Snifter of Death

by Chris Karlsen

  His head snapped up.

  “Don’t call out,” she ordered. “You’ve been poisoned. If you call out, I’ll run and you’ll never receive the antidote in time to save yourself.” She gave him a few seconds to debate his next action.

  Pain grabbed his insides again, doubling him over before he could respond. Then, he lifted his head slightly and asked in a raspy voice, “Who are you?”

  “Oh, we’ve met but I know you don’t remember me so let me introduce myself. I’m Graciela Robson. We met sixteen years ago...well, not met exactly but came together at the will of you and your friends.”

  He squinted, trying to focus on her. “You’re a woman?”

  She removed her cap, unpinned her hair and gave it a shake.

  He shook his head recognition escaping him as she knew it would. “I don’t know you. I don’t care who you are. There’s money in the desk drawer. Take it. Just give me the antidote and go.”

  “Not yet. Soon confusion will set in and you need to remember. Sixteen years ago you and three friends from the Oxford rowing team were coming from practice. You saw a sweet fourteen-year-old local village girl picking flowers along the riverbank. When you saw she was alone, you stopped and formed a circle around her. You touched her hair and cheeks and told her how pretty she was. Still don’t recall?”

  She moved closer, close enough to see his eyes bounce as he tried to focus, tried to reach for a memory he’d thrown away ages ago. “No. No.”

  “You said rude things about her among yourselves. You said she was ripe for the plucking and that it would be a shame to waste her on a nothing little farm boy. Coming back to you yet?”

  “You’re mad,” he mumbled and pulled his legs up, curling into a semi-fetal position. He dropped his feet to the floor suddenly and attempted to stand. “My birds. Must feed my birds.”

  Confusion, another sign of the arsenic’s effect.

  He staggered back down and begged, “Please help me.”

  “You argued about who should go first. You won, arguing you were the one pointed me out to them. They took turns holding me down. You were all careful not to tear my clothing. All I had when it was over was the blood of my virginity to show as evidence. You were quick to inform me that even if I showed that to the authorities, no one would believe me over you lot. People don’t believe girls like me over men like you, you said. Money and position will always have the final say.” She smiled. “Unless, of course, you’re a woman with a flask of arsenic.”

  He groaned and began to rock violently, nearly falling from the chair.

  She knelt in front of him. “Tell me the names of the other three and I’ll give you the antidote.” She pulled another vial from her pocket and held it up.

  “So you can kill them too?”

  “They need to know what they did. What are the names?”

  “Never...tell...you...”

  “Are you willing to die for them?” She wiggled the vial in front of his eyes.

  He blinked several times and she thought he’d pass out before speaking. He raised a finger and pointed to his desk. “In my book, Skinner, Lloyd-Birch, and Finch.” He made a feeble attempt to snatch the vial from her, grabbing air instead. “Save me now.”

  “Beg me. Say the words.”

  “I. Beg. You.”

  Emotion she hadn’t expected swept over her, a thrill astonishing her with its strength at just hearing those words from him. She rocked back on her heels. She had anticipated a sense of accomplishment, anticipated a wave diabolical pleasure but nothing like this searing power that seemed to start at her feet and burn in a wonderful way out every pore on a path upward.

  She stood and went to the silver tray with three decanters, wanting a potent drink, a celebratory drink. Obviously, she couldn’t touch his cognac. She sniffed one of the other bottles. Port. Port is for lady’s companions or women with delicate natures, not a resolute, flinty woman. She sniffed the last decanter. Whiskey. Yes, whiskey it is. A man’s drink...or the drink of someone capable of doing what a man believes only men capable of.

  She poured three fingers full into a glass, drank half and knelt in front of Cross again. “I beg you. I said those same words. But they didn’t get me anywhere. Yours won’t either.” She removed the vial of colored water, the alleged antidote and threw it down her throat. She chased the water with the remaining whiskey.

  She eyed the decanter with tainted cognac, debating if she should take it. She wouldn’t want one of the staff tempted to tipple to wind up dead. She decided against removing the bottle reasoning that as soon as the maid came in to light the fire in the morning and discovered the body, she’d run for the butler. He’d send for the doctor. The odds were slim any staff might stop to drink under the circumstances. Graciela hoped none would anyway. The thought of an innocent dying as a result of this horrified her. The possibility hadn’t occurred to her before now. She pushed the possibility from her mind and turned back to Cross.

  When Cross lost consciousness and fell from the chair, she tucked the square of bloody bloomer linen into his palm and wrapped his fingers around it. He took his last breath a short time later. She verified he had no heartbeat and briefly contemplated closing his eyes so he looked less horrified entering the afterlife. But she didn’t. She searched his desk for a ledger with the names of his associates, found it, and then left out the front door, shutting it softly behind her.

  The entire murder had taken less time than she thought. She’d be home before dawn. Fast business. Arsenic in a massive dose was indeed the King of Poisons. She hugged the ledger close to her chest.

  One down, three to go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Don’t bother taking your hat and coat off,” Archie said as Ruddy walked into the detective bureau. “We’ve been ordered to look into a suspicious death over on Montague Place.”

  “What do you mean suspicious? Is the fellow shot, stabbed, hung or not?”

  “Details are slim. The desk sergeant said the alleged victim was an important banker and something about his death doesn’t look right.”

  Ruddy had no intention of taking the word of a hysterical wife or other relative that some heinous act had to have occurred. Their grief all too often wouldn’t allow them to accept that death has come to a loved one who was otherwise healthy.

  “Doesn’t look right to whom? Before we go dashing off on a wild goose chase, I’d like to know who the source of this suspicion is and why they’ve concluded something is amiss.” He went over to the desk sergeant. “You must have more information on this death on Montague. Why is this suspicious?”

  “I don’t. They sent their footman here with a message from the butler that Mr. Bartholomew Cross had died and that there were indications that it was under suspicious circumstances. Sorry Ruddy, but the footman wasn’t exactly a font of information.”

  “Bloody hell. All right. Let Jameson know where we went and what’s going on.”

  ****

  The butler, Desmond, led them to the library. “This is how I found him. I went into his chamber at 7:30 a.m. to wake him. Mr. Cross kept a strict timetable. When I saw his bed was unslept in, I became alarmed and went immediately to the library.”

  “Why here?” Archie asked.

  “It’s Mr. Cross’s habit to...well...imbibe late into the night. He had trouble falling asleep and often didn’t retire to his bed until the wee hours of the morning. He’d stay in here reading and feeding the early birds.” The ghost of a sad smile passed the butler’s lips. “He had a fondness for wild birds. Some even trusted him enough to land on his offered hand.”

  “Was this where you saw him last?” Ruddy asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ruddy felt along Cross’s arm then along his leg and spine for signs of lingering rigor mortis and found none. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “What time was that?”

  “11:00 p.m., detective. I went to my chamber afterward.”

  “What about the re
st of the staff? Are any of them up and about after you go to bed?” Archie asked. “A valet perhaps?”

  Desmond shook his head. “Mr. Cross didn’t desire the services of a valet. If needed, I helped him dress. I am also the last of the staff to retire for the night just in case he requires anything.”

  Other than the usual lividity, Ruddy didn’t see any marks on the body. “What makes you think this isn’t a simple heart attack?”

  “Look at how he’s curled up, detective. He’s balled up as though in pain, in the fetal position.”

  Ruddy shrugged. “Sorry but I don’t see the significance in that. I’m sure a heart attack is painful. Even if it isn’t his heart, it could have come from food poisoning. I’ve suffered that in the past and can verify that you’ll double up in agony quickly enough.”

  “It couldn’t have been food poisoning. We all ate the same food he did. None of us is sick. There are other issues that make me suspect something suspicious happened.”

  “Go on.” Ruddy planned on letting him express all his theories and get it out of his system. It was the best way to handle the problem. Let them talk and then explain how they were wrong and leave.

  “The front door was unlocked,” Desmond said with some urgency.

  “So.”

  “I never forget to lock the front door.”

  Ruddy had him now. This he could settle with easy logic. “Everyone makes mistakes, Mr. Desmond, everyone. We all forget things. By some coincidence you happen to have forgotten to lock the door last night.”

  Desmond shook his head hard. “No. You don’t understand. I’ve been the butler here for two decades. My father was Mr. Cross’s father’s butler and my grandfather his grandfather’s butler. I never, ever forget to secure the doors, never. None of us has ever been remiss in our duties in that way.”

  “I don’t mean to insult you, Mr. Desmond, but it does happen. Let me see the lock. I’ll check to see if it’s been tampered with,” Ruddy said to appease him. They’d come through the front door but neither Ruddy nor Archie had been looking for lock tampering at the time.

  Desmond led them to the door and Ruddy inspected it from both sides and saw nothing, no scratches or marks of any kind. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. I’ll admit a good burglar will defeat this type of lock without leaving marks and I suppose if burglary were the criminal intent here, that might have occurred. Have you checked to see if anything is missing?”

  Defeat crossed Desmond’s face. “I did. Mr. Cross kept a hundred pounds in his desk and it’s still here.”

  “What about family jewels?”

  “Mr. Cross’s mother lived with him but when she passed her jewelry went to his sister. She lives in Surrey.”

  “Have you noticed anything else of value missing?”

  “I haven’t checked but I will and let you know if I discover anything.”

  “There’s no sign of forced entry. No sign of struggle. I have to say, I don’t see any evidence of foul play, Mr. Desmond,” Ruddy said.

  “What about this soiled cloth? I think the stain is dried blood. I’ve never seen it before. I pulled it from his hand and then replaced it so you could see where it was originally.”

  Ruddy took it from Cross’s hand and examined it. “It does look like an old bloodstain but it might be any number of things.” He handed the linen to Archie to examine.

  “I’m not saying he was murdered, detectives, but I do believe something extraordinary happened that triggered Mr. Cross’s death.”

  “We understand your intent. Did Mr. Cross belong to any gentlemen’s clubs?” Archie asked and wrapped the cloth in a clean piece of paper.

  “Yes, Boodles,” Desmond told him.

  “We’ll inquire if he had any outstanding gambling debts that might’ve brought him into contact with unsavory types,” Archie said.

  “In the meantime, to put your mind at ease, Mr. Desmond, we’ll have a formal autopsy performed to determine cause of death. We’ll be taking this bottle of cognac and we’ll run tests on it, if for no other reason than to eliminate any possible contamination that might have triggered some kind of food poisoning, as it appears to be the last thing he ingested,” Ruddy said.

  “You’ll keep me informed, won’t you?” Desmond asked. “All of us on staff served Mr. Cross for many years.”

  “We’ll inform the family of all the details. What we discuss with the staff will depend on what we discover,” Archie said.

  “Of course.”

  Ruddy instructed the constables on the scene to notify the medical examiner to send transport for the body. “One of you bring the decanter. Be careful not to spill any. We need to test the contents. We’re taking the glass he drank from to see if we can test what little remains.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Archie turned to Ruddy. “What do you think? I don’t see this as a murder, do you?”

  “I think he had a heart attack.”

  “What about the piece of linen? What do you make of that? It’s a weird twist.”

  “I suspect he was foxed and dug it out. It’s some piece of sentimental nonsense and was reliving a memory when he keeled over. Let’s get the laboratory to confirm and get Mr. Desmond out of our hair.”

  Hours later Ruddy munched on an apple as he read over the gambling records Boodles kept on Bartholomew Cross. The proprietor of the club had not been co-operative with them when they asked about Cross’s gambling habits. Had he answered their questions when asked, he and Archie would’ve been on their way. But no, he acted like a puffed-up pigeon and refused to give them any information, choosing instead to give them some silly tripe about protecting the privacy of their clientele.

  “Really?” Ruddy had responded. “I’m protecting the rights of one of your members who is a possible victim.” Then he walked into the back office where he knew the club kept the books on each individual member. He found the one on Cross and left with it, over the loud objections of the proprietor.

  Hot on his and Archie’s heels, the proprietor demanded to see Jameson. The three of them went into the Superintendent’s office. Jameson, not being a member of Boodles but a different club didn’t give a whit about the man’s objections and supported Ruddy and Archie’s actions, sending the proprietor packing. Neither Ruddy nor Archie were fooled. Had it been Jameson’s club, they’d have surrendered the book and likely been made to apologize.

  Ruddy ate and read. As wealthy men go, Cross was a conservative gambler. He never lost more than fifty pounds. If he lost that amount on any game or any given night, he paid his debt and quit. Commendable in Ruddy’s view. Conversely, he never won much either. The men he played with were of the same conservative ilk and didn’t risk much. Ruddy didn’t recognize any of the names of the men Cross regularly played cards with, which surprised him. Boodles was known to have a wealthy membership of men in business and politics.

  “Anything?” Archie asked.

  “He never over extends or takes a large amount off anyone else. Cross’s life looks fairly ordinary. I tell you there’s nothing to Desmond’s suspicion. Once we have the autopsy and—”

  “Detective Holbrook and Detective Bloodstone,” it was the runner from the laboratory. “I have your report from this morning.” He dropped an envelope on Archie’s desk.

  “What was the result?” Archie asked.

  “Arsenic. A lot of it.”

  “What?” Both Archie and Ruddy sat upright in their chairs and repeated in unison.

  The runner nodded. “The cognac contained a large quantity of arsenic. Whoever added the poison meant the drinker to die. No antidote would save them if they drank even half a glass. . Everything is in the report.” The runner turned and left.

  Archie slid an opener under the envelope seal. “Appears like Cross was murdered. I can’t believe it. Desmond was right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Medical Examiner was still processing the body when Ruddy and Archie arrived, b
ut he’d finished his toxicology tests on the stomach contents. The tests confirmed death by arsenic poisoning.

  “Was it only in the cognac or had the food been tainted as well?” Ruddy asked.

  Both detectives stood out of the splash zone as the doctor poured a bucket of water over the autopsy table. A sheet of blood ran off the end into a floor drain.

  “Only cognac,” the M.E. said, swiping at a pool of blood the water missed.

  “Thank you. It’s not much but every little bit helps,” Archie said. He and Ruddy headed to the Cross residence.

  ****

  “Detectives, please come in,” Desmond said, opening the door and gesturing for them to enter. “Are you here with new information on the death of Mr. Cross?”

  “We are and we need to interview the staff. Please gather them for us,” Ruddy instructed.

  The butler’s brows lifted a fraction as he closed the door and turned. “Is foul play involved as I suspected? Can you share what you discovered?”

  “In part,” Archie said, removing his hat. “Turns out, your suspicion was well founded. His cognac was laden with arsenic.”

  “Dear Lord.” Desmond looked sincerely horrified.

  Archie continued, “You can understand why your staff are the first folks we wish to talk to.”

  Without asking, Desmond took Archie’s hat from him, no doubt out of force of habit and hung it on a hall tree.

  Ruddy wasn’t fond of hats and often left his at the station. Because of the warm weather, today was one of those days. He hated how the bowler made his head sweat. He had spent eight years sweltering under a hot helmet serving her majesty in Africa.

  He moved past Desmond deeper into the hallway. “How many does Mr. Cross employ?”

  “Four, plus the carriage driver’s grandson who serves as the stable boy. Mr. Cross preferred to keep his staff small.”

  That was unusually small for a townhouse this size but went hand-in-hand with Cross’s conservative gambling habits.

  “Please bring the staff in one by one and show us to a room where we can interview each in private,” Ruddy ordered and pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket.