Bertie and the Seven Bodies

by Peter Lovesey

  The addition had been written in a crude, spidery copper­plate hand, probably disguised. John Sweeney had by now col­lected his statements from the servants, but I doubted if we would learn much by comparing their handwriting with that of the murderer. Half of them were sure to be illiterate and must have asked others to assist them.

  Alix interrupted my thoughts by saying, “Bertie, are you proposing to sit up all night?”

  I said, “I’m thinking.”

  “Can’t you think lying down? There’s a draft down my back . . . What are you thinking about?”

  “A piece of paper.”

  “Notepaper?”

  “It’s of no importance.”

  She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “It must be impor­tant, to keep you awake like this. Does it have some bearing on what happened to poor Wilfred?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Bertie, you’re hiding something from me.”

  I groaned inwardly. My dear wife is remarkably tolerant of my activities. She seldom protests or interferes, but she will not abide flannel.

  She would have prized the truth from me, syllable by syl­lable, so I surrendered the whole bloodcurdling story of the week’s events without more ado, and I must say she took it with commendable sangfroid.

  “Wednesday’s Corpse?” she repeated. “How melodra­matic—as if every day brings a fresh fatality.”

  “It does,” I said.

  “I do dislike that word ‘corpse.’ It sounds so final.”

  I said, “It’s curtains for some poor blighter, however you put it.”

  “Yes, but ‘body’ is less horrid, don’t you think? Wednesday’s Body. This murderer has no feeling for the English language.”

  “That’s rich,” I said, “coming from a Dane.”

  “Who are you to criticize, a Saxe-Coburg who rolls his Rs?”

  Alix and I have had this exchange many times before. It descends rapidly into mild vulgarity, but we find it amusing. I think we both welcomed it as a temporary relief from the grim events of the day. Finally the banter ran out and we went silent.

  After an interval I asked her, “Were you trying to make a serious point?”

  “About the word he used? I don’t know. It sounds out of place. And yet . . .”

  “And yet what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She yawned.

  I eased myself under the bedclothes, stretched and turned on my side. I was almost asleep when Alix piped up from her side of the bed.

  “It scans.”

  “Mm?”

  “’Corpse.’ It’s only one syllable, so it scans. Like the word ‘child’ in the rhyme. That’s why he used it.”

  “Which rhyme?”

  “Oh, Bertie, don’t be so dense! You know it. Everyone knows it:

  “Monday’s child is fair of face.

  Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

  Wednesday’s child is full of woe.

  Thursday’s child has far to go.

  Friday’s child is loving and giving.

  Saturday’s child works hard for a living.

  But the child that is born on the Sabbath Day

  Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.”

  In the darkness I scratched my beard thoughtfully. Of course I knew the verse. I’d had it recited to me often enough in the nursery. I was a Tuesday child, full of grace. I’d rarely lis­tened to what was said about the children born on other days of the week.

  Sounding very like my old governess, Alix said, “Now substitute the word ‘corpse’ for ‘child.”’

  I saw the point. However, I wasn’t much impressed by it yet, though I did my best not to trample on Alix’s feelings. “Yes, it fits up to a point. Monday’s corpse was Queenie Chimes, fair of face, certainly. Tuesday’s was Jerry, and if His Grace the Duke of Bournemouth doesn’t fit the rhyme, I don’t know who does. Full of grace by birthright, bless him. But there the coinci­dences end, I’m sorry to say. I wouldn’t describe Osgot-Edge as full of woe. He was a cheerful fellow, a bit of a lady’s man on the quiet. No, my dear, it doesn’t match up, I’m afraid.”

  She said, “Perhaps his poetry was full of woe.”

  “Woeful, I’ll grant you,” I quipped. “No, to be fair what he wrote was meant to be amusing. Do you recall the poem that was read out to us on Sunday evening? That line about the lion saying ‘Let us prey’ probably went over your head, my dear, being Danish. It was a pun. Did your English tutor teach you about puns?”

  Alix said, “Something you feed to an elephant?”—and I suspect that she smiled in the dark.

  We lapsed into a drowsy silence. I may even have dozed a little.

  Suddenly Alix startled me by saying aloud, “I’ve got it! Wilfred Osgot-Edge.”

  I said, “You’re talking in your sleep.”

  She said, “His initials. It’s his initials—W.O.E.”

  “Woe?” I propped myself up. “Full of woe! Alix, you’re right! You must be!”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, then.”

  There was another pause, filled, this time, with a spate of mental activity.

  Finally I said, “What day is it?”

  “Bertie, you know. It’s already tomorrow. Thursday.”

  “Refresh my memory. What was the line about Thursday?”

  “‘Thursday’s child’—or corpse—‘has far to go.’”

  “Far to go . . . Oh, my hat!—Miss Dundas, the explorer!”

  I give Alix her due. She objected strenuously to my calling on Miss Dundas in the middle of the night. I would have expected no less. Clearly I was putting my personal safety—not to mention the future of the realm—at risk. I could have been struck down by the killer as soon as I stepped outside the bed­room door.

  However, I was adamant. Perhaps I’m too gallant for my own safety, but I rather relished myself in the role of protector to Miss Dundas. And as I explained to Alix, no one else except the murderer knew the danger the lady was in. I had a respon­sibility to warn her. A moral responsibility.

  For that, I was treated to a few uncomplimentary remarks about my morals that need not be repeated here. Alix also com­plained that I wasn’t showing sufficient concern for her safety, and refused to spend the rest of the night alone, so I had to ring for her woman-of-the-bedchamber, Charlotte Knollys. Poor Charlotte, plucked from a warm bed upstairs, burst in seconds later in a flannel nightgown expecting heaven knows what emergency. Upon seeing me she gave a cry of dismay and put her hand to her curlers. In the confusion I stepped past her through the open door.

  Immediately four or five faces stared at me. I’d quite for­gotten the servants on guard outside the bedroom doors. Decently clad as I was in dressing gown and slippers, I never­theless felt slightly foolish carrying the poker I’d picked up for protection; however, I think they were more ill at ease than I. Tucking the poker under my arm like a swagger stick, I marched past them without a word along the corridor to Isabella Dundas’s room.

  It was disturbing to discover that hers was the only door without a guard. I tapped lightly and got no response, so I tried a second time, with a firmer knock.

  Nothing.

  I glanced over my shoulder and immediately the five pale faces watching me rotated like lighthouse lamps and looked the other way. I gripped the door handle, fully expecting to find the door locked.

  It opened. I stepped inside, into a more profound darkness. “Miss Dundas?”

  No reply. This was not encouraging.

  I took a step inwards, hands probing the space in front of me, while behind me the door shut with a thump loud enough to waken the dead.

  I said, “Isabella?” and still elicited no response. Becoming increasingly perturbed, I felt in my pocket for matches and then cursed my negligence; I’d left them in Alix’
s bedroom.

  I suppose it was pride that stopped me from returning immediately to fetch them. I didn’t relish the looks I would get in the corridor. Instead I chose to proceed as well as I could without a light. After all, it was just another bedroom to nego­tiate in the dark, I told myself, to keep up the proverbial pecker. This wouldn’t be the first, or, one trusted, the last.

  Such blind faith!

  One step forward was all I took. Without warning I felt my ankles gripped by a cord of some description. It tightened so suddenly that I keeled off balance and crashed to the floor. Immediately I was smothered by some all-enveloping fabric and trussed up, notwithstanding my strongly voiced objections.

  And would you believe nobody came to my aid? That’s the penalty of being of the blood Royal: people are only too happy to dance attendance on you for as long as you conduct yourself according to protocol, but the moment anything untoward occurs they are too timid to come forward. I had to wait, practi­cally suffocating, until my captor chose to loosen the bonds. Fortunately, it wasn’t long. I was aware of a sawing motion at my neck that I sensibly and correctly took to be the cord being severed. Then the blanket—for that was what covered my head and torso—was drawn back from my face like a cowl and I found myself staring first at a knife blade gleaming in candle­light, and beyond it at Miss Dundas.

  She said without a trace of remorse, “So it is you.”

  “Would you have liked a fanfare?” I said with sarcasm. “If you were here all the time, why the deuce didn’t you speak up?”

  She said, “Sir, I had to be certain. After all, it could have been someone impersonating you. I’m sorry if you had a shock, but an undefended lady is entitled to take reasonable steps to protect herself when a murderer is afoot.”

  “Reasonable!”

  She said, “You’re more fortunate than you realize. You could have found yourself dangling by your heels from that beam above you. If you’d been a baboon I wouldn’t have hesi­tated. Don’t look like that, sir. I was about to explain that this is a simple hunter’s trap. I used to rig one up when I camped in the jungle. Ideally I’d have used rope and a good, strong net, but sashcord and a blanket had to suffice tonight. Allow me to fin­ish untying you and then you can tell me why you’re here.”

  With as much dignity as I could salvage, I remarked, “I merely looked in to save your life. I have reason to believe that you are next on the murderers list.”

  She gave that amused curl of the lip that I had noted before. In the circumstances I excused it as a nervous reaction. “Surely there isn’t a list?”

  “I’m afraid that is the inescapable conclusion,” I told her. I explained about the cuttings from The Times and the rhyme linking each of the victims to a day of the week.

  “So you interpret ‘far to go’ as fitting me?” she said with that smile still lingering about her mouth.

  “No one else in the party has traveled so far, or is ever like­ly to,” I answered.

  After a moment’s reflection she said, “Perhaps the words are meant to apply in another sense. Have you considered that?”

  “You had better explain.”

  “Well, without wishing to alarm you, sir, it might be thought by some that the throne of England is the very height of society. In that sense you, the Heir Apparent.

  I said, “No, no. That’s too far-fetched for words.” She fin­ished loosening the cord around my ankles. “Well, sir, now that you have warned me—and I thank you for that—I shall rig up my trap again.”

  “Extremely wise.”

  “Then I think we can safely go to bed.”

  After this astonishing remark I stared saucer-eyed at Miss Dundas. In my time I’ve met more than my share of ladies who fit the appellation of “fast,” but never one who came to the point without a hint of passion, not a sigh, nor a blush. It was as matter-of-fact as putting on a shoe, and, to be candid, just about as stimulating. After all, I was here on a mission of life and death. True, there was a certain piquancy to visiting a lady in her bedroom, but I wasn’t expecting a tumble. Even a cour­tesan would have pulled up the drawbridge under present cir­cumstances. To hold her at bay, I said, “That’s very agreeable, my dear, but rather sudden. Wouldn’t you care for some liquid refreshment? I see you have a decanter and some glasses here.”

  She cleared her throat. “It seems that I expressed myself badly. I propose, sir, that you return to your bed and I to mine.”

  “Ah.” A misunderstanding. The wind returned to my sails. “No, I shall remain here.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said I shall stay here. Your life is in grave danger, Isabella.”

  She gave a sigh and ran her hand through her hair, which hung loose over her nightgown. “Sir—”

  “Bertie.”

  “Bertie, then. I appreciate your concern, but it won’t be necessary.”

  I said, “I’ll be the judge of that, my dear.”

  “I can protect myself.”

  “Of that I am certain,” I said. “However, I have taken it as my solemn duty to protect everyone in this house by appre­hending the murderer. Having rather cleverly deduced that this room is earmarked for the next crime, I intend to remain here until I’ve made an arrest.”

  “Couldn’t you wait outside the door?”

  “And advertise my presence? No, no. I must surprise the villain.”

  Overwhelmed by the force of my reasoning, Miss Dundas applied herself to re-erecting her man trap, with some assistance from me. When the job was done, she said, “I think I will inves­tigate that decanter. Will you join me? By a fortunate oversight two glasses seem to have been provided.”

  A fortunate oversight! You might be familiar with jungles, I thought, but you don’t know much about the secret ways of country house parties, Isabella.

  She climbed into bed with her Madeira and I sat high-mindedly in the armchair.

  “Who will it be?” she asked presently. “Whom do you sus­pect?”

  “If I knew for certain,” I answered guardedly, “I would already have made the arrest.”

  “I can’t think who would wish to murder me,” she said after taking a sip of Madeira.

  “I dare say each of the victims would have ventured the same comment.”

  “Oh.” She drew up her knees and clasped them over the bedclothes. “Are these murders without cause, then?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.

  “Really,” she went on, “one ought to consider what the vic­tims had in common, apart from being here this week. An actress, a duke and a poet. What about Queenie, the first to be killed. What do we know about her? She was with Irving’s company at the Lyceum, wasn’t she?”

  “I gather so, in a small capacity, a nonspeaking role. I found her charming and inoffensive.”

  “I didn’t speak to her,” said Miss Dundas. “She was shep­herded closely by Jerry Gribble.”

  “‘Shepherded,’” I said. “That’s a delicate way of putting it. Jerry would have liked that. Yes, there’s no doubt she was included in the party as company for Jerry. They met at a cricket match six months ago, he told me. She was selling tombola tickets. Poor fellow, he had a fatal weakness for the ladies.”

  She tilted an eyebrow.

  “Well he was twice divorced,” I said. “He made it clear to Queenie that he wouldn’t be getting spliced a third time.”

  She asked, “What happened to the ex-wives? Perhaps there was resentment if they fell on hard times later.”

  “And saw him shepherding pretty young actresses, do you mean? Good thinking. But I have to tell you that Angela, the first Duchess, died in childbirth after she married a French count; and Polly, the second, lives very comfortably in New Orleans, happily married to a ship owner.”

  “I wonder whether anyone else bore some grudge against Jerry?” she per
sisted.

  “That’s hard to imagine. He was a dear fellow, a gentle­man in every sense, the salt of the earth.”

  “Twice divorced?”

  “But utterly without blame. The judge found the wives at fault in each case.”

  She rolled her eyes upwards; precisely why, I couldn’t say. “Well, Bertie, if you’re right, Miss Chimes and Jerry Gribble were two delightful people who gave no offense to anyone. What of Wilfred Osgot-Edge? He was a more complex person than the others, was he not?”

  I pondered this for a moment. “Because he was a poet, d’you mean? That may be so, but I found him straightforward enough. When he succeeded in putting more than two words together, he generally had something practical to say.”

  “Yes, I rather admired the efforts he made to be sociable. I think what I mean is that poetry and shooting are difficult to reconcile—the one creative and the other destructive.”

  “Forms of self-expression,” I explained. “Perfectly under­standable for a fellow who is tongue-tied to write down his thoughts in verse. And what a tonic for his confidence to shoot better than the blighters who show him up in conversation. He was devilish fast on the trigger.”

  Miss Dundas signaled a spicy remark by clearing her throat. “I formed the impression that he wasn’t exactly slow in other matters.”

  “Matters of the heart?” said I, mindful of what I had heard in the corridor the night before.

  She smiled faintly. I’m sure she knew Osgot-Edge had winkled his way into Amelia’s bed. Nothing in a country house at night escapes the notice of the fair sex.

  Never one to beat about the bush, I said, “Our charming hostess might be able to enlighten us further on that subject. Come to think of it, the frolics yesterday night might have given someone else a motive for murder.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Exactly.”

  We had no need to say it. We both thought of Amelia’s brother, Marcus.

  “Be that as it may,” I said. “There’s still no connection I can see with the other deaths.”

  She evidently agreed, for she said, “Looking at it another way, have you made a list of possible suspects?”