A Case Most Peculiar

by Michael Moreau

  My suspicion was confirmed when the bar-tender eyed me up and down as I approached. Now I feel I must explain, being a business man I most certainly did not dress nor smell like the city’s common rabble, but the once-fine clothing that I wore had begun to clearly show the signs of use and age. I did frequent bath houses and tried to maintain a certain level of hygiene but compared to those with their own private baths and servants to keep them nice and tidy I must have appeared in an utter state of disarray. I made a quick effort to brush my hair into shape with my hand and then remembered that I’d forgotten to shave. Oh well, I was in need of strong drink and the bar-tender’s opinion of me was of little concern.

  “What shall it be sir?” his question came off somewhat sarcastically.

  I leaned against the bar and motioned for him to come closer. “Look here young man. I may not smell of the finest cologne and my attire may not be the latest fashion but I can assure you that I have money for drinks and if you intend to relieve me of any of it in the form of gratuity you will at once change your attitude. Are we clear?”

  To my surprise the boy chuckled and smiled then leaned in and spoke into my ear. “Truth be told these blue-bloods make me sick sir and I commend you for correcting me on my snobbery. Last thing I want is to become anything like them.” he slapped me on the shoulder and reached for a glass, “Tell you what, first drink’s on the house.”

  “Most appreciated young man.”

  “Just remember that when it comes time to dole out that gratuity.”

  “That I shall.”

  I was starting on my second glass of scotch when I felt the lurch of the train as it set off. I had been chatting with the young barkeep, who I’d learned was also named Robert. Meanwhile several other patrons had entered the car and taken seats. Most of them chose to sit in groups at tables but those who had no companions sat at the bar as I did, though they did keep at least one stool between myself and their own person. Did I really appear such an unsavory character?

  Regardless, I chose to ignore them. Of course when I say “ignore” what I actually mean is that I did not socialize with them. Whether drink had touched my lips or not my eyes were always observing and my mind always analyzing. Opium was the only substance I had yet encountered that had the ability to turn off my...well I suppose it’s either a gift or a curse depending upon how one looks at it. I turned often to opium as a rest from my constant whirlwind of thoughts but I was intelligent enough to space out my visits to the dens. I had seen first-hand what addiction could do to a fellow, so while I chose to partake on a fairly regular basis and my mind had become somewhat reliant on the substance I never allowed my body to follow suit.

  By the look of the gentleman sitting four seats down from me it was obvious that he was no stranger to opium either. Rather more likely laudanum to be specific. I’d noticed the vague smell of the concoction upon him as he’d walked by me and a stolen glance at his pupils told me the rest of the story.

  The lady two seats down to my left wore a large fur coat and a strand of pearls around her neck as well as several rings of the finest variety which rested upon her fingers. She was the widow of a wealthy man and quite a lush. No man accompanied her yet she still wore a wedding ring. The heavy wrinkles on her face despite the lack of any gray hair told me that alcohol had aged her prematurely, that and the fact that her hand had not once left her glass and that she kept a constant eye on the bartender, never allowing him to venture far from her sight.

  The extremely heavy perfume she wore as well as the nearly-indecent amount of makeup coupled with the sultry glances she was giving to every man at the bar not accompanied by a woman suggested that she was indeed single and likely on the prowl for another nouveau-riche to guide comfortably into his death bed.

  To my right sat an American banker. His accent wreaked of Boston and his style of dress as well as the masonic emblem he wore on his lapel told the rest. He’d also produced a rather large bundle of cash to pay for his first drink yet failed to provide any gratuity to the young man working the bar. This man liked to keep all of his transactions nice and tidy, he refused to start a running tab, insisting instead that he would pay for each drink individually.

  “What mine did you work?” I asked of young Robert as I signaled for him to refill my glass.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were a miner were you not?”

  “Yes but how did you...”

  As he handed me my third glass of scotch I grasped his left hand in my own and turned it over. “Calluses of the type gained from using a pick-axe for prolonged periods of time. I have also heard you cough no less than seventeen times, albeit subtly, since I have sat down. If that’s not enough there is also an unmistakable bit of Durham accent on your tongue.”

  “So then you already know where I worked. Why bother asking?”

  I chuckled to myself and took a sip of the top-shelf scotch that I was enjoying far too much for my own good. “Conversation my good man. Perhaps the better question now is what are you doing serving drinks on a train?”

  “Doctors said I couldn’t keep working the mine.”

  “Surely not. What are you? All of twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I’ve known men to work those mines for the better part of forty years before succumbing to diseases of the lung and you managed in a tenth of that?”

  “My father died at thirty-six. Doctor said it ran in the family and that I’d be dead long before that if I kept at it.”

  “Curious. A hereditary intolerance for coal dust?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine sir. The doctor’s an old family friend and his brother works for the railroad, said he could get me a job and so here I am filling glasses for folks who look down their nose at me.”

  “An interesting fact of life, Mr. Robert, is that no matter how high on the social ladder one thinks he is there is always someone higher.”

  The boy gave me a queer look then asked, “What about you? I’ve been trying to put my finger on you since you sat down and best I can guess is you’re a copper.”

  I laughed out loud, perhaps with a bit too much volume as it seemed to disturb the lady with the audacious coat, she glared at me. “Robert...the bar-tender, I am many things but a copper is not one of them.” I raised my glass into the air, “I am a private inspector of some repute. Well...at least I used to be. Now I am somewhat better associated with a penchant for strong drink and inappropriate behavior.”

  The boy’s demeanor changed in an instant and he leaned in close. “You’re here to investigate the missing jewels and bonds aren’t you?”

  His statement piqued my interest. I raised an eyebrow and queried, “Stolen jewels and bonds you say?”

  “Yes, on the last four trips items have gone missing from private cabins all over the train. I’d heard some of the staff say that the railroad was hiring an inspector to come aboard and try to apprehend whoever is responsible.”

  “Very interesting. No that is not why I am here.” one of my most infuriating traits is my inability to let a mystery rest, “Tell me more. Do they suspect anyone in particular? Someone in the employ of the railroad would of course be at the top of my list since the robberies have taken place on multiple trips.”

  “I’ve heard no accusations Inspector.”

  “Hmm. What about passengers? Have you noticed any particular passenger taking frequent trips?”

  He laughed and responded, “Sir this is a train, many of the folks here ride the line several times a week. I can spot at least five of them in this very room now that I see on a weekly basis.”

  “Yes, but have you noticed any one particular person on all of the trips in question?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so sir, but then again it’s rather difficult since I see many of the same faces quite often.”

  I rubbed my chin in thought, “Well, I suppose my first order of business is to speak to the engineer and make certain that there is
not already an inspector hired by the railroad aboard this train. I’d not want to impede his investigation in any way.”

  “Of course not. Another?”

  “No.” I waved his bottle away from my glass, “I’ll take tea if you have any.”

  “I can get you...”

  He was interrupted by a conductor entering the car, “Tickets! Tickets!”

  Several of the patrons around me began to fumble around in their purses and pockets. I had already had my ticket punched so I simply waved it for the conductor to see and he nodded in acceptance. I watched as he went to the banker on my right who quickly produced his ticket. Left inside coat pocket, he was an organized man and knew exactly where it was. He then went to the fur-coated lady on my left who seemed to be having some difficulty in locating her ticket. She struggled for a few moments, much to the conductor’s chagrin, before producing five tickets from her purse. I quickly stood from my stool and walked over to her.

  “Excuse me Madame.” I locked eyes with her, “May I see your tickets for a moment?”

  Her expression turned to one of fear and in that instant she betrayed herself fully.

  “What is this? Who are you?” the conductor demanded in a thick northern accent.

  “Of course.” I turned to him, “My name is Inspector Robert Carson. I am here investigating the robberies that have been taking place aboard this train of late. I’m sure you are aware of the situation.” I could only hope he would presume that I was the inspector that had been hired by the rail line.

  The lady tried hastily to pack her things back into her purse but I put out a hand to stop her while still staring down the conductor. He looked at me questioningly for a few moments and then over my shoulder, no doubt at his co-worker at the bar, before nodding for me to proceed.

  “Now,” I said as I turned to the widow. “May I see your tickets please?”

  “You certainly may not!”

  “Show the gentleman your tickets.” the conductor spoke up.

  She hesitated for a moment and then thrust them at my chest angrily. I snatched them from her grasp before transferring them to the conductor. “If you will sir please examine the dates on these tickets.”

  He nodded as he took them from me and looked them over one after the other.

  “Mr...?”

  “Ledsome sir. Henry Ledsome.”

  “Mr. Ledsome. Do the dates on those tickets match the dates upon which the alleged robberies have taken place?”

  He glanced at them again and then nodded, “Yes sir, they do.” he then looked up at the widow with sudden realization. “But Inspector I’ve not seen her before. What about you Robert, you seen this woman before?”

  I turned to the bar-tender who shook his head. The dates matched, however, and that made the woman extremely suspect. I returned my gaze to her.

  “What precisely are you suggesting sir?” she asked.

  I said nothing. I approached and began to look her over more closely. Under scrutiny certain things about her seemed very odd indeed.

  Mr. Ledsome spoke up, “Inspector Carson, I see you eying the lady’s jewelry but certainly had she robbed it from passengers on this very train she’d not have the gall to wear it in public.”

  “You’re right,” I said to the conductor as I continued my examination, “The jewelry she wears belongs to her...or at least it was not filched from anyone on this train.”

  “This is absurd!” the lady yelled right before she slapped me squarely across the right cheek. I paid little heed and my stalwart demeanor only seemed to anger her further. “I will not be accused of thievery by the likes of...you!” she motioned to my unkempt clothing.

  “You both say that you have not seen this woman before, correct?” I asked of the railroad employees. They both responded in the positive. “Well, what if I told you you’d simply not recognized her?”

  With that I grabbed a fistful of hair and to the gasps of all in the car pulled the wig from her head. “A very nice piece Madame, one of the finest I’ve ever seen, but not enough to fool me.”

  “How did you?” the conductor was nearly speechless.

  “Let’s just say that I’ve had experience with disguise.” between the top-quality wig and indecently heavy amount of makeup it’s no wonder that no one working the rail line noticed her. Even I suspected nothing until the tickets gave me cause to scrutinize her further. “Check her cabin, I’m certain that you’ll find your pilfered valuables there.”

  The woman rose from her seat and attempted to run for the door but was grabbed by one of the on looking patrons. Her choice of heels had hampered her ability to be fleet of foot, a choice she now no-doubt regretted.

  “How can you be certain,” Mr. Ledsome asked, “that she won’t have off-loaded the stolen goods at a previous stop?”

  I smiled and reached into her purse. “I caught a flash of this as she was attempting to stash her belongings.” I pulled another ticket, this one for a ship bound for New York, from it. There were other tickets in her purse as well, some for other rail lines. “The fact that she was planning to flee the country makes me certain that her ill-gotten riches will be stashed nearby. Again I say check her cabin.”

  The small crowd in the bar car erupted into applause as the conductor led the woman away cursing my name. Not being one to bathe in attention, and wanting to avoid questions, I thanked them all and quickly made my exit. I still had a good bit of time before Leeds and decided that a little lunch and a quick nap would serve me well.

  A Disdain for Motorcars

  I had never before been to Leeds and to be fair my entire opinion of the place had been shaped by only one person, the former Mrs. Parney. In her maidenhood she had held the surname of Willings, a name known quite well in the vicinity of Leeds for both her father and mother were celebrated orators for the cause of sobriety. They were known to whip church-going crowds into self-righteous frenzies and send their flock out into the streets to preach against worldly sins.

  They seemed to reserve a special hatred for spirits but also spoke out against pleasures of the flesh as well as what they felt was a plague of logic and reason that was poisoning the minds of men and turning them against the religious establishment. Matthew Parney was far from a loose-tongued man but had confided on several occasions that Margaret was not as chaste as she had initially led on. Quite the opposite, he implied that her...appetites...were of a nearly deviant nature and that her insatiability had often worried him about the possibility of her committing adultery when he was away on business.

  Despite her own deviations, however, she staunchly remained opposed to the imbibing of alcohol. Many a time did she chastise me for arriving at my partner’s doorstep with the smell of scotch about me. Regardless of her opinions, all of which I found unsavory, I tried for some time to make peace with the woman but she would have none of it. After a while I began to suspect that her distaste for me had as much to do with keeping Matthew all to herself, even more-so than it did for her disapproval of my lifestyle. Towards the end I began to suspect very strongly that Matthew was growing tired of the manipulative wench but I never did get confirmation of that fact.

  Regardless, there I stood at the Marsh Lane station holding the two bags I had brought along with me, staring out at a strange city. Leeds was a town of over one-hundred and fifty-thousand souls, a mere speck compared to London, but still plenty large enough for someone unfamiliar with it to get lost in. So with my luggage I made for the nearest hire carriage. It wasn’t raining in Leeds, but it had recently. Stepping off of the train platform I was greeted with the pathetic squish of mud under my feet. It had been churned up by countless coaches coming and going and I immediately sank into it nearly up to my ankles.

  “A little help here?” I yelled at the coachman.

  He returned my call with, “Already engaged.” I saw no one inside of the coach nor did I see anyone loading baggage.

  “You don’t appear to be engaged.”

  “P
iss off!”

  I suddenly felt as though my judgment of Leeds had been justified, a city of fustilugs and bun stranglers. Perhaps a lack of manners was simply a common ailment in the area. Just then, as I was working up an appropriate insult a man in a dark gray John Bull and plaid coat came running up to help me. His shoes and the bottoms of his trousers were so caked in mud that I could not tell what sort they were but his style of dress seemed a bit eccentric.

  “Never mind him.” the man said as he grabbed one of my bags and extended a hand to help me free myself from the mud. “He’s not a hire-cab. That’s Andrew Willings’ private carriage.”

  He’d said the name as if I were supposed to know who he was referring to. I, however, did have an inkling.

  “Willings? The abstainer?”

  “What? Oh, goodness no. Let’s get your things into the car and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Car?”

  “Yes,” he motioned to the contraption behind him, “my motorcar.”

  In recent years the noisy and unreliable things had begun to crowd the streets of London. I had ridden in one only once and after smelling of petrol for an entire evening had vowed never to get into one again. I’d also had the displeasure of pulling a man out from under one after its driver had lost control and run him down. Even to this day I care not to speak of the state in which I found that poor fellow.

  For some years now I’d sincerely hoped that folks would simply lose interest and we could all return to the sensible combination of walking, carriages, and trains to get about. Even bicycles, for which I had no particular fondness, seemed a far better idea than motorized carriages which coughed and spit foul vapors into the air and frequently lost control, plowing into crowds of unsuspecting pedestrians.