Hattie Heathcote. Did you witness that crime, or were you investigating it?'

  'I helped investigate it.'

  'You have to give me a bit more than that.'

  'Do I? Has it ever occurred to you that a forced cooperation is nothing but parasitism? Or that I can simply disappear and start a new life far away from you and the murderer?'

  'There is nothing simple about starting a new life. You have to be willing to pay a high price. To never see or talk to your friends again. To get accustomed to a new name, to teach yourself to look up when that name is spoken. You’d have to make your daughter forget her friends, her home, her name, her past. Can you do that?'

  I ground my teeth. 'What makes you believe the man who killed Mrs Hyde also killed Mrs Hughes?'

  Here, McCurley dropped his gaze. He fingered his moustache, then leafed through the case notes. There was a letter, handwritten in black ink.

  'I know because he told me himself.'

  * * *

  The third throat was not as tender as the first, but how I soared after I killed her! You should try it. All the tensions, all the hatred vanish once the bitch's heart stops beating. Not for long, though.

  You still have not figured it you, have you, little policeman?

  * * *

  'The third throat. Millicent Dowling. The papers reported about her yesterday,' I said.

  'Yes. She was found three days ago in Back Bay Park near the Boston and Albany railroad.'

  I nodded. Warren had told me as much.

  'Do you know her?' McCurley asked.

  'No. I never heard the name. Do you have a photograph?'

  This, too, he pulled from the folder and placed in front of me. I’d seen it briefly as I was flipping through the notes. Now I looked closer. A woman of about thirty-five years was lying on her back, her eyes staring straight up at me. Her jacket, blouse, and skirts
were in disarray. Her throat was marked with bruises. Something about her…

  I held the photograph I little farther away, squinted, and then shut my eyes.

  And remembered the pretty nurse who'd stolen a kiss.

  Bile rose up my throat.

  'What is it?' McCurley asked.

  I help up my hand, then clapped it over my face. Why? Why? Why? Millie Dumont had been her name. She'd been a nurse at Harvard Medical School, and must have married after I left Boston. That's why I hadn’t recognised her name. Because she'd changed it.

  'Dr Arlington?'

  I shook my head. Gulped a few breaths, and looked back at McCurley's notes.

  Mechanically, I picked up the letter from the murderer, and held it up against the light. 'He wrote it with his left hand, but he's right-handed. There's a smudge at the upper corner where his right hand must have held the paper. The text is free of errors. I wonder if he wrote it down, corrected it, and then copied it with his left hand.'

  I placed it down in front of me, and ran my fingers around the edges. 'The paper doesn't seem unusual. Have you analysed it?'

  'Twenty cents a pound writing paper. You can get it anywhere. Same goes for the envelope.' He cleared his throat. An almost tortured sound. 'There's something else. We found the photographer who copied your portrait. He said the client insisted that only one copy be made, and on taking the negative with him. The other copy the client wanted made was of this.'

  He picked a photograph from among the case notes. The picture was half the size of his palm. He pushed it toward me.

  At the bottom of the photograph a line read:

  * * *

  Harvard Medical School. Bacteriology Class, Summer 1883

  * * *

  'He left the negative with the photographer. As well as the original. He wanted us to find it.' His gaze held mine as he asked, 'What does the bacteriology class of the summer 1883 mean to you?'

  I leant back in my chair, and lied outright. 'It means nothing to me.'

  McCurley nodded slowly. 'I can't help but get the impression that you are protecting a murderer.'

  'I am doing no such thing. Did the photographer describe the client?'

  Eyeing me wearily, he copied my defiant posture. 'Why would I share information with you when you give me nothing in return? You didn’t even look closely at the files. Three minutes, at the most, and then you closed the folder as though it didn’t interest you at all.'

  Anger set my teeth on edge.

  McCurley continued undisturbed, ‘As you are unwilling to cooperate, I will arrest you for unauthorised conduction of a post-mortem examination, and on the suspicion that you wished to manipulate evidence to your own advantage.' He stood, and pressed the knuckles of one hand against the table, holding the other out to me. 'Dr Arlington, if you would follow me to Headquarters now.'

  Time slowed to a crawl as I pictured myself punching his solar plexus. But he'd grown up in the streets, in a gang of ruffians and criminals. He would know how to fight with his fists. He would be much faster than I.

  I threw a brief glance to his chest that was so enticingly close, and I balled my fists and pushed myself up. I unfurled my hands, and shook the tension from them. He caught the gesture, and changed his stance. Ready to fight.

  I huffed a small laugh, bitterly amused with myself and my own naivety. The trap I had stumbled into. 'Another man before you did the same. He forced me to cooperate with him. He abducted me. He kept my father prisoner and had him murdered. This…' I held up my right hand, '…was hacked off by one of his henchmen. And my daughter is…'

  I shook my head, set my chin, and stuck my face close to his. 'Be ashamed of yourself, McCurley! You are abusing your position of power to force me to submit to what you so prettily call cooperation. And if I don't do your bidding, you will go so far as locking me up, forcing me to leave my daughter unprotected. You are a cold-blooded bastard. Your arrogance will get people killed.'

  With great effort, I stepped back from him. 'All right, then. Have at it. You have my cooperation. But once this is over and you have caught your killer, I want you out of my life. I don't want to see hide nor hair of your ugly visage.'

  As I spoke, his shoulders began to sag. He coughed and pressed a hand to his stomach. His face darkened with an emotion I could not decipher.

  Abruptly, he pushed the folder across the table. 'Take it. Read it. Copy what you need. I will pick it up at your home tomorrow morning. You don't need to answer my questions. Not one. I didn't mean to threaten you, I… Well, yes, I guess I did. I made a mistake. Please accept my apology.'

  I had no idea who this man was that stood before me. But I would have been a fool not to take the opportunity to learn more about the murderer.

  So I grabbed the folder, and left without a word.

  17

  The moon hid behind a thin blanket of clouds. A perfect night for an ambush. I heard soft footfalls on the steps to our porch. A plank creaked just by the backdoor. I cocked my revolver. The doorknob turned. McCurley's silhouette appeared in the frame.

  'Shut the door,' I said.

  He paused, then did as I’d asked. 'Why is it dark here? Where are you?'

  'I'm sitting on the floor to your right. Walk three steps into the hall and sit down. Please.'

  'In the pitch dark?'

  'Yes.'

  'What are you planning?' He was still standing, hadn't moved an inch. His eyes must have adjusted to the dark, because he sought my outlines and seemed to have found them. He'd slightly turned, facing me fully.

  'I plan to tell you about the killer.'

  Unspeaking, he folded his legs and sat on the floor.

  I scooted closer to him so that my shoulder was touching his. 'Place your right hand next to you. Palm up.

  'What?'

  'You heard me. Place your hand on the floor, palm up. I will measure your pulse.'

  'My…pulse? What the deuce is this?' He began to move away from me.

  'You accepted my invitation, so I assume you wish to hear what I have to say. Unfortunately, you are able to control your facial expressions all too well. The skill of an expert liar, don't you agree?'

  After a moment, he answered, 'Probably.'

  'You need information from me, but I can't give it to you without knowing the effect it has on you. So, if you please, move back to my side and lay your right hand on the floor next to me so that I have the opportunity to gauge your reaction by measuring your pulse, and we can proceed.'

  Haltingly, he scooted back until his shoulder touched mine. I felt his arm move as he placed his hand where I wanted it.

  'So you'll know when my heart beats faster. Will that tell you if I lie?'

  'It will let me know when or if you feel strongly about something I tell you.' At least that's what I hoped for.

  He twitched as I placed my hand on his arm. I curled my fingers around his wrist. 'The moment you take your hand away, this meeting is over. Should I get the impression that you lie, this meeting is over. You may choose not to answer my questions, but I strongly advise you to tell the truth. Do you understand?'

  'Yes.'

  I pushed up his sleeve, and placed my index finger on his pulse. 'And now we wait.'

  'What for?'

  'For your heart to calm down. You have the physique of an athlete, so I am guessing your resting pulse to be between forty and sixty beats per minute.' I didn't know if his heart rate would tell me anything about him, but it was better than trying to decipher his impenetrable mask. A liar might be able to control his facial expression, but breathing and pulse were much harder to influence by sheer will.

  McCurley stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders. I listened into the silence, trying to gauge whether the quiet made him nervous, or whether he felt comfortable with it.

  'The house is empty,' he whispered. His pulse hitched.

  I didn't answer. There was no need to tell him that he was correct, that Margery, Zach, and Klara were safely tuck
ed away. He must have wondered what it meant — this empty house. Whether I was a threat to him. Or whether I was pulling a prank on him, or wished to look important.

  I thought back to earlier that morning when I had handed him back the folder with his case notes. I hadn't said a word, and he had hidden his disappointment, nodded and left. He must've thought me unwilling to share my insights. Or perhaps he believed I had nothing important to say.

  'When did you find my note?'

  'When I arrived at my office and opened the folder,' he answered.

  'And did you decide right away to follow my invitation?'

  'Yes. Why wouldn't I? It's what I hoped for.'

  'Did you bring a colleague?' I asked.

  His heart kept beating a calm and steady rhythm. 'I thought about it, but then decided to come alone.'

  I believed him. And then I made an educated guess. 'Are you holding a gun in your left hand?'

  His pulse stumbled. 'No. Yes,' he said cautiously.

  'As expected.'

  He cleared his throat.

  'Put it on the floor to your left.'

  I heard the clonk of his revolver against the floorboards.

  'Will you tell your daughter how her mother died?'

  His wrist jerked in my hand, but he pulled himself together and relaxed into my grip. His pulse thrummed a staccato. 'That has nothing to do with this case.'

  'I will ask you several personal questions tonight. I haven’t the time to get to know you, Inspector. But I need to decide quickly whether I can trust you with sensitive information or not.'

  'You trust me enough to allow me into your house in the middle of the night,' he pointed out.

  'I trust myself.' I dropped my middle finger to the trigger guard of my revolver.

  It took him a few moments to process my statement. Before he spoke, I could feel his pulse pick up.

  'You have a gun pointed at me.' A simple statement, not a question.