Foreign Bodies

by Martin Edwards

  The deputy frankly accepted his part in the matter and began to laugh.

  ‘There’s nothing left for it but to send detectives after the bogus corpse.’

  ‘On what grounds, Mr Deputy?’ asked Rénine. ‘Mathias de Gorne has committed no offence against the law. There’s nothing criminal in trampling the soil around a well, in shifting the position of a revolver that doesn’t belong to you, in firing three shots or in walking backwards to one’s father’s house. What can we ask of him? The sixty thousand francs? I presume that this is not M. Vignal’s intention and that he does not mean to bring a charge against him?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Jérôme.

  ‘Well, what then? The insurance-policy in favour of the survivor? But there would be no misdemeanour unless the father claimed payment. And I should be greatly surprised if he did…Hullo, here the old chap is! You’ll soon know all about it.’

  Old de Gorne was coming along, gesticulating as he walked. His easy-going features were screwed up to express sorrow and anger.

  ‘Where’s my son?’ he cried. ‘It seems the brute’s killed him!…My poor Mathias dead! Oh, that scoundrel of a Vignal!’

  And he shook his fist at Jérôme.

  The deputy said, bluntly: ‘A word with you, M. de Gorne. Do you intend to claim your rights under a certain insurance-policy?’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ said the old man, off his guard.

  ‘The fact is…your son’s not dead. People are even saying that you were a partner in his little schemes and that you stuffed him under the tilt of your trap and drove him to the station.’

  The old fellow spat on the ground, stretched out his hand as though he were going to take a solemn oath, stood for an instant without moving and then, suddenly, changing his mind and his tactics with ingenuous cynicism, he relaxed his features, assumed a conciliatory attitude and burst out laughing.

  ‘That blackguard Mathias! So he tried to pass himself off as dead? What a rascal! And he reckoned on me to collect the insurance-money and send it to him? As if I should be capable of such a low, dirty trick!…You don’t know me, my boy!’

  And, without waiting for more, shaking with merriment like a jolly old fellow amused by a funny story, he took his departure, not forgetting, however, to set his great hob-nail boots on each of the compromising footprints which his son had left behind him.

  Later, when Rénine went back to the manor to let Hortense out, he found that she had disappeared.

  He called and asked for her at her cousin Ermelin’s. Hortense sent down word asking him to excuse her: she was feeling a little tired and was lying down.

  ‘Capital!’ thought Rénine. ‘Capital! She avoids me, therefore she loves me. The end is not far off.’

  The Return of Lord Kingwood

  Ivans

  Jakob van Schevichaven (1866–1935), like so many writers during the Golden Age, chose to publish his detective fiction under a pseudonym. He chose the name Ivans (i.e. J + van + S), and between 1917 and 1935, he produced no fewer than 44 detective novels. He argued in an interview in 1926 that there was a strong public demand for ‘light literature’, and that the best way of satisfying it was by supplying detective stories in the Sherlock Holmes tradition. Like so many others of his era, in Britain and elsewhere, Ivans borrowed from Conan Doyle (who had in turn borrowed from Poe) in creating a sleuthing duo. This comprised the English detective Geoffrey Gill and his Dutch friend Willy Hendriks, who regularly confronted mysteries involving international crime and espionage.

  ‘The Return of Lord Kingwood’, originally published in 1926, is characteristic of Ivans’ output, and features a Great Detective called Mr Monk (a name that would be given many years later to the detective in an enjoyable American television series). This is a new translation by Josh Pachter, who has long combined translating work with a career as a writer of highly engaging short stories, many of which have been published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

  I

  It was 10:30 in the evening. Outside, it was raining.

  Mr Monk sat in his office at Scotland Yard: a little, unattractive, sloppy man in a little, unattractive, sloppy room, and yet…the axis around which the Yard revolved, as his admirers were wont to put it.

  The few dilapidated chairs and the large circular desk were piled high with newspapers and documents, a chaos through which Mr Monk, guided apparently by some sixth sense, seemed able to find his way. At any rate, he worked zealously, consulting various papers from time to time, papers he deftly plucked as needed from amidst the chaos.

  His telephone shrilled.

  Mr Monk raised the receiver to his ear and listened for some seconds. Then he made an impatient gesture. ‘You’d better come here, Higgins’, he said. ‘It will be easier for me to understand what you’re saying if we’re eye to eye’.

  There was a hint of sarcasm in this utterance, but when Inspector Higgins stepped into the room a moment later there was no slightest indication on his face that he was aware of it. He was dressed in uniform, and he saluted.

  ‘I regret, Inspector, that there’s nowhere for you to sit’, said the little man, with a glance at the overflowing chairs, ‘but fortunately we human beings can converse while standing. Will you be so good as to repeat the information you presented by ’phone? You said something about Kingwood Manor and Lord Kingwood, and also a caretaker. But I’m unclear what the one has to do with the other’.

  ‘The case is quite simple’, responded Inspector Higgins. ‘We’ve just been contacted by Lord Kingwood’s caretaker, who rang us from Kingwood Manor near Bridgetown. After an absence of many years, Lord Kingwood returned home earlier this evening, and the caretaker—whose name seems to be John Perkins—has requested the assistance of the Yard as quickly as possible, as he claims to have made a discovery of the utmost importance’.

  ‘And what discovery would that be?’

  ‘He was unwilling to explain over the telephone, sir’.

  ‘How, then, Inspector, do you know that the case is a simple one?’

  Inspector Higgins looked rather helpless, so he chose the wisest course of action and said nothing.

  Mr Monk also chose the wisest course of action and declined to repeat his question. ‘What did you tell him, Inspector?’ he said instead.

  ‘I asked him why Lord Kingwood hadn’t placed the call himself, if the matter had something to do with His Lordship’s return. The man replied that His Lordship knew nothing about it, and that we must in no event inform Lord Kingwood that Perkins had requested our presence until after first speaking privately with Perkins himself’.

  ‘Perhaps not so simple, after all, Inspector’, said Mr Monk.

  And Inspector Higgins again appeared quite helpless.

  Mr Monk, on the other hand, held his head high. He reminded one of a hunting dog whose nostrils have just inhaled the distant scent of game.

  ‘At what time does the first morning train depart for Bridgetown?’ he enquired.

  ‘Sharp on eight’, said the inspector without any hesitation. He was often referred to as a walking timetable, and the man had indeed a remarkable memory, though it was not always—and certainly not in this case—paired with an equally remarkable store of common sense.

  ‘Then that’s the train I shall take’, said Mr Monk, and gestured that the inspector’s presence was no longer required.

  But Higgins appeared to have something else to ask. ‘Will you go alone?’ he said. ‘Or perhaps you’d like me to…?’

  ‘No, thank you, Higgins, I’ll be fine on my own. After all, if your judgement is correct, it’s quite a simple matter!’

  The inspector saluted and left.

  Mr Monk then ferreted a number of newspaper clippings and other papers out from an assortment of nooks and crannies. Each made some reference to Lord Kingwood. How the little man managed to
locate them so quickly, after they had spent years tucked away and forgotten, was impossible to explain. But it was generally acknowledged that there were certain secret passages through the wilderness of documents strewn both within and without the office’s many cabinets, passages that were known only to Mr Monk, passages that invariably led him directly to whatever information he sought.

  And again on this occasion, the conventional wisdom seemed to hold true. For, half an hour after Inspector Higgins had taken his leave, Mr Monk was in possession of the following facts:

  William Henry, Marquis of Kingwood, had left Kingwood Manor almost 20 years previously, after the sudden death of his wife. He had in fact left the country, with his 10-year-old daughter in tow. After some years spent travelling half the world, they had ultimately settled in Florence. But even there they were rarely in residence, for the lure of travel seemed to hold Lord Kingwood still in its power. The death of his wife had made such an impact upon him that he never wished to see Kingwood Manor again, and he had so declared himself on many occasions. Lady Mary, his daughter, now some 30 years of age and unmarried, had however often expressed a wish that they might return to England. She now seemed to have gotten her way at last, and Lord Kingwood had determined that they should pay a visit to the Manor—apparently a quite unexpected decision, since their arrival had not been announced in the press, as would normally have happened in such cases. His former butler, John Perkins, had with his wife served as caretakers of the property for all these intervening years.

  This was the essence of what Mr Monk had learned from his researches. There was nothing out of the ordinary to it, nothing that had not been seen before amongst the British aristocracy.

  And yet…

  Once again, Mr Monk raised his head and sniffed at the stuffy air of his sanctum sanctorum.

  What could the old caretaker have to communicate to the police—on the exact day of Lord Kingwood’s return—that His Lordship himself must not know?

  No, this was not a simple case. Most assuredly not.

  II

  Mr Monk stepped onto the platform at Bridgetown at nine the following morning to find a beautiful summer day awaiting him. The air was rich with the scents of roses and lilacs.

  The little man took several deep breaths. He gazed longingly at the hills that lay off to his left: how deeply would he have relished the opportunity to climb them, to while away the morning in the forests that blanketed them. The little man in the untidy clothes had, occasionally, a poetic turn of mind. But that seldom lasted for long, and the duty that now called him brought him back to the prosaic reality of his life. The hills lay off to his left, but to his right Kingwood Manor beckoned.

  A friendly gentlewoman lounging in the doorway of her simple home gave him directions to ‘the Manor’, as the locals referred to it. As she did so, she examined him with an expression Mr Monk did not entirely comprehend. She was, though he did not realize it, considering whether or not this little, slovenly man with the broad necktie might be an artist who had fallen on hard times, and whether it would offend him were she to offer him a bite to eat. She might well have done so, until she observed the bright look in Mr Monk’s eyes; those eyes were much too lively, she decided, to belong to a man who had fallen on hard times. Such a poor soul must instead appear sorrowful…or unintelligent.

  Mr Monk strolled along the wide and well maintained road, which would bring him to Kingwood Manor within an hour of walking. He was lost in a whirl of thoughts that had no bearing whatsoever on the task that awaited him. He focused on the singing of the birds, followed with his aging but still sharp gaze the rising flight of a merry lark, and inhaled with great pleasure the smells of a warm, ripe summer.

  Yes, England was indeed a wonderful country!

  How could someone like Lord Kingwood have turned his back on it for so long?

  But the Prodigal Son had at last returned! There at Kingwood Manor, he could once again enjoy an English summer, for the first time in many years!

  Mr Monk spotted the Manor’s two small towers in the distance, jutting up above the thick green canopy of beeches and oaks.

  At the same moment, he saw a boy bicycling toward him from the direction of the house. The lad pedalled as if his life depended upon it, and, as he approached, Mr Monk saw that his face was deathly pale and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  The little man’s police persona immediately took command of his posture and expression.

  ‘Has something happened?’ he shouted.

  ‘I’m going for the constable in Bridgetown!’ the boy cried in response. ‘There’s been a murder at the Manor!’ And, like the wind, he blew off down the country lane.

  A murder?

  Mr Monk stood still for a moment, and wiped the perspiration from his own forehead with his handkerchief.

  Then he continued on his way.

  A murder?…

  It seemed an act of Providence that he should have arrived so promptly at the scene of the crime.

  Or should his presence not be credited to old John Perkins, the caretaker, who had summoned him?

  But why had the man not explained himself more fully, with such an awful occurrence hanging over his head?…

  Mr Monk increased his pace. The matter would become clearer on his arrival at the Manor.

  As the little man turned into the broad driveway and approached the ivy-draped house—which was in fact an agglomeration of sections representing various periods of English architectural history—it was apparent that something extraordinary had occurred. The massive front door stood open and—immediately before it—a large number of servants stood clustered in groups on the grass, busily chattering amongst themselves and gesticulating. Under ordinary circumstances, they would surely be elsewhere, not gathered together on the lawn.

  When they spotted Mr Monk, a silence descended upon them.

  One of their number, a young man in simple livery, came toward him. ‘May I assist you?’ he asked.

  ‘I should like to speak with the butler, John Perkins’, the little man replied.

  The servant went pale and took a step back. ‘This—person wishes to speak with John Perkins!’ he cried to the others. Turning back to Mr Monk, he said, ‘Who are you, and what do you want with Mr Perkins?’

  ‘You will perhaps forgive me if I discuss my business with him and not with you’, came the rather cutting reply.

  ‘Not so fast’, the servant returned. ‘Mr Perkins seems to be missing’.

  ‘And Mrs Perkins?’

  ‘Mrs Perkins…Mrs Perkins…’ The young man swallowed repeatedly. ‘Mrs Perkins was found murdered in her bed this morning’.

  Mr Monk was accustomed to remaining calm in the face of sudden surprises. But this time his usual equanimity failed him.

  The servant saw that his announcement had shaken the little man. ‘You’re not related to the poor woman, are you?’ he enquired.

  ‘I am a close friend’, said Mr Monk, who had come to the conclusion that it would be wise to conceal his true occupation for as long as was feasible. ‘What you have told me, young man, is most distressing’.

  ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens’, the servant confided. ‘His Lordship and his daughter returned to the Manor last night after an absence of many years. And now, today, they have been welcomed home by this terrible event’.

  ‘Can you tell me what precisely has happened?’

  Pacing back and forth along the side of the house, Mr Monk was made privy to the following:

  The unusual absence of the butler had that morning been remarked. He had been seen for the last time on the previous evening, when he had returned from a walk in the delightful summer air.

  Mr Monk reminded himself that the man had telephoned from Bridgetown to Scotland Yard at 10:30 p.m. So it seemed likely that it was from that excursion that he had been seen
to return.

  This morning, it was noted that the door to the Perkins’ bedroom was standing open. On peeking inside, the dead body of Mrs Perkins had been discovered in their communal bed; her throat had been cut by a sharp blade, probably a razor. And the staff—always ready to believe the worst of each other—had jumped to the conclusion that the crime had been committed by her husband, who had then fled the scene.

  Yet the little man wondered if that view of the events was in fact accurate. The various male and female servants had only been engaged by the butler less than 24 hours previously, upon the unanticipated arrival of Lord Kingwood and his daughter. None of them reported having observed the slightest discord between Mr and Mrs Perkins, and the butler had been thought of as a good-natured, friendly man by all and sundry.

  How, they marvelled, could such a kindly soul be driven to such a terrible deed?

  And above all else, Mr Monk asked himself, why would a man on the verge of committing an act of violence place a call to Scotland Yard, inviting their presence at the scene of his impending crime?

  ‘How is Lord Kingwood holding up under these tragic circumstances?’ asked Mr Monk with visible concern.

  ‘Bravely’, replied the servant, rather enthusiastically. ‘He made very little fuss and sent immediately for the constable’.

  ‘Well done’, said Mr Monk, with matching enthusiasm. ‘And do you expect the constable soon?’

  ‘Jimmy, the gardener’s son, has gone off to fetch him on his bicycle’.

  ‘Yes, I met him on the road. He cried out that there had been a murder at the Manor, but I thought he was only sporting with me’.

  ‘Will detectives come?’ asked the servant, with evident trepidation in his voice.

  ‘I hope not’, said Mr Monk shamelessly. ‘I can’t stand those stuffed shirts!’

  III

  Ten minutes later, Mr Monk—who had freed himself with some difficulty from the young servant’s company—waved the gardener’s boy Jimmy and the constable, both on bicycles, to a stop in the lane just outside Kingwood Manor’s wide gate.