The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  “Are you telling me a ghost did this?” Ben asked.

  “You needn’t pretend disbelief,” Lady Maggart said in a tone of sweet reason that made Juliet want to throttle her. “You reputedly live in a haunted cottage. Your associate boasts of hearing otherworldly voices. Have you the arrogance to tell me that your experiences are genuine, and mine are mere superstition? Look at that poor man’s contortions. Tell me he didn’t behold something unbearable just before he died.”

  Juliet was scribbling so rapidly, she feared not even she would be capable of deciphering the result.

  “Those contortions aren’t supernatural, your ladyship,” Ben said. “They’re the result of cadaveric spasm. You’ve heard of rigor mortis, yes? Cadaveric spasm is akin to that, with one key difference—it doesn’t require hours to develop. It happens instantly, at the moment of death, as the result of severe shock and trauma. In this case, we’re fortunate it occurred.”

  “Fortunate?” Lady Maggart said.

  “Yes. It’s frozen his limbs into a position that gives us some incontrovertible evidence about his death,” Ben said. “Look, I’ll demonstrate.

  “Suppose I’m Bobby. I’ve come here to, er, romance a maid. When I get out of bed, probably to get dressed, someone attacks me from behind.” He lifted his chin, drawing his finger across his throat. “Blood spurts everywhere. About a gallon, if you didn’t know. I go to my knees”—he eased down—“and catch myself against a wall with one hand”—he demonstrated—“but shock has already killed me. The resulting cadaveric spasm freezes me like this, in the last position I ever took.

  “Now,” Ben continued, rising and massaging his knee. “Imagine the scene. Blood everywhere. It’s clear to me the killer decided—”

  “Why must there be a killer?” Mr. Collins interrupted belligerently. “I once knew of a man who cut his own throat. Why not this man?”

  Juliet snorted. “Did that corpse hide the knife and relocate to a clean room, too?”

  “Lady Juliet,” Lady Maggart said coolly, “perhaps it’s escaped your notice, but you are unfeminine, uncouth, and altogether unwelcome.”

  “Insults aside,” Ben said firmly before Juliet responded in kind, “my associate, as you call her, is correct. Whether Bobby was murdered or committed suicide, his body has been moved. That would take at least two people. He weighed about twelve stone, I think, and he’s stiff as marble. Getting him in here would have been difficult. Doing it without being seen beggars the imagination.”

  “That is quite enough,” Mr. Collins burst out, once again displaying the irascibility Juliet had glimpsed by the stairs. “Milady, I find this insupportable. What he suggests is nothing less than a conspiracy. He would have you believe one of our girls is a strumpet and a murderess. That others aided and abetted her crime. Worse, that I am either incompetent or complicit.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Bones doesn’t mean to accuse you,” Lady Maggart said. “I can see he’s an earnest, capable man, despite the company he keeps. We shouldn’t take offense or hinder his efforts in any way. There is no murderer. Not in the human sense,” she declared. “Something lured Mr. Archer here. Look into the history of Cornwall, of ghost lights and moving signposts, and perhaps you’ll see why I consider the occult so dangerous. I know nothing of this man, but something condemned and tormented him, and stole his blood away. Such things can only be fought with prayer and piety.” She shot a glance at Juliet. “And the repudiation of those who commune with spirits.”

  “I disagree,” Juliet said, realizing the moment had arrived. Putting aside her pencil and notebook, she seized the bundle of stretcher canvas, unwrapping it to expose the talking board within. “Communing with spirits shall reveal the truth. Let us call upon the dead.”

  Raising the sinister-looking board like Circe lifting her bowl of poison, Juliet said in ringing tones, “My HOUR is almost come! When I to SULFUROUS and TORMENTING flames must RENDER up myself….”

  “Stop!” Lady Maggart shrieked.

  “I could a TALE unfold whose lightest word would HARROW up thy SOUL—”

  “The Fiend. You speak his tongue!

  “Shakespeare’s tongue,” Ben corrected, snatching away the board before Juliet’s big finish. “From Hamlet, if memory serves. With such a hammy delivery, it’s hard to tell.”

  “Hammy? Nonsense. I’m a natural actress,” Juliet said, taken aback. Her mother adored her impromptu recitations. So did her mare, Epona, and her heirloom rose bushes.

  Lady Maggart either didn’t believe she’d been fooled by the Bard, or the realization made her angrier still. “Witch!” she flung at Juliet.

  “Beef-witted canker-blossom!” Juliet flung back.

  “Enough,” Ben snapped, stepping between them. “Milady, I’d like a word with you. Alone.”

  “Yes, of course,” Juliet said.

  “Not you.” He pressed the board back in her hands. “Take this and wait in the hall.”

  “You, too, Collins.” Lady Maggart sounded genuinely shaken.

  The butler obeyed. Juliet didn’t want to. Her natural tendency was to answer back, to argue until he changed his mind or relented in exhaustion. But as American gumshoe Dirk Diamond said, “The case must come first.”

  With a sigh, she followed the butler out.

  Sous Le Vent

  “Lady Maggart,” Ben began. “Forgive me if I overstep, but may I take your pulse?”

  She extended her wrist. As Ben expected, given her dilated pupils and quick breaths, he found tachycardia: an elevated heart rate, impossible to manufacture for sympathy.

  “Shall I live?” She forced a smile. Once again, she reminded him of Penny in her kinder moments, when he’d loved her almost against his will.

  “Yes, of course.” He released her wrist. “I wanted to check because I’ve been astonished by how you’ve managed this situation, until moments ago, so coolly. The discovery of a dead man in your house, your proximity to a fresh corpse….”

  He trailed off as she looked sidelong at Bobby, unflinching.

  “The sight doesn’t trouble you. The smell doesn’t trouble you. All those questions I raised, which upset your butler no end, didn’t trouble you. Nor did the implications about a conspiracy among your staff. You’ve behaved very much like a hostess addressing some minor unpleasantness, which can be seen as admirable,” he put in, so as not to goad her without reason. “But then Lady Juliet pulled an admittedly tasteless prank, which was perhaps to be expected, given your run-in at the vicarage this morning, and you fell apart. Why?”

  “Because that sort of thing, whether playful or in earnest, is ruining my life,” she said, voice breaking into a sob. She turned away, took a moment to compose herself, and then resumed speaking with her previous strength. Only the tears standing in her eyes signaled distress.

  “This year has been beastly. Absolutely beastly.” She hugged herself, pressing the fox fur against her chin. “Noises. Voices. Objects disappearing. Threatening signs, impossible to ignore. Father Rummage agreed there was some spiritual deficit in Fitchley House and directed me to do several things. I followed through, and the occurrences stopped. Then in September, it returned, no doubt because of occult devotion in your village.”

  She believes it, Ben thought. Then again, his truth-detecting instincts weren’t foolproof. Penny had tricked him by lying to his face more than once.

  “I’ve experienced most of what you describe,” Ben said. “But in my case, it’s the talk of the village. People I barely know stop me to ask about the ghost of Fenton House. How is it none of them ever mentioned you having similar troubles?”

  “Because Barking is not Birdswing, thank heavens. Here, people retain some semblance of discretion,” Lady Maggart said. “My staff is sworn to secrecy. The only person outside Fitchley Park who knows is Father Rummage, and he’s silent as the grave.” She sighed. “We’ve worked so hard, he and I, to remove whatever curse has fallen upon this house. To rectify whatever sins,” she added softly,
“left an opening for evil. But this morning over breakfast, when I learned that absurd woman was boasting about communing with spirits—”

  “Don’t speak ill of Lady Juliet in my presence,” Ben cut in. “Please.”

  She accepted the rebuke with a nod. “You’re a good man, Dr. Bones. I can see that about you. As for the matter of my composure, let me remind you, this house is accustomed to strife. The Dudley I married vanished in the war, and a stranger returned in his place. So this”—she glanced at Bobby—“is not the first changeling to appear in my life. If this haunting continues, I fear he won’t be the last.”

  “Lady Juliet heard a voice. I saw an object fall from thin air. But you mentioned threatening signs. Like what?”

  “Don’t force me to dredge it up just now. Probably nothing you’d regard as evidence. Except that I’m going mad.”

  “I understand. I’ve had a scientific bent as long as I can remember,” Ben said. “At home, I’ve managed to accept what I’ve witnessed as something beyond the norm. Maybe beyond the scientific method itself. But here,” he continued, careful not to sound as if he were lecturing, “I’ve yet to witness anything that can’t be understood with further investigation. Which you might find comforting, in a way. A human killer would be preferable to a spectral one, surely?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Will you allow me—and Special Constable Gaston, when he arrives—to search the house?”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “The place where Bobby died. And the murder weapon.”

  “Very well. As long as you maintain your discretion around my husband and cause him no distress. And,” Lady Maggart added, “if you promise to remove this body, and your friend Lady Juliet, as soon as possible.”

  “Agreed,” Ben said quickly before she could change her mind. “But before we take Bobby away, I think we should preserve certain details for future reference. Have you a camera, my lady?”

  “No.”

  “Does Barking have a photographer?”

  “Father Rummage,” Lady Maggart said. “An amateur, naturally, but very accomplished. His prints are sold around the village as day-tripper souvenirs. I could send a maid to the rectory to ask—”

  “Stop,” cried Lady Juliet from the hall. “Stop, or I’ll make a citizens’ arrest!”

  “Excuse me,” Ben told Lady Maggart. Fighting to keep his temper, he threw open the door, expecting something on par with Lady Juliet’s pseudo-spiritualism. Instead, he saw something alarming.

  “Collins! Good God, man. Let her go.”

  The butler’s face had gone as red as a pomegranate. At Ben’s command, he released his grip on Lady Juliet’s shoulders just as she kicked him in the kneecap—at least, Ben hoped that’s where she was aiming. When he let go, she overbalanced, staggering backward, and fell over a uniformed maid. The maid, who’d been bent over the stairs, scrubbing something as if her life depended on it, yelped.

  “See what you’ve done!” Mr. Collins roared at Lady Juliet.

  “You’re under arrest!”

  “That’s enough,” Ben shouted. No one paid him any mind. He pushed between the combatants. “What happened?”

  “Evidence! They’re destroying evidence,” Lady Juliet said.

  “I have authority below stairs,” Mr. Collins said.

  “I only did as I was told,” wailed the uniformed maid, a pretty girl with an elaborate lace cap. She clutched a bottle of solvent in one hand and a flannel in the other.

  “No one’s blaming you.” Sighing, Ben helped the trembling girl up as he checked on Lady Juliet’s alleged blood spot, or rather, the place where it had been. The chemical had acted so aggressively, not only the spot was gone. Even the carpet fibers were blanched.

  “It was only a drop of wine,” Mr. Collins said. “As I explained the moment you pointed it out.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps I’d trust you better if I hadn’t found you manhandling Lady Juliet,” Ben retorted. “While your girl was using enough Borax to bleach coal.”

  “Sir, I swear, I was only doing as I was told,” the maid said.

  Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. Where was Special Constable Gaston? In this situation, the man’s high-handed, sternly authoritative manner would have been a help rather than a hindrance.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the maid.

  “Kitty,” she sniffed.

  “Chin up, Kitty. You’ve done your duty, and no one’s cross with you,” he said. “But Mr. Collins knew we intended to test that stain for the chemical properties of human blood. Should Bobby Archer’s death become a CID manner, I will inform the authorities he deliberately destroyed evidence.”

  “Very well,” the butler said. “No doubt you’ll also explain to Scotland Yard that the dead man lost a gallon of blood, yet you went to pieces over a single drop. A purported single drop. Come, Kitty.” He marched upstairs with her in tow, slamming the door behind him.

  “I would apologize for Collins’s behavior,” said Lady Maggart dryly from behind Ben. “But it seems even the most reliable servant can be pushed too far.”

  Ben saw no reason to argue. He wasn’t concerned about the butler’s rudeness. The depth of his anger, however, was intriguing, and would need to be revisited later.

  “Lady Juliet, are you recovered?”

  “Yes, of course.” She squared her shoulders. “Thank heavens no member of Belsham Manor’s staff would ever treat a woman in such an ungallant fashion.”

  “My dear husband mistook you for a man,” Lady Maggart said. “Perhaps Mr. Collins did the same?”

  Before this back-and-forth could devolve into a second altercation, Ben interrupted with a direct appeal to Lady Juliet. “I need to conclude my examination of Bobby. May I trouble you to fetch the rector from St. Gwinnodock’s? He’s an experienced photographer. I’d like him to document the body’s position before we remove it.”

  “Since when am I an errand girl?”

  “You aren’t. But I trust you impress the urgency of the matter upon him,” Ben said, holding her gaze steadily.

  “Just go,” Lady Maggart snapped. Lady Juliet obeyed, but as she ascended, the staircase’s acoustics proved too tempting to resist.

  “By the PRICKING of my THUMBS, something WICKED this way COMES….”

  * * *

  After Lady Juliet’s departure, Lady Maggart cited a headache to excuse herself to her bedroom. Alone with Bobby, Ben rechecked the gloomy little room. For what, he didn’t know. Outside of phenolphthalin, his knowledge of modern detective methods began and ended with fingerprints. In the cinema, there was also the option of hauling a suspect into a small room, shining a bright light in his face, and haranguing him for an indefinite period. The idea of putting Mr. Collins through that particular wringer struck Ben as a good start.

  Despite Ben’s careful inspection, the room gave up nothing: no fallen objects, no blood smears, no signs of conspicuous scrubbing. He checked his watch; seven minutes had elapsed. It would probably be another quarter-hour before Lady Juliet returned with the rector. He decided to have another look at Bobby’s corpse.

  Lady Maggart’s belief that Bobby had taken his life due to some form of phantasmagorical interference was bizarre, but suicide wasn’t impossible, even if it was statistically unlikely. As a medical student, Ben had learned that toxic gas inhalation was far more common, since it was painless, bloodless, and didn’t require some outside force, like a bridge or a tall building. In a poorly ventilated sitting room, for example, one could shut the door and windows, turn on the unlit gas jets, fall asleep on the settee, and never wake up. Sticking one’s head in a gas oven would also do the trick. But around 1900, self-inflicted throat wounds like Bobby’s had been a prevalent method of suicide, especially among men.

  Except there are no practice cuts, Ben thought, reexamining the dead man’s throat. Even for a person in the grip of despair, overcoming the human survival instinct required desensitization; thus, the fatal w
ound was usually surrounded by shallower “practice” cuts. Bobby had died because of one deep slash. Judging by the architecture of the wound, Ben guessed the blade had been pulled from right to left. The slash rose from the collarbone to behind the ear, suggesting a left-handed killer. Had Bobby been left-handed? What about Fitchley Park’s staff?

  The girl on the stairs. Kitty. She had the bottle in her right hand and the flannel in her left.

  A familiar fragrance, the sensuous entwining of bergamot and lavender, tickled his nostrils, bringing with it a tangle of competing emotions: tenderness and hurt, desire and repulsion. The combination—a paper-white corpse and the scent of his dead wife—lifted the hairs on the back of Ben’s neck.

  “Penny?”

  Turning in a slow circle, he reexamined every inch of the room with far greater dread than he’d ever felt in Fenton House. Nothing had moved.

  Checking the corridor, he found it empty. The room next door was unlocked and also empty. From the direction of the kitchen and scullery, he heard chatter and pots clanging. No woman wearing Sous le Vent was near.

  He returned to the room where Bobby lay. The scent was stronger now.

  The first time Bobby strayed from his wife, Helen, it was with Penny. No one was sure if they were actually lovers, but they stepped out together, and he carried a torch long after she moved on.

  He’d gone through Revelations of a Reluctant Medium thoroughly enough to guess Madame Daragon’s take: Malice sometimes survived death and extracted vengeance on the living. But Ben couldn’t fully embrace that, at least not yet. He decided to go over the room a third time, this time looking for the simplest explanation: something soaked in French perfume.

  The nightstand was empty except for a liner of yellowed newspaper. It smelled like mildew. The blue-ticked mattress, which clearly hadn’t been aired in recent memory, reeked of compounded body odor. The only thing left was Bobby’s fashionable silk underpants. Unfortunately, Ben was submitting them to the sniff test as St. Gwinnodock’s rector arrived.