There may be in the cup
A spider steeped, and one may drink, depart,
And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge
Is not infected; but if one present
The abhorred ingredient to his eye, make known
How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,
With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider.”
His rich baritone rolled away and he left them a pause, to take his point and shudder at the last sentence. “That’s your problem, Mr. Kingstone. Expressed in half a line. You have drunk and seen the spider. Because it’s very cunningly been put into the cup and then pointed out to you. Your knowledge has been infected. You are cracking your gorge—feeling sick in your gut, but also in your mind, because you have seen the loathed creature and fear—no, are convinced—that you have drunk a poisoned liquor. A healthy mind in a healthy body … we’re all familiar with the phrase but it’s the opposite that is more likely to present itself to me and my colleagues. An unhealthy mind, a wounded, fearful mind risks bringing the body down with it. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Doctor,” Kingstone murmured and for a moment, Joe suspected Rippon had been exercising skills as yet undeclared. He’d seen the same dazed response to stage hypnotists. But then, reassuringly practical, the subject asked, “And do you have a remedy?”
“The best one I have is—knowledge. Further and better knowledge. Once you’ve had a conjuror’s trick explained to you, you’re never caught out by it again. May I make two suggestions? You have how long before the conference gets under way?… Oh, that’s longer than I was expecting. Well then—I shall speak bluntly—here’s what you have to do:
“Firstly—wait here for the next glimpse of the spider. The next offering from Chelsea beach, I mean. We don’t know whom we will find in the bag, but—you must know the best or the worst. Steel yourself for this last hurdle. It has to be jumped. If you refuse this fence, you’re for the knacker’s yard. What you may not do is remain in suspense, with Sandilands standing about like Patience on a monument, holding as many cards as he can gather tightly to his chest!
“Secondly, whatever the outcome, you must get away from the capital for the weekend. Not only as a matter of security—you need to rest. You need—literally—to recover yourself. Not your body but your mind.”
“Is that it? Are you telling me I’ve shelled out half a crown for that advice—take a therapeutic peek at a corpse and beat it to the countryside?”
It was Armitage who first sensed the man’s humour had broken through. “Yeah, boss! Right! He could have prescribed some aspirin at least!” They both exploded into nervous laughter.
“Tea anyone?” The attendant kicked the door open and came through carrying a tray. “I brought a flask from home with me. Mother always makes up a good strong brew. Thought you all looked as though you could do with a cup. And there’s water for Miss.”
He turned cheerily to Rippon. “All fixed, sir. Doc Simmons says he can come straight round. Two of the blokes can stay on. Glad to oblige. They’ll be here in a sec to clear a space for the next customer. Would you like me to serve this next door in your study, sir?”
Julia took over when they’d settled in the study, pouring thick brown Assam sticky with condensed milk into chipped china cups. No one refused it. Joe drank his down gratefully, as did Armitage who, he suspected, had been weaned on such a brew in his east-end childhood. Julia sipped delicately. Kingstone emptied his cup at a gulp, unaware of what he was drinking, Joe guessed. He might as well have been downing a draught of Thames mud. He wouldn’t have known the difference.
Rippon had gone next door to heave and haul and scrub down along with his assistants and, after an uncomfortably long time, they heard bumps and bangs and Orford’s voice raised in command.
“There’s a discreet back way into the lab,” Joe thought he’d better explain. “They won’t ring a bell but it sounds as though the interval’s over. Drink up! All we all ready for the next act?”
CHAPTER 13
“Glad you could make it, sir.” Orford put his head round the door and nodded at everyone. “Evenin’ all! Deceased found under the boat. You were right about that! We’d been keeping it under surveillance for hours before we cottoned on! Body was there all the time. A long time judging by the odour.” He turned to Joe. “It’s taken us a while to tidy it up a bit, sir. It’s still not suitable for a lady to have sight of. I don’t think she needs to take a look.”
“I’m sure it’s highly unsuitable for any of us but the lady must make her own decision: to see or not to see. She’s heard your warning, Inspector.”
They all trooped back into the laboratory. The strong smell of disinfectant did not go far towards eradicating the smell of decay rising from the second sheeted figure they’d seen that evening. Rippon stood by the slab divested of most of his evening wear and with his traditional white pinny covering him from neck to ankle. “The inspector has cleared out the pockets and put the contents over there for you to view. I’ve left the clothes in place. They may help with an identification. Orford has some ideas on that.”
He pulled back the sheet to reveal the hairy features of a bearded man of uncertain age. The parts of his face visible were livid in death but with an overlay of dark tan from exposure to the elements. His head was twisted at an odd angle, his eyes open and widened in surprise. He wore a gold earring in his left lobe and Joe could just make out the square collar of a naval shirt.
“Broken neck,” said Armitage.
“Would be my first guess but, of course, I have to say—wait for the results,” commented Rippon obligingly.
“Nothing in the mouth, I suppose?” Joe asked.
“Not even teeth,” said Rippon. “I took a look.”
“We haven’t got a name yet but I’ve spoken to the lads on the beat and they confirm it’s the man they’ve seen sleeping under the boat these last three weeks,” Orford offered.
“Sailor?” Joe suggested.
“They think so. Might be a bloke who’s jumped ship. Recently. In a hurry. He’s still wearing his navy gear. The Admiralty would know but it’s the weekend. We’ll give it a try but they’ll all be off at some shindig. Henley? Cowes? Water Rat’s Picnic? Always something on in June. There’s a quicker way. The Thames River Officer you handed me—sharp lad—thinks he can ask the right questions in the right places and come up with an ID before breakfast,” said Orford. “Rough sleeper? Runaway? Beggar? All of those probably. We deal with dozens like him every day.”
“You won’t have had the time—or the light—to make much of a search, Orford, but—anything unusual about the boat? The environs?”
“Sorry, sir. All washed clean or stirred up by the dowsers and the beat bobbies who were first at the scene previous. Nothing much on the body either. No belongings to speak of—he was a real destitute. Just what he stood up in, a blanket and the things in his pockets.”
“Ah, yes, let’s take a look at those. Half a ham sandwich in a bag. Phew! Threepence halfpenny. A chewed stick of liquorice root … now how’d he manage that with no teeth? A dog-eared copy of Paper Doll.”
“The pocket-sized magazine for pocket-sized minds, my Ma reckons.” Orford commented dismissively.
“Well, at least it’s not Shakespeare,” Joe said. “We’re all thankful for that! And it shows we’re looking at someone who could read and write at least. There are some stimulating articles by up-and-coming writers in there, I’m told. And what’s this? Chalk?”
Orford picked up the white chunk. “Chalk. That’s right. It’s the stub end of one of those squares they use on the ends of snooker cues.” He looked at it more closely. “It’s a bit worn on one of its corners. Been written with? You don’t do that in snooker. They don’t use them for writing. Anyone got a magnifying glass?… Thanks, doc. There’s a piece of something … a splinter of wood embedded. Black wood.” He looked at Joe. “His boat’s black. You know—tarred—but a l
ong while ago.”
Joe smiled. “I’m thinking what you’re thinking, Inspector. Beggars and gypsies, men on the move, often write warning messages for each other in code. On gateposts and the like. You know: ‘Vicious dog at large … Soft touch here—good for a bob …’ Perhaps he thought to scribble a name for the postman? Could save us some time. Got a heavy-duty torch? Run it over that hulk, will you? Before it starts to rain.”
A calmer Kingstone had been drinking in all the information and speculation that flowed back and forth over the marble slab. Joe saw a man whose initial relief that the body was not that of his lover was stifled by genuine concern. “Poor fellow!” he said. “Are you thinking, as I am, that he saw something he was never intended to see—like a foreshore burial? And was eliminated? Another pawn sacrificed with complete disregard for human life?”
“That’s a professional neck break,” said Armitage. “Army style. No other sign of injury. Quick, clean and deadly. Not as easy as it looks. Yup! Trained killer, I’d say.”
Joe’s thought was: Takes one to know one? His next move was going to be tricky and involved clearing the sergeant away from his scene of operation. Julia sighed a ragged sigh and he suddenly saw his way through.
“Julia! I’m so sorry! I forget my manners.” His voice was full of urgent apology. “Why don’t you go back into the study while I dish out a few orders? No need for you, in the circumstances, to stay here suffering all this discomfort. We won’t keep you long.”
When she had hurried out, smiling her relief, Joe turned to Armitage, drew him aside and spoke to him quietly. “That girl’s on her uppers—emotionally speaking—wouldn’t you say? Poor lass, she’s had quite a day one way or another. Look, Bill, why don’t we split our forces and use them to better advantage? I’ll take Kingstone under my wing for a bit. You grab a cab and take Julia back to the hotel where you can keep an eye on her. Order up a sandwich or something—we never did get our Dover sole. And I know where you can find a bottle of champagne going begging. Might as well make the most of it and—who knows?—perhaps she’ll fall for your rugged charms and confide all? But, Bill—the spider’s still out there. And Julia is the weakest of us. I don’t want her caught up in the web. Take care of her.”
“It’s the senator’s back I’m paid to watch,” Armitage said, though with less truculence than Joe had anticipated.
“Same here,” said Joe with a placatory smile. “Broad back but too much weight on it. And possibly too many watching it. Some through gun-sights. I fear he’s not exaggerating when he says he’s expendable.” He turned to address everyone. “There’s a document I want the senator to see in my office—an identification I think he can make. I can bundle him out of the labs straight into Scotland Yard without venturing out of the building and when we’ve done I can pop him into a flying squad car with a police helmet on his head, an armed officer riding shotgun, and deliver him to the hotel by midnight. If anyone’s lurking out there they won’t even get a sight of him.”
“Sounds exciting,” drawled the senator. “What are you offering me? A starring part in the Kingstone Kops? How do you check out on that, doctor? Can my heart stand it?”
“Your heart and every other bit of you is safe with Sandilands,” said Rippon stoutly.
“THAT RIPPON IS an asshole!” Kingstone yelled as Joe’s old Morris squealed round a corner on two wheels. “He guaranteed I’d be safe with you. That’s the third brush with death I’ve had since you took the wheel of this contraption and we’re not even out of London yet. Are you sure you’re not working for the other side? When I mentioned a car accident I was only joking!”
Snorting with irritation, Joe pulled to the side of the road and got out, leaving the engine running. “You drive then,” he said. “I’m not the best driver in the world. I don’t actually care for cars very much. Better with horses. But if you’re going to complain every inch of the way …” He despised the tone of petulance that crept in but he’d learned that this was the best way to reduce his passengers to silence. They invariably apologised and bit their lips or shut their eyes for what remained of the journey. To Joe’s amusement, Kingstone got out, sauntered around the car, shouldered him aside and put a proprietorial foot on the running board.
“Now that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all night. Introduce me to the gear shift, will you?”
Joe barely needed to make the introduction. His slut of a car uttered a sigh of relief, purred with pleasure at the confident new hands on the wheel and moved up silkily through the gears.
“Started on tractors when I was a boy,” Kingstone explained. “Always had a sympathy with engines.”
“I won’t hold it against you,” said Joe equably. “And what do you run at home?” he thought to ask, feeling it was the manly thing to show an interest. He rather despised a man who judged another by the motorcar he owned but they had an hour’s run out into the country before them and at least, if he was hearing his companion talking engine size and cylinder number he could stave off sleep. Kingstone seemed to be enjoying himself now that he’d resigned himself to being kidnapped and was showing real pleasure in speeding down the A road.
“Oh, one or two. My favourite’s a little eight-cylinder two-seater Auburn Speedster. Dark red. Automatic starter. That one. And for more serious motoring around New York, I’ve got a Lincoln. One twenty horsepower V8 engine. Model K—the police chief’s car, they call them.” He grinned. “In fact it is just that! I got my hands on one of the Police Flyers—touring sedans—they come with four-wheel brakes, bullet-proof windshield, spots, whistles, gun-rack on the roof. I had that removed. A little showy, I thought, and people would keep taking pot shots at it. For going to visit the president I have a stately Hispano Suiza with more cylinders than you could count. Can’t tell you how that handles—my chauffeur won’t let me near the wheel. Say—am I boring you? Stay awake now! I don’t know where the hell we’re going … Surrey, did you say when you bundled me out of the Yard with my head in a bag? Is that near Suffolk? Are you taking me back to call on my ancestors?”
Joe shook himself. “Nowhere near, I’m afraid. It’s south of the Thames and over to the west a bit. I’m taking you to the country for the weekend—doctor’s orders, remember. We’re taking the Brighton road. I’ll tell you when to turn off. So far, so good. No one knows we’ve done a bunk yet, let alone where we’re headed. There’s certainly no one following us.”
“I hadn’t missed all that pulling off the road and do-si-doing about in back alleys! But shouldn’t you have told Armiger? He might start sounding the alarm when I don’t turn up.”
“I made one or two phone calls before we set off. The first was to book us in for our weekend. The second was a rather urgent one to my Special Branch head, the third a message for Bill. I left it with the desk at Claridge’s. He doesn’t know our whereabouts either. I simply told him that if you weren’t back by midnight, he wasn’t to worry.”
“You don’t trust that guy much, do you?”
“No. But then I trust no one. Nor should you, Kingstone. Someone very close to you is going about metaphorically fouling your drinking cups with spiders. Whoever it is has watched your every move since you arrived in London. They have the muscle-power—the hired thugs—to kill and are unconcerned—even happy—that we should find the bodies of two people, two complete innocents, who’ve been murdered on your account. ‘Why should they want to?’ do I hear you ask?”
“You asked me that already. And you heard my answer: gold standard. Manipulation of. There are fortunes at stake.” The reply was terse.
“That’s what you’re still telling us? We’ll accept that for the moment. Just listen while I muse on. And do feel free to correct any misapprehensions, will you? They’ve put your mind in a torture chamber. Your body is at liberty to walk about annoying people, attending meetings, rubbing shoulders with the power brokers of the world. You smile, slap their backs and shake their hands and one of these men who looks you in
the eye and calls you by your name is tightening the screws on your emotions. I think you know who he is.”
“I can think of five … no, make that four … men who’d like to see me bite the dust. Sure, we shake each other’s hands. I ask after their wives and daughters. I like their wives and daughters! So would you. But they’re all back home, not here in London. I’m a soldier, Sandilands, like you. I know a soldier’s fears. I don’t deny them. I know how to deal with them. I’ll have no truck with all this spider nonsense.”
Joe was pleased to hear Kingstone had calmed himself sufficiently to disown his recent crisis of the mind. Whatever it was, it had not proved crippling, he was glad to note. He smiled to himself. The feel of a leather-clad steering wheel between the palms, the growl of an engine responding to the pressure of the right foot and an unknown destination below a dark horizon were all having their—not uncalculated—effect. Kingstone was a man who was used to being in charge, instigating action on his own territory and on his own terms. The doctor had seen the need to restore his power and balance and was modern enough in his views to conclude, with Joe, that a simple “Brace up, old chap—worse things happen at sea!” was never going to do the trick.
Joe had decided not to play the game. He’d overturned the board and made off with the king piece in his pocket. A good night’s sleep, a large English breakfast followed by a brisk walk on the Downs with a hound or two running ahead and skylarks spiralling up into the heavens and Joe would be ready to restart the game.
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