Josh and the Magic Vial (17 page)

“Hello Nurse Skogs.”

“Oh!” she cried, spinning round to discover Dr. Chadwick standing behind her.

“My goodness Doctor, you gave me such a fright!” she gasped.

“I-I'm sorry, nurse,” he stammered. “I didn't m-mean to shock you.”

“Then we shall have to put a bell on you like a dangerous cat if you are going to creep up on people like that.”

He chortled, put at ease. “How is she?” he asked.

“A little restless, but perfectly healthy, I think.”

“She'll be discharged tomorrow,” he informed her.

“I'm glad she's going, but we will miss her,” Elvira cooed.

“She is a sweetheart,” Dr. Chadwick agreed, looking down at the girl.

Since the Underwood boy had died, Dr. Chadwick had been prowling the wards at night. He'd taken on a haunted look, the effects of not sleeping, she guessed. How he'd managed to sneak up on her, Elvira couldn't say, but she was certain it would never happen again.

“Is everything on the ward all right Nurse Skogs?” he asked.

“All right, doctor?”

“You haven't noticed anything unusual during your shifts, have you?”

“Unusual?”

“Someone near the patients who shouldn't be — a cleaner perhaps, or a tradesman.”

“No Doctor!” she cried, “and if I ever do, I shall report it instantly.”

“Yes. Of course,” he apologized, flustered by the hurt tone in her voice. “I didn't mean to question your professionalism in the least, Mrs. Skogs. The whole hospital speaks highly of you.”

Elvira smiled, accepting the doctor's praise with a show of modesty. He had alarmed her with his skulking and questioning. She would have to tread carefully. Rumours were circulating. People were on the lookout. Only her reputation kept
her
above suspicion.

28

B
y the time Skogs turned down Ship Alley into Wellclose Square a ghastly smudge of sunlight had seeped through the fog — dawn in East London. The last thing he wanted was a meeting with Sirus Blackstone, but “orders is orders” he told himself. Blackstone wanted his report at the crack of dawn, and he would get it.

What his taskmaster did not want was another encounter with Inspector Puddifant. “Make certain he doesn't spot you this time, Skogs, or I'll serve you up to the rats and maggots for breakfast. Do you understand?” Blackstone had threatened.

Skogs understood perfectly. His skin crawled at the prospect of meeting his cruel master. He cringed, imagining the dark inscrutable eyes of Blackstone fastened upon him. “He'll find out for sure,” Skogs dreaded, letting himself in by the stockroom door. “He'll see right through me.”

Puddifant's flattery seemed worthless now. Skogs shook his head. How could he have fallen for the smooth arguments of a London copper? He'd been a fool. But he was in the trap now, with no way out. Skogs felt the terrible circumstances of his existence coiling round him, lake a boa constrictor. He could hardly breathe.

A narrow flight of stairs went up from the stockroom to Blackstone's apartments. Resigned, Skogs trudged up this dim passage, which ended on a landing outside the flat's kitchen. He paused, listening for sounds within. The house was still, but not with the stillness of slumber, Skogs realized; rather, it was the stillness of a predator about to pounce. He rapped at the door. Silence persisted a moment, then he heard slippers shuffling across the wooden floor. A dead bolt snapped open, the knob twisted, Blackstone's hawkish face thrust through the opening.

“You are alone, I trust.”

“Yes, sir,” Skogs answered quickly.

“Get in,” the warlock ordered.

Blackstone hustled over to the kitchen window and looked through the blinds, down into the grey light of the alley. Satisfied, he strode back across the room and gestured to a chair at the kitchen table. “Be quick man,” he snapped. “I'm expecting others in a moment and I need your report to conduct my business. What did you discover last night?”

Skogs began with the visit to Professor Wizer's. Blackstone scowled.

“A nuisance that man. Some day I shall have to rid myself of him. Go on.”

Skogs retraced Puddifant's route along Millbank, through the fog, right up to the inspector's apartment, not far from the Tate Gallery.

“Nothing happened along the way?” Blackstone probed.

“No sir.”

“And during the rest of the night.”

“Nothing at all,” Skogs answered. “His lights were on until shortly after midnight, then the windows went dark. I assume he'd tucked in, sir, leaving me to spend a long, cold night out of doors.”

“Professor Wizer,” Blackstone mused. “Puddifant would have learned a thing or two there. I should have known our intrepid police officer would unearth our musty scholar. Never mind. It won't do him any good.”

There was an ominous tone in this pronouncement. Skogs shivered.

These troubled thoughts were interrupted by a commotion downstairs. Someone was hammering at the back door. “Ah, Good,” Blackstone rubbed his hands together. “My next appointment. Could you be so kind as to let them in and let yourself out, Skogs? Just show them up then be on your way. I imagine you'll want to get some sleep, eh?”

“And tonight, sir?”

“What about tonight, Skogs?”

“Will you want me to keep tabs on Inspector Puddifant again?”

“No,” Blackstone chuckled. “Someone else will be taking over from here, Skogs. You don't have to worry about it. Our Inspector Puddifant will be well watched. Now be on your way. Take the rest of the day off, if you feel like it.”

Skogs almost laughed out loud at this generosity, but thought better of it and turned to go. The clamour at the back door had got worse during their short exchange. He clumped down the stairs hurriedly, before the door got knocked off its hinges. “Hold your horses!” he shouted.

For a moment the battering stopped, then there was a room-quaking thump, which he imagined to be the sound of someone kicking at the solid wood barrier.

“Stop that!” Skogs yelled.

“Well open up then,” came the tart reply, “and don't give me none of your lip or I'll have the tongue out of your head you lily-livered ponce.”

Fumbling, Skogs unlocked the door and opened it on Hector and Jack Gowler. The ruffians pushed their way in without waiting for an invitation, shoving Skogs aside. “Where's the boss?” Jack demanded, jerking his head toward the stairs.

Skogs nodded, giving up any notion of leading the way. The Gowler brothers barged through the room and up the stairs. “Come up! Come up, gentlemen!” he heard Blackstone call down. “I'm so glad you could make it, and at such short notice.”

“You might have told that human scarecrow you call a butler we was welcome,” Hector complained. “He's lucky to have kept the few teeth he has left in his head, that one.”

“Skogs!” Blackstone snorted. “Don't mind him, gentlemen . . . ”

The door slammed. Skogs listened from below, but their muffled conversation could not be deciphered. If he'd been a brave man, he might have crept up the stairs, but Skogs was not brave. Besides, he had a pretty good idea what they were plotting in Blackstone's kitchen, and the thought of it sent a chill down his spine.

“I shall have to warn Inspector Puddifant,” he thought, patting the pocket with Puddifant's card in it. “I shall have to warn him right away. It's the least I can do,” he muttered, turning away.

“What's the least you can do,” a harsh voice startled him.

Whirling, Skogs found himself staring into the cold, disdainful face of his wife, Elvira. She was standing in the doorway that led from the stockroom into the shop, and it looked to him as if she might have been standing there quite some time. Elvira advanced, barring his way. “Answer me, dear. What's the least you can do?”

She must have come directly to Blackstone's from the hospital. Why? Frozen, he stared into her fierce blue eyes.

“Please tell me, love, what's the very least you can do, for — to be quite frank — I thought you were doing the very least you could already. I find it inconceivable that you could find any way to do less.”

“Ha-ha, my dear. You do have a way with words. A fellow would have to be mean-spirited indeed not to appreciate your keen wit.”

“Answer my question, husband.”

“Why, I have to be ready to do Mr. Blackstone's bidding, of course. He's done so much for us. And I mustn't complain, even when it is cold, lonely work, must I?”

“I see,” she sneered, unimpressed.

“Look here!” Skogs protested. “What are you implying? I've been up all night in the cold and damp doing exactly as I was bidden. Why are you treating me like a villain?”

Elvira's cheeks flushed and her eyes flashed, but she checked her rage. She suspected something and the fact that she wasn't saying what troubled Skogs. Why would she hold in her feelings? For fear of offending him? Certainly not. Elvira detested him. She had married Skogs because she despised and could abuse him. He had long since figured
that
out.

“You must be tired,” she said suddenly.

“Yes, I am.”

“Come, then. Let's go home. I'll put on a kettle and make some tea, and then we can both retire. It's been a long night.”

“But why are you here, my love?” Skogs objected. “Surely you had some business to transact with Sirus.”

“Nothing that can't wait,” she answered mysteriously, leading the way to the stockroom door. “I just wanted to discuss a little matter with him, but I see he had an appointment already.”

As they stepped out into the fog, she took hold of his arm. He was surprised by this unaccustomed show of affection. It made him nervous. They walked on. He straightened his posture and tried to look the role of the adored husband. Distracted, he forgot how she'd been watching when he patted the pocket that held Puddifant's card.

29

P
uddifant surveyed the crumbling tenement Jerry Hansen called home. He shook his head. What did people expect when children were brought up in conditions like this? He rapped sharply at the door and waited.

“Who is it?” a woman rasped from within.

“Inspector Horace Puddifant, Ma'am, Scotland Yard.”

“What do
you
want?”

“Are you Jeremy Hansen's mother?”

He guessed that the sounds emerging from behind the door — sounds like someone strangling — were a form of laughter.

“He calls me Mum,” the woman wheezed. “But it's been a long time since he's been anyone's child.”

“Where can I find Jeremy, Mrs. Hansen?”

“You might try his school. He's not much of a scholar, my Jeremy, but he does go to classes every now and then when he's got nothing better to do.”

The woman gave him directions through the door, and since he couldn't think of anything more to ask, Puddifant sadly went his way.

The Head Master at Jeremy's School shook his head grimly when Puddifant inquired after the boy. “I'll see if he's here,” the man said, inviting the inspector to use his office. A minute later he ushered in a squat, sullen boy, who stared cockily at Puddifant.

“Please sit down,” Puddifant said.

Jeremy slouched into a chair opposite the headmaster's desk and sulked.

“I need your help, Jeremy,” Puddifant began.

The boy snorted.

“I suspect you have been duped into doing something very bad. But if you cooperate, we may be able to get you off.”

“I don't need no help,” Jeremy spat. “What are you on about?”

“Murder, Jeremy. I'm talking about murder.”

“What!” The boy bolted upright in his chair. “I never murdered no one!”

“Do you remember a lad named Charlie Underwood?”

Jeremy shook his head.

“Charlie died last week, Jeremy.”

“What's that to me! A lot of people died last week, I'm sure.”

“At the very least, you are an accessory to his murder. That's serious business, Jeremy. More serious than anything you've ever done. You
do
know a man named Sirus Blackstone?”

“I might.” the young man squirmed. “What's that got to do with Charlie what's-his-name?”

“You and several friends were hired by Mr. Blackstone to assault Charlie Underwood about six months ago, isn't that true?”

“I don't know anything about that.” Jeremy folded his arms and glared.

“I have it from a good source, who will testify in court, that you do.”

Puddifant let this information sink in. The clock ticked inexorably from the mantle. Jeremy fidgeted.

“The only question I need answered at this point, Jeremy, is whether you participated in the murder of Charlie Underwood knowingly, or by accident.”

“I didn't murder no one!” the boy exploded.

“All right. I'm prepared to believe you, Jeremy,” Puddifant said gently. “But you did assault Charlie Underwood.”

“A bloody nose and a black eye, that's all it was,” Jeremy shouted. “You can't call that murder. And I've never seen Underwood since. I didn't even know he'd gone to a better world.”

“Why did Blackstone want you to attack the boy?”

“I never said it was Blackstone who put us up to it,” Jeremy countered. “I never even said I knew any Sirus Blackstone.”

“Then I shall assume you poisoned Charlie Underwood on your own, without Mr. Blackstone's involvement. Is that correct?”

“Poisoned?”

The boy was obviously shocked by this revelation.

“Why did Blackstone want you to assault a perfectly innocent child?”

“Blackstone never asked me to do it, sir.”

“Don't lie to me, boy!” Puddifant threatened.

“He didn't!” Jeremy protested. “It was that scarecrow of a servant of his who told us to do it — Skogs, sir. He was the one who gave us our instructions.”