by M. J. Trow
Selwyn’s father rose from behind his desk like a tsunami. ‘Selwyn,’ he snapped, banging his fist on the desk. ‘Had I not known your mother to be the most chaste and loyal of women, I would doubt that you were in fact my son. That and the Byng nose, of course, which you bear with little grace, I must say. Take it like a man, man. If you need to look at this wretched maid, then do so.’ He turned to Grand and Batchelor. ‘If you would be good enough to be as quick as possible, gentlemen; my son has lost a great deal of time in the office of late, due to this silly misunderstanding with his wife.’ He stood, knees bent and backside poised to regain his chair. He looked at them from under beetling brows, eyes sharp and hostile on either side of the Byng nose. ‘Well? Don’t let me keep you.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t that simple,’ Grand said. He really, really didn’t like this man and he could feel the anger bubbling up just under his diaphragm. ‘The body in question is not that of the maid, Molly, but possibly of Mrs Emilia Byng. It will be a distressing and upsetting experience for your son even if it isn’t – I doubt he will be in any position to return to the office and I for one do not intend to escort him back here. In fact, I think it would be best if you had him home with you for a day or so. He doesn’t look at all well. In fact …’
But he was too late. Selwyn Byng, pausing only to vomit copiously over his father’s desk, had crumpled up and lay on the floor, his knees drawn up, whimpering quietly to himself.
Byng senior looked with distaste at his only child lying at his feet. ‘Take as long as you need,’ he muttered, pushing back his chair. ‘And do, by all means bring him back to my house afterwards, that is if you think that is a better choice than a bed in some asylum. He certainly can’t go back to that poky place of his – he’ll need a few creature comforts I suppose, if the news is bad.’ He looked up at them and for a moment a concerned parent looked out through those sharp, cruel eyes. There was a question in his voice.
Batchelor answered it. ‘We can’t be sure, sir, but …’ he shrugged.
Byng touched a bell on his desk and the factotum returned. ‘Help these gentlemen with Mr Selwyn, would you?’ he said curtly. ‘And bring a mop.’ He stood up and reached his hat down from a peg on the wall behind him. ‘I’ll be at my club.’ He strode to the door. ‘And open a window. I could never stand the smell of despair.’
The door slammed behind him and Grand and Batchelor, supporting the almost catatonic Byng between them, watched him go in horror.
‘Nice man,’ Grand muttered.
‘The death of his wife changed him,’ the factotum said, sternly. ‘He loved her too much, I suppose. It left no room for Mr Selwyn and now he can’t accept he’s all he has. This business of Mrs Selwyn has made him rather worse … is it true? Are you really taking Mr Selwyn to see if …’ he glanced at his junior boss, ‘… if she’s …?’
‘Dead,’ wailed Selwyn Byng. ‘Dead, dead, dead.’
Normal condolences were both premature and inappropriate, so the enquiry agents settled for patting him randomly on the shoulder, arm, hand, whatever came near as he threshed and twitched his way out of the office. They were both thinking the same thing; it was going to be a long, long afternoon.
FIFTEEN
Byng recovered himself a little in the cab on the way to the mortuary but he was still in shock. Grand, who had seen more unpleasant sights as a young man than Byng would see in a lifetime, was trying to be generous, but he had been taught to not meet trouble halfway and so had little patience with Byng’s constant pessimism. Batchelor had led a more sheltered life than his partner but on the other side of the coin had spent a harrowing few months as a cub reporter taking down the details at inquests and so had, at second hand, more experience of bereavement than he had. But both, in their various ways, tried to buck Byng up by talking over his head about the many people they had known who had been missing for weeks, months, years even and had yet popped up, alive and kicking, in the end. But before the journey was over, his silent tears and hand-wringing had almost worn them out and it was a sombre trio which alighted from the cab in Lockington Street. It was a measure of Batchelor’s depression that he didn’t even mention receipts.
The mortuary was not a welcoming place. The powers that be had never really seen the need for fripperies; after all, almost everyone who went in through the door went in feet first (when present) so they were in no state to care and the living who tended the uncaring dead had long since ceased to notice the algae-streaked tiling, the flaking paint and the windows obscured by spiders’ webs as thick as bombazine. Fanny Kempster worried about her husband working there, day in and day out, and had at one time tried to add a feminine touch. Here and there, on windowsills and shelves, were the remains of her efforts: jam jars with a few withered wild flowers; a china figurine, only slightly chipped; two Staffordshire dogs, though not a pair as they both faced the same way, resolutely looking out through the door, to the world of light and life.
It was really no place to bring a husband already almost insane with grief and worry but it was where the body was and so needs must when the devil drives. At least the woman was shrouded in a fairly clean sheet, her clothes decently hidden in a hamper rather than strewn about as was often the case. Selwyn Byng had struck lucky; the deceased who might be his wife had been tended by Felix Kempster’s own caring hands and not by the usual casual ones of the mortuary attendant. Fanny had insisted – although the woman’s private life seemed to leave something to be desired, she dressed like a lady and so she needed a little extra care for when her nearest and dearest came to see her.
Even so, most of that extra care was lost on Selwyn Byng. He stood, leaning heavily on both Grand and Batchelor, as Felix Kempster respectfully lowered the sheet which was shielding the dead woman’s face. He had done his best with her hair, he had closed her eyes, he had made sure that the river’s depredations were minimized with a touch here and there of his wife’s rice powder and pale pink rouge, happily lent for the occasion. There was a bunch of chrysanthemums in her folded hands. She didn’t look peaceful as such, but she certainly didn’t look like a woman tossed and rolled for a day or two in a tidal river and then washed up on a shingly strand.
The two men edged Byng nearer. He didn’t speak and after a moment or two, Grand peered into his face. ‘You’ll have to open your eyes, Selwyn,’ he said, gently. ‘There’s nothing nasty to see, honestly there isn’t. She just looks as though she’s sleeping.’ He might have been speaking to a child. From the small studio portrait he had seen he was sure enough that it was Emilia Byng but only her husband could say for sure. ‘Please open your eyes, Selwyn, just for a moment.’
He watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered and first one and then another eye opened then almost instantaneously closed again, squeezing together as though glued. Byng nodded his head and kept on nodding, tears oozing out from under his lashes and washing down his cheeks. He opened his mouth to howl but nothing came. He sagged and would have fallen had it not been for his supporters, as firm and trusty as any on a shield on a tomb. Kempster lowered his eyes and his lips moved in a short prayer. He was not a religious man over and above the common, but he always said a few words over the dead; so many had no one else but he and even when they had, he said them, all the same. ‘Into your hands, Lord, we commend her spirit,’ Batchelor heard, as he and Grand half dragged Byng out into the hall, away from the smell of formaldehyde and river mud, away from the green-streaked tiles and dead daisies.
Kempster joined them in the waiting area, where Byng was now stretched out on a bench, his breathing stertorous, his face like grey wax.
‘He’s taking it hard,’ the doctor said. He had watched many men identify their wives, their children, their mothers, fathers and friends before now but few had reacted like this.
‘It’s been a while coming,’ Grand said, keeping his voice low. ‘I think from the moment he got the first letter, he has been expecting something like this.’
‘Letter
?’ Kempster was confused. ‘She’s been writing to him, has she? I hope you haven’t misunderstood, gentlemen; this isn’t a case of suicide, you know. It is definitely murder. Strangulation by ligature.’
Grand had seen the mark, inadequately covered by one of Fanny Kemspter’s last year’s scarves and nodded. ‘Anonymous letters.’ He tried to speak without moving his lips too much. ‘She had been kidnapped.’ The final word defeated his ventriloquial attempt and he gave up, using a whisper instead.
‘Kidnapped? Of course.’ Kempster was putting things together. ‘The finger.’
Batchelor hushed him. Byng was beginning to come round.
‘Sorry.’ The doctor dropped his voice. ‘I see now. Yes, I can see that he would be under a lot of strain. But even so, I don’t like his colour. Would you like me to give him something? A sedative?’ He glanced down with professional detachment. ‘A pick-me-up, perhaps. He certainly needs help of some kind.’
Byng suddenly spoke, his eyes still closed. ‘I don’t need drugs, doctor. I need to know who killed my wife. Who killed my little Emilia, who never did anyone an ounce of harm in all her life.’
The three men stood looking down at him. It was what everyone wanted; but how could they find out what had happened when the information was so scrappy, when Byng was so highly strung that you could practically play a jig on him? Grand turned to Kempster.
‘Yes. Give him something. Whatever it takes to bring him round.’ He only just stopped himself from suggesting a corpse-reviver, but Kempster got the message.
‘You know where my house is?’ he asked and the enquiry agents nodded. ‘Walk him round there and I’ll meet you in a minute. Fanny will make you comfortable and meanwhile, I’ll send to Daddy Bliss that the body has been identified. He’ll want to interview Mr Byng, I would imagine …’
‘No,’ screamed Byng, fluttering his hands in front of his face as though warding off moths, ‘no, no, no police. They said no police. It’s police that have brought Emilia to this place. No police, no, no …’
Kempster took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows then continued with barely a pause. ‘Though I know that he often makes an exception, so what I will say is that Mrs Byng has been identified and that Mr Byng is currently having a well-earned rest.’ His eyebrows continued their semaphore and Grand played along.
‘That would be a good plan, Dr Kempster, thank you so much. Meanwhile, we’ll see you at your house shortly, shall we?’
And nodding and smiling, they all went their separate ways, Byng’s feet trailing behind him and his head lolling, Kempster hurrying off to the dispensary to make up something to bring round a dead man.
Fanny Kempster was, of course, more than equal to the occasion and she soon had Selwyn Byng ensconced in her husband’s favourite chair by the fire, with a rug around his knees, a hot bottle at his feet and a cat on his knee. In her experience, there was nothing like a purring cat to calm a person down and although Grand and Batchelor had smiled condescendingly, they had to admit it seemed to be working. The grieving widower’s fingers smoothed the thick coat of the calico cat and his breathing had slowed. His colour was coming back and the tense cords in his neck had all but disappeared. The cat, used to alarums and excursions, slept on through the racking sobs, but apart from them, the man in the chair could have passed for almost normal.
The sound of a key in the door made all but Byng turn and Fanny bustled off to bring her husband up to date on his patient’s condition. The low voices in the hall added their hum to the general homely quiet of the Kempsters’ sitting room and seemed to lull Byng even further into a better place. But both Grand and Batchelor knew that he would have to come out of it soon; was it better to leave him there for a while longer, or get the whole thing done and dusted and get on with finding who had killed Emilia Byng?
Felix Kempster, followed by his hovering wife, came quietly into the room but couldn’t resist a chuckle when he saw the cat, which simply cocked an eyebrow at him and carried on purring. Sitting opposite the sobbing man, the doctor leaned forward and slid expert fingers under his wrist. After a moment, he let go and patted the man’s hand. ‘Feeling a little better, Mr Byng?’ he asked gently.
‘A little,’ the man sobbed. ‘A little calmer, yes.’
‘Well, my wife has gone to rustle up a warm drink for you,’ Kempster said. ‘I have given her a powder to add to it which will help you feel calmer still. No, no, don’t worry.’ He hastened to explain. ‘It isn’t a drug, just a herbal remedy which my patients find useful when they are overwrought. Ah, here she is. You’ll find it very palatable. Just drink up and we’ll be back to have a chat in a moment.’
With a final pat on Byng’s hand, he relinquished the seat to his wife and went over to where Grand and Batchelor patiently waited. Batchelor sniffed the air. ‘Surely, that’s …’
Kempster shushed him. ‘Laudanum,’ he mouthed. ‘Yes, that’s right. All herbal.’
Grand shrugged. A poppy was a herb, taken in the widest sense, so Kempster hadn’t exactly lied. ‘How long do we have, before he goes out like a light?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Kempster said, ‘it isn’t a precise science. And I did put a small amount of accelerant in there to counteract the … er … herbs, because I was worried about his colour. But I should think in the region of ten, fifteen minutes. But surely, he can’t help you, can he? He never met the kidnappers, I assume, so …’
‘Well,’ Grand said, speaking low, ‘the kidnappers knew enough to get in touch with her uncles, they knew about the trust.’ He saw Kempster’s eyes glaze with incomprehension. ‘You’ll have to just try and keep up, doctor, I’m sorry, we don’t have time to explain. So we think it must have been someone she knew, or at least who knew the family.’
Kempster’s expression took on a man-of-the-world cast. ‘Knew her very well, I think, gentlemen. There were signs of … well, I don’t have to draw you a picture.’
‘Really?’ Batchelor’s eyebrows rose and he moved in closer. ‘Rape, you mean?’
‘Not unless the man was a real gent,’ Kempster whispered. ‘There were no signs of coercion. No rope marks on ankles or wrists. No …’ his natural diffidence took over and he stopped.
‘I think we get the picture.’ Grand was thoughtful. ‘We had wondered if she had gone off with someone, right from the get-go.’
‘That would fit the pattern,’ Kempster said. ‘She was well-nourished and though the food in the stomach was almost digested to nothing, there was nothing to suggest it was anything other than a well-balanced meal. My experience of people kept captive is small, as you may imagine, but in cases of post mortems of, say, workhouse inmates, a basic diet shows very differently compared to something you or I might eat. So someone she knew would be a good guess.’
‘Or someone she came to know,’ Batchelor said, thoughtfully.
‘Sorry?’ Grand was lost.
‘Someone who snatched her and was a stranger at first but who she came to like. To love and trust, even.’
‘Is that likely?’ Kempster asked. ‘Surely, she would hate her kidnapper?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Grand said. ‘Now James has mentioned it, I have heard of girls in the West being taken by Indians and living happily with them, having children. Forgetting English, even.’
‘Cynthia Parker,’ Batchelor said.
‘Fancy you knowing that.’ Grand wasn’t often impressed by his colleague, but he was now. He précised the story for Kempster. ‘She was taken hostage by the Comanches, was it, or the Sioux …? Anyway, that isn’t important. The important bit is that she assimilated into the tribe and it wasn’t until she was rescued that she had all sorts of problems. I grant you it took years, but who knows – Emilia had been parted from her husband for a while, so she may have been hungry for affection and simply bonded with her kidnappers.’
While they talked, Fanny Kempster was tempting her patient to drink up his potion. She had sweetened it with honey and sprinkled some cinnamon on
it and although to an educated nose it smelled of the poppy, to anyone else, it was simply a creamy milk drink. Byng, after his initial lassitude, drank it happily and drained the cup. Checking the dregs to make sure he had taken everything, she scrambled to her feet and went over to touch Grand on the elbow. ‘He’s drunk it all,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have long. I’ll leave you to it, gentlemen.’ With a smile she slid silently from the room.
Grand and Batchelor watched her go. ‘You’re a lucky man, Dr Kempster,’ Grand told him and the doctor smiled and dipped his head. There wasn’t a day that he didn’t give thanks for his wife, but it was nice when someone else noticed as well.
The three men took seats alongside Byng around the cosy fire. ‘Are you feeling a little stronger now, Mr Byng?’ Kempster asked, again slipping his fingers around his wrist to check his pulse.
Byng looked at him, just slightly cross-eyed. ‘Yes. I feel … I feel more relaxed now. I know Emilia is dead … and she’s never coming back … but somehow, I can stand it. Whatever was in that drink, doctor?’ His pupils stood wide. ‘It tasted very good, I’ll say that for it.’
‘Good.’ Kempster patted his hand. ‘That’s good. Now, Mr Grand and Mr Batchelor have a few questions for you, if you feel up to it.’
Byng nodded, slowly and deliberately. ‘Umm-hmm. I can manage a few,’ he said, good-naturedly. Neither of the agents had ever seen him so pleasant and they could now see what Emilia had married him for. With a smile on his face, no matter that it was a little vacant, he was quite handsome, in a ferrety sort of way.
‘We’ll keep it brief, Selwyn,’ Grand said softly. ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you?’
‘Hurt me?’ Byng was confused. ‘It’s Emilia who’s been hurt.’
