Snifter of Death

by Chris Karlsen

  How does one keep from killing a sibling? A question for the ages. “Seeing her for only a day or two is not a solution. I am still left with a weeping woman, you soft-minded sod.”

  “No you’ll see. I promise to be a perfect gentleman. I will be on my best behavior. It shall be a night or two of lovely dinners and a bit of music hall fun. Swear on my sergeant’s stripes.”

  He knew Will to be a man of his word. “Fine.” Ruddy dug his key from his pocket and wrote his address down on a piece of paper. “This is my address and the key to my flat. Tell my landlady, Mrs. Goodge you’re my brother and she’ll arrange for the neighbor boy to bring water up for a bath for you. I have a tub in my place.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good brother.”

  “My dog’s name is Winky. He’ll bark but be your friend forever if you give him a bite of biscuit. I keep a dish of his treats on top of my dresser.” Ruddy took out five quid and handed it to his brother. “Here.”

  “You don’t have to give me money. I’ll just be a little short going home,” Will said.

  “You don’t come home often enough to be short. Take it.”

  “Don’t wait up.” Will winked and slid his arm through Miss Janes’ and escorted her out of the station.

  “Bloody hell,” Ruddy said, watching them leave.

  ****

  At home Ruddy walked Winky, stopped by the kitchen for a large bowl of fish stew and biscuits from Mrs. Goodge and went up to his room. He’d been regaled briefly by his landlady’s commentary on Will.

  “What a handsome brother you have, Mr. Bloodstone. So distinguished. He could pass for one of Mr. Cecil’s cabinet members, he could.” This was followed with a blush and her tittering like a young girl. “You mustn’t tell him I said that.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t,” he assured her as he started up the stairs. He’d rather run naked through a snowbank than tell his brother he was setting hearts fluttering. There are some things one simply doesn’t tell a brother.

  Ruddy shared his dinner with Winky while he drew several updated portraits of the stocking thief. The new ones included the bushy eyebrows and pockmarks on the nose.

  Finished, he put Winky on a leash and went down to the Boot and Bayonet. The pub was owned by his good friend Morris and catered to soldiers, both active and veterans. Enlisted and non-commissioned officers made up the crowd. Morris discouraged officers drinking there. A veteran of the Crimean War who lost his right arm in the Charge of the Light Brigade, Morris had little regard for ranking officers. An opinion Ruddy shared. According to Morris, “The British Empire could’ve been established with nothing more than sergeants heading her army.”

  Again, Ruddy agreed. Thanks to his own sharp tongue and quick temper, in eight years of service, he never rose higher than corporal. When he was promoted, it rarely lasted. Sooner or later, an opinion on a lieutenant or captain’s order made too loud got him quickly demoted back to private. A punishment he shrugged off.

  Morris brought two beers and set one in front of Ruddy, joining him at the table. “Working any interesting cases?” He took a long pull of beer from his tankard.

  Ruddy told him about the attack on Ivy Janes.

  A frown crept into Morris’s bland expression as he listened to the details of the crime. “Strange. He only took her stockings. He didn’t do anything else, anything worse, you know...”

  “No real physical harm, no.”

  “I don’t understand this stocking thief of yours. By menacing innocent women with a knife, he’s running the risk of going to prison. All for silly stockings. Why not pay an East End trollop a few pence and get your stockings that way? No worries.”

  “The stockings aren’t his whole goal. He wants to see the spark of fear the knife generates in the eyes of his victims. He enjoys their terror. He also wants that skin-to-skin contact when he rubs himself on them.”

  Morris’s frown morphed into a grimace of disgust. “Let’s hope he remains happy with touching and taking and nothing more.”

  “It’s a problem for certain. I worry he’ll escalate.”

  “Your dog is lapping up spilled beer from under that table.” Morris pointed.

  “Winky come here.”

  The dog trotted over and hopped up next to Ruddy. Covered in beer foam, Winky’s black-button nose was now the same shade of white as his wiry hair.

  “For mercy sake, look at you.” Ruddy used the cuff of his shirt to wipe the foam away. Winky burped. “Ugh. Winky!” Ruddy flapped at the stink of stale fish stew and beer it carried.

  “Did your dog burp?” Morris asked.

  “Yes and a foul smelling thing it is too.”

  “Rudyard,” a familiar voice called out.

  “Oh, there’s my brother.” Ruddy waved.

  “I thought you said he was out with your victim.”

  “He was.”

  Will grabbed a stool and joined Ruddy and Morris. “Evening.” He turned to Morris and seeing his injury extended his left hand. “I’m Will, Ruddy’s brother but I’m sure he told you that already.”

  “Morris Thornley.” Morris shook with his left hand. “I’m the owner-proprietor here. He gave Will’s uniform insignia a nod. “Ruddy said you were recently promoted to sergeant-major. Congratulations. I left a mere sergeant,” he said with a smile. “Let me get you a drink. A bitter good with you?”

  “Bitter, lager, ale, I’m happy with whatever you have,” Will said.

  Morris flagged down his granddaughter. “A tankard of our best bitter.”

  “What happened with you and Miss Janes?” Ruddy asked Will.

  “She’s husband hunting and I’m not wife hunting. She started asking lots of questions about being the wife of a soldier in a colony like India.”

  “I wouldn’t have considered marriage while serving in Africa,” Ruddy said. “But we were moving around a lot. You’ve been in the Mysore for years. It’s pretty settled.”

  “Still one hesitates. Although Cawnpore was years ago, the memory of the slaughtered colony keeps many of the men from starting a family.”

  Morris tipped his head toward to a table with two grey-bearded men playing cards. “They’re veterans from that Cawnpore regiment. Every once in a while, when they’re foxed, they speak of the massacre, the bloody sight of the men’s wives and children cut to ribbons. It’s a sight that will always be with them.”

  “Did either of them lose a wife or child?” Ruddy asked, thinking what a gruesome memory to live with.

  “I don’t know,” Morris said. “I’ve never wished to know, if you take my meaning.”

  Both Ruddy and Will nodded.

  “The worry over similar insurgency lingers. There’s never been real trust between us and the colonials since. Plus, life in an outpost like India is not easy on a woman. I don’t want to drag any woman I love from her home to a place where everything is strange to her. It’s blistering hot all day, every day, except for when the rains come. Then it’s wet and hot. There’s fever and disease like nothing we’ve ever seen here. Other than me, there’d be nothing of England for her. Would you bring someone you love to such a place?” Will asked Morris.

  “No.”

  “I want to put four more years in and then I’ll retire. After that, if the mood strikes, I’ll think about marriage.” Will eyed Morris’s granddaughter.

  He poked Ruddy in the arm. “On the subject of women, while Miss Janes and I were at the music hall, we saw the star singer. You and I need to go tomorrow night. She’s a fine filly. Round on top, nipped at the waist,” Will made the shape of a figure eight with his hands. “Red hair she dared to wear loose, alabaster skin, sang like an angel. If I were staying in London, I’d be on that like a bird on a worm.”

  “She’s probably married,” Ruddy said.

  “Wasn’t wearing a ring. I looked.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Honeysuckle Flowers.”

  Ruddy smiled. “Honeysuckle Flowers...there’s an actressie
name if I ever heard one. I like actresses. They’re not too toffee-nosed to object to a bit of slap and tickle.”

  “My thought exactly.” Will raised his tankard in toast.

  Chapter Five

  Jameson, Ruddy, and Archie sat tilting their heads side to side contemplating which two officers to pick. They’d chosen five of the shortest, slimmest men with the lightest beards in the district. They lined the unhappy five up in their undershirts by Ruddy and Archie’s desks.

  Jameson was sitting at Ruddy and Archie’s desks when the suggestion to put two officers in dresses came up. “They should work the neighborhoods where the crimes occurred,” Ruddy said. “We can have two undercover officers in plain clothes trailing them.”

  “I say, let’s try it,” Jameson said. “We haven’t any other avenues to work. We’ll want young officers you have full confidence in, should they need to fend off the assailant before his support team arrives.”

  With those words, Northam, who stood by in the bureau listening suddenly paled to the color of a dead swan.

  Ruddy leaned over and whispered to Jameson, “Northam thinks we’re going to make him do it. Look at him.”

  Archie heard and both he and Jameson glanced over. “Northam, come here lad,” Archie said. “Let me feel your face.”

  Northam gave a quick panicked look behind him as if by some miracle he’d see another Northam standing there. He came over and stopped by Archie’s desk, standing at attention with his hands at his sides.

  “Bend down, lad,” Archie said.

  Northam did and Archie ran the back of his fingers along one cheek and then the other. “Oh, very soft. You should have a feel, Superintendent.”

  “I’d like that,” Jameson said, lips twitching as he stifled a laugh. “Come here, Northam.”

  Northam stood ramrod straight in front of the Superintendent and bent from waist in a perfect hinge-like move. Jameson took his face in both his hands and rubbed his cheeks. “Look at these rosy cheeks.” He gave them a light pat, dropped his hands, he sighed and said, “Close to perfect, but don’t worry, Northam we’re not using you.”

  Ruddy would’ve sworn Northam lost an inch in height he sagged so much in relief.

  Ruddy, Archie, and Jameson had a good laugh. “Really Northam, on my worst night, under the influence of the worst drink, I’d not look twice at you were you in a dress,” Jameson told him.

  “Now back to the business at hand. Who do you prefer?” Jameson asked. “I think the blond chap on the end suits and the ginger-haired lad in the middle. You two, step forward.”

  Ruddy, Archie, and Jameson stood to take a closer look at the two the Superintendent selected. “Well?” Jameson shrugged one shoulder. “I say they’re as good as we’re going to get.”

  “I agree. From a distance, they’ll be fine. They don’t have to be kissable,” Archie said.

  “Ugh, sir. The deed is disgusting enough without the added visual,” the blonde officer said.

  “Where will we find the clothes?” Ruddy asked. Most women he knew wouldn’t be inclined to loan out dresses. Most didn’t have that many spare dresses to begin with.

  “This isn’t common knowledge but HQ provides each district with a small slush fund. Mrs. Jameson won’t involve herself in any sordid police business.” Jameson turned to Archie. “Holbrook, would it be possible for you to talk your Meg into coming over today and taking the measure of the lads here and sewing a couple of frocks?”

  “She’d be happy to help. Northam, you know where I live. Dash over and bring my lady wife back.”

  “Sir.” Northam rushed off.

  “You other three are dismissed. Get dressed and get back on your beats,” Jameson ordered the two remaining officers over. “I know you fellows hate this assignment but we are here to protect those who cannot protect themselves. We serve the law. What you do is for the greater good. As humiliated as you may be walking around out there in such garb, bear your noble purpose in mind.”

  Not what Ruddy would term the finest inspirational speech. Not the worst either. Although, if asked, he couldn’t come up with anything better himself. Inspirational talks weren’t his strong suit.

  In the military, he admired the colour sergeant in his regiment who had a special knack for raising the men’s spirits. The broad-chested sergeant would pace in front of the ranks bellowing out how they’d fight shoulder-to-shoulder. “A Martini-Henry rifle and a bayonet with some English mettle behind it and we’ll defeat any savage on any given day,” he used to say. Ruddy smiled to himself at the memory.

  Ruddy had lied about his age to get into the military. At his young age, when he’d first gone in, all of the sergeants frightened the pants off him. Once he stopped being afraid of them, it was, as his brother said, only his own sharp tongue that got him into trouble.

  As supervisors went, he liked Jameson over others he’d met. Like most folks, Jameson had his favorites. But when it came to enforcing the rules or punishment for violating the rules, Jameson didn’t play favorites. As a Superintendent, he’d defend his men against general complaints and accusations. But Jameson was also a political animal and wouldn’t risk his position. He wouldn’t face down HQ. If pressed, he’d bend to any ill political wind from Whitehall.

  Like Ruddy, the Holbrooks lived within walking distance of the station. Margaret Holbrook was the picture-perfect woman you’d put with Archie. Archie had just turned thirty-six. A man of medium height with light brown hair, he kept himself from running to fat by playing rugby twice a month. Even with his rugby outings, Arch leaned toward the stout side and had a chubby face, which looked chubbier because of his beloved muttonchops.

  On her tiptoes Margaret maybe came to his chin. She had dark brown hair she wore in a tidy knot at the nape of her neck and a sweet spray of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Whenever she took Ruddy’s hand in hers, his were bear claws by comparison. He found the lady a delight on most occasions other than when she was trying to introduce him to available women friends who’d make wonderful wives.

  She arrived a short time later and led the two young officers into the interview room to measure them.

  “She was very kind, sir, she was quick about it and never teased either of us,” Eustace Higgins, one of the undercover officers said.

  Ruddy fully expected the whistles and comments to come with unrelenting fervor once the undercover men were in the dresses. “That kindness won’t last with your mates here. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Sadly.” Both young men hung their heads knowing the harassment was inevitable.

  “Mrs. Holbrook,” Jameson came out of his office as she was about to leave and asked, “How long do you think it will take you to make the dresses?”

  “I’m a fine seamstress, if I say so myself. Me mum was, as was my grandmother. It’s in the blood. Give me three days.”

  Jameson clasped her hand in his. “Choose two colors that you like to wear. When this is done, I’ll see about those frocks going to you.” He gave her hand a pat and said, “Thank you again, Mrs. Holbrook for doing this. You’re a treasure.”

  Jameson came back to where Ruddy and Archie sat and gestured with his hands for them to come closer.

  “I’m letting you know ahead of time so this doesn’t turn into a Battle Royale in case things go from bad to worse. But if we get a third victim of this stocking thief, I’m bringing that reporter, Marsden, in to do a short story for the broadsheets.”

  “Please, Superintendent. No,” Ruddy pleaded.

  “Sir, he’s bloody awful difficult to get on with,” Archie added.

  “You two will have to figure out a way to get along if it becomes necessary. A third victim and we have to warn women in the area and have one of your drawings put alongside the story.” Jameson patted Archie’s shoulder. “Perhaps we’ll get lucky and it will end with this last victim or perhaps one of our fake fair maidens will lure him into custody,” he said and walked away.

  “Why do I feel like
it won’t end here?” Archie asked, watching Jameson’s back.

  “Because it won’t,” Ruddy said, sadly certain he was right.

  Chapter Six

  After the Vicar sent her away, Graciela returned to the drudgery of searching the London newspaper archives. Only this time, she didn’t search the financial sections, she searched the society pages. At least some of the non-useful information might be more interesting, and it was. She liked reading about the royal family the best. It was an article about a royal cousin that led her to the information she wanted. The cousin was a patron of the Royal Historical Society as was Bartholomew Cross. In the paper was an announcement of a charity fundraiser he and his sister hosted at his home Montague Place. Montague Place was a stone’s throw from the museum and nowhere near Park Lane. No wonder the vicar knew she was lying.

  Graciela didn’t wait for her day off. “Don’t need to be a newsboy yet. Sunday clothes will do.”

  She crept out at first light on the following Sunday morning, long before she’d be attending church with Mrs. Zachary. If she walked fast and took a cab part of the way home, she could get there and back in time. She estimated it would only take a few minutes to get a good look at the door locks front and rear. She’d draw them as best she could for Newt Addy and what she missed on paper she’d describe. The man was a burglar for mercy’s sake, he should have some clue without her having to go into enormous detail.

  She slowed her pace as she entered Cross’s street, seeing the lamplighters putting out the lights on his block. She tugged her bonnet down and tightened the bow.

  “Morning, Miss,” the man on the corner said as she passed. “You’re out early. Careful as you walk, the cobbles are damp and slippery yet.”

  “Good morning to you as well. Thank you, I’ll take care.” She continued to the corner of the next block and turned. Then she swung around and headed toward the alley behind Cross’s townhouse. She figured by the time she came round to the front again, the lamplighter would be down the street and out of sight.