The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  “That is true,” I said, shaking my head but trying to mask the bitter taste in my mouth for having overlooked such a simple point, “though if the dish was left outside his door, the food could have been tainted by any of the guests or even by someone with access to the inn’s kitchen.”

  “Who was it that cooked the meal?”

  “It was Mrs Salisbury.”

  “And did she deliver it to the room, as well?”

  “No, it was brought up by Mr Salisbury himself.”

  With squinted eyes, Benjamin stared into the air as if trying to see an idea more clearly. “Well, well,” he said finally. “This case certainly has its peculiarities. The attempted cutting off of a man’s right hand is a very suggestive act, but, as for now, I believe we can do no better than speculate on the motivation. Tomorrow, if you wish, I should be happy to assist you in your inquiries.”

  The tea, honey and cakes soon diverted Benjamin’s mind to other matters – from an account of the tea party in Boston to a prolonged discussion on the industry and sociability of bees. But at length, I retrieved my hat and waistcoat, now dry and warm from the fire, replaced the Diderot that Benjamin had pulled down from his book shelf and, promising an early return, headed for Mrs Marshall’s Boarding House.

  The hard rain had ceased when I reached the street, taking with it the impurities of beasts and humanity, leaving the stone streets of Philadelphia clean and glistening. I washed my mind of unpleasant thoughts as well and decided a detour in the direction of the Blue Anchor was in order.

  A bright early morning sun hung low over the Delaware and shone through the windows of Benjamin’s coach as we rode down Fourth Street towards the Salisbury Inn. We first passed a line of solemn Quakers piously filing into the Friend’s Meeting House, and listened to the mirthful sound of children chanting their morning lessons in the adjacent open-windowed school house. But as we reached the Salisbury Inn, we found that scene to be anything but mirthful. Mr Salisbury and his wife sat at a table by the stairs, comforting a chambermaid, whose face was as white as the apron she wore. Mr Salisbury rushed toward us, arms swinging wildly in half circles.

  “Constable!” he cried. “It’s murder, just like before.” He pointed in the direction of the upstairs rooms. His young but well-lined face grimaced in a woeful expression as he grabbed my arm. “It will be my ruin. Who will stay at an inn where two men have died? And in such a manner!”

  I mounted the steps and was soon standing before an open door. And the sight that met my eyes I shall not soon forget. A bearded man in his mid-thirties sat erect in a wooden arm chair. His lifeless face was ashen and showed no emotion. Yet on the floor lay a dark pool of blood and above it hung the man’s nearly severed right wrist.

  Soon Benjamin arrived at the door and we were joined by two other men, Mr Kenneth Becker, a black-bearded fellow of some forty years, tall, handsome, with a commanding air, and Mr Rafael Pascales, a bespectacled Spaniard of some fifty years with a face that showed the effects of a bout with smallpox. The former rushed to the dead man’s side, crying “Albert!” He cringed at the horrific sight, then turned to me. “Is there no law in this town? First Edward and now Albert. I demand satisfaction.”

  “You are not in a position to demand anything, sir. I suggest you return to your room where we will have an interview directly. And I suggest you do the same,” I said to the other.

  Pascales took my orders well and retreated across the hall, but the bearded compatriot of the dead man stood defiantly for a moment at the door, then turned on his heels abruptly.

  “I have sent for Dr Shippen,” Mr Salisbury reported, somewhat out of breath. “Do you wish me to leave also?”

  “No, there is a question or two first. Who was it that served his dinner?” I pointed to a half-eaten plate of mutton on a side table.

  Mr Salisbury was startled by the question, as if suddenly realizing he had more to lose than guests at his inn. “I served it myself, Constable Franklin. My wife cooked the meal and we ate of it ourselves. I assured our guests the food was not tainted and, in accordance with their custom, I left each of the gentlemen a plate at his door. Later, Mr Pascales came by and after being questioned by a night constable, he took his dinner at a table downstairs. As you can see, none but this unfortunate man showed any ill effects.”

  As I spoke to the young innkeeper, Benjamin browsed about the room, stopping finally at the bay window overlooking Chestnut Street and Carpenters’ Hall. “Carpenters’ Hall, west wing, northwest corner, nine,” he murmured, then spoke aloud. “Did the three British brokers request rooms on this particular side of the inn?”

  “They did,” Salisbury replied eagerly. “Some three weeks past, I received notice announcing their future arrival and requesting rooms facing south. They said that due to their business dealings they would require extraordinary privacy and quiet.”

  At this, Benjamin dismissed the innkeeper and I proceeded to search the room minutely for clues while Benjamin continued to stare out the window. The room was simple: a wood bed, high boy drawers, and a soft-cushioned wing chair with a small table by its side. A black cape coat hung on the back of the chair and in its pocket was a metal talisman. I passed it to Benjamin, who studied it with critical interest. It was the size of a dollar, white, and had a red cross on either side.

  “It is the cross of St George, the patron saint of British soldiers,” explained Benjamin. “This man was either a soldier or, considering his age, a former soldier.” He stared at me as if this muddled mess was slowly beginning to take a clearer shape in his mind.

  “You see a solution?” I asked, eagerly.

  “Perhaps. There are some indications, though this matter is far from clear in my mind.”

  Presently, our heads were turned by hurried voices on the staircase. Dr Shippen appeared first and hastened to the dead man’s side, then Constable O’Boyle arrived and hastened to mine. Though we knew what verdict would come, we waited for the pronouncement of the doctor.

  “It’s poison, just like before,” he reported, “though this one’s last moments were not as horrible as the other. There is considerably less blood here than in the case of the other – this one died before the hand was cut.”

  Constable O’Boyle looked first at Benjamin and then at me with an almost apologetic countenance. “Chief Constable Duncey has placed me in a most awkward position. He has heard of Dr Franklin’s interest in the case and, owing to the unofficial nature of several previous investigations, has put me in full charge.” O’Boyle faced Benjamin again, this time with a hopeful expression. “For my part, however, I would be honoured, Dr Franklin, if you would continue to assist us.”

  “You are a good man, Constable O’Boyle. Success often breeds jealousy but a truly successful man avoids it. Let us all three then put our heads together.” Benjamin tossed him the talisman. “This may be significant or it may not. It was found in the dead man’s coat pocket. Wendell and I are about to interview the remaining English businessman. I suggest you do likewise with the other guest – Mr Pascales I believe is his name – after which we shall turn our inquiries to the innkeeper, his wife and the chambermaid.”

  We left O’Boyle to his task and proceeded to the room of Mr Becker. The door was open and we watched the tall figure of the man with black britches tucked neatly in his half boots. He paced the room with that peculiar gait and pomp common to his countrymen. When he reached the far wall, he turned with precision, revealing a troubled face. Then, upon seeing us, he stood erect.

  “I see by your walk that, like your unfortunate companions, you also served in King George’s army,” Benjamin said. “Did you all serve together?”

  The man was speechless for a moment as he considered Benjamin’s observation and his question. At length, he spoke with a precision that matched his walk. “I was a lieutenant in His Majesty’s army and did, as you say, serve over my companions. But our careers were short-lived. General Cornwallis unfortunately surrendered a week before w
e were to be shipped abroad.”

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Benjamin muttered ironically. “You have never been to our city before?”

  “No.”

  “Then I must apologize for the totally unacceptable welcome you and your unfortunate associates have been given. Be assured we will not rest until justice is served.”

  Becker gave us a slight bow.

  “And I must apologize,” I interjected, “that certain questions must be asked of you and that a search of your room must be conducted.”

  “I understand completely.”

  As I searched the boarding room, Benjamin began his questioning of Lieutenant Becker. “Do you have any idea who would commit such crimes?”

  “No. We have had few contacts since our arrival. I cannot imagine who would have cause to kill them.”

  My search of the closet soon proved well spent, as it yielded a short military hilt sabre. After a minute examination of its formidable blade, I placed the sabre on the table. Benjamin raised his brows upon seeing it, and we both rested our eyes squarely on the Lieutenant.

  Becker stiffened his frame to an even more rigid posture than before. “It is a preposterous notion you are thinking,” he said with an imperious wave of the hand. “Why would I travel to Philadelphia to do such a thing when the deed could have been just as easily committed in England? And they were my men, sirs. There is a bond between a commander and his men that would not allow such an act.” He spoke those last words with a seemingly heart-felt conviction.

  “You must admit,” said Benjamin, “your actions have been out of the ordinary to say the least. You claim to be a broker of spices and tea. Yet where are your goods? And how can you expect to make sales for your company when you rarely leave your room?”

  “We are here only to acquaint ourselves of the market and report to our firm. You have already seen our papers from Chesterton’s of London,” he said defensively.

  While the two were conversing, I was continuing my examination of the room when I came upon another article of interest. “I can understand an old soldier travelling with his military hilt sabre,” I said, lifting an iron lever bar from a drawer and holding it in outstretched arms for both to see. “But why do you travel with this?”

  I set on the table a three-foot bar with one chisel end and one end bent for leverage. Becker paled a bit but recovered quickly. “I am at a loss to say what possessed me to bring it along, but I cannot see how that relates to this affair.”

  Our interview was interrupted by a general clamour of men’s voices coming from down the hall. Over this I heard my name being called. Rushing to the room occupied by Mr Pascales, I found Constable O’Boyle standing by the door, a pistol in one hand and a small amber bottle in the other. “We have our man,” he said with a proud voice. Pascales slumped into a chair and pulled at his dark hair with a groan. O’Boyle passed around the small bottle on which was written the word “MARAKU” and below that, “POISON”.

  “He acted overly alarmed when I told him I’d have to search the room,” O’Boyle began. “So I thought I’d make a proper top-to-bottom job of it. Under his pillow I found three bottles, all with the word poison on them. This one, as you can see, is only half full.”

  Constable O’Boyle stepped past the accused, opening a travel chest with his free hand. The trunk revealed an assortment of Indian beads and jewelry, smoking pipes and tobacco pouches and several bags filled with tobacco. Pushing a large tobacco bag to the side, the constable pulled out two decorative knives with Indian-carved handles.

  “Scoundrel!” cried Lieutenant Becker from the doorway, as O’Boyle lifted them high into the air.

  “Let us not pronounce judgment before we have even heard the man’s story,” Benjamin advised, as he set his rather bulky frame on the bedside and his hook cane on his lap.

  A tense and unnatural silence fell over the room as the man of Spanish descent sat in his chair, preparing to speak. Pascales’ shoulders sagged, as if under the weight of our accusing stares. Then his chest heaved as he took three heavy breaths and with wide, earnest eyes he began to tell his tale.

  He claimed to be an adventurer of sorts, commissioned by South American plantation owners to travel up the Orinoco and its side rivers in search of new lands to grow their tobaccos. When the crops came in, he was likewise commissioned to find markets for that tobacco in other countries. During one expedition up an uncharted river, he came upon a tribe of Indians who used a very peculiar arrow poison which, unlike the arrow poisons of other tribes, could be taken by mouth. The poison was so powerful a few drops could produce a total paralysis of the body.

  “The natives called it maraku,” he continued after wiping his brow with a sleeve, “an extract taken from the seed of a particular shrub that grows wild along the river bank. I thought it might have some value as a medicine, so I traded a few trinkets for the three bottles you see here. I knew there would be physicians in Europe who would surely think it a curious, perhaps even a useful substance and I anticipated a handsome reward someday when my travels took me there.”

  The bottles had been placed on the bed table and Pascales gave them a rueful glance. “When the first of the English gentlemen was murdered, I did not even think of my bottles of arrow poison. But when the second died, I checked on them and you can imagine my horror when I found one of the bottles was only half full. I considered telling of my loss – but how would it look? No one would believe a foreigner. There was no time to rid myself of the poison, so I placed the bottle beneath my pillow and hoped against hope no one would make a search.”

  “And what of the knives?” asked O’Boyle. “They are small, but in the right hand could easily have performed those grisly deeds we have all witnessed.”

  With eyes raised to the heavens, Pascales uttered what seemed to be an oath in Spanish. “Can you not see?” he pleaded. “The knives and jewelry are merely artifacts from my Indian trade.”

  As the man spoke, I observed Benjamin’s eyes had left Pascales and were now engaged in a one-by-one study of the faces of those in the room. He gazed fixedly for some time in turn on the pallid chambermaid, the impassive Mrs Salisbury, and the stern-faced Mr Salisbury, before finally coming to rest on Lieutenant Becker. Benjamin rubbed his cane against his face in an almost feline manner, his features showing a concentration as if he were weighing some thought in his mind. Then he returned, with a vague smile, to the narrative of the accused.

  “I swear,” continued Pascales in a tremulous voice, “I had nothing to do with the deaths of these men and have no idea what happened to the missing poison.”

  Rising from the bedside, Benjamin stood before the Spaniard. “Did you always keep your doors locked when you left the room?”

  “I did.”

  “And there was no sign of forced entry?”

  “Not that I am aware.”

  “That is unfortunate. Well, I believe the matter is quite clear,” said Benjamin, now facing the others. “And the evidence appears overwhelming. Despite his protests of innocence I cannot help but think we have our man. His motivations are as yet somewhat unclear, but perhaps he shall be more inclined to reveal them after some time at the station house.

  “At any rate,” Benjamin proceeded, turning toward the Englishman, “the case appears to be at an end. As for you, Lieutenant Becker, there will be some ill talk in town when it is found you were British soldiers and I should not like an incident. I suggest it would be best for all concerned if you leave town. There is an American packet shipping out for Amsterdam tomorrow morning. I will make arrangements for your passage.”

  The Englishman was taken aback for a brief moment, then with a military bow, assented. “As you wish, Dr Franklin.”

  I thought this action unwise, but when I began to voice such an opinion, Benjamin’s stiff sideward glance made me hold my tongue.

  We soon made our way down to Chestnut Street, where Constable Woodford arrived with the prisoner wagon. Benjamin whispered a few words
in the prisoner’s ear before the wagon departed, leaving Benjamin, Constable O’Boyle and me alone in the street.

  “Now,” Benjamin said, taking my arm. “We all have a long night before us. I suggest we meet in the library wing of Carpenters’ Hall at half past eight. We have not yet witnessed the final scene in this affair, Mr O’Boyle,” he told the young constable. “Your actions have been a credit to the service and I trust you will wish to see this matter to its conclusion.”

  O’Boyle gave me a look first of surprise, then of resignation, then gave the old philosopher a tip of the hat. “I would be honoured to help you in any way.”

  Benjamin turned toward his waiting coach, walking with an uncharacteristically youthful step. “Ha, ha! gentlemen. The drama awaits!” were his parting words, as he left two open-mouthed constables scratching their heads in the street.

  At eight-thirty sharp, we gathered in Carpenters’ Hall library. Benjamin studied the view from a side window, then pushed a chair in front of it. “I trust you have brought your pistols?”

  I nodded and O’Boyle pulled his weapon from his belt.

  “Splendid! You are on a dangerous mission, gentlemen, and you must promise to keep your wits about you at all times.” He gave us each a compelling stare. “Then all is ready, and now we must wait. That,” he said, pointing his cane at a row of high bushes, “shall be your waiting place. As I am too old for such occupation, I will be with you at least in spirit and will watch through this window as the events unfold.”

  “And just what events do you expect will unfold?” asked my fellow constable.

  “That, even I am unsure of. But let me again warn, you may have a long wait. Do not for a moment let your guards down!”

  We took our places as darkness fell and patiently stood sentry as the night passed by. When the bells tolled nine, a yellow-haired young girl appeared from the brown house across the way. She carried a water bucket in one hand and a candle-stick in the other. Sitting on the wooden steps in front of the house, she washed her feet by candlelight. Her movements were of a steady but dreamy kind, and when she finished, she leaned back on her elbows, gazing steadfastly at the vast expanse of stars and sky. Occasionally, a passerby would exchange a “Good evening Miss Hannah” for a “Good evening to you Mrs Walker” or “a fine evening to you too, Mr Springfield,” but then the girl would soon return to whatever world she saw in those starry skies.