Snifter of Death

by Chris Karlsen

  “Yes, yes, of course. This way please.” Desmond led them to the parlor. “I’ll bring you both some tea and then have the cook come in first.”

  Archie shot Ruddy a wary glance.

  Desmond started to leave but paused in the doorway. “Are you certain you need to speak to Billy, the stable boy? He’s just ten and never allowed in the main part of the house. The lad only comes into the kitchen and staff dining room. The only time he’s ever been as far as the parlor is Boxing Day to receive a gift from Mr. Cross. I can’t imagine he knows anything about arsenic even if he had access to the Master’s cognac.”

  “I don’t know yet if we’ll need to talk to him. Probably not, but tell him not to go anywhere,” Archie said.

  “And we’d actually like to interview you first, Mr. Desmond. If you’ll gather everyone and have them wait in the kitchen for now and when you’ve finished, come back and we’ll start with you,” Ruddy told him.

  “Yes sir.”

  After Desmond left, Ruddy turned to Archie. “I saw that wary look. I doubt anyone intends to poison us. If our killer is here, they know the station is aware of where we are and it wouldn’t do for two detectives to keel over dead in the house.”

  Archie didn’t look a hundred percent convinced but said, “I suppose.”

  An hour later they’d interviewed three of the four employees excluding Billy. As potential suspects went, none stood out. They had a cook who’d been with the victim since she was a young girl, a butler whose family had served as butlers to the Cross family for three generations, and a carriage driver about to retire after thirty-five years of loyal service.

  Desmond brought fresh cups of tea. “We’re ready for the maid,” Archie said.

  “Let’s hope she turns out to be a major surprise and looks good for the murder. I’d love to wrap this case up fast,” Ruddy said. He went to the door and waved the woman in.

  A petite young woman whose mobcap couldn’t contain the mass of dark curls that framed her face stood frozen in place. Pale eyes, wide as a startled doe fixed on Ruddy and she gripped the sides of her skirt with clenched fingers. Ruddy stepped aside so she could pass. He also shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet ready to take off after her if she bolted, which he half expected.

  “Get along with you, Alice. The detectives haven’t all day.” It was Desmond. He’d stepped up next to her and gestured open-handed for her to move to the parlor.

  She didn’t look at him but hurried toward the room, her eyes on the floor. Desmond physically moved her further into the room so he could close the door when he left.

  “Sit down, Miss Ferguson, it is Miss Ferguson, right?” Ruddy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Please, sit. We need to ask you about your relationship with Mr. Cross.”

  Still standing, staring at a spot on the opposite wall from the detectives, she said, “I’m just the maid, sir. I never had no relationship with himself.”

  Ruddy had to lean in to catch each word. She spoke softly and a heavy Scottish brogue made understanding her difficult.

  “I’ll not ask you again, Miss Ferguson. Sit.” Ruddy took her hand and led her to the chair where he put a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder until she sat. She continued to avoid eye contact and he tipped her chin up hoping to get her to look him in the eye but she wouldn’t. “We must ask you some personal questions. It’s important. Can you look at me, Miss Ferguson?”

  She peeked over but turned away again.

  Ruddy glanced at Archie whose brows notched up in his typical I’m suspicious reaction. Ferguson’s skittishness probably had him thinking along the same lines as Ruddy. That she might have been preyed upon sexually by Cross. It wasn’t uncommon among the English upper crust for powerful men to force their will on women like Ferguson who need their jobs. Odd behavior, especially the kind exhibited by Ferguson: the flinching, the shrinking away, her refusal to engage face-to-face, were symptoms Ruddy had often seen in victims of systematic abuse.

  Ruddy chose not to force the issue of looking at him with her. “Mr. Desmond tells us you’ve been in service to Mr. Cross for two years.” She nodded. “It’s important for you to be totally honest now. At any time in the past did he touch you or take advantage of his position with you?”

  “Take advantage?” She continued to avoid eye contact.

  Ruddy dipped his head trying for a better angle to see her expression. “Touch you. Do anything inappropriate with you. Ask you to do things for him of a sexual nature?”

  Ferguson shook her head hard. “No. Never. I’m a good girl.” She tried to jump up but he stopped her with a firm hand to the shoulder.

  “Miss Ferguson—Alice, please don’t think to run off. Talk to us. Did he ever say anything unseemly to you?”

  She shook her head but not as hard, shrinking away from Ruddy, from his disturbing questions.

  Time to turn her over to Archie and hopefully she’d feel less intimidated. Ruddy didn’t see anything in his manner of questioning for her to find objection with, which made him highly suspicious. She had to be lying. Why else would she respond so fearfully?

  “See what you can get out of her,” he whispered to Archie and then left the room to look for Desmond.

  The butler, along with the cook, and carriage driver, were sitting at a long prep table in the kitchen drinking tea. “Mr. Desmond, a word.” Ruddy tipped his head, indicating he wanted the butler to join him in the hallway.

  “Yes, detective,” Desmond said, coming next to Ruddy outside the parlor.

  Ruddy had left the door open just enough to peek inside. “I have serious reservations about what transpired between Mr. Cross and Miss Ferguson. Every time I ask her a question, she acts like I struck her with a hot poker. Her behavior isn’t normal. She acts like she expects to be tortured. Take a look.”

  Desmond stepped forward, peered inside, watched for a moment while Archie posed a question and then moved back to where Ruddy stood. “She’s a queer fish, isn’t she? I would never have hired her, but Mr. Cross bypassed me. He said he was doing a favor for a friend in Glasgow.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t put too much store in Alice’s odd behavior, detective. She wouldn’t say boo to a ghost. Nor does she look anyone in the eye when she speaks. She never has.”

  The fact she acted strange with everyone in the house didn’t eliminate Cross as a possible abuser. “Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Cross had any sexual contact with her? Please be honest. I understand you wish to remain loyal to the family you’ve served for generations but remember we are trying to solve his murder. His reputation won’t suffer as the information will not be made public.” The last was a lie he felt no guilt over. If it turned out Ferguson killed Cross because he was taking advantage of her sexually, that would come out in trial. Cross’s reputation would be destroyed. But if a lie was necessary to catch a killer, then so be it.

  “Mr. Cross’s father had a weakness for pretty female staff members. It was a costly weakness financially and one that broke his mother’s heart. Mr. Cross would never bring that type of scandal to his home, not after enduring the gossip from his father’s constant foolish dalliances.” Desmond stiffened and he pressed his lips together, letting his disapproval show for just a moment. His expression turned neutral and again and he continued, “To my knowledge, Mr. Cross never looked twice at Miss Ferguson. Frankly, they barely crossed paths. When he was upstairs, she busied herself downstairs and she worked upstairs after he left for the bank.”

  With the staff eliminated, they had zero leads. Something was missing from the victim’s story. What were he and Archie missing? There was a reason why the man was murdered. He didn’t have a gambling problem. He supposedly had the loyalty and devotion of his staff. No long line of jealous family members looked to inherit large tracts of land and immense amounts of money. This wasn’t random. Murderers didn’t wander up to a fashionable townhome, pick the lock, poison the resident’s cognac, and leave for no reason.

  C
ould this be the act of a jealous lover, a woman scorned perhaps? “Mr. Cross was a bachelor but like most men I assume he had a man’s needs,” Ruddy spoke frankly to the butler.

  Desmond’s cheeks colored slightly and he nodded.

  “Did he have a special lady friend?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did he satisfy his needs? Did he have women visit him here?”

  Desmond’s head snapped back slightly as though the suggestion was a slap in the face to the man’s dignity. “Certainly not. I told you he refused to bring scandal to his door.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  The butler held his finger up, took a quick peek inside the parlor and then said to Ruddy, “Have you heard of a private club called The Pleasure Chest?”

  “Of course. Every copper this side of the river has heard of it.” Ruddy had never been inside the club and didn’t know anyone who had. But he’d heard tales that no desire sought was out of reach at the Pleasure Chest. If a man had the funds, he’d find someone there who’d do it.

  “Whatever temptations took Mr. Cross, he satisfied them at the club,” Desmond said.

  From Desmond’s resigned tone, Ruddy had the impression the butler was disappointed by his employer’s suffering the same weaknesses as the rest of humanity.

  The parlor door opened all the way, and head down, Alice Ferguson scurried out back toward the kitchen. The world’s biggest two-legged dormouse. A mean thought but Ruddy couldn’t help himself.

  “She insists nothing untoward was said or done by Cross,” Archie said, joining Ruddy and Desmond.

  “I’m not surprised. I told you Mr. Cross was not that sort of man. Now, if that is all detectives, the staff and I have a busy day ahead of us. Mr. Cross’s sister and her husband are en route here for the viewing and funeral once the body is released. The staff has to prepare the house for their visit and the viewing.”

  “We’re finished. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll see our own way out.” Ruddy and Archie headed for the front door, Archie grabbing his hat as they did.

  “Where to now?” Archie asked once they were on the sidewalk, putting on his bowler.

  “The Pleasure Chest.”

  “You jest? The notorious brothel?”

  “Technically a private club,” Ruddy corrected. “Unless, or until, it is exposed as other than that it will remain designated as such. There are too many well-to-do members for that change to happen.”

  “Should we tell Jameson we’re going?”

  Ruddy hoped to avoid involving Jameson until after the fact. The Superintendent would likely want to go. There wasn’t a copper at the station who wouldn’t be chomping at the bit to go out of curiosity. If he came, Ruddy knew, somehow, some way, he’d muck things up. Because as any copper worth his salt will tell you, that’s what supervisors do.

  “We should but let’s not. I’ll take the heat for the decision,” he told Archie.

  “Balderdash, if we’re going to be in the soup, then we’ll be in it together. I have to confess, I’ve never been in any house of ill Fame.” He removed a small mustache comb from his coat pocket and ran it over his mutton chops then followed that with an additional finger-smoothing.

  Ruddy chuckled, watching the ritual. His partner wasn’t a vain man by nature. He’d only seen him preen on the rare occasion Meg was meeting him for a special evening out. “Are you fancying yourself up for the strumpets?”

  Archie shoved the mustache comb away. “No. Meg mentioned she might meet me for tea later and I thought I’d tidy up a bit.”

  “Really?” Not believing him for an instant.

  “Shall we take the tram?” Archie asked, ignoring Ruddy’s doubting question.

  “Sure.”

  ****

  They passed the club twice before finally finding it. The Pleasure Chest was located off of Shaftesbury Avenue in Soho. If a person didn’t know the exact location, it was easy to miss. At first look anyone would take it for a private home or commercial concern not open to the public. It had a padded red leather front door with heavy metal studs and a lion’s head brass knocker. The building was a simple white brick structure consisting of three floors. The long windows were all covered in drapes pulled closed to inquiring eyes. Only a two-foot by two-foot plaque in brass with the club name next to the door identified the building as The Pleasure Chest.

  Ruddy knocked. A short, broad-chested, clean-shaven, bald man with biceps the size of an ordinary man’s thighs opened the door. He wore all black including a pair of leather fingerless gloves. One eyebrow approached his non-existent hairline. He eyed the two of them briefly, and then said, “This is a private club,” and started to shut the door.

  Ruddy and Archie brought their shields up for him to see. “Not to us,” Ruddy said and pushed against the door, forcing it open. “Who’s in charge?”

  The man swore under his breath and moved aside. “Mrs. Darling.”

  “Take us to her.” Baldy was clearly one of the club’s enforcers in case of trouble and as they followed him Ruddy thought how tough it would be to fight a man like this. Solid, low center of gravity, and possessed of brute strength from the look of him, and ham-fisted—just the type it took a squad of Peelers to bring down if he resisted arrest.

  They entered a room that reeked of stale cigar smoke and cloying patchouli. Whorehouses. They all smell weird.

  The room resembled an oversized parlor filled with fancy furniture. Scattered all around were expensive inlay tables, velvet settees, chaise lounges, padded chairs and tufted ottomans. Chandeliers were strategically hung to cast the room in sufficient light without shining harshly in any one place. Nothing in it looked suited for a private men’s club that catered to the wealthy of London: no leather furnishings, mahogany tables, imported tropical plants, or tuxedoed wait staff.

  Across the room, standing in a doorway was a double of the man who answered the door. Twin enforcers. Interesting, Ruddy thought. Different. He counted eight young women in frilly boudoir—style outfits sitting and laying around, some chatting, some reading, and a few staring at him and Archie with bored expressions. One stood in front of an older woman while the woman pulled and tucked at the younger one’s lacy corset.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Darling but these detectives wish to speak with you,” the muscled servant said as they stopped in front of the sofa where she sat.

  She turned to Ruddy and Archie. Darling appeared to be in her mid-fifties. Her eyes were clear, big and blue, but most of what must’ve been golden blonde hair had gone white. The flesh around her chin sagged only a little and in spite of the overuse of powder and rouge, the vestiges of the beauty she once was remained.

  “What could you possibly want with me?” She gave the young woman in front of her a light shove. “Go on.”

  “We need to talk to you about a member of your club,” Ruddy explained. “Mr. Bartholomew Cross. He’s been murdered and we’re investigating the case.”

  “I can’t and won’t speak of my members to you. Their privacy is of the utmost importance to them. I am honor bound to keep their trust.”

  Of course you can’t. There’s nothing so precious as the honor and ethics of a Madame. Ruddy kept the thought to himself. He leaned down and whispered to Archie, “Keep talking so her attention is on you.”

  Ruddy stepped away and casually strolled around the room. He needed a violation to use as leverage against her. She could only hide behind the private club front so much. She ran a brothel and what brothel didn’t have something to hide?

  In the background Archie told her, “Mrs. Darling, dead men have no expectation of privacy so that excuse doesn’t stand.”

  “You can’t make me tell you anything. Besides, I’m not sure what it is you wish to know.”

  “For starters, who was his favorite lady? Don’t most of your members have favorites?” Archie asked.

  “Many do, yes. So what?”

  “We need to speak to her.”

  “Why? What’
s that other detective doing?”

  “Stand up,” Ruddy ordered an Arabic looking whore who’d been lying on a chaise.

  “See here, you can’t order my girls around,” Darling said, moving off the sofa toward where Ruddy stood.

  Ruddy ignored her and swiftly took hold of her wrists, eliciting a squeal of protest from both her and Darling. He turned the girl’s hands palm up and wrapped his middle finger and thumbs around her wrist bones. He let go of the girl’s hands and took a step back.

  She wore a floral print silk robe over flesh-colored tights and a lacy bustier. “Slip the robe off,” Ruddy ordered and she did.

  Darling lunged for Ruddy but Archie was there to shove her away.

  Ruddy eyed her hard from the front and then from the side. Coming face-to-face with her again, he asked, “What’s your working name?”

  “Scheherazade.”

  “What’s your male name?”

  “Don’t say anymore,” Darling blurted.

  “Quiet,” Archie hauled her by the arm back to the sofa and pushed on her shoulder until she sat.

  “Your male name?” Ruddy repeated.

  “Yazid.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Morocco.”

  “You can sit down again.” He walked over to a young Asian woman sitting ramrod straight, chewing a lip, and watching him from an ottoman. “Stand up.”

  She shook her head.

  “Really? You want to do this the hard way?”

  The Asian slowly stood. A hipless, tiny-boned creature, she wore a satin choker three fingers wide that covered most of her neck.

  Ruddy slipped his index finger behind the front of the choker. “Swallow.”

  The whore shot a fearful glance Darling’s direction. Darling looked ready to leap off the sofa and tackle Ruddy. Archie must’ve suspected it crossed her mind and kept his hand on her shoulder.

  “Swallow,” Ruddy repeated.

  The Asian swallowed.

  Ruddy pulled his finger from the choker. “What’s your working name and your boy name?”