A Beautiful Blue Death clm-1

by Charles Finch

  “See if this is the murder weapon,” he said, and smiled at the doctor’s astonished look. “I’ll return as shortly as I can.”

  He went up the servants’ stairs and passed as quietly as he could to the front door, avoiding all conversation. Then he went outside, pulled his collar up, and counted down the lower windows, which opened onto the street, until he found Prue’s. He stopped about ten feet from it. Here was the area to examine.

  There was a great deal of brilliant light coming through the upper windows because of the ball, and he could see the sidewalk very clearly. The last few coachmen were the only people outside, and they were huddled in the small shelter between the broughams and carriages, smoking and talking. Lenox was alone.

  He began by looking at the windowsill. He had glanced over it on the inside of Prue Smith’s room and seen nothing but the old scuffs, a probable result, he thought, of Bartholomew Deck’s late visits. On the outside were the same scuffs, but he saw something he thought might be new: a very slight black scuff, of the kind a black shoe might have made when it scraped against the sill. Perhaps there had been poor traction on the slippery sidewalk, and the person bolting from the room had stepped hard with his back foot, coming outside. Every man present tonight, of course, would be wearing well-polished evening shoes. It was very little. But it lent credence to the idea that somebody had recently come through the window.

  The cobblestones were wet, but unfortunately they didn’t betray anything. There was no rock dislodged, no further black scuffs, and certainly no footprints. Lenox could see that his own faint footprint disappeared the moment he lifted his shoe.

  There was nothing else in the area. He walked fifty yards in either direction on the sidewalk and saw no marks or objects; then he went back and walked through again, looking very carefully, and occasionally stooping to the ground, and on this second go-through he did find a yellowish leaf of a rather odd shape. He would have ignored it if it hadn’t been very near the window. There were no trees in the area, but it could easily have been trammeled to and fro until it had made a journey of several blocks. And yet it didn’t appear hard-used or stepped on, and though it was clearly nothing, Lenox put it in his jacket pocket.

  Now this was a disappointing blow. He had hoped against hope for something conclusive. Still, there was the black scuff, which looked fresh and seemed to bear out his idea of an escape through Prue Smith’s room.

  But here again he was disappointed, when he thought it through. The person who had killed Soames had known Prue’s room; it was too big a coincidence to think that a stranger would have randomly picked her door out of a dozen others, including many nearer the stairs. Yes, it seemed conclusive. But there you ran against a wall. The only person absolutely certain to know Prue’s room was Claude, because he had been behind closed doors with the girl. Even Barnard might not remember precisely which one was hers. But it happened that Claude was the one person entirely free of suspicion in this instance. Edmund had been firm: Claude Barnard had never left his sight.

  Lenox refused to give in, however. He went inside and checked with McConnell again; yes, it was the same knife that had killed Soames; yes, anybody of any stature could have used it; no, it had no particular provenance. Anybody might have bought it at any store that carried such things, probably one of the Army and Navy Cooperative Stores around the city. In storybooks, Lenox thought, it would have had some definite origin: a curved Indian knife with a ruby in the hilt, or something of the sort. He laughed as he walked back up the stairs. He noticed that the blood on the upper stairs was already cleared away.

  A hand fell on his shoulder as he came out into the upstairs hallway again. Lenox looked around and saw it was the footman, James.

  “Tell me anything,” said the young man.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lenox. “I’m still working, though.”

  “Anything, anything,” he moaned.

  “As soon as I discover anything,” Lenox said, patting him on the back. He walked into the center of the hallway, where he stopped and looked around.

  Was there anything else to do that evening? No, he thought. The body would be removed soon. He would speak with Exeter in the morning. So after going downstairs to tell McConnell that he would be in touch the next day, he went upstairs and walked to the front door, wearily, to leave. There he heard a familiar voice.

  “Charles!”

  He turned around and smiled, both inwardly and outwardly. “Oh, Jane,” he said. “You needn’t have stayed.” She was sitting in a chair by the front door.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Have you your coat? We’ll go back together.”

  He smiled again. “Yes, yes.” And he held out his arm, which she took, and they walked out through the snow together, to find their carriage home.

  Chapter 36

  Lenox woke up the next day with a terrific hunger, despite the previous night’s banquet. He was instantly sad about Soames, when it came back to mind, but he had slept well nonetheless. For the first time he felt recovered from his back-alley skirmish. The cuts and bruises were still there, but they were faded and didn’t hurt.

  He ate a breakfast of eggs, toast, dark coffee, and a large orange. He read the final chapters of The Small House at Allington in bed as he ate, going through both the food and the book with great relish, and when he laid the book down he felt satisfied. After feeling more and more depleted in recent days, he felt that he had taken his small break, now, and had a great deal of energy again.

  He rang the bell, and Graham entered his bedroom.

  “Sir?”

  “Hullo, Graham. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  The sun was pouring richly through the windows.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “I’ll need all the papers, if you don’t mind. The regular three and then all the ones I don’t read as well. Even the Post and the Daily Standard, if you please.”

  “Very good, sir. I shall bring them back in just a moment.”

  “Thank you. Oh—and would you send round a note asking my brother to come visit me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Only if he’s not in the House this morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I’ll want my carriage just before lunch. I’m to eat with Dr. McConnell.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Thank you, Graham.”

  The butler left, and Lenox stretched his arms behind his head for a good long think. He puzzled through the recent events and came to some tentative solutions. Only after Graham had returned and left the newspapers on his bedside table did he break out of his reverie. He had an idea. If only he could be sure, he thought.… Well, there was plenty of time to test it out. He did feel that there would be no further deaths.

  In turn, he examined each of the articles on Soames. Primarily they were sketchy and quick, because the murder had been late at night, but he knew he should read them anyway. They were by and large redundant, with few if any details altered between them. They all emphasized the victim’s athletic glory, his military service, his consistent work on the Liberal side, and his popularity among friends and acquaintances, and all of them expressed shock and anger at the recent trend of violence in England but ended by assuring readers that Inspector Exeter was on the trail of the murderer and he would soon bring the criminal to justice.

  The note in The Times summarized these accounts as well as any:

  Late last night, the distinguished MP for Renton and former Oxford Blue, Jack Soames, was murdered in cold blood at the annual ball hosted by George Barnard. Guests at the event, which is generally considered one of the high points of the London season, were shocked to hear a piercing scream in the hallway of Mr. Barnard’s house, and moments later Mr. Soames was discovered at the head of a stairwell leading to the servants’ quarters. The police would not reveal the manner of the death but acknowledged that it was not natural. Inspector Exeter, who has taken the case in hand, said only, “We’re well on the track
of the criminal, and anybody with any knowledge should step forward immediately.”

  A junior constable admitted to The Times that there were copious amounts of blood at the scene. Society gentleman Thomas McConnell, husband of Lady Victoria McConnell, née Phillips, who happens to have medical training, performed the immediate postmortem, but declined to comment.

  Readers of The Times will observe that this is the second act of violence in a very short period of time at Mr. Barnard’s house, following the poisoning of the housemaid Prudence Smith; the two events seem to be linked. Mr. Barnard commented, “It’s a terrible thing. Soames was a good fellow. And it was a wonderful evening, before the whole mess.” He went on to say that he had no idea who was committing the crimes, but he felt safe in his house under the protection of Inspector Exeter.

  Meanwhile, of course, fashionable London is in shock. “He was such a good sort,” said Lord Stearns, and others echoed this sentiment throughout the evening. Soames first came to public prominence on the oars for Oxford, leading them to three consecutive wins in the boat race during his time at university. Some readers may recall how he seemed single-handedly to pull them back into the race in his final year, after the team had been overtaken by the Cambridge eight. He also earned a blue in rugby, which he only played recreationally but at which he nevertheless excelled, and boxed as an amateur at Oxford.

  After coming down from university, Soames entered the army, where he became a captain. Within his regiment, said Colonel James Waring, he was well-liked and well-respected. He behaved heroically in a minor skirmish in the East and was discharged because of a wound earned in battle. Almost immediately after leaving the military he was elected to Parliament as the Member from Renton. In that governing body he has had a long and distinguished career, advising Party leaders on manners of finance, reform, and trade, and though he never held office he would no doubt eventually have ascended to some position in a Liberal government.

  Soames was a bachelor who lived in the West End. Friends said he was an affable man, well liked by all. Lord Stearns echoed this general opinion, saying, “Soames could no more have an enemy than I could. It must have been a mistake—a horrible mistake—as I see it.”

  Soames, in addition to his Parliamentary duties, sat on several boards, most notably that of the Pacific Trust. His name has been in the newspaper lately because of his work for that company. Readers will remember that he represented the deciding vote on the matter of reinvestment; he voted against releasing a large amount of capital to shareholders. While this angered individual investors in the company, who would have realized an instant windfall, many in the financial world agreed that the board’s decision would pay out in the long run and that any loss of immediate wealth would be compensated in the future. Insiders fear that Soames’s death will mean an overturn of the vote, which is set to be reaffirmed two weeks from now, after discussion, because it is generally thought that the conservative Sir James Maitland will fill the vacant spot on the board. Maitland has made it known that he would have voted differently from Soames.

  Soames was also an excellent horseman and traveled among the best country houses for the shooting and the riding. “He will be missed,” said Lord Stearns. “He made any shooting party better.”

  Until the police release a report, his friends will have to wait for consolation. As is customary, Parliament will conduct a tribute to him on both sides of the aisle, and the Speaker will offer a eulogy.

  “He had high potential,” said Newton Duff, MP, a friend. “The country is losing a valuable servant.”

  Lenox read this with mild interest. He paid closest attention to the quotes. Stearns was a good fellow, but it surprised him to hear Duff’s praise, never given lightly.

  The rest of the papers added very little except for a penny paper called the Post, which was of low repute but high circulation. It offered the same eulogistic tone, the same descriptions of Oxford, the Army, Parliament, and the Pacific Trust, but at the end it contained a variation:

  It is painful to bring up now, but we must be True to our faithful readers and write that there was some gossip out of turn concerning the late Member’s finances. To put it plain, People have been whispering that Soames was at the end of his means and that the Creditors, though they could not touch him while Parliament was sitting, as the law demands, were prepared to land on him as soon as the session was over. People spoke, as they will, of the Turf, and of expensive habits on slender means—in short, it was widely reported that he had no further money left.

  It is the honor of the Post to report otherwise. A confidential Source at a certain bank revealed that Mr. Soames had been continuing at his usual rate of getting and spending. In point of fact, this rumor was incorrect; in truth, Mr. Soames was very comfortable, as befits a former Hero on the oar and a distinguished Member of Parliament. We are glad to put the rumor of the only blemish on this fine man’s character to rest, especially as it would be hard to hear Mr. Soames ill-spoken of after his death. The Post, as usual, has now Set the Record Straight.

  This last phrase was the paper’s motto, which they repeated in nearly every article, whether it was relevant or not.

  Now here was an interesting fact. People far and wide had said that Soames was definitely broke—far and wide enough even to reach Lenox’s ears, and Lenox was by no means a gossip. Everybody had mentioned it, here and there, as a known fact: his brother, Lady Jane. And yet, if The Post was to be believed—and rag or not, it generally was, Lenox found—it was all false. It was really a rather remarkable thing.

  He had laid down the last of the papers and was again thinking, his hands behind his head, when Graham knocked once more and entered.

  “Sir Edmund Lenox, sir,” he said.

  “Downstairs already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Drat. I need to dress,” he said, getting out of bed. “Tell him I’ll be a moment. Offer him some tea, please, or some breakfast if he hasn’t had any. Oh, and give him those papers,” he said, gesturing to the nightstand.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Graham left, and Lenox put on the clothes that had been laid out for him on the armchair; black cloak, gray pants, and a homburg. He took the time to tie his tie neatly but otherwise rather rushed, so it was only a short time later that he went downstairs to join his brother.

  Chapter 37

  Have you glanced over the papers yet?” said Lenox, coming through the double doors of the library.

  Sir Edmund was sitting in one of the two armchairs before the fire.

  “It’s really terribly cold out,” he said crossly.

  “Oh, Edmund, I’m sorry,” said Charles, trying not to smile.

  “Well, all right, all right.”

  “Those are the demands upon the investigator, you know. Harsh weather, for one.”

  Now this seemed to appease Sir Edmund. “Really?” he said. “By Jove, yes, I suppose that’s right. Well, at your service, then.” He mimicked a salute.

  “Have you looked at the papers?”

  “Oh, yes, the papers. Well, The Times.”

  “Not the Post?”

  Sir Edmund shuddered. “Gracious, no.”

  “Take a look at it,” said Lenox, sitting down in the other chair and gesturing at the papers Graham had left on the small table between them.

  His brother studiously looked over the article and went so far—which Lenox had admittedly not thought he would do—as to open the paper and read the entire story.

  “Most interesting,” he said, after a moment. He was smoking his pipe while Lenox smoked a cigarette. “Yes, very interesting. Although the popular gossip has been wrong before, Lord knows.”

  “Millions of times. But I find this intriguing. What triggered this particular gossip? Was there any event? Any indication?”

  “None at all, I think,” said Sir Edmund. “In fact, I remember it only started when he won a bit at the Derby. People said it was a good thing he had.”

  “H
ow odd, really! Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t see why—”

  “Well, leave it, then,” said Lenox. “Would you like anything to eat? Or a cup of tea?”

  “Coffee would be lovely. I’m due back at the House this afternoon, and I shall have to stay awake, I suppose.”

  Lenox called for Graham and ordered a pot of coffee.

  “Now, Edmund, I called you over this morning.”

  “I know you did. I had to walk across half of the South Pole to get here. Hyde Park too.”

  Lenox laughed. “It’s for a good reason, I think. I’d like to hear an exact account of your evening before they discovered Soames.”

  “Poor chap,” said Sir Edmund, ruminatively. “Well, ashes to ashes, I daresay. Now, let’s see, my evening. Yes. Well, I arrived only in time for the dance, as you know. And you told me to follow those two cousins. I was perhaps overzealous at first—don’t laugh, it’s not kind—and followed too close upon them, because Claude kept looking at me and making faces.”

  “Faces?”

  “Yes, like an animal. So I backed off a bit. I got a glass of wine and sipped it pretty slowly and watched them. Claude danced with any number of girls, whereas Eustace seemed to be lecturing elderly men about something or other, I can’t imagine what.”

  “I can,” said Lenox.

  “You’ll know, then. Well, that was how it went. They only talked one time—in the doorway between the ballroom and the salon. For ten seconds or so. Then Claude hit Eustace, rather hard. Most uncousinly.”

  “Why, I remember you hitting Cousin Ronald on the nose!”

  Sir Edmund reddened. “Totally different situation. And it’s ungentlemanly of you to bring it up.”

  “Well, it was ungentlemanly and uncousinly to hit Ronald in the nose!”

  “Dash it all, if Ronald would insist on commenting on perfectly nice parlor maids all the time, it’s not my lookout what happens to him.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s when you loved that parlor maid… what was her name… Mary?”