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

by Mike Ashley

  And reaching his own glass of the “One and Only”, Mr Shrig knelt beside the swooning girl whose face showed so pale beneath its heavy braids and coquettish ringlets of glossy, black hair, and tenderly raising this lovely head, he set the toddy to her lips – but, even then, she shuddered violently and, opening great, fearful eyes, recoiled so suddenly that the toddy-glass went flying.

  “Dead!” she cried in awful, gasping voice, then checking the outcry on her lips with visible effort, she stared from Mr Shrig upon his knees, to the towering, soldierly figure of Corporal Richard Roe, and wringing her slim, gloveless hands, spoke in quick, breathless fashion:

  “I want . . . who . . . which is Jasper Shrig, the Bow Street officer? I . . . I want Mr Shrig of Bow Street –”

  “Ma’am,” answered Mr Shrig gently, “that werry identical same is now a-speaking.”

  “Yes,” she cried, leaning toward him with a strange eagerness. “Yes . . . I see you are, now! You . . . oh, you surely must remember me?”

  “Ay . . . by Goles . . . I surely . . . do!” nodded Mr Shrig.

  “I am Adele Glendale . . . a year ago I was suspected of . . . of –”

  “Not by me, lady, never by me, ma’am.”

  “No, no, you believed in me then, thank God! You were my good friend – then! But to-night . . . Oh, Mr Shrig – dear Jasper Shrig . . .” she cried, and reaching out she clutched at him with both trembling hands in frantic appeal.

  “You believed in me then, you were kind to me then, you stood between me and shameful horror a year ago . . . Oh, be kind to me now, believe in me now . . . for to-night . . . it has happened again . . . horrible! Oh, God help me, it has happened again!”

  “Eh? . . . Murder?” questioned Mr Shrig in a hoarse whisper.

  “Yes – yes . . . and the house full of guests! But he’s dead . . . Uncle Gregory is dead – horrible! See – look at me!”

  And with swift, wild gesture she threw open the long mantle that shrouded her loveliness and showed her white satin gown – its bosom and shoulder blotched with a hideous stain.

  “Look! Look!” she gasped, staring down at these dreadful evidences in horror, “his blood . . . I’m foul of it . . . dear Uncle Gregory!”

  Mr Shrig surveyed these ghastly smears with eyes very bright and keen, his lips pursed as if about to whistle, though no sound came; then he drew the cloak about her.

  “And now,” said he, when their visitor seemed more composed, “now, Miss Adele, ma’am, s’pose you tell us all as you know.”

  “But what – what can I tell you?” she answered, with a gesture of helplessness. “I only know that Uncle Gregory . . . dear Uncle Gregory is . . . horribly dead. Oh, Mr Shrig, I shall never forget the awful –”

  “There, there, my dear!” said Mr Shrig, patting the quivering hand that clasped his so eagerly. “But you mentioned summat about guests.”

  “Yes, there were people to dinner, five or six . . . But –”

  “Oo invited them?”

  “My half-cousin, Roger . . . but oh, when I think of how Uncle –”

  “Any strangers among ’em – these guests, Miss Adele?”

  “No, they were family friends . . . But Uncle Gregory had not been very well to-day, and so soon as dinner was over he excused himself and went to his room.”

  “Upstairs to bed, ma’am?”

  “Not upstairs. He sleeps on the ground floor at the back of the house, looking on to the garden.”

  “And ’e vas ill to-day, you tell me? Sick, eh?”

  “Oh, no, no, it was only a touch of gout.”

  “Gout, eh? Now did ’e say anything to you afore ’e went to his room?”

  “Yes, he told me he felt very drowsy and could hardly keep his eyes open.”

  “But gout, ma’am, don’t make a man drowsy. Had Sir Gregory drank much wine at dinner?”

  “Very little.”

  “And yet,” murmured Mr Shrig, staring down at the slender hand he was still patting gently, “and yet – so werry sleepy! Did he say anything more as you can call to mind now?”

  “He ordered the butler to take his coffee to the bedroom, and told me he would come back later if the drowsiness passed off . . . And those were his last words, Mr Shrig, the very last words I shall ever hear him speak –”

  “And now, ma’am, tell me o’ poor Mr Roger, your cousin.”

  “Half-cousin, Mr Shrig!” she corrected hastily. “Roger was poor Uncle William’s stepson –”

  “Bit of an inwalid, ain’t ’e?”

  “Roger is a paralytic, he can’t walk and uses a wheeled chair, but surely you remember this, Mr Shrig, you seemed to fancy his society very much a year ago . . . when –”

  “A year ago this werry night, Miss Adele, ma’am!” said Mr Shrig with ponderous nod. “And a parrylitick . . . to . . . be . . . sure! Instead o’ legs – veels, and at his age too, poor, unfort’nate young gentleman!”

  “Roger is older than you think, older than he looks . . . sometimes I think he never was young, and sometimes –” here she shuddered violently again and clasped the strong hand she held fast between her own. “Oh, Mr Shrig,” she gasped, “what . . . what can I do . . . Uncle Gregory . . . I left him . . . sitting there in his great elbow-chair beside the fire . . . so still and dreadful! Oh, tell me . . . what . . . what . . . what must I do?”

  “First,” answered Mr Shrig gently, “tell me just ’ow you found him?”

  “As soon as I could leave the company I stole away . . . I knocked softly on his door . . . I went in . . . the room was dark except for the fire, but I . . . could see him . . . sitting in his great chair. I thought him dozing so I crept up to settle him more cosily and . . . to kiss him. I slipped my arm about him, I . . . I kissed his white head . . . so lightly, and . . . Oh, God, he slipped . . . sideways and . . . I saw –!”

  “Dick,” murmured Mr Shrig, clasping a ready arm about that horror-shaken form, “the brandy!”

  “No, no!” she gasped, “I’m not going to . . . swoon. Only help me, Mr Shrig, be my friend for I . . . I’m afraid . . . terribly afraid! I was the last to speak with him, the last to see him alive –”

  “No, Miss Adele, ma’am, the last to see ’im alive was the man as killed him.”

  “Oh . . . friend!” she murmured. “My good, kind Jasper Shrig,” and, viewing him through tears of gratitude, bowed her head against the shoulder of the neat, brass-buttoned coat and, with face thus hidden, spoke again, her voice ineffably tender: “But I’m afraid for – another also, Mr Shrig.”

  “Ay, to be sure!” nodded Mr Shrig, “Oo is ’e, Miss Adele, ma’am?”

  “John!” she murmured. “Mr Winton – you remember him? He was Uncle Gregory’s secretary. But, oh, Mr Shrig, three days ago they quarrelled! That is, Uncle was very angry with poor John and – discharged him because – John had dared to fall in love with me.”

  “Humph! And do you love said Mr John, ma’am?”

  “With all my poor heart. So you see if you’re my friend and believe in me, you must be his friend too, for the danger threatening me threatens him also . . . there is a dreadful shadow over us –”

  “But then, ma’am, a shadder’s only a shadder – even if it do go on veels –”

  “Oh, Mr Shrig –”

  “And ’ave you seen Mr John since day of discharge?”

  Here she was silent, staring down great-eyed at her fingers that twined and clasped each other so nervously, until at last Mr Shrig laid his large, firm hand upon them and questioned her again:

  “Miss Adele, ma’am, if Shrig o’ Bow Street, bap-tismal name, Jarsper, is to aid you and said Mr John you must say eggsackly ’ow and also vereabouts you seen ’im this night.”

  “I . . . I thought I saw him . . . in the garden,” she whispered.

  “Didn’t speak to ’im, then?”

  “No, I was too distraught . . . sick with horror, I could only think of–” the faltering voice stopped suddenly as there came a loud, imperio
us knocking on the outer door.

  “Now oo in the vide universe –”

  “That must be John, now!” she cried, looking up with eyes bright and joyous. “I hope, I pray it is –”

  “But ’ow should he come to the ‘Gun’ if you didn’t tell ’im as you –?”

  “Oh, I bade Mary, my old nurse, tell him I’d run off to you . . . and, oh, please see if it is indeed John.” So, at a nod from Mr Shrig, away strode the corporal forthwith.

  Voices in the passage, a hurry of footsteps, and in came a tall young man who, with no eyes and never a thought for anything on earth but the lovely creature who rose in such eager welcome, dropping his hat, was across the kitchen, and had her in his arms, all in as many moments.

  “My dear,” he murmured, “oh, my dear, why did you run away? What new horror is this –?”

  “John, tell me, tell me – why were you in the garden tonight?”

  “Dear heart, for word with you. Roger wrote me he’d contrive us a meeting, like the good, generous friend I’m sure he is –”

  “Oh, John,” she wailed, clasping him as if to protect, “how blind, how blind you are!”

  “And, Mr Vinton, sir,” murmured Mr Shrig, pointing sinewy finger, “your fob as was – ain’t!” the young gentleman started, turned, clapped hand to fob-pocket, and glanced from the speaker to Adele with an expression of sudden dismay.

  “Gone!” he exclaimed. “The seal you gave me, dear heart.”

  “Ay, ’tis gone sure enough, sir,” nodded Mr Shrig. “The question is: how? and likewise where? And now, seeing as none of us ain’t likely to tell, vot I says is – Corporal Dick, send out for a coach.”

  Pallid faces, voices that whispered awfully and became as awfully hushed when Mr Shrig, opening the door of the fatal room, passed in, beckoning Corporal Dick to follow.

  “Dick,” said he softly, “shut the door and lock it.”

  A stately chamber whose luxurious comfort was rendered cosier by the bright fire that flickered on the hearth with soft, cheery murmur; and before this fire a great, cushioned chair from which was thrust a limp arm that dangled helplessly with a drooping hand whose long, curving fingers seemed to grope at the deep carpet.

  “So, there it is, pal!” quoth Mr Shrig briskly. “Let’s see vot it’s got to tell us,” and crossing to the chair he stooped to peer down at that which sprawled so grotesquely among its cushions.

  The big corporal, who had faced unmoved the horrors of Waterloo, blenched at the thing in the chair which death had smitten in such gruesome fashion amid the comfort of this luxurious room.

  “Oh – ecod, Jarsper!” he whispered.

  “Ay,” nodded Mr Shrig, bending yet closer, “ ’e’s pretty considerable dead, I never see a deader, no! And yet, in spite o’ the gore, ’e looks werry surprisin’ peaceful . . . werry remarkably so! . . . Killed by a downward stab above the collar-bone, lookee, in the properest place for it . . . A knife or, say a dagger, and same wanished . . . eh, where are ye, Dick?”

  “Comrade,” exclaimed the corporal in sudden excitement, “will ye step over here to the winder?”

  “Eh . . . the vinder?” murmured Mr Shrig, his keen gaze roving from the figure in the chair to the gleaming moisture beneath it, to those helpless fingers and the shining object they seemed to grasp at, to the small table nearby with open book, the box of cigars, the delicate Sevres cup and saucer. “Eh . . . the vinder? Why so, Dick?”

  “It’s . . . open, Jarsper!”

  “Oh?” murmured Mr Shrig, his roving gaze fixed at last. “Is it? Look thereabouts and y’may see summat of a dagger, pal, or say, a knife –”

  “Why, Jarsper . . . Lord love me, here it is!”

  “Werry good, bring it over and let’s take a peep at it . . . Ah, a ordinary butcher’s knife, eh, Dick? Vally about a bob – say, eighteen pence. Has it been viped?”

  “No, comrade, it’s blooded to the grip –”

  “That cup and saucer now?” mused Mr Shrig. “Half full o’ coffee . . . vot’s that got to tell us?” Saying which, he took up the dainty cup, sniffed at it, tasted its contents, and stood beaming down at the fire, his rosy face more benevolent than usual. Then from one of his many pockets he drew a small phial into which he decanted a little of the coffee very carefully, whistling softly beneath his breath the while.

  “What now, Jarsper?”

  “Why, Dick, I’ll tell ye, pat and plain. There’s coffee in this vorld of all sorts, this, that, and t’other and this is that. And, Dick, old pal, the only thing as flummoxes me now is veels.”

  “Wheels?” repeated the corporal, “Jarsper, I don’t twig.”

  “Vell, no, Dick; no, it aren’t to be expected. But you’ve noticed so werry much already, come and take another peep at our cadaver. Now, vot d’ye see, pal?”

  “Very remarkable bloody, Jarsper.”

  “True! And vot more?”

  “The pore old gentleman ’ad begun to smoke a cigar – there it lays now, again’ the fender.”

  “Eh, cigar?” exclaimed Mr Shrig, starting. “Now dog bite me if I ’adn’t missed that. There ’tis sure enough and there . . . by Goles . . . there’s the ash – look, Dicky lad, look – vot d’ye make o’ that, now?”

  “Why, Jarsper, I makes it no more than – ash.”

  “Ay, so it is, Dick, and werry good ash too! Blow my dicky if I don’t think it’s the best bit of ash as ever I see!”

  Here, indeed, Mr Shrig became so extremely attracted by this small pile of fallen cigar ash that he plumped down upon his knees before it, much as if in adoration thereof and was still lost in contemplation of it when the corporal uttered a sharp exclamation and grasping his companion by the shoulder turned him about and pointed with gleaming hook.

  “Lord, comrade – oh, Jarsper!” said he in groaning voice. “See – yonder! There’s evidence to hang any man, look there!” And he pointed to a small, shining object that twinkled just beneath the grasping fingers of that dangling, dead hand. “Mr John’s . . . Mr Winton’s seal!” he whispered.

  “Oh, ar!” murmured Mr Shrig, his gaze roving back to the cigar ash. “I’ve been a-vonderin’ ’ow it got there, ever since I see it, Dick, so eggsackly under corpse’s daddle.”

  “Why, Jarsper, he must ha’ snatched it, accidental-like, in his struggle for life and, being dead, dropped it.”

  “Lord love ye, Dick!” exclaimed Mr Shrig, beaming up affectionately into the corporal’s troubled face. “Now I never thought o’that. You’re gettin’ as ’andy with your ’ead as your ’ook! Deceased being alive, snatched it and, being dead, naturally drops it. Good! So now s’pose you pick it up and we takes a peep at it.”

  “It’s his’n, Jarsper, and no mistake,” sighed the corporal. “See, here’s a J. and a W. and here, round the edge: ‘To John from Adele.’ So, God help the poor sweet creetur, I says!”

  “Amen, Dick, vith all my heart. So the case is pretty clear, eh?”

  “A precious sight too clear, comrade.”

  “Couldn’t be plainer, eh, pal?”

  “No how, comrade.”

  “Then, Dick lad, the vord is – march! No – stop a bit – the window. Open? Yes. And werry easy to climb. But this here bolt now . . . this latch . . . pretty solid – von’t do! But that ’ook o’ yourn’s solider, I reckon, and you’re precious strong, so – wrench it off.”

  “Eh? Break it, Jarsper?”

  “Ar! Off with it, pal. Ha – so, and off she comes! By Goles, you’re stronger than I thought.”

  “Ay, but Jarsper, why break the winder lock?”

  “Hist – mum’s the vord, Dick – so march it is and lively, pal.”

  In the hall they were stayed by one who goggled at Mr Shrig from pale, plump face, bowed, rubbed nervous hands, and spoke in quavering voice:

  “A dreadful business, sirs, oh, a terrible –”

  “Werry true!” nodded Mr Shrig. “You’re the butler, ain’t you? Is your master about, I mean your noo master?”<
br />
  “Mr Roger is . . . is in the library, sir. He desires a word with you. This way, if you please.”

  For a long moment after the door had closed, Mr Roger Glendale sat behind his desk utterly still, viewing Mr Shrig with his dreamy yet watchful eyes.

  “So, Shrig, we meet again?” he said at length. “Our last meeting was –”

  “A year ago this werry night, sir!”

  “A strange coincidence, Shrig, and a very terrible one. By heaven, there seems to be some curse upon this house, some horrible fate that dogs us Glendales!”

  “Werry much so indeed, sir!” nodded Mr Shrig, and his voice sounded so hearty as to be almost jovial.

  “And ’ow do you find yourself these days, Mr Roger, pretty bobbish I ’opes sir?”

  Mr Roger blenched, throwing up a white, well-cared-for hand:

  “An odious, a detestable word, Shrig!” he expostulated.

  “Vich, sir?”

  “ ‘Bobbish’! A hideous word and most inappropriate as regards myself for –” the sleepy eyes glared suddenly, the pale cheek flushed, the delicate fingers became a knotted fist. “I am the same breathing Impotence! The same useless, helpless Thing, Shrig!”

  “I shouldn’t eggsackly call ye ‘useless’, sir, nor go so fur as to name ye ‘ ’elpless’, not me – no!”

  “Then you’d be a fool, for I’m a log! I’m Death-in-Life, a living corpse, live brain in dead body – look at me!”

  “And yet,” demurred Mr Shrig, “you’re astonishin’ spry with your fambles, sir, your ’ands, Mr Roger, or as you might say, your daddles, sir!”

  Mr Roger glanced at the white, shapely hands in question and flickered their fingers delicately.

  “Well, Shrig, my cousin, Miss Adele, forestalled me in summoning you, it seems, but you have seen . . . you have looked into this new horror that has smitten us Glendales?”

  “Vith both peepers, sir!”

  “Well, speak out, man! Have you discovered any trace of the assassin? Formed any conclusions?”

  “Oceans, sir!” nodded Mr Shrig. “The ass-assin is as good as took! Ye see the fax is all too plain, sir! First, the open vinder. Second, by said vinder, the fatal veppin – ’ere it is!” and from a capacious pocket he drew an ugly bundle and, unwinding its stained folds, laid the knife before his questioner.