Sonnet to a Dead Contessa

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Neither did I,” Meredith said. Her face was angry. “You could knock at the door.”

  “I did, but no one answered. I thought I heard voices around here.”

  “What is it you want?” Meredith asked.

  “I have come to see if you have a painting, even a miniature of your sister. We’re not getting anywhere with our search.”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Then could you give me a more complete description?”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  Matthew Grant was aware that he had behaved improperly. “Sorry to intrude,” he said. “I just thought I could—”

  “The next time you stand at the front until someone comes to the door, Superintendent.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Brice.”

  He turned to go when suddenly Dylan said, “I’ll go with you, Matthew. I’d like to know what’s going on with the Slasher cases.”

  “Do you have to leave now? Guin will be waking up soon. She loves to see you.”

  “I can come back later.”

  “Thank you for the groceries.” She reached out and touched his chest lightly, and he turned quickly and left the backyard, accompanied by Matthew. As soon as they were outside, Grant said, “Comforting the widow Brice, are you, Dylan?”

  “Keep your nose out of other people’s business!”

  Grant did not speak for a moment, and then he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I really didn’t, but we’re not finding a woman that looks anything like the brief description we have. She was rather vague about it.”

  “Well, she hasn’t seen the woman in years. Her appearance has probably changed.”

  “I suppose you’re right, but I apologise for intruding, and no more teasing about Mrs. Brice. All right?”

  “Of course.” Dylan’s anger dissipated, and when Grant suggested that they go to a pub for a snack, he went along. He was not actually hungry, but he wanted to find out what was going on with the case.

  Matthew ordered a steak and kidney pudding, and afterward some spotted dick made with suet and lots of raisins and cream. Dylan had some steaming treacle pudding with brandy sauce and scalding hot tea. As the two men ate, Grant told Dylan what he had discovered.

  “It’s either someone trying to make this murder look like Lady Welles’s murder, or it’s the same man who killed Lady Welles, as I told Lady Trent.”

  “Why would someone try to make this murder look like Lady Welles’s?”

  “Well, it’s not unheard of. Someone starts killing people in a very rigid, routine fashion, and if a man wants to get rid of his wife, he follows that pattern. Everyone thinks it’s the same killer who’s already struck. People take advantage of the killer’s notoriety to get rid of unwanted wives and sweethearts. That’s what happened after William Palmer, a doctor, was convicted for killing several people by poisoning them.”

  “I see where they are calling this murderer the Slasher.”

  A grimness came to Matthew’s face, and he said, “Yes, that’s what they call him, and that’s what he is.”

  “You think you’ll catch him, then?”

  “We’d better! The politicians and newspapers are howling for some action. But this fellow is clever. He left a lot of meaningless clues.”

  “How do you know they’re meaningless?”

  “There are so many of them.” He took a list out of his pocket and said, “I’ve got men working on all of these.”

  Dylan looked over the list. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Maybe. One of the clues is a picture of a woman, a rather strange picture of a woman holding a hammer and a spike. Look at it,” he said, taking an envelope from his pocket. “Neither Serafina nor I can make anything of it. “

  Dylan looked at it and then said instantly, “Why, this is a woman named Jael.”

  Grant stared at Dylan. “Who was she? And how do you know her?”

  “Her story is in the Bible.”

  “The Bible? I don’t remember any woman named that in the Bible.”

  “Well, she’s not as famous as some. You can read about it in the book of Judges, one of the early chapters.”

  “Tell me what you know, then I’ll read it for myself when I get a Bible.”

  “The book of Judges records the history of Israel before they had a king. God called men to lead the people in time of war, men and women called judges. A king named Sisera brought his army to destroy the Jews; God called on two judges to save the nation, a man called Barak and a woman called Deborah. There was a battle, and General Sisera fled. He found shelter at the home of a man named Heber, but he met his fate there: Heber’s wife, Jael. She knew that Sisera was the enemy of Israel. She fed him and got him to sleep, promising him that she would not let an enemy find him.” Dylan rubbed his chin and said slowly, “Those were violent times, Matthew, and Jael did what Eastern peoples would despise. They believed that when even an enemy took shelter in your home, you had a sacred obligation to keep him safe.”

  “I take it Jael didn’t do that.”

  “No, she waited until he was asleep, then she took a spike and a hammer. She put the tip of the spike to his temple, then drove it into his skull with a blow of the hammer.”

  “A rough woman indeed!”

  “Those were terrible times.”

  “This is some help. In the first murder, the Slasher left a picture of a warrior queen, and now we have another woman who will kill to get what is needed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, Dylan, but there’s a killer loose who’s ready to kill, just as he killed those other two women!” The men talked a bit longer about the case, then rose to leave.

  “Where you headed for now?”

  “I’m going out to see Dora.”

  “I’ve got to get down to the theatre. We’re having a special rehearsal. I hope you catch the fellow.”

  “So do I,” Matthew said.

  The two left the pub. Matthew got into a cab, and all the way to Trentwood House he was silent, going over in his mind the liabilities that he faced in catching the Slasher.

  When he got to the house, he was admitted by Ellie and found Serafina and Dora together.

  “I’ve been going over the clues,” Serafina said. “There are so many of them, and I don’t know what to make of them.”

  “What about the poem? Any sense about that?”

  “It’s just bad poetry. Maybe we should let a professor of literature see it.”

  “I’ve already done that. Professor Grey at the University of Oxford. He said he’d get back to me, but I doubt anything will come out of it.”

  “Have you shown it to Dylan?” Serafina asked.

  “I just left him. I gave him a copy of the list and the poem. He said he’d be coming to see you.” He suddenly paused and said, “He recognised the woman in the picture.” He told her the story of Jael and said, “Two violent women; that may mean something.” He paused, then said, “I found him at Meredith Brice’s place.”

  “I think he likes that woman,” Dora said suddenly.

  “Oh, women are always after him.”

  “Not like this one,” Dora said slowly. She was wearing a plain black taffeta dress, the severity softened only by a small onyx and ivory cameo pin at the high neck. There was an innocence about her that had caught Matthew Grant from the very beginning, and he felt that it would always be there.

  “Why do you think she’s different?” Serafina asked suddenly.

  “The others are hunting for souvenirs or trophies. He’s an actor, a famous man. Wouldn’t make any difference if he were ugly, they’d still be after him. They always are. But Mrs. Brice is out of his own past. They were childhood sweethearts. That has to mean something, don’t you think?”

  “I think he’s tired of that other kind,” Grant agreed. “After all, a childhood sweetheart, that’s a pretty big thing. Some men walk around with an image of a girl they knew when they were twelve
years old.”

  “And who was your childhood sweetheart, Matthew?”

  Matthew suddenly smiled. It made him look much younger. He ran his hand through his hair, which was a beautiful silver grey, not of an old person but one who is living and vital. “Her name was Ethel Grubmeyer.”

  Dora stared at him. “Was she pretty?”

  “Except for her eyes. One of them was kind of looking off. You could never tell if she was looking at you, and she had lost two teeth right out of the middle. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as you, Dora.”

  Suddenly Serafina laughed. “Men always lie about the women in their lives.”

  Dora stared at Grant, but Serafina laughed again. “He’s teasing you. Tease him back. Make up a sweetheart. It would do him good.”

  “Well, what do you think about that Welshwoman? Is she pretty?”

  “Very.”

  Dora looked at Serafina, who had answered more emphatically than was necessary. “Are you jealous, Serafina?”

  “No, I definitely am not!”

  NINE

  Grant locked his lips together, determined not to answer. Sir Herbert Welles was at his office again, and this time with the head of the Home Office, Sir Anthony Jones. He had stood there listening as they both insisted that he catch the Slasher at once, and now he managed to get a word in.

  “We’re doing all we can, but you gentlemen must realise that this is no ordinary murderer.”

  Lord Herbert Welles had to look up, for he was short, and this seemed to irritate him. His eyes were sharp and black, and his voice was stirred with anger. “You’ve had plenty of time to catch the fellow. From what I understand, you have sufficient clues. You should have found him by now.”

  “We have clues, but most of them mean nothing,” Matthew said, not for the first time.

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. You can’t have too many clues,” Sir Anthony said.

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid you can. This fellow is very shrewd. He knows that even the slyest of criminals will leave a clue that will lead to their capture, so he’s fallen on the method of leaving all sorts of clues at the scenes. He scatters them everywhere, and we have no idea which ones mean something—if any of them.”

  “Arrant nonsense!” Lord Welles practically screamed. “You’re incapable! I demand, Sir Anthony, that you replace this man!”

  “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” Sir Anthony Jones replied quickly. Actually, he admired Matthew Grant a great deal, but he had to show some respect for Lord Welles as well. “There’s something to what he’s saying. Give me an example, will you, Matthew?”

  “Of course. Let me show you.” He went over to a table on which there were scattered dozens of objects. “These were all found at the death scene in the bedroom of Lady Margaret Acton.”

  “What is this?” Welles asked, picking up one of the items.

  “It’s a photograph of a woman.”

  “I can see that,” Welles said. “Who is she?”

  “She’s the wife of General Leo Hunter.”

  “General Hunter? The hero of the Crimea?”

  “Yes. Now, what does it mean? His wife is dead. Do I go arrest General Hunter? The newspapers would make a field day out of that!”

  “Then what’s it doing here?” Welles demanded.

  “To throw us off the track, of course. Somebody has to go investigate the general, but he must do it very tactfully. And look, here’s a letter from Gerhard Von Ritter.”

  “That artist fellow?”

  “Actually he’s a poet and a playwright.”

  “Why, the man’s a radical!” Sir Anthony said.

  “Yes, he is, but is he the Slasher? That’s the question. Once again, we can’t send men in with clubs to beat it out of him. It’s going to take more than that!”

  “Where would the Slasher get all these items?” Sir Anthony asked.

  “I have no idea, sir, but I know he has found probably the best way to confuse Scotland Yard. I have men working on every one of these items.”

  “And what have you discovered?”

  “We discovered that most of them are false leads. Somewhere we’ll find the true one, but it’s not going to be easy.”

  For the next twenty minutes Matthew Grant stood there listening to Sir Herbert Welles harangue him in a senseless fashion. Finally Sir Anthony took Welles by the arm and said, “We’ll go and leave the Yard to do the work. You must see, Herbert, that this is a most difficult task.”

  “Put more men on the job.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t help. We don’t need more men. We need men with brains.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not you,” Welles yelled and was dragged off by Sir Anthony Jones.

  Matthew stood watching for a while, and then he said, “Kenzie!” He waited until Kenzie stuck his head in the door. “I’m going to see General Hunter.”

  “You think he could be guilty?”

  “I have no idea. He may shoot me for even bringing such a thing up, but his wife’s picture was at the murder scene.”

  Thirty minutes later General Leo Hunter was standing in front of Matthew Grant. “You’re here again, Superintendent. What is it this time? You still think I murdered Lady Stephanie Welles?”

  “No, sir, it’s a different matter.”

  “What is it, then? I’m a busy man. I’m writing my memoirs, don’t you see. Dashing hard thing for a soldier to write.”

  “Be easier if you were out slashing people with a saber, I suppose.”

  “Is that some sort of a trick question, Superintendent?”

  “In a way it is. You read about the murder of Countess Margaret Acton?”

  “Certainly. I was at the funeral. I knew the countess and her husband both. What does that have to do with me?”

  “Do you recognise this picture?” Matthew took the package that he had been holding and unwrapped it. He handed the picture over without comment and saw Hunter’s eyes go wide. “Well, of course I recognise it. It’s my wife. Where did you get it?”

  “It was in the room of Lady Acton.”

  Hunter stared at him. “So you think I killed her too?”

  “Actually I don’t, Sir Leo. You see, the Slasher has a peculiar method. We haven’t let it get out to the newspapers, and I ask you to keep this absolutely confidential.”

  “Of course. What is it?” Sir Leo listened carefully as Matthew explained the clues that were found at the crime scene, and when Matthew was finished, he shook his head. “The bounder must be clever.”

  “Very clever, I’m afraid. The question is, where did he get these items? This picture. Where was it kept?”

  “Why, here in my office.”

  “Was it on display?”

  “No. Actually it was kept in this drawer over here with quite a few other pictures. Come, I’ll show you.” Hunter walked across the room, opened the drawer, and pulled out a handful of photographs and drawings. “You see? Most of them are of my wife.” Sadness came to him, and he said, “I miss her every day, Superintendent.”

  “I offer my condolences, but you can see what we’re up against. How could anyone have gotten this?”

  “Obviously someone has had access to my office. They’ve taken two items that we know of. They’ve probably taken more.”

  “You think a burglar broke in?”

  “That wouldn’t be necessary. I have visitors all the time. My bit of fame has brought me quite an audience. People coming and going. Sometimes we’re in here. Sometimes we go in the sitting room. Sometimes there are groups. One man could slip away while I was talking to the others in the parlour. All he would have to do is fill his pockets with a few mementos.”

  “Yes, I see that. Well, I’m sorry if I bothered you.”

  “You have a pretty hard job, Mr. Grant. I hope that you’ll catch this fellow. He’s a bad one. I saw plenty of his kind in the service.”

  “Why the circus! What are we doing here?” Dora asked. She was p
leased enough that Matthew had come to take her away for an afternoon, and now they were standing outside the large building where the circus was held.

  “Combining business with pleasure. I have to meet with Mr. Henley,” Matthew answered.

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s an acrobat who performs his act on a tightrope and on a horizontal bar. You’ll see.”

  “That must be terribly dangerous.”

  “I think it is. Come along.”

  They made their way to the dressing rooms, and on one door “Mr. Henley” was written on a card. Matthew knocked on the door, and a lean, well-built man opened it at once. “I am Superintendent Grant, Mr. Henley. This is my assistant, Miss Newton.”

  “What can I do for you, Superintendent?”

  “A few questions. May we come in?”

  “Yes, certainly.” He stepped aside, and they found a young woman in there. “This is my fellow aerialist, Miss Jeanne St. Clair.”

  “I’m glad to know you, Miss St. Clair. This is Miss Newton. We are working on a case.” He stared at the young woman and asked, “You look familiar . . . Oh, I remember. I saw you once at one of Miss Bingham’s public meetings.”

  “What sort of a case?” Henley asked, interrupting. He had dark blue eyes and studied his visitors carefully.

  “It’s a case of murder, I’m afraid.”

  “Not the Slasher!” Miss St. Clair exclaimed. She was a small woman, well built, and wearing a rather tight costume with a cape over her shoulders. She had large, rather piercing blue eyes and a shining crown of strawberry blonde hair.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is about that case, although I prefer you not let it get out of this room.”

  “How may we help you, monsieur?”

  “Do you recognise this item?”

  “A ticket stub,” Henley murmured. “Why do you show me this?”

  “It may mean nothing, but it may be that the murderer attended one of your performances.”

  “Am I a suspect, Superintendent?”

  “Not right now. But you may have some connection with the killer.”

  Jeanne St. Clair said sharply, “Hundreds of people come to the circus. Anyone could have one of these stubs.”