Capital Crimes: London Mysteries

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Do you know anything of these?’ I asked.

  ‘You are Judith Lee!’ he cried. ‘Of all the sluts—’

  ‘And you,’ I told him—I was less afraid than ever—‘are the coward who tried this morning to kill me with the same weapon with which you murdered Mr and Mrs Le Blanc. Here the weapon is, I have brought it back to you.’

  I pointed to the snake. He never took his eyes off my face.

  ‘So you know, do you?’

  ‘I didn’t know when I saw you on the boat coming from Ryde, but you told me this morning when you sent this.’ Again I pointed to the snake.

  ‘Did I? That’s how you put it, is it? And now what are you going to do, or what do you think you’re going to do?’

  ‘They know at Scotland Yard that I am here, and on what errand. When I put those roses on the table I sent them a message by your telephone to come here at once. In a very few minutes the officers of the law will be here; they’ll deal with you; they are the only sort of people who can.’

  ‘Are they? Will they? When they come—if they come—they’ll find you dead.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘And I am sure. Can’t you see murder in my eyes? You see so many things, can’t you see that? You hell-cat! The man who rids the earth of you will perform a service to humanity. You are everybody’s enemy. By getting rid of you I shall prove myself to be everybody’s friend. I have tried once and failed. I shan’t fail again, this time I’m going to do it.’

  ‘I tell you again that I think not.’

  ‘Don’t you? Then I’ll show you, if there’s time.’

  He lifted his arm off the oblong box; the lid flew off; a dreadful-looking head sprang out of it, attached to a sinuous body. A huge snake, as if it had been specially trained, made a rush at me across the table. I had a revolver in the pocket of my apron. As the reptile raised its head, opened its jaws, showed its hideous fangs, I struck it with the weapon. Exactly what I did to it I do not know, I only know that I struck it. It whirled right round. In his eagerness Mr Cleaver leaned over the table as if to urge it on. As it wheeled the creature seemed to come right against his face. The man gave a strange cry; with both his hands he gripped the reptile by the throat. The serpent seemed to fight the man; it was like a nightmare. I did not know what to do. I dared not fire, I dared do nothing. My eye caught sight of a metal rod which was in a corner of the room. I rushed to it. I hurried back, the rod in my hand, and with all my force I struck the snake. As it seemed in that same instant the man fell to the ground, and the snake, limp, lifeless, broken-backed, fell with him.

  Mr Harold Cleaver was dead. The cobra had struck him again and again when once would have been sufficient. The death which he had meant for me was his.

  I telephoned to Dr George Evans, who arrived almost as soon as Inspector Ellis from Scotland Yard. A medical man was already there. There was no necessity for him to declare the cause of death, it was self-evident. Dr Evans informed us that that particular cobra was almost as dangerous a plaything as that other specimen of the Viperidœ. It had once belonged to him. Acceding to his reiterated requests, he had sold it to Cleaver on the understanding that he was going to destroy it and stuff it, and dispose of it in the ordinary way of business.

  For what seemed to me to be obvious reasons, nothing was ever made public. We had no positive proof, but there was a very strong presumption that Mr Harold Cleaver had killed the Le Blancs. He had what probably appeared to him to be sufficient motives. Old Le Blanc was by way of being a usurer; Cleaver owed him a considerable sum; he was pressing for payment; Cleaver was in no position to pay. Cleaver knew that both the Le Blancs had made wills leaving all they possessed to their daughter. He had made surreptitious love to Freda Le Blanc, who, a simple-minded girl, had in a way encouraged him. After a fashion they were engaged—in secret. It was old Le Blanc’s discovery of the engagement which had caused him to put pressure on Cleaver, and to send his daughter away to friends in France, which action on his part brought about Cleaver’s opportunity.

  No doubt he stole the doctor’s snake, which was of so small a size that it was easy to carry in his pocket; no doubt that with it in his pocket he gained entry to The Elms; no doubt he used it to slay both the husband and the wife; he thought that with the father and mother both dead—safely dead—he would be able to marry their daughter and sole heiress, and all that they possessed would be his.

  Freda Le Blanc went with her fortune to France—to her relatives. I do not think she has any suspicion of how her parents came to die. The shock of her lover’s death had been a great blow to her. She had no notion that it had been his intention to kill me.

  The entire episode was still another illustration of the power which conscience has. If, on the Ryde boat, a suddenly startled conscience had not caused him to behave in a fashion which caught my attention, if the same pricking conscience had not prompted him to send me that message of death, I should not have been aware even of his existence. It would scarcely be speaking figuratively if one said that his conscience slew him.

  The Magic Casket

  R. Austin Freeman

  Richard Austin Freeman (1862–1943) tackled fiction in a very different way from Richard Marsh. He eschewed sensation, even in a story like this, with potentially lurid ingredients, and concentrated instead on scrupulously accurate detective work. Raymond Chandler called Freeman ‘a wonderful performer. He has no equal in his genre.…In spite of the immense leisure of his writing he accomplished an even suspense which is quite unexpected. The apparatus of his writing makes for dullness, but he is not dull. There is even a gaslight charm about his Victorian love affairs.’

  Freeman was born in London, and his best work featured the hero of this story, Dr John Evelyn Thorndyke of 5A King’s Bench Walk in the Inner Temple. Thorndyke practised medical jurisprudence, which in Freeman’s words ‘deals with the human body in its relation to all kinds of legal problem’, but he could turn his hand to all kinds of scientific detection. Freeman, like many admirers of Poe and Conan Doyle, borrowed the idea of having a great detective’s cases related by an admiring sidekick. The narrator here is his regular ‘Watson’, Christopher Jervis.

  ***

  It was in the near neighbourhood of King’s Road, Chelsea, that chance, aided by Thorndyke’s sharp and observant eyes, introduced us to the dramatic story of the Magic Casket. Not that there was anything strikingly dramatic in the opening phase of the affair, nor even in the story of the casket itself. It was Thorndyke who added the dramatic touch, and most of the magic, too; and I record the affair principally as an illustration of his extraordinary capacity for producing odd items of out-of-the-way knowledge and instantly applying them in the most unexpected manner.

  Eight o’clock had struck on a misty November night when we turned out of the main road, and, leaving behind the glare of the shop windows, plunged into the maze of dark and narrow streets to the north. The abrupt change impressed us both, and Thorndyke proceeded to moralize on it in his pleasant, reflective fashion.

  ‘London is an inexhaustible place,’ he mused. ‘Its variety is infinite. A minute ago we walked in a glare of light, jostled by a multitude. And now look at this little street. It is as dim as a tunnel, and we have got it absolutely to ourselves. Anything might happen in a place like this.’

  Suddenly he stopped. We were, at the moment, passing a small church or chapel, the west door of which was enclosed in an open porch; and as my observant friend stepped into the latter and stooped, I perceived, in the deep shadow against the wall, the object which had evidently caught his eye.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, following him in.

  ‘It is a handbag,’ he replied; ‘and the question is, what is it doing here?’

  He tried the church door, which was obviously locked, and coming out, looked at the windows.

  ‘There are no lights in the church,’ said he; �
��the place is locked up, and there is nobody in sight. Apparently the bag is derelict. Shall we have a look at it?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he picked it up and brought it out into the mitigated darkness of the street, where we proceeded to inspect it. But at the first glance it told its own tale; for it had evidently been locked, and it bore unmistakable traces of having been forced open.

  ‘It isn’t empty,’ said Thorndyke. ‘I think we had better see what is in it. Just catch hold while I get a light.’

  He handed me the bag while he felt in his pocket for the tiny electric lamp which he made a habit of carrying—and an excellent habit it is. I held the mouth of the bag open while he illuminated the interior, which we then saw to be occupied by several objects neatly wrapped in brown paper. One of these Thorndyke lifted out, and untying the string and removing the paper, displayed a Chinese stoneware jar. Attached to it was a label, bearing the stamp of the Victoria and Albert Museum, on which was written:

  ‘Miss Mabel Bonney,

  168 Willow Walk, Fulham Road, W.’

  ‘That tells us all that we want to know,’ said Thorndyke, re-wrapping the jar and tenderly replacing it in the bag. ‘We can’t do wrong in delivering the things to their owner, especially as the bag itself is evidently her property, too,’ and he pointed to the gilt initials, ‘M. B.”, stamped on the morocco.

  It took us but a few minutes to reach the Fulham Road, but we then had to walk nearly a mile along that thoroughfare before we arrived at Willow Walk—to which an obliging shopkeeper had directed us; and, naturally, No. 168 was at the farther end.

  As we turned into the quiet street we almost collided with two men, who were walking at a rapid pace, but both looking back over their shoulders. I noticed that they were both Japanese—well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking men—but I gave them little attention, being interested, rather, in what they were looking at. This was a taxi-cab which was dimly visible by the light of a street lamp at the farther end of the ‘Walk,’ and from which four persons had just alighted. Two of these had hurried ahead to knock at a door, while the other two walked very slowly across the pavement and up the steps to the threshold. Almost immediately the door was opened; two of the shadowy figures entered, and the other two returned slowly to the cab; and as we came nearer, I could see that these latter were policemen in uniform. I had just time to note this fact when they both got into the cab and were forthwith spirited away.

  ‘Looks like a street accident of some kind,’ I remarked; and then, as I glanced at the number of the house we were passing, I added: ‘Now, I wonder if that house happens to be—yes, by Jove! it is. It is 168! Things have been happening, and this bag of ours is one of the dramatis personæ.’

  The response to our knock was by no means prompt. I was, in fact, in the act of raising my hand to the knocker to repeat the summons when the door opened and revealed an elderly servant-maid, who regarded us inquiringly, and, as I thought, with something approaching alarm.

  ‘Does Miss Mabel Bonney live here?’ Thorndyke asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply; ‘but I am afraid you can’t see her just now, unless it is something urgent. She is rather upset, and particularly engaged at present.’

  ‘There is no occasion whatever to disturb her,’ said Thorndyke. ‘We have merely called to restore this bag, which seemed to have been lost;’ and with this he held it out towards her. She grasped it eagerly, with a cry of surprise, and as the mouth fell open, she peered into it.

  ‘Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘they don’t seem to have taken anything, after all. Where did you find it, sir?’

  ‘In the porch of a church in Spelton Street,’ Thorndyke replied, and was turning away when the servant said earnestly:

  ‘Would you kindly give me your name and address, sir? Miss Bonney will wish to write and thank you.’

  ‘There is really no need,’ said he; but she interrupted anxiously:

  ‘If you would be so kind, sir. Miss Bonney will be so vexed if she is unable to thank you; and besides, she may want to ask you some questions about it.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Thorndyke (who was restrained only by good manners from asking one or two questions, himself). He produced his card-case, and having handed one of his cards to the maid, wished her ‘good evening’ and retired.

  ‘That bag had evidently been pinched,’ I remarked, as we walked back towards the Fulham Road.

  ‘Evidently,’ he agreed, and was about to enlarge on the matter when our attention was attracted to a taxi, which was approaching from the direction of the main road. A man’s head was thrust out of the window, and as the vehicle passed a street lamp, I observed that the head appertained to an elderly gentleman with very white hair and a very fresh-coloured face.

  ‘Did you see who that was?’ Thorndyke asked.

  ‘It looked like old Brodribb,’ I replied.

  ‘It did; very much. I wonder where he is off to.’

  He turned and followed, with a speculative eye, the receding taxi, which presently swept alongside the kerb and stopped, apparently opposite the house from which we had just come. As the vehicle came to rest, the door flew open and the passenger shot out like an elderly, but agile, Jack-in-the-box, and bounced up the steps.

  ‘That is Brodribb’s knock, sure enough,’ said I, as the old-fashioned flourish reverberated up the quiet street. ‘I have heard it too often on our own knocker to mistake it. But we had better not let him see us watching him.’

  As we went once more on our way, I took a sly glance, now and again, at my friend, noting with a certain malicious enjoyment his profoundly cogitative air. I knew quite well what was happening in his mind; for his mind reacted to observed facts in an invariable manner. And here was a group of related facts: the bag, stolen, but deposited intact; the museum label; the injured or sick person—probably Miss Bonney, herself—brought home under police escort; and the arrival, post-haste, of the old lawyer; a significant group of facts. And there was Thorndyke, under my amused and attentive observation, fitting them together in various combinations to see what general conclusion emerged. Apparently my own mental state was equally clear to him, for he remarked, presently, as if replying to an unspoken comment:

  ‘Well, I expect we shall know all about it before many days have passed if Brodribb sees my card, as he most probably will. Here comes an omnibus that will suit us. Shall we hop on?’

  He stood at the kerb and raised his stick; and as the accommodation on the omnibus was such that our seats were separated, there was no opportunity to pursue the subject further, even if there had been anything to discuss.

  But Thorndyke’s prediction was justified sooner than I had expected. For we had not long finished our supper; and had not yet closed the ‘oak,’ when there was heard a mighty flourish on the knocker of our inner door.

  ‘Brodribb, by Jingo!’ I exclaimed, and hurried across the room to let him in.

  ‘No, Jervis,’ he said as I invited him to enter, ‘I am not coming in. Don’t want to disturb you at this time of night. I’ve just called to make an appointment for to-morrow with a client.’

  ‘Is the client’s name Bonney?’ I asked.

  He started and gazed at me in astonishment. ‘Gad, Jervis!’ he exclaimed, ‘you are getting as bad as Thorndyke. How the deuce did you know that she was my client?’

  ‘Never mind how I know. It is our business to know everything in these chambers. But if your appointment concerns Miss Mabel Bonney, for the Lord’s sake come in and give Thorndyke a chance of a night’s rest. At present, he is on broken bottles, as Mr Bumble would express it.’

  On this persuasion, Mr Brodribb entered, nothing loath—very much the reverse, in fact—and having bestowed a jovial greeting on Thorndyke, glanced approvingly round the room.

  ‘Ha!’ said he, ‘you look very cosy. If you are really sure I am not—’

  I cut
him short by propelling him gently towards the fire, beside which I deposited him in an easy chair, while Thorndyke pressed the electric bell which rang up in the laboratory.

  ‘Well,’ said Brodribb, spreading himself out comfortably before the fire like a handsome old Tom-cat, ‘if you are going to let me give you a few particulars—but perhaps you would rather that I should not talk shop.’

  ‘Now you know perfectly well, Brodribb,’ said Thorndyke, ‘that ‘shop’ is the breath of life to us all. Let us have those particulars.’

  Brodribb sighed contentedly and placed his toes on the fender (and at this moment the door opened softly and Polton looked into the room. He took a single, understanding glance at our visitor and withdrew, shutting the door without a sound.)

  ‘I am glad,’ pursued Brodribb, ‘to have this opportunity of a preliminary chat, because there are certain things that one can say better when the client is not present; and I am deeply interested in Miss Bonney’s affairs. The crisis in those affairs which has brought me here is of quite recent date—in fact, it dates from this evening. But I know your partiality for having events related in their proper sequence, so I will leave to-day’s happenings for the moment and tell you the story—the whole of which is material to the case—from the beginning.’

  Here there was a slight interruption, due to Polton’s noiseless entry with a tray on which was a decanter, a biscuit box, and three port glasses. This he deposited on a small table, which he placed within convenient reach of our guest. Then, with a glance of altruistic satisfaction at our old friend, he stole out like a benevolent ghost.

  ‘Dear, dear!’ exclaimed Brodribb, beaming on the decanter, ‘this is really too bad. You ought not to indulge me in this way.’

  ‘My dear Brodribb,’ replied Thorndyke, ‘you are a benefactor to us. You give us a pretext for taking a glass of port. We can’t drink alone, you know.’