A Poisoning In Piccadilly

by Lynda Wilcox

  Tilly’s mousy head bent over the stocking she was busy mending. Eleanor, who could afford any number of pairs of new stockings, considered it a pointless exercise, but knew such tasks pleased her maid’s frugal heart and anything that kept Tilly happy kept her employer happy.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, my lady. You know more about the Eisenbachs now than you did before your visit. It’s a start.” She looked up, abruptly changing the subject. “Lady Carstairs has a job.”

  “Yes, and for all I know, Ann Carstairs needs one. I don’t, not as long as my father has sheep, and wool doesn’t go out of fashion.”

  Tilly laid her sewing to one side and rubbed her fingers. “Oh, well. It was just a thought.”

  And a good one, Eleanor reflected as she prepared for bed that evening. She laid aside her her clothes for Tilly to collect and launder, and slipped into her satin nightdress. How best to go about it? Perhaps a discreet advertisement in The Times, or The Lady magazine?

  She lay in bed and set her mind to work on what the advert might say. When all was said and done, getting the words and the tone right would be essential if she wasn’t to end up looking for lost dogs or runaway maids. Nor did she fancy running around London searching for criminal gangs — that was the police’s job.

  ‘Lady enquiry agent available. Lost heirs traced, murderers uncovered, discretion assured, reasonable rates.’

  I’m bored, that’s the trouble, she thought, and I suspect that Tilly knows it, even if she made no mention of the fact.

  She turned over, pulling the covers up around her ears, determined to call and place her advertisement in the morning. Then changed her mind and decided to hold her fire.

  Unwilling as she was to be caught up in a high-profile murder investigation, Eisenbach’s death in her arms meant that she had already attracted the attention of the police. It couldn’t be long before the press got hold of her involvement, too. That might make her notorious. The type of client she wished to attract might be deterred from employing someone so scandalous that a man died in her arms.

  If, on the other hand, she could play a quiet, but significant, role in bringing the killer to justice, without the public ever being aware of all the sensational details, that would be the time to open a business.

  Happy with the feeling that she had resolved things for the best, Eleanor drifted off, at last, into sleep.

  Chapter 8

  Much to Eleanor’s consternation, a message arrived the following morning inviting her to Scotland Yard.

  “Lumme, my lady. What you been doin’ now?”

  “Nothing new that I know of, Tilly, though this word ‘invite’ bothers me. Is one normally invited into the heart of the police force? I’m not aware they hold social events.”

  Tilly sniffed. “I suppose you have to go, do you?”

  Eleanor warmed her back in front of the fire, flicking at the letter with a fingernail. “I don’t see any way around it, Tilly old girl. It’s signed by Chief Inspector Blount himself.” She threw a reassuring smile at her maid. “Don’t worry. They are hardly likely to clap me in irons. They probably want to talk to me again about the death of Mr Eisenbach, though I can’t think of what more I can tell them.”

  “You might find something out yourself, my lady.”

  Eleanor clapped her maid on the shoulder.

  “Ha! Exactly my thinking.” She went to the window and peered out. A few flakes of snow whirled around in a fitful wind. “You’d better fetch my fur-collared coat, and I’ll take a taxi. It’s not that far, and a pleasant walk across St James’s Park, but not today. Brr.” She shivered and rubbed at arms that had of a sudden gone cold. “I hope the Chief Inspector has a fire in his office.”

  To Eleanor’s secret delight, a roaring fire did indeed burn in Blount’s office on the second floor. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece and a well stocked coal scuttle stood beside the grate.

  Thankfully, for Eleanor’s state of mind, the Chief Inspector’s welcome was as warm as his room. Not so the other occupant, a dark-haired man in the corner who remained seated, acknowledging Eleanor only with the merest inclination of his head.

  “I’m sorry to drag you out on this bitterly cold day, Lady Eleanor, but we are hoping you might be able to help us out. There are a couple of points that aren’t yet clear regarding the murder of Mr Eisenbach.”

  “It was murder, then?”

  Blount gave her a sharp glance. “I’m afraid so, my lady.”

  He motioned her to a seat without introducing his companion, and warmed himself briefly against the fire before returning to his own chair on the opposite side of his desk.

  A pile of folders sat to the left hand side. He lifted one from the top and placed it on the blotter in front of him.

  Eleanor waited, saying nothing, her gloved hands clasped loosely in her lap. The Chief Inspector gave her a glance from under lowered brows.

  “Will you tell me again about your dance with Mr Eisenbach, please?”

  She nodded, but asked a question of her own. “Was Mr Eisenbach poisoned?”

  Blount looked at the man in the corner and received a nod of the head. “Yes, he was.”

  “And was it belladonna?”

  “Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you. Yes, it was belladonna, the beautiful lady.” The Chief Inspector’s eyes twinkled. “It seems quite fitting, really.”

  Eleanor knew the meaning of belladonna, but wasn’t sure if he was paying her a compliment or not.

  “Well,” she said, “Mr Eisenbach and I had been chatting for a while, perhaps three-quarters of an hour or so. It was just small talk, as we introduced ourselves and started to get to know one another.”

  “Your ladyship hadn’t met him before that evening?”

  “No. As I told you at the time, my friend, Lady Ann Carstairs had met the Eisenbachs in New York. It was she that introduced me.”

  “All right. We’ll get to Lady Ann in a moment. For now I’d like you to concentrate on Eisenbach. I take it he seemed perfectly well before you got up to dance?”

  Eleanor had given much thought to the events of New Year’s Eve, going over them, again and again, in her mind. Since getting home from the Rudolph in the early hours, she had barely thought of anything else, and even her dreams were invaded by tumbling, dancing figures. So, her answer to the Chief Inspector’s question was ready, though she waited a moment before she said:

  “Yes, at least I think so. I had no previous experience to judge him by.”

  “Did you notice what he had to drink?”

  “I got the distinct impression that the Eisenbachs had only just arrived at the Rudolph when I was introduced to them and we sat down. If that was indeed the case, then Mr Eisenbach only had two drinks.”

  “Two? Any idea what was in them?”

  “I think they were both champagne cocktails. Lady Carstairs organised the first...” She paused, remembering. “At least, she said she was going to do so and a little later a waiter put four glasses in front of us.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, some time after that, Mr Eisenbach took two more glasses from the tray of a passing waiter, one for me and one for himself. I suffered no ill effects from mine, though that is assuming that Mr Eisenbach’s cocktail was the same” — she looked directly at Blount — “and hadn’t been doctored in any way.”

  Blount’s lower jaw moved from side to side as though he chewed at a particular tough piece of meat.

  “Ah, that’s the point, isn’t it, my lady? You didn’t slip something into his drink, I suppose?”

  Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. Was he serious?

  “Certainly not!” she snapped. “That’s a ridiculous suggestion. What earthly reason did I have for murdering a man I’d only just met.”

  The Chief Inspector seemed unconcerned at her scorn. “You might have thought it was something else you were dropping into his drink.”

  The small room suddenly felt warm and crowded. Eleanor resisted the
urge to open her coat and move the fur collar off her neck. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Chief Inspector, but I did nothing of the sort.”

  “Well, well. We’ll see. Was it the same waiter both times?”

  “I can’t say that I paid them any attention.” She shrugged. “It might have been, but just as easily might not. There were plenty of waiters around that evening. I’m sure the Rudolph could give you a list of their names.”

  She did not need to teach him his job, and Blount was probably looking into that angle and checking up on the waiters already, but his suggestion that Eleanor had slipped something into the American’s drink angered her. Did he seriously suspect her of murder? Or of being that desperate for a man she’d give an aphrodisiac to a perfect stranger? Preposterous.

  “Indeed. Thank you, my lady. Did anyone else approach your table, or speak to Eisenbach that evening?”

  Eleanor tilted her head, considering the question. “Not that I can recall. Carolyne Eisenbach got up to dance a few times and was escorted back to the table by some man or other each time. I seem to remember someone leaning over her, offering to fetch her a drink, but they were on the opposite side of the table and I’ve no idea who it was. My attention was on her father.”

  “Yes, what about his children?” Blount leaned forward over his desk. “Did either of them have the opportunity to spike Eisenbach’s cocktails?”

  With blinding clarity, Eleanor remembered the exchange of words between father and son, and Carolyne’s comments the previous day about the arguments between her menfolk on board the RMS Laconia.

  Blount had interviewed Howard and Carolyne, so he was probably aware of the altercations already. Should she say anything about it?

  “Perhaps, if I draw a plan of the seating arrangement that night,” Eleanor suggested. “I don’t think either Howard or Carolyne could have tampered with his drink without he or I being aware of it, but a sketch might help you visualise things a little better.”

  Ever since he had opened the file, the Chief Inspector had doodled on a sheet of paper lying inside it, a fact not lost on the sharp-eyed Eleanor. With a wry smile, as if caught out in some way, he turned the sheet over and pushed it, together with a pen, in her direction.

  Eleanor picked up the pen and drew a circle then, after a moment's thought, marked everyone’s position with their name.

  There had been six chairs around the table that night. If one thought of the table as a clock face, then the chairs had been at the even hours — two, four, six, eight, ten, and twelve. Was it just by chance, part of that human instinct not to crowd upon others, that led them to leave a free chair between the two pairings?

  Eleanor did not know, but she and Eisenbach had sat at six and four respectively, while Howard and Caroline positioned themselves at ten and twelve.

  She explained all this to Chief Inspector Blount as she scribbled. Then, more in an effort to elucidate things for herself and not the policeman, she sketched a rectangle beneath the circle.

  “This is the ballroom,” she said, and proceeded to mark in the doors to foyer and bar, along with the cloakroom counter, the stage, and the location of the table at which she and the Eisenbachs had sat.

  “It’s a bit rough and ready, I’m afraid — I was never any good at art — but it shows the general layout and our relative positions.”

  Blount took the piece of paper from her and studied it for a moment before laying it in front of him.

  “No, that’s fine, my lady, thank you. It gives me the gist, as it were.” A brief smile flashed across his lined round face.

  “Well, as you can see, there was no one sitting on Mr Eisenbach’s immediate right. Both Howard and Carolyne would have had to lean across the table to put something in his glass, and I don’t remember them doing so.”

  Eleanor was only too aware that having eliminated both his children and the waiters, the only person remaining who could have doctored Eisenbach’s drink was herself. That fact was probably not lost on the astute Blount, but it involved a huge, and possible incorrect, assumption.

  “Does the doctor know when the poison was administered?” she asked.

  If she’d thought to get a straight answer to her direct question, she was to be disappointed.

  “We are still working on that, my lady.” Blount’s face was a mask. “Perhaps you could help us there by going over your dance with Eisenbach. What exactly happened?”

  It was the question she had been dreading, yet she had known it must come.

  A shudder rippled through Eleanor’s slim frame as she relived that fatal dance — the sound of Eisenbach’s laboured breathing, heard above the noise of the orchestra. The sight of the fear and confusion in his eyes before the light went out of them, and the sensation of heaviness as his increasing limp body clung against her own.

  The horror of that New Year’s Eve would stay with her a long time, yet it must be transcended if she were to answer Blount’s question. She took herself in hand with difficulty, swallowing hard before she began.

  “Very well. Mr Eisenbach was fine when he asked if I cared to dance. The orchestra had begun to play a slower tune than the jazz that had taken the younger guests onto the floor.

  “When we stood up he made some comment about it being a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms, and swept me onto the floor. He was a good dancer.” She paused, getting the sequence of events that followed in the right order.

  Blount might give the impression of a stolid, uncompromising man, but he was not without sensitivity. He waited, giving Eleanor the time she needed.

  “We had been dancing for about five minutes, the orchestra had played a couple of tunes, when Mr Eisenbach appeared to have trouble with his feet, first tripping and then stumbling. I looked at him in alarm. His pupils were dilated, he was squinting, bringing his brows down as though to shield his eyes from the light. He was sweating and his speech became slurred. Then, then...”

  She stopped speaking and glanced down at her hands.

  “Go on, if you can.” Blount’s words were a gentle whisper.

  “The arm around my waist tightened, then went loose and began to slip. His other hand grabbed my upper arm. His knees bent, I could feel him falling and I put my arms around him to try and hold him up.” A small sob escaped her. “I couldn’t hold him. I called for help. I couldn’t prevent the fall and had to bend my own knees and go down with him. By...by the time I laid him on the floor, he was dead.”

  All this time, Eleanor’s gaze had remained on her hands. She took a wisp of cotton handkerchief from her bag and wiped her eyes before she looked back up at the Chief Inspector.

  “Did Eisenbach say anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing of importance. He certainly didn’t name his killer, if that’s what you mean.”

  Once again Blount, making allowances for the shocking events she’d recounted, ignored the scorn and sarcasm in her tone.

  “You said his speech was slurred?”

  “Oh, that.” Eleanor shook her head. “No, he was only apologising. It was when he was stumbling and trod on my foot. He said something to the effect of, “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong.” That’s all.

  They didn’t amount to much for a man’s last words, she thought sadly. Here was no pithy epigram on the condition of man, no biting or inspirational comment to be etched in marble for all eternity. Just a poisoned man’s bumbling apology. She wanted to weep.

  “I see. I appreciate that it must have been very distressing for your ladyship, but I’m no end grateful to hear your account of the tragedy. The symptoms you describe would certainly seem to confirm the poisoning hypothesis. However, that doesn’t get us too much further forward.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Not in finding his killer, that is.”

  “I’m sorry that I have not been much help to you, Chief Inspector.”

  Blount flashed her an avuncular smile. “Not to worry, my lady. You’ve at least given me a better view of the bigger picture
on that night. What about guests at the tables around you. Anyone approach you? While you were sitting with the Eisenbachs, I mean.”

  “Not that I recall, though I saw some friends that I particularly wanted to speak to at a table close by.” She raised a hand, then let it fall. “I think it must be a sad reflection on me, Chief Inspector, that most of my friends who were there were to be found in the bar, not the ballroom.”

  The comment, largely made in jest to lighten the mood, brought a laugh from the Chief Inspector. Eleanor didn’t miss the fact that the lips of the silent man in the corner also twitched briefly at her words.

  “Given the nature of my work,” Blount said, “I don’t get invited to too many parties, but I’d probably be in the bar, too.”

  “Don’t you dance, Chief Inspector?”

  “Not likely, my lady. Besides, all policeman are supposed to have flat feet.”

  Eleanor smiled, surprised to find him capable of such easy banter, but his next question baffled her.

  “Did Eisenbach give you anything that evening, Lady Eleanor?”

  “Give me anything?” She thought about it for a moment, then gave a quick shake of her head. “No, I don’t think so. What sort of thing?”

  “An envelope, perhaps?”

  “No, no, Chief Inspector. The only thing that Mr Eisenbach passed me was that cocktail from the waiter’s tray. There was nothing else, I assure you.”

  Chapter 9

  Chief Inspector Blount watched Eleanor leave - admiring the rear view, the ramrod straight back, the head held high on a slender neck, as much as he’d been pleased by the front view of her.

  He nodded to himself, picking up a pen and a fresh sheet of paper on which he drew two circles. Then he added several short lines and a longer curved one, completing his sketch with two triangles for the ears. He gazed at his cartoon cat for some moments before turning to his companion.

  “Well? What did you think, Armitage?” he asked. “Reckon she’s a killer?”