Black Ship (15 page)

For one craven moment, Daisy was on the brink of saying, “Tell him I’m not here, either.” Then sanity returned. Getting up from the floor, she straightened her stocking-seams—Lucy always claimed crooked seams sapped one’s self-confidence. “I’m on my way,” she sighed.

Stiff as
a board, the body had not been easy to move without wrecking the shrubbery. By natural light, however grey, Dr. Ridgeway had confirmed the probable cause of death, so slight as to have escaped Alec’s and Mackinnon’s notice by torchlight. The obvious injury to the scalp, from a blunt instrument wielded without a great deal of force, had knocked him out and the wound had bled a good deal. Innocent-looking but deadly, there was a small bruise on either side at the base of the neck.

“Thumb marks,” said Ridgeway, “though I don’t imagine you’ll be able to get prints from them. Once the fellow was unconscious, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to apply enough pressure to shut off the arteries. A couple of minutes is all it takes.”

“How long after the head bashing d’you reckon, sir?” asked Mackinnon.

“Almost immediately. The scalp bleeds freely, so it wouldn’t take long to produce this much blood. But, as I’m sure you’re aware, Sergeant, dead men don’t bleed, or he’d have lost considerably more before it clotted. Not likely to bleed to death, though.”

“What about the rain?” Alec asked, before he recalled that this was not his case. “Is it possible a significant quantity of blood simply washed away?”

“Certainly, for a brief period. Clotting usually starts in three to ten minutes. If that happened, if he bled significantly more than appears here, then the time between the blow and the application of pressure to the arteries might have been longer than a minute or two. Since it seems impossible that he was hit under the bushes, as there’s no room to raise a weapon, you’d have to find out where he was killed and exactly when it was raining there, in relation to the time of death. That, I shall endeavour to discover for you, but it’s unlikely to be accurate within an hour or two, or more.”

“Never is,” Warren grumbled. He had recovered enough not to retire to the house.

The doctor grinned. “I’ll be able to tell you more, if not enough to satisfy you, when I’ve had a go at him.”

“Will you be able to tell us the shape of the weapon?” Mackinnon asked.

“Possibly. Roughly. I’ll do what I can, but now I must get back to my surgery.” Ridgeway departed.

Mackinnon told Ardmore to take a few more photos of the body. “And try not to set anything else on fire,” he added.

“Don’t need the flash in this light, if I can do some long exposures,” Ardmore said. He set to work, anxious to atone for the flaming umbrella.

“We’d better start looking for the weapon, don’t you reckon, sir?” Mackinnon asked Alec.

“Sounds like a good idea. Where will you start?”

“He—or she—might have thrown it in the bushes, but likely he wouldna carry the weapon while moving the body. The way those drag marks run, I’d no be surprised if it was in the fountain. Warren, take a look.”

DC Warren looked gloomily down at his feet. “S’pose I can’t get much wetter,” he said.

“The water’s not too scummy,” said Alec. “Take a look first;
then if you need to wade, go up to my house and borrow a pair of rubber boots.”

Warren thanked him, looking a trifle happier, and tramped off to circle the fountain.

Lips pursed, Mackinnon watched Ardmore photographing the corpse. “There’s something a wee bit odd about his suit,” he declared. “Would ye no agree, sir?”

“Not Savile Row, as far as one can tell when it’s soaking wet.”

“Not English.”

“Scottish?” Alec suggested with a grin.

“Foreign, I’m thinking.”

“Could be.”

“Is it too much to hope that he’ll have a passport on him?”

“We can hope. Looks as if Ardmore’s finished, so you can go through his pockets.”

“Would ye care to—?”

“This is not my case,” Alec said firmly.

“Ardmore, ye can start searching the shrubbery for a weapon.”

As Mackinnon stooped over the body, Alec saw a black van pull up at the bottom of the garden. PC Norris went over to speak to the driver. Two men got out, opened the back doors, and started pulling out a stretcher.

“The mortuary people are here,” Alec told Mackinnon.

The sergeant had folded back the man’s jacket and was staring down at his chest. “Will ye look at that, sir! He’s wearing a shoulder holster.”

“Great Scott! Empty?”

“Yes, sir. Ardmore! Keep your eyes peeled for a gun, as well as yon blunt instrument.”

“A gun!” came an astonished voice from the bushes. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

“Right, Sarge. A gun it is.”

Mackinnon straightened with an air of triumph.

“Here’s his pocket-book. Lots of cash, so it wasna robbery. And look here, sir!” He opened a thin water-stained booklet and read, “‘The United States of America—Passport.’ He’s a Yank! From New York, it says. And there’s a photograph, which will come in handy. The rain hasna damaged it.”

“Excellent.”

“I canna read the name, though. The signature’s a scribble, and where it’s written out at the top, by a clerk, likely, the water’s seeped in and the ink has run. It looks as if the Christian name might begin with an
M.
And the surname—this could be a
C
, or a
G
. Quite a long name, more than one syllable.”

Alec took the passport and examined it. “Yes,
M
, and this blur suggests the dot of an
i
, wouldn’t you say? I wouldn’t like to swear to your
C
or
G
, but this looks as if it might be a double l. You’d think they’d use India ink. Has he a watch?”

“Not in his fob. Ah, a wristwatch. Gold. Looks like an expensive one. Let’s see—no inscription on the back.”

“It might be worth checking his hands for rings before they cart him off. American men are more apt to wear rings than the English. Or Scots.”

“Stiff as he is, I’ll have to cut his gloves off,” Mackinnon said doubtfully.

“Let’s not do that if we can help it. It’d be difficult without marking the skin, which could mislead the doctor. The leather seems to be thin and flexible. Perhaps you can feel whether he has any.”

Mackinnon grimaced. Alec agreed with his implied comment: For some reason, feeling the dead man’s fingers for rings seemed even more distasteful than anything they had so far put the poor chap through.

But the sergeant obeyed—or rather, followed Alec’s suggestion—and reported, “Nothing, sae far as I can tell. He could be wearing a flat band o’ some sort, like a wedding ring.”

“We’ll leave that for Dr. Ridgeway to find out.”

The stretcher arrived and Mackinnon told the men they
could remove the body. “Let PC Norris down there take a look at his face.”

He and Alec, sheltering under the latter’s umbrella, took off their hats as a gesture of respect as the dead man was lifted onto the stretcher, covered with a sheet, and borne off.

Mackinnon offered the passport, pocket-book, and watch to Alec, who was tempted but managed to resist.

“You’d better come up to the house and telephone your super,” he said as Mackinnon tucked the objects into his pocket.

“Thank you, sir. Och, here comes Mrs. Fletcher.”

The pillar-box red umbrella came down the garden path towards them, in a hurry.

“Alec,” she called, “Superintendent Crane just rang up. He wants you to ring back immediately.”

“I’m on my way. Daisy, DS Mackinnon needs to use our telephone, too, as soon as I’ve finished, and can we find a pair of rubber boots for DC Warren?”

“I should think so.”

Warren came over. “Can’t see anything, sir, but the water’s pretty murky. I could do with a rake or summat like that.”

“I expect we have one,” Daisy said vaguely. “Don’t we, darling? Or does the gardener bring his own? We could borrow one from the neighbours.”

“On no account are the neighbours to be involved! There’s a rake in the shed.” Alec was the member of the family who took most interest in the garden, though he rarely had time to work in it.

“Good.” Daisy smiled at Warren. “Are you fishing in the fountain for clues?”

“For the weapon, ma’am.”

“Was he shot?”

“Daisy!” Alec exclaimed in exasperation.

“Sorry,” she said unrepentantly. “Why don’t you all come to the kitchen for tea and biscuits before you do anything else. You must be frozen, and Mrs. Dobson has them ready.”

Mackinnon and Warren gave Alec hopeful looks, and Ardmore emerged from the bushes to do likewise.

Alec gestured to Mackinnon.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “That will be verra welcome. Nobody can interfere with the scene of the crime with the bobbies on duty.”

“You can bring them a hot drink when you come back here,” Daisy proposed, reminding Alec of why he loved her, however infuriating she was at times.

They all trooped up the path to the house, Daisy leading the three local detectives down the area steps to the kitchen while Alec went straight up to the front hall to ring up the Yard.

The switchboard girl put him through. “What’s going on, Fletcher?” barked Superintendent Crane.

“I’m on my way, sir. I should get that report to the AC by noon.”

Crane’s sigh of relief gusted along the wires. “So it’s not a homicide on your front doorstep. Thank heaven for that.”

“I’m afraid it is, sir. Well, not quite on my front doorstep, but, in fact, it’s almost certainly murder.”

“Damn it all, are you sure?”

“The divisional surgeon says so, and he’s a good man. And I have to agree with him. But it’s not my pigeon.”

“Oh yes it is. I’ve had the S Division super on the line. Claims he’s shorthanded, and if it’s homicide, he wants you on the case.”

“But we’re shorthanded, too. It’s chronic—”

“You know what the Commissioner said just the other day about cooperation with the divisions, Fletcher. It’s your case.”

“But sir, it’s going to mean questioning all my close neighbours, for a start. I can’t—”

“No, I see that. But someone else can do that part while you direct behind the scenes. You can come in and write up that report while you’re waiting for them to report to you.”

“I suppose so,” Alec said reluctantly. He liked to have his finger directly on the pulse of an investigation.

But his neighbours were no lords and ladies, merely wealthy cits, in the idiom of the eighteenth century, which Alec had studied at university. Tom Tring could cope perfectly well with interrogating nobs as long as he wore his best suit, not one of his checked monstrosities.

Could Mackinnon? He didn’t know him well enough to count on it. “I’ll want DS Tring, sir, and DC Piper. They’ve worked well before with the S Division detective sergeant on the job.”

“Done. And you’ll have the report by noon?”

“I said that before you dumped this case in my lap, sir! I need to discuss it with Tring and Mackinnon so that they can get going. And the American embassy will have to be notified.”

“What? What?” Crane demanded wildly. “The American embassy?”

“Yes, sir. The victim was a U.S. citizen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Passport in his pocket. The photo and description match.”

“If the divisional chappie had known that, he’d have handed it over to us anyway.” The superintendent sounded slightly mollified.

“No doubt. Come to think of it, sir, I’d like your permission to get in touch with the New York police, and perhaps the FBI.”

“FBI?”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir. In Washington.”

“Oh yes, those chappies you gave a helping hand to over there. Why? Do you suspect he was a wrong ‘un?”

Alec chose his words with care. “Let’s just say there are aspects of the case that point to the possibility. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it wouldn’t surprise me.” It dawned on him that the holster might equally well mean the man was an agent, like Lambert. Like Lambert, he could have had his gun confiscated by Customs—but then he’d have had no reason to wear the holster. Alec didn’t have time just now to
think it through, what with Crane panting on the other end of the line. “Would you like details?”

“No, no. Go ahead and cable whomever you need to.” This time, his sigh expressed long-suffering rather than relief. “I’ll try to explain to the AC why he won’t be getting the report for a while. If you can
possibly
spare me a moment, you might pop in and tell me what you’ve learnt so far about your Hampstead murder. By the by, how is Mrs. Fletcher holding up? She sounded pretty chipper when I spoke to her just now, but it must have been a shock to her, finding
yet another
body.”

One cannot tell one’s superior in the police force that sarcasm does not become him. “She didn’t actually find this one, sir,” Alec reminded him. “She hasn’t actually seen him.”

“I dare say, Fletcher, but it is, to my recollection, the first to be found on—I beg your pardon—
practically
on her own doorstep.” With that, he rang off, which was just as well, as the retort that sprang to Alec’s lips was most improper.

Alec arranged for Ernie Piper to come out to Hampstead to help with the search, and for Tom Tring to meet him and Mackinnon at the Yard. He had to get copies of the passport photo made, and some good photographs of the entire passport to show at the U.S. embassy and to send to the NYPD and FBI. In the meantime, he could cable the passport number to them.

He went down to the kitchen, where Daisy and Mrs. Dobson were presiding over the consumption of tea and flapjacks. “You can go up and ring your station,” he said grumpily to Mackinnon, “but I can tell you what your super’s going to say: He’s talked mine into handing over the case to me.”

“Good!” said Mackinnon. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re being troubled with it, but I’m glad to be working with you again, sir.”

“DC Piper’s coming to give your men a hand. You and I will go to the Yard.”

“Yes, sir.” Mackinnon went off to telephone.

“Ardmore, Warren,” said Alec, “off you go to see if you can find that weapon before Piper arrives.”