A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Riot,” she said slowly. “I don’t suppose we could drain the water?”

  “The police will be here soon enough.” He adjusted his spectacles, and bent close, peering into the murky bath. “He’s wearing a belt of some sort.”

  Never one to wait, Isobel shrugged out of her coat, thrust it at Riot, and rolled up her sleeve. A protest was on his lips, but before he could vocalize, she plunged her arm beneath the water. It was frigid. Belatedly, she hoped the water was not poisoned. “It’s some sort of apparatus, or device,” she said, exploring. “Oh.”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s one of those electric belts.”

  Riot stared without comprehension.

  “Doctor Sanden’s Electric Belt and Suspensory for Weak Men,” she explained. “It’s suppose to restore lost manhood and potency. There’s an electric loop around his—”

  “Yes,” Riot held up a hand. “I recall the advertisements.” He turned a shade lighter.

  Aware of her arm submersed in water with an electrical device, she quickly withdrew it. “Not a pleasant way to die,” she mused. “Would a belt like that kill a man in water?” Her knowledge of electricity was sketchy.

  “Tim may know. He likes to tinker with electrical devices.”

  “Tinker as ‘strap one on and climb in the tub’?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Riot acknowledged. “He’s been pushing me to purchase an electric car, and I’ve been holding out for that very reason.”

  Isobel grinned and tried the cold water tap. The pipes knocked and moaned, and water flowed. She washed her arm in the frigid rush.

  Riot handed over her coat and walked out of the bathroom.

  As she rolled down her sleeve, a rough patch on the enamel caught her eye. Isobel ran a finger over the spot, and then bent close. There were four marks, two on each side, faint scratches on the curled rim of the tub. She dropped down to hands and knees.

  “There’s burnt coal in—” Riot paused, found her missing, and then looked down, “the boiler. It’s cold.”

  “Takes at least a day to cool down.”

  “So it does. Did you find something?”

  “Scratches on the enamel.”

  Riot’s shiny shoes clicked on the tile. He joined her on the floor and she pointed out the marks. “It’s an old tub, but the marks appear uniform,” she explained.

  Riot reached beneath his coat. He brought out a small, leather case with a clasp, opened it and unfolded a magnifying lens. “Scratched in the same direction,” he noted, handing her the glass.

  Isobel examined the marks, and nodded. As he tucked the case away and stood, something caught her eye in a groove between tiles. “I may need that again.” She stretched her arm underneath and plucked a strand from the grout.

  It was a small, coarse, hair like thread. She examined it under Riot’s glass. “Too thick for hair,” she wondered aloud. “It looks like thread from a rope, or canvas.”

  Riot reached beneath his coat again, and she exchanged glass for envelope.

  “You certainly are useful to have around.”

  “I aim to please.”

  The adjoining room appeared to be a small servant’s room, likely inhabited by the gardener or maid of all work. The bedclothes on the narrow bed were tucked to perfection, and a tidy pile of clothes sat on the chair.

  “How did you discover this house?”

  As they made a thorough search of the room, she filled him in on the pertinent details.

  “A flower ribbon,” Riot mused.

  “What?”

  “You saved yourself days of footwork.”

  “My feet were tired.”

  The edge of his lip quirked.

  Isobel paused, her hand under the mattress. “Hello,” she said. Riot stepped over as she withdrew a thin box. She opened it, and arched a brow.

  It contained a neat pile of pornographic photographs: all male figures. The faces had been carefully left out so as not to incriminate. Isobel shuffled through the men captured in time. There were no names on the back.

  “The wonders of science,” she sighed. “Every new development is turned towards the basest instincts. These could belong to Violet just as easily as Henry. Although I don’t find men in corsets and garters appealing.”

  Riot cleared his throat. “There’s no way to tell if those belong to either of them. It could have been left by a former occupant.”

  “True, but these could be why Henry killed himself—if he did at all.”

  “There’s no note,” Riot pointed out as he searched Henry’s billfold. Isobel leant near, looking at the contents. It contained a few dollars and his calling cards.

  Finding nothing more aside from cleanliness, they moved into the laundry room, where Isobel related the name of the previous owner, her connection with Violet, and the theatre friend’s suspicion that Violet had gone off to elope.

  “That hardly fits with the photographs.”

  “Perhaps it was a ruse,” she argued. “Henry was courting Violet to throw off suspicion. It wouldn’t be the first of such arrangements.”

  “Henry’s journal had regular notations of V and G.G.”

  Isobel narrowed her eyes. “You were the detective who beat me to Henry’s residence,” she accused.

  “I suppose so.”

  “The landlady wouldn’t budge. Told me to go find a husband and have children.”

  “Is Mrs. Irish still conscious?”

  Isobel snorted. “I can’t say that I wasn’t tempted to try out my umbrella.” She shone the box light down the washbasin drain. Finding nothing, she turned to the cupboard while Riot kept up his end of the bargain and began with Bert Dunham’s visit to the agency.

  “Elma kept a journal, detailing every single day of her pregnancy. A sure deterrent if you should ever heed Mrs. Irish’s advice.”

  “I’ve been married once; I’ll not repeat that mistake.” A small box, shoved to the back of the top shelf caught her eye. She handed it to Riot.

  “Dr. Mackenzie’s Improved Harmless Arsenic Complexion Wafers,” he read. “Two wafers left.”

  “It’s well and good that it says harmless,” she said dryly.

  “The lies people will believe,” he sighed.

  “And what risks women will take in the name of beauty. On account of my athleticism, a few of the finishing school girls used to beg me to lace their corsets so tightly that I feared I’d puncture a rib.”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” she said. “I found it amusing to watch their meager tightening efforts.”

  Riot turned the box over, searching for a date, or identification number; unfortunately every druggist in the country sold the wafers. He sniffed at the inside of the box, and frowned. “Did any of your tight-lacing friends take these?”

  “Why?”

  He held out the box, and she sniffed. Garlic. A very strong odor. She flinched back. “That’s powerful.”

  Riot nodded. “I think we best ask a chemist to analyze these.” He set the box next to the photographs in the servant’s room, and as they moved through the rest of the house, he continued his report.

  It was as succinct and thorough as his side of the search. They moved through the rooms together, never stepping over the other’s toes, always seeming to know where the other would begin.

  “Henry left his spectacles?” she asked with surprise in the master bedroom. “Would you ever forget your spectacles?”

  Riot was currently on hands and knees, inspecting the underside of the bed. He looked up and removed his spectacles. “Bel, everything is a blur.”

  “What about now?” She moved closer.

  “No.”

  Isobel edged forward until she stood three feet away.

  “Now,” he admitted with a grimace. “I doubt Henry’s eyesight is as bad as mine. He wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

  “Still, it sounded as if he wore the spectacles regularly. What could have spooked a man so badl
y?”

  Riot considered her question as he resettled the wire behind his ears. After a moment, he stood and dusted off his trousers. “Perhaps Henry thought Violet was in trouble.”

  “Love,” she mused. “That’s enough to make a man kick down a door.” Her words were flippant, but all her cleverness fled when he looked at her.

  “More than enough.”

  His gaze was unwavering, and she could not decide if she wanted to take a step back or take a step forward. Caught with indecision, she tore her eyes from his, and nodded towards the door. “Trouble or no, worry doesn’t explain the dead man in the bath, or the photographs.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Still, I can’t imagine any scenario that would entice a man to strap on an electric belt and climb into a bath.”

  “Not even guilt?” she asked. “Lotario, as flippant as he is, still keenly feels society’s scorn.”

  “Maybe so, but I’d expect a note.”

  “Aren’t the photographs enough?”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “I’ll be sure to write you a dissertation when my own moral insanity gets the better of me.”

  “Too late. You’re already dead, Bel.”

  She smiled. “There is that.”

  ✥

  Inspector Geary resembled a gargoyle. Everything about him sloped forward as he frowned at the corpse. Thick brows, heavy jowls, and a neck that rested on his expansive chest. All of it was held up by an impressive gut that had likely taken a lifelong supply of ale to develop. Geary’s hands were in his pockets. He looked bored.

  “This house is empty. How’d you get in here, Riot?” the inspector grumbled.

  “As I said, our investigation led us here. The jib door was unlocked.” Riot only knew about the jib door because Isobel had told him. She suspected that he had lockpicks on his person. However, as much as she’d like to, now was not the time to inquire.

  Isobel stood in a corner beside Tim, trying not to draw the inspector’s attention. She felt exposed without her hat. It was still outside in the overgrown yard. Remaining had been a risk, but she had never witnessed a police investigation. Still, if her gender were discovered, Riot would be pulled into a mire of trouble. The thought made her uneasy.

  Geary grunted. “Isn’t that always the case with you and your lot?”

  “I’ve the luck of a gambler, Inspector.”

  “You and your fine clothes can drain this water.” The chain on the plug was broken, and Geary was not about to reach into that water.

  “Bastard,” Tim muttered. When Geary turned sharply, the old man smiled amiably, and rocked back on his heels, whistling under his breath. Mischievous eyes slid over to Isobel; she nearly laughed. The old man reminded her of a leprechaun.

  “This man is involved with an ongoing investigation. The coroner will want us to wait,” Riot stated.

  “The coroner is sleeping. I’ve a mind to secure the house and take this up at a reasonable hour. It’s not as if the stiff is going anywhere.”

  Even now, the clomping boots of two uniformed policemen thudded on the floorboards above. From the sounds of it, the two were conducting a half-hearted search.

  Tim cleared his throat, rocked back, and then settled on his toes. “I took the liberty of sending a hack for Deputy Coroner August.”

  “Isn’t that liberating of you.” Geary hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat. “You’re not in charge here. I am. Drain the water, or leave.”

  Isobel wondered at the open hostility. There was clearly history between the men, and from Riot’s clipped tones, she had a distinct feeling that it wasn’t a good one.

  As Riot shrugged out of his coat and unbuttoned his cufflink, a thought occurred to her. Isobel selected a glass jar from the cabinet, removed the loose bits of cotton, wiped it out with a cloth, and stepped forward to fill the jar with a sample of water. She closed the lid.

  “Good thinking, Mr. Morgan.” Riot slipped his arm into the tub. Water edged up his sleeve, marring the snowy shirt as he reached for the broken plug. A pop signaled the open drain and a faint whirlpool accompanied the water’s demise.

  Four sets of eyes watched the bathtub empty. When the belt was revealed, Inspector Geary chuckled. “What a sodding pervert,” he leaned out into the hallway and shouted, “O’Hare, come have a look at this. He must’ve been trying to get his prick to work for the ladies.”

  Riot stiffened. Before he could take offense for her sake, Isobel drove her elbow into his ribs. As the gentleman detective coughed, she took the opportunity to check the cadaver’s wrists and ankles.

  Despite Isobel’s earlier arguments, she shared Riot’s doubts about suicide. Rope marks would have cleared up the question, but there were none.

  As the three policemen crowded in to snicker at the humiliating belt, Isobel appropriated Riot’s light box, and slipped out through the jib door. After discovering Henry, and the subsequent search, she had forgotten all about the mad vagrant.

  She circled around back to the porch, and crouched, flipping the switch. Light illuminated the darkness. The ground was cracked and dry, far too hard for any footprints. She played the light around, expecting a mattress, a blanket, some sign of life, but there was nothing.

  Isobel hunkered down, creeping beneath the planks, pointing the beam at the foundation. A grate caught the light.

  “Interesting place for a vent,” Riot’s voice drifted from the hollowness.

  “Oh, God,” she breathed.

  The outline of his face appeared. “What?” he demanded.

  “I held a conversation with—I thought he was a vagrant living under the porch. He was mad as a hatter, Riot. What room are you in?”

  “The storage room.” His soft reply sent a chill down her spine.

  “Does that grate open?”

  She heard sounds of fiddling, and an oiled creak. “It does, but no man could fit through this.” When silence stretched, he nudged her with a worried word. “Bel?”

  “I think the man I spoke with—he must have been inside.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Only shadows. It sounded and looked as if he was moving, but I suppose it could have been a trick of the light. I should have dragged him out, or ventured inside.”

  “Would you be upset if I told you that I am relieved you listened to your instincts?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had best not say it, then,” he whispered.

  “You had best not,” she agreed. “I’d hate to shoot you again.”

  “My tailor would be furious.”

  “I’ll be sure to send a polite note absolving you of responsibility.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” she heard a smile on his lips. “Have you ever salvaged burnt documents?”

  “Let me get my hat and umbrella first.”

  ✥

  The curled papers did not look promising, but even a single legible fragment could prove insightful. The brittle remains, she knew from her own experiments, could disintegrate with a breath. She eased a flat pie tin under the ash on the hearth and carefully lifted. Riot held a salvaged box at the ready. It was lined with wool padding. Careful not to disturb the ashes, she placed the tin in the box, and picked up a pair of tweezers. With the utmost care, she plucked the first of many remains from the grate and added the fragment to the padded container.

  Voices and footsteps interrupted the tedious work. Riot excused himself with a soft word, and interrupted the inspector’s grumbling introductions.

  “Atticus Riot,” he offered a hand to the coroner. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I thank you for coming, Dr. August.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” August replied, shifting his heavy doctor’s bag and leather case to shake hands. “I’ve studied all of Ravenwood’s cases. To think you worked with the man himself.”

  Isobel glanced over her shoulder in surprise. The younger man towered over the seasoned detective, but there was deference in his manner. In stark contrast to I
nspector Geary’s attitude, August was all business and professionalism.

  “I’m told that this case is tied to the death of Violet Clowes.”

  “It is,” Riot confirmed.

  “How did you become involved?”

  “My agency was hired to look into another suicide: Elma Dunham. My investigation crossed paths with Charlotte Bonnie.”

  “Ah, yes, a—determined woman.” August said politely.

  “Indeed.”

  Their voices faded down the hallway.

  Isobel deposited the final charred fragment into the makeshift container. She switched on the box light, and shone it into the hearth. When she was assured of nothing missed, she sealed the box, donned her bowler, and walked into the bathroom. The little room was crowded with men and bags. She contented herself with standing in the lamp’s shadow.

  Duncan August pulled a folding pocket camera out of his case. As he assembled the tripod, she leaned forward, peering at the jumble of equipment: measuring sticks, collection boxes, slides—everything a coroner might need for collecting forensic evidence. From the look of his equipment, she suspected that August was a student of Lacassagne’s methods. It reassured her greatly.

  “Was the bathtub filled?” August inquired.

  “It was,” Riot replied.

  “I see.”

  “The inspector here ordered it drained,” Isobel offered from the doorway. “We saved a sample in that jar.” Ignoring the scowling gargoyle, she reached inside her coat and produced the envelope. “And we found this under the bathtub.”

  August accepted the envelope with a question in his eye.

  “This is my assistant Mr. Morgan,” Riot introduced. “Can you test Violet Clowes for arsenic?”

  The coroner nodded without recognition. “I’ll be sure to look at this.”

  “I have a box of tablets I’d like you to look at, too.” The arsenic wafers went into August’s collection bag. Riot pointed out the rough patches on the enamel, and politely asked permission to analyze the collected ashes.