Blood Will Tell

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘You have no right to detain me! I have done nothing wrong, nothing illegal. I must tend to my animals. You will ruin months, years, of work! It is always the same. Persecution, persecution everywhere I go!’

  The constable put out a hand to restrain him. That was a mistake.

  ‘You will not touch me, pig of a policeman! Pig! Pig! I am in this country legally. You will leave me alone.’

  ‘Mr Mahala,’ said Alan with quiet force, ‘we wish to speak with you about some incidents at the Hutchins Building. We can do it in civilized fashion here at the college, or we can do it at the police station. The choice is yours.’

  ‘You have no right! I have done nothing!’

  ‘We have every right. Constable?’ He raised his eyebrows and made a gesture with his head. The constable reached for his handcuffs.

  Mahala looked frantically to left and right, but before he could decide which direction to run, Alan had grasped his arm. ‘Don’t be a fool, man! I don’t want to put you under arrest, not just yet, but if you attempt an escape I’ll have no choice.’

  I stepped into the scene. ‘Now look here, young man! Behave yourself! The idea – making such a spectacle of yourself right here in front of the whole college. You’re said to be brilliant. I must say, you’re not acting like it. Take a deep breath and settle down!’

  I don’t know if it was my sixth-grade-teacher voice or my flowery blouse and absurd hat, but Mahala stopped shouting and dancing around, and stared at me.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Well, that wasn’t a very polite way to address me, but it was better than the abuse he’d been flinging a moment ago. ‘My name is Martin. I am an American now living in England and visiting Cambridge. And please don’t launch into a tirade against America and Americans, because I’ve heard it all before and find it exceedingly tiresome.’

  He had opened his mouth. He shut it again. It seemed he wasn’t accustomed to being treated like a naughty little boy. I pressed my advantage.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I would like to go inside and continue this conversation out of the sun. Is there any place in the library where we could talk without disturbing other students?’

  ‘I do not care if I disturb anyone!’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I do. Where have they put your rats?’

  ‘In the – how do you know about my rats? Who are you, that you know so much about me?’

  ‘Oh, I know a great deal about a lot of things. We’ll go down to the rat hostelry and talk. And you will allow me, please, to take your arm. I do not find stairs at all easy at my age.’

  I watched him as I made the remark about stairs, but there was no reaction. Well, maybe it hadn’t been Mahala who pushed me at the Fitzwilliam.

  I took his arm in a firm grip. He tried to shy away, but I ignored his attempt to be free and just gripped a little harder. ‘This is very kind of you,’ I said, pretending he had a choice.

  We walked into the library and down a half-flight of stairs. Alan and the constable followed, the constable with a slightly stunned look on his face, Alan with a bemused half-smile.

  I was bracing myself for my first view of the rats, and it was a good thing. When we entered the storage room where their cages had been put, we were greeted with a chorus of agitated squeaks, so high-pitched as to be painful to the ear.

  ‘They are upset,’ said Mahala, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘They do not like to be moved, and the females are soon to give birth. It is infamous that they should be moved now.’

  ‘Yes, well, moving isn’t pleasant for humans, either, is it? I’m sure they’ll calm down in time. Tell me about them.’ I wasn’t sure how long my schoolteacher/nanny impersonation was going to work, and I wanted to get as much out of him as I could before he turned defensive and Alan would have to move in with the cop routine.

  ‘They are very fine rats,’ said Mahala, his enthusiasm for the moment suppressing his antagonism. ‘See how big they are! I have been breeding them for size, but also I am giving them a special diet of my own invention. I will not tell you what it is.’

  ‘Of course not. I probably wouldn’t understand anyway, if it involves a lot of supplements.’

  ‘No! It is only special food, food that humans can eat also.’ He hesitated. ‘My part of Africa, where I live, is very poor. No one has enough to eat. There is little rain. I have combined grains that can thrive in poor soil with little water, to see if this food will make rats grow. And you see! They are enormous! You have said I am brilliant, and now you see that it is true. And they are not only big; they are smarter than the others, too. I can show you—’

  ‘Another time, perhaps. I must say, your efforts to feed the poor are laudable, but just now we would like to know what part of your experiment involves human blood.’

  It was a total shock. His face could not turn white, but it went a sort of ashy grey, and he began again to turn his head in a frantic search for a way out.

  There was no escape. The constable, a solid young man, stood in front of the only door to the room. There was no window.

  ‘Easy, son,’ said Alan. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I do not have to talk to you! I do not have to stay here! I know your laws. I do not know who you are, but you have no right to keep me here!’

  ‘As I have said before, I do have that right. My name is Alan Nesbitt and I am a sworn police officer, as is the constable here. However, this is not an official police interrogation, and I’d like to keep it that way. As I also said before, I would prefer a civilized conversation, especially since I suspect your overreaction may not be very good for your rats. They’re not usually so noisy, are they?’

  ‘You are upsetting them,’ said Mahala, but he had moderated his tone.

  ‘No, sir, I believe you are upsetting them. They do not, if I recall my daughter’s childhood pets accurately, like human anger and loud voices. I believe there is a conference room upstairs where we might speak in some privacy.’

  ‘I do not wish to speak with you at all.’

  ‘But you’re going to, dear,’ I said gently, ‘and it would be much better for your rats if we went elsewhere.’

  He turned on me. ‘And who are you? Are you some kind of policeman, too? They have women in the police in this country, I know, but you do not look like one.’

  Chalk one up to the hat and the blouse. ‘No, I’m not with the police. I am Mr Nesbitt’s wife, and I am interested in what has been happening in the Hutchins Building. I am also interested in your rats. I believe that they are usually housed two to a cage, but yours are alone. Can you tell me why that is?’

  ‘I have bred them for size, as I have told you. They are too big now for two in a cage. They are also more aggressive than ordinary laboratory rats. They might harm one another if I put two together.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Did you anticipate the aggression when you began your research?’ As we talked, Mahala was being gradually eased out the door and up the stairs, the constable in the lead, with Alan bringing up the rear behind Mahala and me.

  ‘It was always possible. Larger individuals of a given species often exhibit aggression, although the opposite can also be true.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the “gentle giant” phenomenon. I’ve known it in humans. A very kind and gentle handyman who used to do work for me and my first husband, back in Indiana, was immense – well over six feet tall and probably three hundred pounds. Or, let’s see, what would that be in stones? Or do you use kilos in your country?’

  ‘Yes, and here in England in the sciences, also. Or simply grams, for most rats. Many of my rats, though, weigh far more than one kilo. My largest one approaches two. Soon, with my special feeding, they will all be over two kilos, and I will have to give them bigger cages. My professor—’ He stopped talking and looked around him. We had arrived at the conference room, and Alan was just closing the door.

  ‘No! I do not wish to talk to you.’

  ‘Mr Mahala, sit down.’ Alan’s
voice was not loud, but there was steel in it.

  Mahala sat.

  ‘That’s better. Now I must stress to you that you are not under arrest. You do not have to answer any of my questions, and you may leave when you wish. I will also say, however, that your unwillingness to answer reasonable questions may be regarded as suspicious.’

  ‘I simply do not understand,’ I put in, ‘why you should be so panicky about a few simple questions. You’re happy to talk about your rats, about your work. If you have nothing to hide, you shouldn’t mind talking to us.’

  ‘In my country the police are cruel. They beat and torture innocent people. I do not like the police!’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ said Alan, holding on to his patience, ‘but you’re in England now, and we’re not allowed to do any of those things. Now, Mahala, I want you to tell us anything you know about where Tom Grenfell might be.’

  He blinked. ‘I do not know. He is not at the college?’

  ‘He is neither at the college nor at home. When did you see him last?’

  ‘I do not know him well. He is a graduate student. He is a botanist. Our paths do not cross.’

  ‘But you know who he is, obviously. When did you see him last?’

  ‘He does not like me. We do not see each other.’

  ‘Mahala.’ Alan’s steel voice again. ‘You work in the same building amongst only – how many students? Twenty? Thirty? I ask again, when did you see him last?’

  Mahala looked down at his hands. ‘I do not remember.’

  This was not an official police interrogation. Alan had said so. I felt free to put my oar in. ‘I imagine it was when you were cleaning up the last of the blood in the lab, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No! He was not there! He did not see me! I—’ He stopped suddenly, but not soon enough.

  ‘So you were the one who cleaned up the blood,’ said Alan. ‘I’d like you to tell us about that, if you will. Whose blood was it, and how did it find its way to the laboratory floor?’

  EIGHTEEN

  Sullen silence. The constable shifted his feet. The muted sounds of the library came through our door.

  ‘The blood I saw on the floor was human blood, Mahala,’ I said quietly. ‘If it had been cleaned up in the ordinary way, and a doctor had been called, or an ambulance, there might have been a perfectly simple explanation. Someone had been accidentally injured. Accidents do happen.

  ‘But that blood was dealt with stealthily, and no doctor was called. Something untoward has happened, and you must see that the police need to know what. There was a great deal of blood, much more than could have come from a simple cut or a nosebleed. It is even possible that someone has died. You can make this easier if you tell us what you know, but the matter will be investigated thoroughly, with or without your help. And if it is necessary to place you under arrest, even for a short time, what will happen to your rats?’

  Mahala muttered something.

  ‘Could you repeat that, please?’ said Alan. ‘I didn’t quite—’

  ‘It was my blood! It is nobody’s business but my own!’

  ‘But, Mahala, listen!’ I was shocked and distressed. ‘If you lost so much blood, you must see a doctor. That had to have been a serious injury, and it’s dangerous—’

  ‘You know nothing about it! You know nothing about me! But I will show you, so you will see how foolish you are, all of you!’

  He threw off the light jacket he was wearing. A thick bandage was covering part of his left forearm, the arm I had been grasping so firmly. I shivered at the thought of the pain I must have caused him. Some blood had seeped through the layers of gauze.

  With one savage motion, Mahala ripped off the bandage, revealing a cut on his inner arm, just below the elbow. The cut was just over an inch long and was seeping quite a lot of blood.

  ‘But … but that tiny cut … all that blood … and it must be newer than last Wednesday. It’s still bleeding a little.’

  ‘It had stopped. You took my arm and started it again.’

  I shook my head, utterly confused.

  ‘I have a disease. My blood does not clot properly. It is called haemophilia.’

  I had been standing near the door. Now I dropped into the nearest chair. ‘Oh, how utterly stupid of me. I was so close. The blood on the rock!’

  Alan looked as near to exasperated as I’ve ever seen him. ‘Dorothy, the blood was on the floor, or so you’ve said. Do you now say it was on a rock?’

  ‘No, no, in the book. And that’s why they didn’t know when the murder took place.’

  ‘I think,’ said the constable, who had been utterly silent, ‘that Mrs Martin is referring to the book Have His Carcase by Dorothy L. Sayers. The fact that the victim was a haemophiliac plays a very large role in the plot. Ahem.’

  Alan’s expression cleared. ‘Ah. Understandable. But why, Dorothy, do you call yourself stupid?’

  ‘Because I was thinking of that book only yesterday, and the haemophilia part went right by me. I was thinking that this student prank they were planning wouldn’t work at all, really, because whatever blood they planned to use would have clotted almost immediately unless they put something in it – an anticoagulant of some sort. We talked about it, Alan. But yours would have worked, wouldn’t it, Mahala? At least, I don’t know how long it would stay liquid, but you probably do. Only, surely you wouldn’t have wanted them to use your own blood! That could be terribly dangerous for you. You could even die! Here, I don’t have any bandages with me, but this might help.’ I handed him an unopened packet of tissues from my purse.

  Mahala ignored them. His face had once more become a mask. ‘How do you know about the foolish thing that the students planned to do?’

  Alan shot me a look. OK, I shouldn’t have mentioned that at this point. I subsided and let him take over.

  ‘You’re not the only student we’ve talked to, you know. We know a good deal about the activities in the Hutchins Building. And I will ask you once more: when did you last see Tom Grenfell?’

  ‘I do not remember.’

  ‘How did you come by that cut on your arm?’

  ‘It was an accident. I mishandled a scalpel.’

  ‘What did you do with the scalpel?’

  ‘I do not remember.’

  And that continued to be his answer to all questions, though Alan tried for another fifteen or twenty minutes.

  When he had finally given up, he asked Mahala for his address, which he very reluctantly provided. I tried to talk with Mahala and urge him to see a doctor, while Alan stepped out of the room to call Elaine.

  When he returned, he spoke sternly to Mahala. ‘You may go, but you are to stop at the police station to give them a blood sample. If it matches the blood found in the lab, you are free of suspicion. However, we may still wish to speak with you about Tom Grenfell, so I will ask you to keep the police informed of your whereabouts. Do you understand?’

  Mahala muttered something surly and stalked out of the room, and we headed back to our room, the constable going to make a more complete report to Elaine.

  ‘Well, that didn’t get us anywhere,’ I said crossly, flopping on to the bed to ease my protesting muscles. ‘I wish Elaine had let the constable bring him in.’

  ‘There are no grounds for arrest. Mahala is uncooperative and rude, but he has not, to our knowledge, done anything illegal. He explained the blood. He claims he knows nothing about Tom. What would you have Elaine do?’

  ‘You think he was telling the truth about all that?’

  ‘He would know that tests could be run. I don’t think he would lie about something so easily proved or disproved. The same with his medical records. He may not have been in this country for a long time, but unless he lied about being a haemophiliac, he will have seen a doctor several times.’

  ‘There was an awful lot of blood on that bandage, for such a small cut,’ I conceded, ‘and it kept on oozing while we talked. All right, he probably does have haemophilia – I wish
I’d been able to get him to see a doctor about it – and that probably was his blood on the floor. But he wouldn’t tell us how or why or when it got there, and he didn’t explain why he was so secretive about it. And he was lying about how he got the cut.’

  ‘Certainly he was.’

  ‘And the other thing is I don’t believe his story about hating the police. I mean, he probably does, maybe with good reason, but that doesn’t explain his absolute panic about being questioned. There’s something else going on.’

  Alan looked at me quizzically. ‘I agree. After years of policing experience, I’ve learned to spot a liar. But how did you know?’

  ‘Same thing. Years of experience. Mine was with schoolchildren, but a liar is a liar. Their behaviour is much the same. The question is what are we going to do about it?’

  Alan sighed. ‘Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do at this juncture. His story about the blood takes the wind out of our investigative sails. As long as there was the possibility of murder, or at the very least assault, we had a reason to seal the building and so on.’

  Tired and annoyed as I was, I had to smile at the ‘we’. Alan professes to be well content in his retirement, but the old fire horse can’t ignore a bell, even when it’s officially summoning some other brigade.

  He grinned. ‘Very well, Elaine had a reason. Now she hasn’t one, and I’m sure our helpful constable has told her that by now.’

  ‘But she hasn’t shut down yet. We could go over and see if her minions have found out anything interesting.’

  Alan sighed again. ‘She’ll let us know if anything turns up. I hate to admit it, love, but I’m tired.’

  I nodded. ‘Me, too. Tired and discouraged. We seem to reach this stage every time, don’t we? When all the promising leads peter out into dead ends. Did you ever see The African Queen?’

  ‘Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart. Splendid film.’

  ‘One of the best. Then you’ll remember the scene near the end when they’ve been poling and even dragging the boat through a narrow channel, and it finally gets stuck in a morass of weeds. That’s the way I feel now.’