Death at Daisy's Folly (29 page)

“Wot's a An ... Anarchist?” Amelia asked.

“E's somebody ‘oo wants t' change things, t' make it so that people like us 'as somethin‘, 'stead o' nothin'” Her face shone with pride. “But ye can't tell nobody, Amelia. T' most folks, a Anarchist's a very bad thing.”

“Why?”

“Marsh says it's ‘cause th' rich are afeared,” Meg replied. “They'd 'ave t' give up wot they got t' th' pore people.”

Amelia thought that many people might indeed be afraid—the people upstairs, for instance. She wondered whether, if Marsh and the Anarchists achieved their goals, the Queen might be forced to give up her throne. If she did, would some poor man get it instead of the Prince, or would there be no king at all, as in America, where the people ruled themselves? It was an idea at once terribly frightening and deeply exciting. She gave up that line of thought and turned to another.

“ ‘F I was ye, Meggie, 'an I loved a man,” she said stoutly, thinking of Lawrence, “I'd go wi' ‘im, dad er no dad. Ye only love onct an' that's a fac'.”

Meg hung her head, and the tears began again to trickle down her cheeks. “‘E's changed 'is mind,” she said sadly. “ ‘E doan't want me t' go after all.” She blew her nose on a scrap of cotton. “An' 'f I go, I'll niver git t' come back.”

“Why not?” Amelia asked, taking her hand. “Yer not a slave, Meggie. Nobody kin tell ye wot t' do. Why can't ye go away an' come back agin?”

Meg's expression was so totally despairing that Amelia's soft heart was wrung. “‘Cause,” she said hopelessly, “I stole somethin'. Marsh tol' me t' do't, an' I did.”

Having been in service since she was thirteen, Amelia was not shocked at this revelation. Every servant in her acquaintance had taken something from his or her employer at one time or another, and some repeated their thieving on a regular basis. The stolen item might be as trivial as coffee or tea or a pillowcase, or something more substantial—a piece of plate, sometimes even a piece of jewelry. She frowned, thinking of the magnificent jewelry that must be lying in the bedrooms upstairs. The footmen were not supposed to be on those floors, nor the laundry maids, but the back stairs afforded a ready access, and it would be easy enough to slip in and slip out unseen.

“This thing ye took,” she said apprehensively, “is it worth a lot of money?”

“Money?” Meg repeated, her pretty brow furrowed. “Well, no. I doan't s‘pose it was worth a lot o' money, not like jewels er somethin'.”

Amelia smiled, relieved. “Well, then,” she said cheerfully, “I can't see as ye've anythin' t' worry over, Meggie. Wotever ‘twas ye took can't mean much t' ye. All ye 'ave t' do is put it back.”

Meg did not smile. “I can't put it back,” she said. Her voice was shaking. Her small hand, in Amelia‘s, was as cold as December. “Marsh tol' me to, 'cause ‘e was afeared, so I tried. But I lost it, an' Marsh says we're in awful trouble.” She bit her lip. “ 'E says now as ‘e doan't want me t' go wi' 'im! ‘E says it's too dang'rous where ‘e's goin', wi' bombs an' all. An' now I'm afeared ‘e'll go off t' Lunnon an' take a new luv an' forgit all 'bout me. An' I'll niver see ‘im agin!”

And the sobs, which had somewhat abated, returned with greater force than ever, leaving Amelia feeling utterly helpless in the face of Meg's tumultuous grief.

Things in contingency are never more than probable.

—WILLIAM WENTWORTH, 1635

So many strange contingencies are improbable in the highest degree.

—CHARLES DARWIN, 1859

 

 

F
or Charles, the evening dragged dismally. His teatime conversations had left him with the realization that the criminal or criminals were hidden in a forest of mysterious motives and purposes and would not be easily flushed out. Worse, he had reason to fear that there might be more murder before the weekend was over. Why else had the killer retained the weapon, instead of leaving it as one more incriminating piece of evidence at the death scene? Because Charles could not be sure of the target, it was difficult to know when to act and what to do.

But Charles was nothing if not determined. He soldiered on. There was the usual formal dinner to be got through (he was seated at the far end of the table, much too far away from Kate, stunning in a sea-green gown that set off her russet hair and emphasized the curve of her breasts, the imagination of which made Charles grow uncomfortably warm). Dinner was followed by the usual withdrawal of the ladies so that the men could enjoy their port, cigars, and conversation, during which gathering the group kept assiduously from the subject of murder and offered Charles nothing to feed any of his several theories about the crimes.

Having adjourned, the men joined the ladies in the drawing room, where the Prince, with a great deal of hyperbole, introduced Charles as the “scientific detective extraordinaire” who was well on the way to solving “poor Reggie's dreadful murder”—a vast overstatement, in Charles's estimation, of both his qualifications and his current accomplishments.

Charles spoke for thirty minutes on the subject of scientific methods of crime detection. He was keenly interested in the subject and usually enjoyed extempore speaking. But tonight he found himself weary from the afternoon of interviews and disheartened by the thought that he had still more suspects to question. He also felt that he had to carefully guard his remarks, out of concern that the perpetrator might be in the audience. For this reason he avoided the subject of hair and fiber evidence and fingerprints, which, while novel and not yet accepted, even by Scotland Yard, promised to be the most reliable means of individual identification ever devised. He conjectured that if another crime were planned, the criminal, hearing of these forensic techniques, might take precautions against leaving such traces. For the most part, he talked about recent advances in toxicology, reminding his audience of the 1882 trial of George Henry Lamson, when Dr. Thomas Stevenson's testimony on poisonous alkaloids helped to convict the defendant of murder, and the more recent and notorious American trial of a man suspected of poisoning his wife with morphine. He also talked about Professor Lacassagne's recent work on the identification of bullets, and about the methods of tying a fatal bullet to a particular weapon. But he was depressed by the thought that not even the identification of the deadly weapon would unravel the two murders the Prince had commissioned him to solve. The attribution of the bullet to the weapon that fired it could not prove whose finger had pulled the trigger. And since he tended to discount Lady Warwick as a prime suspect, feeling that she herself was one of the criminal's targets, identification of the gun (should it indeed prove to be hers) would lead nowhere. Nor was there any other physical evidence that could be scientifically manipulated to yield the identity of the killer. The guilty person would have to be discovered by some other means, and Charles, scientist that he was, found this realization discouraging. As a consequence, his talk was less lively than usual. Indeed, he thought, it was tepid and rather boring.

But when he finished speaking and sat down, he was surprised at the robust round of applause he received. He was even more surprised when the Prince approached him, trailed by Sir Friedrich and Milford Knightly, each of whom, in turn, shook his hand and congratulated him on a sterling presentation.

“Extraordinary lecture, Charles,” the Prince said heartily. “A most fascinating topic, first-rate, really. You make all this detecting business sound jolly good sport.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Friedrich, with the first enthusiasm Charles had seen him display. “It's a wonder that any criminal quarry escapes, with such miracle hounds in hot pursuit.”

“A splendid stalk you've described,” Milford Knightly said admiringly. “Good show, Sheridan.”

“Thank you.” Charles felt his answer to be feeble, but it was difficult to respond intelligently to men who believed that the pursuit of a murderer was jolly good sport.

The Prince stroked his beard, his large eyes gleaming. “I must say, you've given me something to think about. I never imagined that there could be so many fascinating ways to bring criminals to earth. Tell me more, why don't you, about this business of comparing bullets. How is it actually done?”

Charles repeated part of what he had said earlier, and added, “What is needed, of course, is greater analytic precision. Bullets could be compared using two microscopes side by side, and superimposing the images by means of prisms or mirrors. Microphotographs could then be taken which would clearly demonstrate a match.”

“What a novel idea!” exclaimed the Prince. “Why don't you assemble such an apparatus? Surely every police department in the nation would find it extraordinarily useful.”

“I fear not, sir. The expense of the equipment and the cost of the skilled operator would be difficult for most police districts to justify. In London, it might be used frequently, but in a smaller town perhaps only once in a decade. The only solution, I think, is to develop a centralized forensic laboratory to which police departments throughout the country could submit evidence.”

The Prince snapped the Royal fingers. “Exactly my thought!” he exclaimed energetically. “And who better to head up such an effort than you, Sheridan? I'll mention it to the Home Secretary next week and see whether funds can be found to support it.”

Milford Knightly was frowning. “But what about Scotland Yard, Bertie? Isn't that what they're supposed to be doing?”

“Scotland Yard,” the Prince said contemptuously, “is mired in metropolitan politics and graft. Look at their performance on the Ripper business, for instance. All sorts of announcements and schemes, and never a solution.” He shook his head, warming to his subject. “No, what's needed is an independent laboratory with the most modern equipment. One that is completely separate from any of the police districts. One that can't be manipulated by special interests.”

Charles felt himself dejected again, remembering the story he had heard from a certain Inspector Abberline not long before: that the Prince himself had suppressed Scotland Yard's investigation of the Ripper killings because it had come too close to the Palace. To Crown Prince Eddy, and to the Prince's friend Randolph Churchill, whom Abberline claimed had masterminded the killings. Charles doubted that any crime laboratory could be completely autonomous or independent, or that the Palace would not use such an instrument to its advantage whenever necessary. And as for the idea that he might be in charge—well, that was out of the question, given his brother's illness and his approaching marriage. Still, it was not a good idea to argue with the Prince, especially when he needed the Royal cooperation on the matter at hand.

“Agreed, Your Highness,” he said noncommittally.

“It's this blasted investigation that's getting you down,” the Prince said. He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Come on, old man, chin up! With all that science at your fingertips, I'm sure you'll get a grip on things.”

“I fear I already have rather more of a grip than I would like, sir,” Charles said ruefully. He glanced at the others. “I wonder if we might have a private word.”

“Of course.” The Prince turned to Temple and Knightly. “You chaps go along and tell Lady Warwick to shoot off the first Roman candle in fifteen minutes.” As soon as they were out of earshot, the Prince turned. “What's all this, Charles? You are abysmally gloomy. You are casting a pall over our revels.”

Perhaps the pall was deservedly cast, Charles thought, since they were reveling in the shadow of murder. But he only reported without comment the seach of Wallace's room, the discovery of the Prince's letter, and the subsequent conversation with Daisy. As he spoke, the Prince turned grave. As Charles might have predicted, his first concern was for the letter.

“My letter,” he said shortly. “You have it?”

Charles nodded. “I am keeping it safe, sir. I will return it to you shortly.”

“Not to me,” the Prince said, turning down his mouth. “The letter belongs to the lady to whom it was sent—al—though I do think she must learn to be less careless with her possessions.” There was a guttural annoyance in his voice and his face had gone hard. “First her handkerchief, then her letter. Who knows what the devil she will lose next?” Charles was about to tell him about the missing pistol when he added, “I have already assured you that Daisy could not have been involved in this crime because she was with me. I take it you have discovered nothing that would contradict my statement.”

Charles agreed gravely that he had learned nothing to the contrary. “Your corroboration aside,” he said, “I believe it is highly improbable that Lady Warwick is guilty. As she herself pointed out, if she had shot Wallace, she would have removed her note from his person and then gone immediately to his room to retrieve the letter. What's more, both the note and the letter were far too easy to discover. I believe that someone intended them to be found, and through their discovery, meant to implicate her.” He paused. “I have begun to wonder if the crime itself was not committed in order that she might be accused. In fact, I can think of only one logical objection to that theory.”

The Prince was incredulous. “You're saying that Wallace was murdered solely to cast blame on Daisy?”

“I am suggesting the possibility,” Charles said. “The pistol you gave the Countess—which is of the same caliber as the murder weapon—is missing from her room. If it were found and confirmed as the fatal gun, a jury might be persuaded to convict her.”