A Journey Across Town

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The black Hansom cab rattled through the streets of Laandaan, its iron rimmed wheels and the iron-shod hooves of its horse clattering over the cobblestones. Collingwood watched as the night-life flowed by. He had seen it all before, of course, but tonight there seemed to be something subtly different in the atmosphere. His copper's sense for danger vibrated down his spine. In nearly twenty years of policing the capital, he had rarely felt so nervous. What worried him most was that there seemed no reason for it. He had faced armed men and women and had even been shot once, taking the bullet in his left leg, but never once had he feared for his life. Why tonight? Maybe it was the full Moon driving people crazy, absurd though that seemed to the detective.
 
The Brass Lass public house had opened its doors and customers were clustered around small tables out on the pavement, drinking, smoking and generally having a high old time. Whatever next? thought Collingwood. They'll be opening pavement cafes like those damnable Frenchies! Trinket sellers, with trays of matches, bootlaces, pipecleaners, pouches of tobacco, cheap cigars and other gewgaws, suspended from their shoulders. They seemed to be making a roaring trade tonight with the crowd outside the Lass.

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Ladies of the night walked the streets, their chatter and banter with gentlemen visitors strangely stilted and accompanied by many a glance over their shoulders. The ladies seemed more nervous than normal. Perhaps the Ripper had changed his hunting ground?

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The cab passed gangs of street urchins, dashing along the footpaths, bumping into passers-by, intent on pick-pocketing or groping one of the ladies. Such tasteless assaults were met with curses of such vehemence that an Eestend docker would have blushed. One of the ladies even pulled a knife on one of her erstwhile attackers, its thin blade flashing in the light from the nearby gaslamp. Not that there were many lamps lit that night. Collingwood noted at least four broken lamps along the street. The lampwatch should have had them repaired and relit but had not done so: the street was a menacing tunnel of darkness for most of its half-mile length.

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Finally the cab left the darkened streets and entered Sloane Square. The houses here were much newer, cleaner, and brighter, their white stone facades reflecting the many gaslamps that, fortunately, were in much better repair than those Collingwood had seen earlier. The driver pulled up outside a large house where two uniformed police constables were stationed at the black wrought iron gate.

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Collingwood opened the cab door and stepped down into the street. His foot narrowly missed a pile of horse dung. What fool said Laandaan was paved with gold? he wondered irritably. The two constables saluted smartly, which he returned with a curt nod, and, with Sergeant Selby trailing in his wake, Collingwood walked up the short flight of steps to the door which opened smoothly without his needing to knock. 

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Here he was met by an older man with thinning grey hair dressed in a smart black tail coat and black trousers with a silk stripe running down the seams. Small, round, horn-rimmed glasses were perched on his long narrow nose. He greeted Collingwood with a faint smile and small bow.

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"Detective Collingwood, I believe?" he asked.

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"Detective Inspector Collingwood," the DI answered coldly. He waved in the general direction of the sergeant. "My colleague, Sergeant Selby."

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The old man nodded politely to the sergeant and said, "My apologies, Detective Inspector." He managed to inject some condescension into the last word, which Collingwood, with some effort, ignored. "We had not expected someone of such seniority to attend. I am Pike, the head butler of this household."

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"Well, Mr Pike, who is the head of the household?" The words 'organ', 'grinder' and 'monkey', flashed across Collingwood's mind. 

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"Lord Mayberry is the owner and head, sir, but his lordship is in the country at this time."

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"And how long has he been out of town?"

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"For the last two weeks, sir." The butler paused and mumbled something under his breath.

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"I'm sorry, Mr Pike?" Collingwood asked.

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Pike composed himself. "It is such a shocking incident, sir. We are all quite shaken."

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"All? How many people comprise 'all', Mr Pike?"

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"Why, there are nearly fifty guests here this evening, sir." 

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Oh, good Lord, thought Collingwood. Questioning the witnesses would take until the small hours at least! He took a deep breath. "We will, of course, need to talk with each of the guests, tonight, while memory of the incident is still fresh in their minds."

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"Are you sure of that, Detective Inspector?" Pike looked aghast. "Many of the guests have homes and businesses to return to. Pressing engagements. Surely you can wait until the morning." The butler looked over his shoulder, through the arch towards the main hall where the party had been held.

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Pleased that he had the pompous old bat on the back foot, Collingwood smiled. "Don't panic, Pike," he said. "My men are thorough but quick. I'm sure, if your guests cooperate, we can have all their statements taken before their pressing engagements squeeze them too much."

Pike was about to protest more strongly - he could not inconvenience his lordship's guests; for some, being part of a murder investigation would be scandalous - when there was a knock on the front door. The butler opened the door to see eight more uniformed police constables arrayed on the steps.

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"Ah, excellent, men," Collingwood said over the butler's shoulder. "You have arrived in time to prevent pressing engagements intruding on the ladies' and gentlemen's lives. Mr Pike, if you would be so good as to escort our officers to the main hall. Then you can kindly show Sergeant Selby and myself to the scene."

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Crime Scene

 

Pike, somewhat grudgingly, led Collingwood and Selby up a broad flight of richly carpeted stairs and onto the first floor landing. Small gaslamps lit the hallway and they rounded the corner to the bedroom.

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"Sergeant. Post two men at that corner. Allow no-one to enter without my express permission," Collingwood ordered.

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"At once, sir."

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Collingwood entered the darkened bedroom. Almost absent-mindedly, he spoke over his shoulder to Pike. "Has anyone else been in here since the discovery?"

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"No, sir. The young lady was hysterical. I believe she is downstairs recovering in the drawing room." Pike moved into the room, headed for one of the wall-mounted lamps and made to turn it on. 

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"Don't!" snapped Collingwood and Pike stopped short.

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"It's rather dark in here Detective Inspector. I thought some light would be helpful," the butler stammered.

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"I want no changes to this scene until it has been examined thoroughly. Please, Mr Pike. Stand at the door."

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The butler nodded and withdrew as Sergeant Selby and two constables arrived at the door.

"Get lamps and the poles from the Hansom," Collingwood ordered. "Suspend the lamps from the poles and we can have some light while we investigate. Oh, and send a runner back to the Yard. We'll need some medical assistance here."

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Selby snapped a salute. "Very good, sir."

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With some rather unstable light illuminating the room, Collingwood and Selby examined the room. The wine bottle and glasses used by the couple who discovered the body were taken away for 'further analysis', despite Pike's protestations that the bottle was unopened and of a very expensive vintage. Collingwood used his cane to move the curtains. No hiding place was in evidence nor was there any easy means of escape. From where he stood, it was nearly twenty feet to the ground and one slip would have impaled the escapee on the iron railings below.

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The police officers turned to the body. "I don't think we need to look at it that closely," Collingwood said and Selby drew the sheet up over the man's chest. "What do we know about him?"

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Selby consulted his notebook. "Well, first statements from the guests say he's Gilbert Harrison. Bit of a playboy. Eye for the fillies, the two legged and four legged varieties, if you get my meaning, sir. Some say he's splashed a lot of coin at the gaming tables and race courses. Had a reputation of being something of a swordsman, too." Selby smirked. "Maybe he pulled the wrong sort of sword tonight?" The sergeant barely managed to stifle his snigger.

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"Cut that out, Sergeant," Collingwood ordered, irritably. "Anything else?"

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Selby controlled his mirth. "Errr ..." he started, then trailed off. DI Collingwood would not like the next snippet of information. "It seems that the deceased is the stepson of Lord Mayberry."

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Oh, good God in Heaven! thought Collingwood. Mayberry had the ear of Matthew Ridley, the Home Secretary, who in turn played bridge with the Chief Constable. He could almost feel the Chief's whiskey-laced breath on the back of his neck. The DI wished he had trodden in the manure in the street. It would have smelled a lot nicer than this case was beginning to. Still, he was a long-serving officer in Her Imperial Majesty's Metropolitan Police Force of Laandaan Taan. He was a professional. He had a job to do, even if that job could soon involve directing traffic outside Queen's Cross Station.

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His train of thought was interrupted by a polite cough from Sergeant Selby. "The doctor has arrived, sir."

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Collingwood turned to see a long-time acquaintance handing his hat and cane to one of the officers at the door. One small spot of luck, he thought, as he walked over to the doctor. He held out his hand with a smile. "John, damned fine to see you in this situation." The two exchanged pleasantries for a moment before Collingwood returned to business. "The body was discovered about an hour ago. I don't wish to tread on your toes, so, over to you, old man."

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The doctor performed a preliminary examination, checking first the corpse's pulse and breathing. He had been caught out like that once before and would not allow it to happen again. He muttered under his breath and took notes as he did so. "Rigor mortis has not yet set in, putting time of death within the last three to four hours. No sign of external wounds or blunt trauma. No traces of bodily fluids either on the skin or sheets." Then he cast a gaze around the room. "No signs of narcotics paraphernalia, which makes the expression of extreme ecstasy and heightened priapism somewhat difficult to reconcile."

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He turned to Collingwood. "I'm sorry, George. I can't give you much more than the estimated time of death. There's little to say what caused it. The look on his face seems to indicate drug use and the, err, well, other effects might bear this out also. According to a colleague of mine, a certain extract from the Agarvi plant can produce such effects. Though how he came to know this ..." the doctor paused, somewhat embarrassed, then rallied. "Come to think of it, I can make a pretty shrewd deduction about how he found out. Still, I'd need to autopsy the body. Sometimes we can find traces of evidence in the bloodstream, perhaps narcotics residue."

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"An autopsy may be difficult, given the man's family background." Collingwood explained briefly Selby's findings. "We would need to have strong suspicions of foul play before authorising a medical examination."

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The doctor checked his pocket watch. "Well, George, you'll have my preliminary report first thing tomorrow. Keep me informed, please, if you'd like any further assistance."

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The two men shook hands again and, as the doctor turned to depart, Collingwood whispered, "John. This colleague of yours. He wouldn't be wanting to get involved in this, would he?" 

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Dr. John Watson smiled. "No. Not at this time. I believe he is in Durham, of all places, engaged on another case." With that, he tipped his hat to Collingwood and left the room.

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Collingwood turned back to the bed. Hold on a minute, he thought. What's that? He had caught a glimpse of something reflective at the foot of the bed, almost hidden by the rumpled sheet. "Constable, the lantern, please," he said.

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His left knee creaked as he knelt down on the floor. By the lantern light he could see the glint of gold. Taking his fountain pen from his jacket pocket, he fished the three fragments of a finely wrought gold bracelet from under the bed. Loathe to touch the fragments lest he ruin any trace of evidence they may contain, Collingwood fished a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the bracelet's fragments more closely. He called to Selby. "What do you make of this, Sergeant?" Selby, the younger man by almost fifteen years, had much sharper eyesight than Collingwood cared to admit.

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His colleague knelt beside him and took the magnifying glass. "Jewellery, sir," Selby said, rather unnecessarily. "Expensive, too, by the looks. And what is that engraved on the links? A hallmark?"

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"Well if it's a hallmark, it's like none I've ever seen. Certainly no British goldsmith uses marks like that. And if it's writing, then what sort of lettering and language? Not even Araby has script like that." Perplexed, Collingwood leaned back and winced at the crick in his back. "Bag it, Sergeant. We'll take it back to the Yard and examine it in more detail under brighter lights." The DI struggled back to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and watched as Selby artfully used tweezers to gather the pieces and slip them into a small manilla envelope, which he sealed and handed to Collingwood.