Embarrassment of Corpses, An (4 page)

“Why are we here, Sergeant?” Mallard asked again.

“Because I read your note about Sir Harry Random.”

“Ah good. Did you find out about the Trafalgar Square fountains?”

“Of course, first thing. They'd been on all night.”

“Rather wasteful of the Earth's resources,” Mallard commented ruefully. “So it seems as if Ollie may have a point. How could Sir Harry have struck his head so severely if the fountain was already full of water? We'd better have another look at the evidence.”

“That evidence is why we're here, Chief,” said Effie. “You mentioned the symbol drawn on Sir Harry's shirtfront. When the report of this new murder came in an hour ago, it said something about a sign or symbol found near the body. I thought you'd like to take a look. The scene-of-crime officer is D.S. Welkin.”

“Good work, Sergeant.”

Effie beamed and checked the resilience of her hair-ribbon, readjusting a couple of sizeable hairpins. Her hair, which varied in color between gold and mouse, was long and excessively curly. Although she started every day by brushing it vehemently and tying it back with a ribbon, its springiness would inevitably triumph, and by lunchtime her head took on the silhouette of a truncated Christmas tree.

Most people noticed Effie's hair first. When they moved on to her round, soft-featured face, they might also notice that she was exceedingly pretty. And yet from Effie's first appearance in the male-dominated culture of a Scotland Yard incident room, there had been no wolf whistles, no loud sexist remarks or dirty jokes, no semi-accidental groping or squeezing. Neither her easily burlesqued name nor her easily caricatured outline had ever appeared as graffiti in the toilets, and no older detective had ever brushed against her breasts under the pretence of adjusting her seat belt.

This was all imputed to the Strongitharm “Look.” Effie had developed a way of turning a gaze on you—not long-suffering, but placid and quizzical—that could nevertheless reduce you to the mentality of salad dressing. It was a “would you do this if your mother was watching?” expression that had made several lapsed Catholics think wistfully of confession. One detective, who had chanced to use the word “floozy” in Effie's presence, described a sudden feeling of abject shame, as if he'd pinched a woman's bottom in a crowd, only to discover his target was his little sister.

The Look wasn't natural, Effie's colleagues had concluded. It was clearly a form of the old religion. That, as much as Mallard's proud patronage of his talented and loyal sergeant, must account for her success. (Mallard, of course, was so far from doing anything to deserve a disapproving stare that he was unaware of the legend; he just thought, and said frequently, that Effie was a “bloody good copper.”)

“Could you spare us a moment or two, Sergeant Welkin?” asked Mallard affably as he approached the scene-of-crime officer, who had just signaled the mortuary attendants to move in with their stretcher.

“Of course, Superintendent,” Welkin chirped, in an unnecessarily thick Cockney accent. He was an overweight man in his thirties, with a black moustache and a harsh boxer's face, who invariably reminded people of someone else they knew. He bred Burmese cats.

“Do we have any idea what happened?” Mallard asked.

“Well, sir, it seems the lady—whom we've yet to identify—was bashed with a blunt instrument, a length of lead pipe, which was dropped immediately. There don't seem to be any fingerprints on it. It happened just as a train was in the station, and there was some confusion, as you might expect, what with people getting on and off. So by the time anybody realized she'd been clobbered, the train had left, and the murderer could easily have jumped on before the doors closed. The station manager called us in time to have the train held up at South Kensington—the next station—but the doors were already open, so chummy could easily have got away. Or he could have mingled with the people who got off the train here. The station staff did a good job of keeping potential witnesses here until we arrived, but as I said, there was confusion.”

“The first report said something about a sign or a symbol.”

“Yes, sir, but it doesn't seem to mean much. Actually it was attached to the pipe with a rubber band. Here, I'll let you have a butcher's.”

He opened an aluminum case and took out two plastic bags. The larger contained a nondescript piece of lead pipe, about eighteen inches long and an inch and a half in diameter. The smaller held a plain white card with a hole punched in the corner, through which a rubber band had been looped. Mallard took this bag and pulled the plastic tight to read what was on the card. One side was blank, apart from a faint smear of blood. On the other side, in dark blue ink, was a pair of parallel zigzag lines.

“Don't suppose it means nothing,” offered Welkin.

“Maybe not,” Mallard said cautiously, as he handed the bag back. He took out a notebook and sketched the lines.

“Hello, Tim, who rattled your cage?” boomed a voice behind him. Mallard turned to face Chief Inspector Oliphant, a substantially built CID officer who was presumably in charge of the investigation. Oliphant's tone was friendly, but he was clearly suspicious of the Murder Squad's early appearance.

“Good morning, Desmond. Sergeant Strongitharm and I were just in the neighborhood. Quite a mess.”

“Yes, well, I'm sure it'll come your way if we can't handle it,” said Oliphant distractedly. “But right now, I've got about thirty witnesses upstairs impatient to be interviewed. They all seem to be called Camilla and they're all threatening me with a daddy who knows the Home Secretary personally. So I'd appreciate it if you could let me finish up here, and then we can start the trains running again.”

“Certainly, Desmond, we were just leaving. Come along, Sergeant Strongitharm.”

Mallard pocketed his notebook and led the way along the platform, past a small man in an even smaller suit who was hovering nervously near the stairs to the street. Effie paused and with a gentle pat on Mallard's arm, turned back to the man.

“You must be the station manager,” she predicted, assuming no other member of the public would be allowed onto the platform. The small man gazed up at her with admiration.

“I am indeed,” he replied with a self-satisfied purr, if any sound passing principally through the nostrils can be described as a “purr.” “My name's Noss. Like Moss, only with an en.”

“An em? Moss already has an em.”

“No, not an em, an en. For November.”

“Oh,
Noss
.”

“That's right, Noss.”

“Quite a day you're having, Mr. Noss,” she said, with a winning smile. Noss straightened his shoulders, causing lozenges of off-white shirt-front to appear between the buttons of his jacket.

“Oh, we can handle it,” he said with a modest glance at his shoes. “This is my fourth murder, you know. I've had several attempteds too. I've even had babies twice. But you know, Miss…”

Effie ignored the invitation. “Yes?” she said, feigning delight. Noss leaned forward.

“I've never had an accident.”

“I'm so pleased to hear it,” Effie gushed. She unconsciously untied her ribbon, and her ample curly hair sprung into its pyramidal shape. Noss, expecting an effect that showed more regard for the law of gravity, opened his eyes another notch.

“Well, you must be commended for the way you're handling this, Mr. Noss,” Effie continued. “I was only saying to Mr. Mallard—oh, this is Superintendent Mallard of Scotland Yard's Murder Squad—that your swift thinking has saved us all a lot of work.”

Mallard stepped forward imperiously and grasped the overawed station master's hand.

“Mr. Noss, your actions prove to me that you are an intuitive and insightful man,” he intoned, taking over smoothly from Effie. “But I see more. Something is on your mind, Mr. Noss. You know something about this business, and yet you hesitate, perhaps for fear of wasting our time with trivia.” Mallard finally ended the handshake and placed his palm on Noss' dandruff-strewn shoulder. He winked. “But let me confide in you, my dear Noss, nothing is trivial in a murder investigation. You, and you alone could have the key—you who have been here from first to last.”

Mallard stepped back and waited majestically. Effie's smile broadened, encouraging the little man. Noss cleared his throat.

“Well, I suppose there is one thing,” he began tentatively.

“Yes,” they both replied.

“I didn't think to mention it because it seems so silly.”

“Go on,” Effie said breathily.

“Perhaps it only interests me…”

“It will interest us all, Mr. Noss, be assured,” claimed Mallard. “This is your moment. Your, er, once-in-a-lifetime.”

“All right. All right, I'll tell you. You see that tube.”

He pointed to a large gray duct that ran orthogonally through the station, almost directly above their heads.

“What about it?” asked Effie, looking up.

“Can you guess what's in it?”

She shrugged, conscious of a sinking feeling. “A walkway? Water mains?”

Noss laughed gleefully. “No, that's what most people think, if they think about it at all. But it's not that. It's a river.”

“A river?”

“Yes, the River Westbourne. It runs out of the Serpentine and goes straight through here to meet the Thames at Chelsea. Of course, like the Fleet River, it runs mostly through the sewers now. But when they dug out the Underground, they had to provide a channel for it. So when you walk along this platform now, you can say you've walked
under
a river.”

Mallard stared at Noss. Then he stared at Effie, rather more meaningfully.

“Mr. Noss,” she said eventually, “you have provided an answer that lives up to our expectations of you.”

“Yes, it's interesting, isn't it? A station manager's life is full of tidbits like that. Do you know in 1940—a bit before my time, of course—a bomb landed smack-bang on this station. Killed eighty people, but didn't make a dent in the river.”

“Ah, Mr. Noss,” Effie sighed, “if only there were enough hours in the day, how I would love to wander through your extraordinary brain.” (“Having removed it from your cranium first,” she added silently.)

Noss smirked and tugged at his sleeves. The action caused a cuff button to fly off and roll over the edge of the platform.

“Oh, only too happy to be of service, Miss…” he prompted again. But Effie and Mallard had vanished.

“Rivers!” exploded Mallard as they emerged into the bright sunshine of Sloane Square. It had taken a few minutes to squeeze through the crush of potential witnesses in the ticket hall. All the activity at the station had slowed the traffic around the Square to a crawl, and the noise of horns and gunned engines was deafening.

“Sorry, Tim,” mumbled Effie contritely. By mutual consent, they used first names only when they were unaccompanied.

“I bet that self-important little git was responsible for that appalling color scheme.”

“How about the card?” Effie asked, after they had moved through the concentric rings of police cars, cordons, and bystanders, who stared at them rudely.

“I don't know. It's certainly a puzzle, but I'm not sure if there's any connection with Sir Harry Random's death. The symbol was entirely different, and I can make a case for Harry drawing his upon himself. In this instance, however, the murderer was clearly leaving some message. What did you make of those lines—a little like two lightning bolts?”

“Could it be a sales tag? Or a trademark?”

“What about those packs of cards that are used in telepathy experiments? Don't they have parallel lines?”

“I think those are wavy, not zigzag.”

Mallard stopped in front of the Royal Court Theatre, pretending to study the black and white photographs of the current production.

“I promised I'd call Oliver,” he said, after a momentary fantasy in which his own monochrome image as a blood-soaked Banquo stared back at him from the display cases. “Maybe he'll have some ideas.”

Effie sniffed, and Mallard, watching her reflection in the glass, noted the passing expression with interest. Although Effie said nothing, she always had some physical reaction whenever Oliver's name came up. Mallard assumed there was an element of jealousy, because he often discussed their cases with his nephew-by-marriage. The Yard frequently turned to civilian experts for technical advice, and when Mallard had no idea what sort of expertise was needed, he found Oliver's vast store of useless information a useful starting point. But Effie, who had worked hard within the system to get where she was, clearly resented the treatment of the outsider Swithin as the superintendent's equal, taking it to be an example of literal nepotism.

“Stay on top of this murder, Effie,” Mallard said as they parted. “I have a feeling it will come our way.”

***

It was nearly twelve o'clock by the time Oliver reached Barnes, and he was taken by surprise when Lorina herself opened the front door of the substantial Random home.

“Are you alone?” he blurted out.

“Why, have you come to have your wicked way with me?” she said with a smile. “At long last, I might add.”

“No, it's just that I thought you'd have someone here,” Oliver explained quickly. “Because of your loss. Your father. I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sorry about Harry's…your father's…I'm sorry about what happened. Oh God, can I start again?”

“Let me help you,” said Lorina firmly as he flushed crimson and trailed off. “Hello, Ollie. Thanks for coming. I appreciate your condolences. Are those for me?”

She pointed at a bunch of roses that he was clutching to his chest. He handed them over mutely.

“They're lovely. Why don't you come in?”