The Unpleasantness at Baskerville Hall (Reeves & Worcester Steampunk Mysteries Book 4) (15 page)

“Then search away.” I turned to address the throng as I felt they rather expected it. “It is vital not to contaminate the evidence,” I explained. “Which is why Reeves here is wearing gloves. Every time one touches an object, one leaves fingerprints. And no two person’s fingerprints are the same, therefore, if Reeves finds an object with a fingerprint upon it, we can identify the person who last touched that object.”

I decided to omit any mention of flour.

Reeves rummaged in Sir Robert’s left-hand jacket pocket.

“There is something within, sir.”

Reeves pulled out a small piece of paper and unfolded it.

“It is a note, sir, addressed to Sir Robert from a Sergeant Stock.”

“Stock?” said Henry. “He’s the police sergeant at Princetown. What does he say?”

Reeves read the letter aloud.

Meet me at mire gate 8 pm sharp. Vital importance. You MUST come alone. Don’t tell no one — not even your son. Don’t let no one see you neither. Someone at the Hall is helping Selden. Trust no one.

Sergeant Stock

“Did you see Sergeant Stock when you went to the mire gate?” Henry asked me.

“No, and I doubt very much that he was the author of this note.”

“Why?” said Henry.

“Because it’s an obvious ruse to get Sir Robert alone and out of the house. It’s clever, but not nearly clever enough.”

I paused for a good two seconds. We consulting detectives like to put on a bit of a show. It’s part of the calling. Lady Agatha MacTweedie likes to have at least three costume changes during her
dénouements
.

“If they’d been really clever,” I said. “They would have told Sir Robert to burn the note.”

I didn’t have any gloves with me so I took out my red silk handkerchief to take the note from Reeves.

“Now we know why Sir Robert left the house,” I continued. “And we also have this note which is positively teeming with clues.”

“Are there fingerprints?” asked T. Everett.

“There may well be, but, first, let us examine the words themselves. What do they tell us?”

“That someone was hiding by the mire gate at eight o’clock,” said Emmeline.

“Yes,” I said, “But can we tell who?”

I let the words steep for a moment or two and then held the note out so everyone could see the writing.

“Does anyone recognise the hand?”

Heads craned forward, those at the back shuffled forward for a better view.

No one recognised the handwriting.

“It’s not a hand,” said Lady Julia, “It’s a scrawl.”

“Do
you
have any observations, Reeves?” I asked.

“The use of Sergeant Stock’s name is interesting, sir. It suggests a person with local knowledge.”

“Indeed,” I said. “But what can one deduce from the writing?”

I held the note up again for all to see. “You will observe it is written in a poor hand — which could denote a servant, or ... maybe a chap with an injured hand, or maybe a chap with a good hand intent on disguising the fact, or maybe—”

“In other words it could be anybody,” said Lady Julia.

“No. It has to be someone with a hand.”

Lady Julia called me several names, of which ‘mutton-headed imbecile’ was the most complimentary. I tried to explain that in a world where the prime suspect had cloven feet that it was perfectly reasonable to consider they might have a claw for a hand.

But Lady Julia had a rather old-fashioned view of crime.

“You are an idiot,” she said. “And the rest of you are idiots for listening to him. I shall be in my room. If anyone is still alive come breakfast, they can send a maid to awaken me!”

And with that, she left.

I decided to trouser the note until tomorrow and move on. One needs good light to spot a fingerprint. “Would you search the remaining pockets, Reeves?” I asked.

Reeves continued his search, treating Sir Robert’s remains with fitting respect.

“There is something in the right-hand jacket pocket, sir.”

He retrieved the object and held it up. I’d never seen anything like it. It was a thin wooden spike about five inches long and part-covered in what looked like fur.

“What the devil is it?” asked Henry.

“It would appear to be a dart, sir,” said Reeves. “By its design — you will observe the rabbit fur wrapped around the lower half — I would posit this to be a dart intended for use with a blowpipe.”

“A poison dart?” asked Henry.

“I believe Dr Morrow would be more qualified to answer that question, sir. But I do note the tip of the dart to be darkened for a good inch along its length, and there is that corresponding mark on Sir Robert’s neck.”

“Well, Morrow?” asked Henry.

“Poison was something I had considered,” said Morrow.

“What kind of poison?” I asked.

Morrow appeared strangely reticent. I know doctors never like being chivvied by the detective into making a rushed diagnosis, but Morrow’s reticence bordered on evasiveness.

“It could be one of several poisons,” he said.

“Such as...” I pressed.

“Given the dart, my best guess would be ... curare,” said Morrow.

“Isn’t that what South American natives use?” said T. Everett.

“That is correct, sir,” said Reeves.

“Aha,” I said. “Do we know anyone who’s recently arrived from South America? Find that person and, I think, we have the murderer.”

Reeves coughed.

“What is it, Reeves?”

“You have, sir.”

“I’ve what, Reeves?”

“Come from South America, sir.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Reeves coughed again.

“Are you all right, Reeves? A bit of steam gone down the wrong way?”

Emmeline coughed. It was a veritable outbreak!

“Didn’t you say you’d recently come from Argentina, Roderick?” said Emmeline, giving me an odd look.

I had one of those moments — I expect you’ve all had them — when one finds one’s foot had unexpectedly climbed into one’s mouth several sentences earlier, and everyone had noticed the wiggling toes except for you. I’d been so engrossed playing the consulting detective I’d completely forgotten who I was supposed to be!

“O-oh,” I said, thinking swiftly. “
Come
from South America. I thought you said
gum
from South America which is, of course, what curare is made from. Now, moving on—”

“You
were
late coming down for dinner,” said Ida.

Dash it, I’d thought I was getting away with it.

“Not that late,” I said. “Quite a few of you toddled in after me.”

“Not all of us came from South America,” said Ida. “You said yourself the murderer was the one who recently arrived from there.”

“I didn’t mean
me
. I’m not a suspect. I’m the detective. Two different birds entirely.”

“Everything did begin the day you arrived,” said Morrow. “There’d never been any trouble before.”

“But I was with you at eight o’clock,” I said. “I was with all of you when the gong sounded.”

“And
you
were the one who found Sir Robert,” said T. Everett. “How
did
you know where to look?”

“Because he’s a detective!” said Emmeline. “It’s not Roderick you should be questioning, it’s Dr Morrow. He knows far more than he’s saying. Only ten minutes ago I heard him accuse Witheridge of being the murderer!”

“He
what
?” said Henry.

“I was in the kitchen helping Mrs Berrymore,” said Emmeline. “You remember she had that turn when Sir Robert was brought in?”

Several people nodded.

“A number of us helped carry her into the kitchen,” said Emmeline. “Then, when I left the kitchen, I heard angry voices by the back door. It was Dr Morrow and Witheridge. The doctor said, ‘What have you done!’ and Witheridge said ‘It weren’t me!’ But Dr Morrow didn’t believe him. He said ‘Who else could it have been?’ Then Berrymore came through the servants’ door and Morrow left.”

“Is this true, Morrow?” asked Henry.

“It’s not what you think, Henry.”

“Then what is it? Explain.”

Morrow looked as uncomfortable as I’d felt a few moments earlier.

“I ... I had an idea what killed your father, but ... I was far from certain.”

“You were certain enough to accuse Witheridge? Why?” said Henry.

Morrow exhaled deeply.

“Because he and I are the only ones who know where the key to my drugs cabinet is kept.”

“Your drugs cabinet? Why...?”

I didn’t think Morrow could look more uncomfortable, but he managed it. He looked at the carpet. He shuffled from foot to foot.

“You
have
this curare?” said Henry. “Here? In this house?”

“I do.”

“But why? What possible reason could you have?”

We were all agog to find out.

“It’s a muscle relaxant,” said Morrow. “The best there is for administering to prometheans during surgery. All the modern promethean surgeons use it. I re-attach so many limbs in my work here that it’s essential. It reduces the recovery times dramatically.”

Henry marched over to the bell pull and gave it a couple of sharp tugs. “I’ll have Witheridge brought here immediately,” he said.

I thought I’d use the opportunity to ask Morrow a few questions while he was still rattled. Inspector Murgatroyd of the Yard swore by the practice. ‘Keep the suspect off balance,’ was one of his favourite mottoes — along with ‘Never ask him the question he expects, until he least expects it.’

“Do you keep RadioGlo paint in your laboratory?” I asked him.

“I ... don’t think so. Not any more. I think we used it all on
Quarry of the Apes
. The ghost scene in the caves, wasn’t it, Henry? Stapleford would know more. He’s the one who came up with the idea. It worked better on automata than it did on prometheans.”

The man was still decidedly rattled.

“Where does one buy RadioGlo paint?” I asked. “Dashed difficult stuff to get hold of one would think.”

Morrow shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask Stapleford.”

“Why are you asking about RadioGlo paint?” said Henry.

“I suspect it was used to give last night’s ghost its glowing face.”

“But the ghost was nothing but a distasteful prank, wasn’t it?” said Henry.

“Possibly,” I said, aiming for the enigmatic. “Possibly not.” I then did the eyeball thing that Murgatroyd does when he looks at each suspect in turn and makes them think he knows far more than he’s letting on.

I was in mid-eyeball when Berrymore arrived at the door. “You rang, sir.”

“Berrymore,” said Henry. “Relieve Witheridge of his gun, and have him brought here immediately.”

I fired a question at Morrow the moment Berrymore closed the door.

“Did anyone else know you kept curare in the house, Morrow?”

“I ... I may have mentioned it.”

“Who to?”

“I don’t remember. It may have come up in conversation. It’s not a secret. Stapleford perhaps. The two of us often converse about prometheans and automata.”

“I’ve never heard you mention it,” said Henry. “Have you any other poisons in the house?”

“Many efficacious compounds can be poisonous in excessive doses,” said Morrow. “I’m a surgeon. I need to have anaesthetics on hand. I’m sure the chemicals Stapleford keeps at the studio to develop your films are extremely dangerous if ingested too.”

I hadn’t noticed any bad blood between Morrow and Stapleford, but I certainly noticed how Morrow was taking every opportunity to deflect suspicion away from himself and onto his neighbour. I wondered why.

The door opened and a nervous Witheridge entered.

“Stay, Berrymore,” said Henry. “And guard the door.”

I’m not sure who looked the more shocked, Berrymore or Witheridge. The ancient butler swayed for an instant, resembling a very tall tree who’d just received disturbing news about beavers.

Henry turned on Witheridge. “Did you kill my father?”

“No! I never left the house, sir!”

“Do you know what curare is?”

“No, sir. Never heard of it.”

“Do you
deny
you have access to Dr Morrow’s drugs cabinet?”

“I know where the key is, that’s all, sir. I swear! If the doctor wants something fetched, I fetch it. I wouldn’t dare open the cupboard without permission.”

Witheridge looked frightened, but defiant. And Henry looked like he’d run out of questions. He balled both fists and looked my way. “Am I allowed to beat a confession out of him?”

“That’s usually the prerogative of the police,” I said. “May I continue the questioning?”

“Of course.”

Witheridge glared at me.

“I see you are not wearing gloves, Witheridge.”

“No,” he said.

“No,
sir
,” said Henry.

“No, sir,” said Witheridge, imbuing the word ‘sir’ with a trifle more contempt than respect.

“Do you usually wear gloves whilst at work?” I continued.

“No, sir.”

“Have you heard of fingerprints, Witheridge?”

“No, sir.”

“They are unique, Witheridge. No two people have the same fingerprint. If you were to pick up a bottle with your bare hands, you would leave a mark. And that mark would stay for there for days, weeks even.”

“If you say so ... sir.”

I turned to Morrow. “Is the curare kept in a bottle?”

“Yes. A small blue one.”

“Then let’s examine it,” I said.

“I’ll send Berrymore,” said Henry.

“No,” I said. “We shall all go.”

~

I let Henry and Morrow take the lead, as there’s nothing more embarrassing for a detective than having nine people follow him around a country house when he doesn’t know where he’s going.

Morrow’s laboratory was on the second floor of the Main Hall. It was a large room, maybe a former bedroom for an esteemed guest. Now it had two ominous tables, and three walls full of glass cabinets — some of them containing what looked to me like human limbs.

I was just about to ask Morrow where he kept the key to the drugs cabinet when he cried out.

“The door’s open! The door’s never left open.”