The Resurrection Fireplace

by Hiroko Minagawa

  “Edward, you have not even been out of bed since yesterday!”

  “I am capable of walking if moved to do so. It was arduous, but not impossible, to use the rear stairs, go to the Tom Queen, lace the wine with laudanum, then kill him and return.”

  “Nigel, is this possible? Did Edward leave the house last night? Did you know?”

  “I remained in the room so that you should not notice his absence.”

  “You allowed him to go? Knowing what he might do?”

  “Yes. I am an accessory.”

  “No, you are not,” Edward interrupted. “I never told you of my aims. I said only that I was going out.”

  “Why should you shoulder all the blame?”

  “That is not for you to decide.”

  “I shall ask once more,” said Sir John. “Mr. Turner, how was it you came to learn that Evans was in the Tom Queen?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “What actions did you take there?”

  “It was not difficult. This house is much closer to Charing Cross than Evans’s is, so I arrived at the inn first. I went into the room, put laudanum in the bottle of wine, and hid behind the sofa. Soon Evans entered. After he drank the wine and fell asleep, I strangled him, and came home.”

  “Did Evans partake of anything other than wine?”

  “No.”

  “I noticed neither your departure nor your return,” said Barton.

  “The rear stairs allow one to exit and enter this house through the kitchen, without being noticed,” said Nigel.

  “I suppose Nelly knew about your coming and going in secret.”

  “No, Nelly knows nothing of this. She must have been in the laundry-room.”

  “Why did you murder Evans?” asked Sir John doggedly.

  “Because he is the root of all evil.”

  “Evil or not, punishment must be left in the hands of the law.”

  Edward’s laugh was chilly and thin. “O the dignity and equity of the law! Are the rich punished for sleeping under bridges, begging in the streets, and stealing bread? Miss Moore, you are the record-keeper, I believe. Have you recorded my confession?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pray read it back to me. If it is without error, I shall sign it.”

  “I am not finished,” said Sir John. “Why confess now? You were not yet under any suspicion. There was no provocation. Why?”

  “If I told you that my conscience was weighing on me, would that satisfy you?”

  “I am afraid not.”

  “The prospect of maintaining the deception was becoming loathsome,” he said. “To live the rest of my life parrying your inquiries would have been exhausting.”

  “I think not. If you were the culprit, the challenge of outwitting me would surely appeal to you.”

  “I do not have the energy for that. I am tired. I have confessed—is that not enough?”

  “Without evidence, we cannot take you to trial.”

  “Very well, then. Find your evidence. That is your concern, not mine.”

  “Sir John, I beg you,” said Barton. “Allow him time to recover He is very weak. If only you could see his colour, I am sure you would agree that his alleged fatigue is no exaggeration.”

  “Do you believe that he has told us the truth, Mr. Barton? That his fatigue comes from having committed murder?”

  “No, I believe no such thing. Edward is unwell, which is the cause of his exhaustion.”

  “He is at least alive enough to be offensive,” said Sir John. “Wait. Anne, how many people are in this room?”

  “Five. Turner in his sickbed, Hart and Mr. Barton beside him, then you and me.”

  “Is that all?”

  As the magistrate spoke, they heard the sound of feet on the stairs, followed by a knock on the door.

  Then Clarence’s voice. “May we come in?”

  “What do you say?” Sir John asked Edward. “This is your room. To admit them or not is your decision.”

  “You may do as you see fit, m’lord.”

  “You are not to show disrespect to Sir John,” warned Anne, to little effect.

  “Come in,” called Sir John. The door opened and the other three pupils appeared.

  “We simply could not sit about waiting any longer,” said Clarence. “Is Edward still claiming to be the culprit?”

  “This place smells like a winery,” said Ben, looking at the stain spreading across the floor. “The aftermath of a fit of hysterics, I gather.”

  Barton’s eyes went suddenly wide. “Did you all leave Charlie alone with the cadaver?”

  “Damn!” said Clarence. “Ben, go downstairs and keep an eye on him!”

  A Why me? was clear on Ben’s face, but he did as he was told. His footsteps receded down the stairs—then grew louder again. “Too late,” he said, reappearing at the door. “A bit is missing.”

  “You opened the cadaver?” said Barton. “I told you to wait until Nigel was ready to draw.”

  “After we made the incision, we… er… we found ourselves with nothing better to do… .”

  “How bad is the damage?” demanded Anne.

  “Not serious. A nibble or two. I chased him into the kitchen. Nelly is watching him now.”

  “The dog is a pagan,” said Sir John. “He is fortunate that we are no longer in the Middle Ages. Now, Mr. Turner: you have confessed to murder. I must restrict your movements until the trial. I shall not send you straight to Newgate, but keep you in our holding cell. If, after thorough investigation, evidence that you were the culprit emerges, you shall be tried at the Old Bailey.”

  “Sir John, please. His injury is sure to worsen if he is imprisoned in this condition. Allow him to stay here until he heals at least. There is no danger of his absconding.”

  After a moment’s thought, the magistrate agreed. “Very well. We shall leave him here. Some of my constables will remain outside his door to keep his movements under watch. A strict watch. As for Nigel Hart, he will come to the holding cell in Turner’s place. I trust you have no objections, Mr. Hart. You have, after all, admitted to being an accessory to murder.”

  “Nigel had nothing to do with it!” cried Edward. “It was all me!”

  “I understand. You have incriminated yourself. You will be investigated thoroughly as soon as you regain your health. But Mr. Hart, who knew about the deed but did nothing to prevent it, must be included in the case.”

  “I have told you already. Nigel knew nothing of what I intended to do when I left.”

  “We shall look into that matter ourselves.”

  Chapter 17

  It was already past ten o’clock when Sir John arrived home.

  “You must rest, Uncle John,” said Anne, forgetting her official duties for a moment to speak as a niece. “You have a busy day in court tomorrow.”

  “No information about Robert Barton, I suppose?”

  “He has made no appearance at either his home or Evans’s.”

  “Is Abbott simply standing by the house keeping watch? Robert will stay away if the surveillance is too obvious. I hope that Abbott has taken this into consideration.”

  “I am sure he has.”

  “Send some people to relieve him. We may have to call back a few who have gone home for the day. How short of staff we are!”

  If only the government would support them financially, they could build up a much stronger organization. We need more funding, he told himself, then smiled ruefully at the thought of Barton and his incessant demands for more cadavers.

  Anne left the room to give the necessary orders. When she returned, he asked her what she made of Edward Turner’s confession.

  “Instead of sharing my thoughts,” she said, “I should rather hear yours.”

  “Was it the truth, or was he lyin
g to protect someone else? Let us start from the assumption that it was true. In that case, we must ask how Turner knew that Evans was at the Tom Queen. He refused to answer on this point. Another question is why, at this stage, he should step forward and confess.”

  “Perhaps he had been watching Evans’s movements… . But he was injured. I doubt he could have done it very ably.”

  “His injury bothers me, too. The nature of the wound suggests that it was a trick intended to place him above suspicion, but it became more serious than initially planned when it festered. That much seems plausible. Did Turner engage some other party to assault him? If so, we must find the person. No reports have returned from the team searching for him, have they?”

  “Not yet. You say ‘above suspicion’— do you think he was already planning to murder Evans at that time?”

  “If so, surely he would maintain the deception. To confess would be bizarre—inconsistent.”

  “If the confession was a false one, who was it meant to protect?”

  “Who is the most important person to him?”

  “Professor Barton, I suppose.”

  “I agree. Evans’s death would have freed Robert Barton from debt, removing the threat to the anatomy school and saving the preparations. The Professor certainly had a reason to want Evans out of the way—yet I cannot imagine him permitting Turner to commit the crime for him. Still, I have lost some confidence in my intuition. My ability to distinguish sincerity from falsehood has become erratic. My sense of smell is somewhat diminished also, although this is only due to a cold.”

  “You have a cold? You should go to bed.”

  “You are a master of tone, my dear—you go from brisk officer to charming niece and back again quite smoothly. Now, Turner and Hart—their room reeked of wine.”

  “Yes. There was a broken bottle.”

  “I found that smell quite interesting.”

  “In what way?”

  “You noticed nothing?”

  “My sense of smell is not as acute as yours.”

  “How might Turner have known that Evans was at the Tom Queen? Since his own movements were constrained, perhaps he had someone else spy on Evans for him.”

  “One of his fellow pupils working in concert with him? Or perhaps they are all in on this. For the Professor’s sake.”

  “If every one of them were lying, and I could not hear it in any of their voices, I should have to resign my commission. No, let us restrict ourselves to one individual. Who do you think the likeliest conspirator?”

  “Albert Wood?” said Anne after a brief pause. “Neither Benjamin Beamis nor Clarence Spooner seem reliable enough.”

  “I agree. Wood is made of sterner stuff.”

  “Of course, if it were him, one suspects he would have strongly advised against any killing if Turner brought the idea to him.”

  “You said there were five people in Turner’s room, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “There were no women there besides you.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “It seemed to me that one more person was present,” said Sir John. “I cannot be certain with my nose as it is, but I believe I detected the faint smell of cosmetics. I know that you do not wear much, Anne, and this was not your scent in any case. Some other woman, with different tastes, was in that room. If she was not there when we were, she must have departed before we arrived, leaving only her fragrance behind. Her cosmetics must have been quite heavily applied for the scent to linger so long. Perhaps this was the person Turner had follow Evans’s movements, and when she saw her quarry enter the Tom Queen, she hurried back to report the fact. As for who it might have been, only Nelly comes to mind, but that was not her smell either.”

  “Nelly wears no cosmetics.”

  “Did the woman wait in Turner’s room while he went to the pub? No, that makes no sense. She would have no reason to dally there once her message was conveyed.”

  “Unless she was waiting in the bed, in Turner’s stead,” said Anne. “She could have turned her face from the door and made sure the blanket covered everything but her head. That way, if Mr. Barton happened to come in, Hart could simply point at her and whisper that he was asleep. The Professor would surely accept this without going any closer.”

  “The hair would have to the same colour as Turner’s,” said Sir John. “What colour is that?”

  “A light blonde.”

  “A woman with light blonde hair… . Has anyone fitting that description been seen around him?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “We know little of his private life. There may be some woman in it who was willing to assist him.”

  “He is, indeed, the kind of man whom women tend to be fond of.”

  “Did she leave the room before we arrived?” said Sir John. “Or was she hiding somewhere inside, having missed her chance to escape? In either event, the wine bottle was certainly broken intentionally, to obscure the smell of her. A clumsy ploy—a bottle of perfume would have been a better choice.”

  “That would have required an explanation for a bottle of perfume in a room shared by two men, however.”

  “Among the nobility, even men paint themselves. Periwig, powder, and rouge are de rigueur in such circles. I avoid them myself, mind you. Protocol does force me to wear a wig at times, but it is the most irritating thing you can imagine.”

  The magistrate removed his heavy, tight-curled wig and scratched his balding pate.

  “Let me try to remember the details of Turner’s room,” said Anne. “One moment… There was a tall wardrobe in there. A woman might have been hiding inside it.”

  Sir John was forced to replace his wig by the arrival of a messenger. A report had come in from an officer sent to the Tom Queen.

  Anne scanned it quickly. “The length of fabric that we believe Robert used to escape from the inn was the same stuff as the skirting around the bed. The bed skirt in the neighbouring room had been torn off.”

  “He took it from the other room…? Peculiar. Why not simply use what he had in his own? Anne, think back to that scene. Is there anything we have overlooked? Or, I should say, looked square in the face but failed to notice?”

  The magistrate waited.

  “There is one thing I left out,” she said. “At the end that was tied to the chair, the part protruding from the knot had been turned into another knot. Someone had tied and retied it into a ball. I did not mention it because I assumed that it was done to prevent the cord coming loose from the chair, or perhaps to ensure that it caught on something if it began to unravel.”

  “We still have the fabric, I believe.”

  “Yes. An officer brought it back. It is with Evans’s clothing and effects.”

  “Pray bring it to me.”

  When Anne returned with the fabric, Abbott was with her. She explained that he had come to make his report, up until the arrival of his relief.

  The fabric was a sturdy figured textile, thick and heavy. Sir John examined the size and weight of the knotted ball at one end as Abbott spoke.

  He was brief. “There was no sign of Robert Barton during my watch of Evans’s home,” he said.

  “Thank you. You deserve some rest… . But instead I must ask you to accompany me to the Tom Queen.”

  “Tonight?” said Anne. “Surely it can wait until tomorrow, Uncle John.”

  “We are magistrate and assistant at present, Anne. Please refrain from using your niece-voice.”

  “The pub is closed,” she said. “It is normally open until near dawn, but we had the owner close early today, in view of recent events, and remain closed for two or three more days. Our constables have returned from the scene, so I imagine the owner has gone to bed.”

  “Then we shall wake him up. Does he live in the building?”

  “
Yes. I believe his rooms are on the third floor.”

  A servant entered and reported the arrival of several visitors. “They claim to be pupils of Mr. Daniel Barton. Their names are Albert Wood, Clarence Spooner, and Benjamin Beamis.”

  “Show them in.”

  By now, the blind judge could tell the three apart by their footsteps.

  Clarence began apologetically. “It is about the damage we allowed to be done to the cadaver. There is not much to report, but we all came together since Covent Garden can be dangerous at night. We have determined that the dog only ate part of the lower stomach.”

  “What remained of the stomach was almost empty,” continued Ben. “We gave Charlie a purgative and had him excrete what he had eaten. Canine waste is not usually part of our work, but we felt responsible… .”

  “On examination, we discovered three undigested seeds—these,” said Al, handing over a packet wrapped in paper. “They are grape seeds. After being thoroughly washed.”

  Sir John opened the packet and checked its contents with his fingers, then asked Anne for her opinion.

  “They do indeed appear to be grape seeds.”

  “Charlie is not fed grapes,” said Clarence. “We seldom have them ourselves—like most imported goods, they are expensive. Al, though, was able to confirm their identity.”

  “We can be certain that these were in Evans’s stomach,” Al said. “If they did not have time to pass into the intestines, then he must have died not long after swallowing them. Is this information of use to you?”

  “It may well be important. Thank you,” said Sir John, offering Al his hand. The young man’s hand was as bony as his nickname suggested.

  He shook hands with the others as well. Ben’s was plump and soft, but with calluses on his fingers. He explained why. “My father’s a tailor, and I help sometimes. Stitching tough fabric is quite an effort.”

  “I do enjoy our conversations,” said Sir John. “However, let us settle this matter first. Mr. Wood, I have a request to make of you. Please stay behind. Your colleagues may leave, but be careful going home.”

  “A request?” asked Al, sounding nervous.

  “May we visit Nigel before we go?” said Clarence.