Act of Murder (26 page)

‘May I speak with Mr Jenkins?’

‘Unfortunately, no. Mr Jenkins never returned to the hotel last night. His bed has not been slept in. Not only that, his wardrobe is empty. His clothes have gone.’

‘So he has left without paying?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Jameson with a shrug. ‘But there is a further mystery to compound matters.’

‘Go on.’

‘It is rare for a guest to leave without settling his account – rare, but it does happen. But there is something singular about this occurrence. You see, this morning we found his
suitcase in the room.’

‘All packed and ready to leave, no doubt.’

‘No, sergeant. The suitcase was not packed at all. In fact, it was quite empty.’

‘Empty? But that’s –’

‘Yes. It’s puzzling, isn’t it?’

Slevin thought long and hard, trying to assimilate two very disparate pieces of evidence. An empty suitcase and a man with two heads. Suddenly, he gave the hotel manager a beaming smile.
‘Not impossible at all, Mr Jameson. But logical. Oh yes. As logical as a man with two heads!’

*

The Reverend Edward Malvern sat facing Sergeant Slevin in the hotel manager’s office.

‘Naturally I want to assist the police. The perpetrator must be brought to meet the full rigour of the law before justice is pronounced.’

‘He will be, your reverence, you can rest assured on that.’

‘But there are practical matters I need to attend to, you understand, sergeant.’ Malvern gave a frosted smile. ‘I must be allowed to collect my sister’s possessions and
take them back to Leeds with me.’

Slevin nodded. ‘Soon, your reverence.’

‘But you have already searched her room for goodness knows what. And that is tantamount to defilement! Surely you see there is something profoundly distasteful in strangers rifling through
her personal belongings?’

‘They are policemen doing their duty, your reverence. And there is something even more profoundly distasteful in allowing a murderer to elude justice by failing to uncover all possible
evidence.’ He spoke sharply, and Malvern, who evidently was unaccustomed to such pointedness, remained silent.

‘Now, your reverence, would you kindly tell me what took place last night before your sister left for the Public Hall?’

‘We dined.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Would you like me to describe what we ate, sergeant?’

He had meant it as merely as an ironic riposte to what he thought of as unnecessary questioning. He was therefore surprised when Slevin said, ‘In detail, please.’

‘Are you mad, sergeant? What possible use –?’

Slevin held up a hand. ‘Your sister was poisoned by phosphorus, sir. It is a vile-tasting substance that needs a disguise. Something to take the taste away. Perhaps the food she ate last
night.’

‘Preposterous!’ Now the reverend looked the detective fully in the eye. ‘Are you suggesting that someone in the hotel kitchen poisoned my sister?’

‘Unlikely.’

His eyes widened as he put his next question. ‘Then are you implying that –?’

‘I imply nothing.’

‘That I . . . what did I do, sergeant? Lean over and drop the substance onto her pigeon? If it is as vile-tasting as you say, then pigeon is hardly a strong enough disguise now, is
it?’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Well then!’

‘Your sister suffered from neuralgia.’

Malvern’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes. Yes, she suffered greatly. My father used to say it was a curse from Heaven for her disobedience.’

‘Disobedience?’

‘Yes. She had been a governess, a position he found for her and for which she ought to have been profoundly grateful. But she had spent barely a year teaching the wretched child, a girl
who grew very attached to her, I might add, when she ran away with Throstle. The girl grew surly and inconsolable, and both her family and my father never forgave her betrayal. Nor did my father
ever speak to the man responsible for her fall from grace. Despite my efforts to improve him, Richard Throstle was a vile and calculating man, God rest his soul.’

‘I see.’

Malvern looked at Slevin for a while, then with some hesitation asked his next question. ‘Why do you ask about her neuralgia?’

Slevin smiled and stood up. ‘Because she apparently had an attack last night. During dinner.’

Malvern swallowed hard. His shoulders seemed to sag a little before recovering themselves and being restored to their former rigidity. ‘Perhaps she did.’

‘And you kindly offered to go to her room to collect her medicine.’

‘How did you –?’

‘The waiter saw you leave and return with a small medicine bottle.’

‘It was an act of charity on my part. I offered to bring it. But what does my kindness to my sister in getting her medicine have to do with her death? I hardly think –’

‘We have examined the bottle of medicine in your sister’s room. It contains not only her prescribed medication, but perhaps a very dangerous amount of rat poison. Once it has been
examined we’ll know for certain. Ironic, isn’t it, that she died as a result of taking something designed to alleviate her suffering?’

Malvern was open-mouthed. ‘Are you suggesting it was I who . . .’

‘I’m suggesting nothing, sir.’

‘But that is preposterous, man! I am her brother!’

‘And she lacked the obedience you desired. She wouldn’t return with you to Leeds and so you punished her.’

‘I am a man of God!’

The detective sat back and scrutinised him. ‘Tell me about the room.’

‘What room?’

‘Your sister’s.’

Edward looked confused. ‘It’s a bedroom in a hotel.’

‘Yes. But where was the bottle of medicine?’

Edward thought for a moment, as if he were trying to recreate the scene in his head. ‘On the small table beside her bed.’

‘And this was the same bottle you brought over from Leeds?’

‘Yes. She has a standing prescription with her doctor.’

‘Was there anything unusual about the bottle?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Had it been tampered with in any way?’

‘Of course not! Who on earth would tamper with it?’

‘The murderer?’

It was Edward’s turn to sit back.

‘Was the door locked when you got to her room?’

Edward had to think before answering. ‘I rather think it was unlocked. In fact it must have been, for she gave me no key.’

Slevin thought about that for a second.

There was a knock on the door and Constable Bowery entered, whispered something in Slevin’s ear, and left.

‘Well, I think that will be all for now, your reverence.’

Malvern stood up and glared at the policeman, irritated at being addressed like some recalcitrant schoolboy.

‘Then I am under no suspicion?’

‘Let’s say you are low on my list.’ Slevin rose to his feet and faced the man. ‘My men have scoured your hotel room from top to bottom, and examined every single item of
clothing, every utensil you brought with you, while you have been here with me.’

‘My . . . all my belongings?
Scoured
, you say?’

‘Indeed, your reverence.’

‘Why?’

‘Looking for phosphorus traces. It glows, you see. And smells of garlic. And you will no doubt be relieved to know that we found nothing of interest to us. No drops of phosphorus
carelessly spilled in your suitcase. No specks on your clothing, nor on your floor, nor anywhere in your room.’

‘But I could have told you that!’

‘Perhaps I should have asked, then,’ Slevin said with a smile, allowing the reverend to leave the room in high dudgeon, his martyrdom assured.

*

When Mr Benjamin Morgan-Drew stepped out of Mrs O’Halloran’s lodging-house and told the constable standing conspicuously outside the front door that the man they
were looking for was willing to pay Sergeant Slevin a visit, having spent the night there, the news wasn’t received with any sense of satisfaction. It meant that one of the four constables
who had shared the watch had slipped up and allowed Mr Herbert Koller to gain entry. Luckily, it would be difficult for Slevin to discover who exactly was responsible.

Within half an hour, the constable, Mr Morgan-Drew and Mr Koller were walking through the snow along Darlington Street.

Detective Sergeant Slevin would be with them soon, said the duty sergeant when they arrived at the station. He asked the two actors to wait in the visitors’ room until they could be seen.
As they sat down in the bare room with just a single deal table and four chairs, Benjamin and Herbert noticed a large and forbidding shape outside the frosted glass window of the door. It looked as
though the police were taking no chances this time.

Furtively, Benjamin reached down and gave Herbert’s hand a gentle squeeze.

‘This will soon be over,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Then we can return to normal.’

‘Normal!’

There was something strange in Herbert’s voice, a combination of incipient hysteria and bitter sarcasm. Benjamin took a deep breath and said, ‘I may have a surprise for you tonight,
Herbert.’

‘Surprise? What kind of surprise?’

Benjamin shook his head. ‘The very nature of a surprise is its unexpectedness.’

Before Herbert could probe any further, the shadow in the frosted glass moved to one side and the door opened. Detective Sergeant Slevin walked in.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. I’m glad we have found you, Mr Koller.’

‘You didn’t find me. I revealed myself.’

‘Quite.’ Slevin turned to Benjamin and said, ‘And, Mr Morgan-Drew, I should like to thank you for bringing your companion here today.’

‘It was nothing, sergeant.’

‘And, with your duty done, you may now of course leave.’

‘Leave? But I wish to stay.’

‘Ah, but I wish to speak to Mr Koller in private.’

‘And I am here to provide him with support.’

‘Which you can provide by waiting outside. I have instructed Constable Bowery to provide you with a cup of tea.’

As he had been speaking, Slevin had slowly edged the actor-manager towards the door, which now opened to show the beaming face of Constable Bowery.

Once they were alone, Slevin sat at the table opposite the young man and began without preamble.

‘You ran away from the Public Hall last night when Mrs Throstle died. Why was that?’

Koller shifted in his seat. ‘Because I saw you.’

‘Am I so alarming?’

‘You knew I had faked my illness yesterday afternoon.’

‘Faking an illness is no indicator of guilt where a murder is concerned.’

Herbert gave a thin smile. ‘I just thought you might interpret it otherwise. I admit I was shocked when she collapsed the way she did. I suppose I simply panicked.’

‘Did you happen to find yourself in the manager’s office during the confusion, Mr Koller?’

Herbert suddenly looked pale. ‘What on earth for?’

‘Well, there’s a safe in there.’

Now he gave a nervous guffaw. ‘So which am I? A murderer or a safebreaker?’

‘Neither. Or both.’

‘I can assure you I went nowhere near the safe.’

Slevin placed his hands palm down on the table to indicate a change of tack. ‘Your relationship with Mr Throstle. Let’s pursue that a little further, shall we?’

‘We already have pursued it, sergeant. I barely knew the man.’

‘But we are informed that Mr Throstle was making promises. Young women were given the prospect of . . . professional coaching, training from someone who possesses all the confidence and
skill of a professional actor. Throstle planned to develop these . . . models for his own, highly exclusive purposes.’

‘What has that to do with me?’

‘Mr Throstle gave my informant the impression that he already had such an actor lined up to provide that support. Were you that person, Mr Koller?’

Herbert slowly shook his head. Slevin could see that the poise, the confidence had returned, but beneath the veneer lay something else. What was it? Relief? Or regret?

‘Models, you say? Modelling what?’

‘Shall we use the term “posing”, then?’

‘Posing for what?’

‘I think you know, Mr Koller.’

‘But you see, that’s the thing, sergeant. I really have no idea what you are talking about. I’m an actor, not an artist. Artists have models, don’t they? But actors,
well, we merely strut our hour upon the stage, then we expire, signifying nothing.’

Slevin had the impression that Koller was mocking him, but he persisted.

‘Your relationship with Mrs Throstle was purely financial, then?’

‘Of course. She made me an offer and I accepted. Shamefully bad form, I know.’

‘But why would she do that?’

‘She needed a male voice for the lantern show. A trained male voice.’

‘Quite. But why ask you? And if she did ask you, then she must have known you, mustn’t she?’

‘I suppose so.’ Herbert’s voice was more wary now as Slevin’s slow, inexorable logic began to sink its teeth into him.

‘And if she knew you, then she must have been told about you by her husband.’

‘Possibly.’

‘And you were seen giving her husband a certain amount of money.’

That threw him. He swallowed hard and looked down at his hands. ‘Who told you that?’

‘That is irrelevant. Did you or did you not give Mr Richard Throstle some money?’

‘No. Certainly not.’

‘I see. Of course, another suggestion might be that Mrs Throstle knew you, and her husband did not.’

‘What?’

‘In which case, you may have been of assistance to her in other ways than merely vocal.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Now he was genuinely afraid of what Slevin was saying. He shifted nervously in his seat and clasped and unclasped his hands.

‘Let us imagine, shall we, that you and Mrs Throstle knew each other. Let’s also imagine that she asked you to do her a small favour. Say, kill her husband.’

‘My God!’

‘And now let us imagine that, for some reason, the two of you had a serious disagreement. A disagreement that was overheard by someone in the hotel.’

‘But I never . . .’

‘In which case, you would have no choice but to resolve the disagreement to your satisfaction by killing her.’

‘No!’