Following the line of it for a few more minutes, the whistles and shouts receded. They were now at the far side, opposite the grandstand. With an accompanying rumble, the next race thundered past, the hooves sending up great clods of turf, the faces of the jockeys locked in grimaces of concentration. The roar from the crowd suggested business as usual.
A few yards further on and there was a line of sandy-coloured boulders which bounded a concrete drainage channel. About 6–7ft across, it was almost bone dry, just a thin trickle of water ebbing gently down the centre.
They eased themselves down and followed the channel till it entered a tunnel, no more than 5ft high but tucked under some thick undergrowth. They ducked in and stopped. Catching their breath, they slipped down into seated positions, their backs against the wall, Finch stretching his bad leg straight out.
Feeling safe for a moment they each blurted out their version of events and quizzed each other over the details.
“So our man Cox paid a ‘big price’?” said Finch. “So did poor old Shawcroft. Not exactly news, is it?”
Annie’s eyes narrowed.
“Maybe that’s not what Shawcroft meant by ‘big price’.”
Finch could hear Brookman’s voice. “The trick is to listen.”
“This information, the documents, papers, whatever …” she said. “Seems Cox and Lady Verity had been intent on taking it to a newspaper. It’s the logical place for an exposé, after all. But—”
He beat her to the punch.
“You mean rather than give it to the journalist … to Shawcroft … they were going to sell it to him?”
Annie nodded. She uttered a disapproving sigh.
“Not really the great noble purpose sainted Verity was espousing.”
Finch rubbed his chin.
“Unless Cox was going solo, trying to extract some personal advantage out of the situation. He owed money all over the place. We know that. Maybe she trusted him with the information, but he cashed it in. Or was about to.”
“You mean before he went and stashed it with this Moriarty person?”
Finch shrugged a non-committal ‘yes’, but it was their best estimation so far.
“Well we know we can discount our red-haired friend as Moriarty now,” said Annie. “I mean, sure, he seems to crop up every time that name is mentioned, but he asked me what I knew of him.”
“It’s like I said, I think he’s on the hunt for Moriarty as much as we are. When Shawcroft referred to danger, he didn’t suggest it was Moriarty himself who was dangerous, it was association with Moriarty.”
Poor Shawcroft. The parcel was now sitting right there in Finch’s lap. He removed his penknife, slit the string and folded back the wrapping. There, on a bed of brown paper, sat a folded coat – a lightweight army coat.
He shook it out and held it up by the shoulders. It was three-quarter length, khaki and made of a gabardine-type material rather than serge. It had regimental brass buttons down the front and as fasteners on the epaulettes. It bore the scuffing of wear and tear, especially at the elbow and around the collar. It was caked in mud down the left-hand side but was otherwise unremarkable. However, there was no mistaking to whom it belonged, or rather had formerly belonged. On each epaulette were the crossed spears of the Queen’s Royal Lancers.
“Major Cox?” asked Annie.
Finch nodded.
“Remember, there was some confusion as to whether he had his coat on him in the hansom cab? Rideau mentioned he had helped Cox find his coat, suggesting he had it with him. The cabbie, Pinkie Coetzee, also remembered the Good Samaritan – Fancy Dan – throwing the coat onto the seat after Cox. But when I collected his belongings there was no coat inventoried. The jacket, yes, but no coat.”
“So what’s going on?”
He stared hard at the garment.
“What’s going on, as you put it, is that I have no bloody idea other than the fact that the coat must be of considerable significance for Shawcroft to have risked his life over it.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?”
“Absolutely. Our red-haired friend … assuming it was him … was pretty damned clinical. Stiletto knife or some other kind of thin, puncturing weapon. Knew exactly what he was doing.”
As the adrenaline subsided, the enormity of what had happened was at last beginning to sink in. They sat in silence. Finch thought of Annie alone with that man, at his mercy.
“You were bloody lucky,” Finch said.
She shrugged off the sympathy.
“But how does it explain the coat being found in a cemetery?” she asked.
“Maybe it was thrown out of the cab in frustration. I mean there can’t have been a struggle … Cox was comatose. Maybe the killer ran off with it and then decided to hide the evidence? Bury it, perhaps? That would account for the mud.”
“So how did it come into Shawcroft’s possession?”
Finch hissed out his frustration.
“Lord knows.”
“The second cabbie,” mused Annie. “You said there was a second cabbie, right?”
“Corroborated Pinkie’s story. Yes.”
“He said he had seen someone matching the description of the killer, the ‘well-dressed gent’ in the same location an hour later … the Somerset Road Cemetery … only looking somewhat dishevelled, and this time heading back into town?”
“He did.”
“Well what if this gent had been looking for Cox’s coat … rooting around for it in the gardens? If he’d hopped out there like Pinkie said and was still in the same place an hour later as the second cabbie reported, only this time muddy – it adds up.”
Finch rummaged through Cox’s pockets. They were deep and had the usual accumulation of fluff, debris and now dirt.
In the left-hand pocket, however, he touched upon something hard and smooth. He pulled it out.
There, held between his thumb and forefinger was a small, brown, glass bottle. There was no stopper and, save for some liquid residue, it was empty. An adhesive label from a chemist’s store was attached to it on which had been typed the words: ’Major L. Cox. Prescription. Laudanum. 4 fl.oz.’
* * *
He handed the bottle to Annie.
“We tend to use chloroform at the hospital,” she said.
“Us too, but this stuff is preferred. As opiates go it’s more powerful, though it’s in pretty short supply at the moment.”
He put his left forefinger over the neck of the bottle and upturned it. The remainder of the liquid trickled out. It was brown, almost the same hue as the bottle. He sniffed at it.
“Laudanum all right.”
“And that’s what Cox was killed with?”
He wiped his hand on his trousers.
“Ultimately he was suffocated, but if the killer used an entire four fluid ounces on him—”
“He was a goner anyway?”
He nodded.
She took the bottle from him and had a sniff for herself.
“You think this is it? The actual murder weapon?”
“I don’t know, Annie …”
‘Annie’, she noted. He called her Annie.
“… but I’m guessing that whoever did it either poured it straight into his mouth or onto the handkerchief – he was dead drunk, helpless, remember? What we do know, according to the cabbie, is that the kerchief, Cox’s own kerchief, was stuffed in hard as the coup de grâce.”
“And then the bottle was put back into the coat pocket and the coat was tossed out,” she recounted. “Which would explain why someone was hunting for it.”
Finch hesitated.
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem very well thought-out. I mean, you kill someone, throw out the murder weapon and then spend an hour rooting around trying to retrieve it again … and unsuccessfully.”
He remembered what Brookman had also said: ‘The history of crime is littered with some pretty stupid villains.’
“Then the murder, it was spontaneous,” she
enthused. “Not pre-planned … a fit of pique … or something opportunistic.”
Her brow then wrinkled.
“I still don’t get the laudanum thing.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, why would Cox be carrying laudanum in his pocket. And why get it from a chemist? He could have helped himself to it at any of the field hospitals or at RAMC headquarters. He was surrounded by medical supplies and could sign a chit for pretty much anything he wanted. And look. The label. The date …”
It was displayed boldly – ’December 24th, 1899.’
“… he’d only purchased it on the day of his death.”
“It is odd,” Finch conceded.
“You think he was an addict? You do hear of it.”
Finch blew out a sigh.
“Why do you think that?”
“He had no business procuring laudanum for legitimate reasons. He wasn’t a doctor.”
“Cox was many things, but not an addict.”
“How would you know if he were an addict or not? Addicts are secretive.”
“I think I’d have been able to tell. I spent an awful lot of time with him. He fulfilled his duties under extreme pressure.”
“All the more reason for seeking a release.”
“No. There was never any suggestion that his judgement wavered. I mean army life, the midst of battle? It simply wouldn’t have been feasible.”
“Then what about if he were coerced into buying the drug for someone, maybe someone who was an addict? We know in Cape Town he kept some pretty louche company.”
Finch thought about a statistic that the police were always fond of quoting, about killers being known to their victims. Certainly if someone had murdered Cox with a bottle of laudanum – that bottle of laudanum – they would have had to have known that Cox had the bottle on his person.
“And if Cox had only been in town a few hours,” Annie concurred, “then it must have been someone familiar to him.”
“Do you have your handbook,” Finch asked briskly. “Your Medical Corps handbook?”
She snorted with derision.
“Great thing like that? … It’s in my kitbag. Christ knows if I’ll ever see that again.”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“Why?”
“I seem to remember something from when we first landed in the Cape. Something aimed at thwarting the black marketeers. A rule.”
“What rule?”
“Laudanum. It’s on the restricted list, I’m sure of it. Not widely available for civilian use. Certain drugs can only be purchased over the counter in the presence of a medical professional who acts as a co-signee. Cox wasn’t strictly medical personnel, but he ran his own little RAMC fiefdom and had all the accreditation … Nurse Jones, I think we’re on to something.”
*She was Nurse Jones again. *
Finch took the bottle back. Though the name of the prescription had been typed, the label itself was pre-printed, bearing the name of the chemist. Below the date, in small, faint green type at the bottom, it read: ’Kaapstad Druggery.’
Finch still had Cox’s wallet on his person. He pulled it out, opened it and teased out the receipt that had been nestling in the back. It was a bill for six shillings and tuppence made out on the same stock, green on white stationery. It also had an address: ’127 Burg Street, Cape Town.’
“Look!” he exclaimed, pointing to a scratchy pharmacist’s scrawl. “The prescription was issued in Cox’s name. But it says ‘Cox OBO’.”
“On Behalf Of?”
“Right.”
“On behalf of whom?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“So you mean the killer was actually alongside Cox when he bought it?”
“It’s a probability.”
Finch’s boyish enthusiasm was suddenly replaced by a look of stone.
“Kilfoyle,” he said.
“What about him?”
“There’s absolutely no way he could have done it. Think about it. For one, his movements could be accounted for much of that day. He certainly wasn’t hanging around with Cox on a visit to a chemist’s store. On the contrary, Cox had been avoiding Kilfoyle.”
He reasoned it out with her. That night, outside the officer’s club. Yes, Kilfoyle could have helped the drunk Cox in the street, albeit reluctantly … Cox’s glove probably came off in the process, Kilfoyle merely picked it up, took it home for safekeeping, exactly as he had said.
“The stumbling block,” he continued, “is that the cabbie, Pinkie, had described the ‘well-dressed gent’ putting Cox in his cab, paying him, writing down the address, walking off and then having a change of heart and returning. But what if this returning gent was, in fact—”
Her eyes flashed in agreement.
“A second man?”
“Exactly! A different person entirely … a case of mistaken identity… Maybe this Moriarty character? … Maybe the red-haired man?”
He began parcelling the coat back up.
“Remember I told you about the stitches and the slash in the lining of Cox’s jacket … where something had been sewn in crudely and later sliced out? Same thing happened to me, remember, with the letters, on the train …?”
“Yes.”
“Well what if that person killed Cox to get at it? Whatever it was. Documents … papers …”
He began patting his own pockets. He undid the button on the left breast pocket and pulled out a crumpled business card.
“There’s someone else who’s suspicious of the official line. Someone who knew the secret life of Cox better than any.”
He handed it to her.
“Albert Rideau?” she read.
“We can’t do this on our own,” he said. “And until Brookman reappears—”
“Would he help us?”
“He would. He’s as sceptical as we are. He may well have found another piece of the puzzle in our absence.”
In the distance they could hear shouting again. This time, it was accompanied by the sound of excitable, barking dogs.
Finch got to his feet. He offered his hands and pulled Annie up.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Rideau’s apartment was in Wynberg, just southwest of Kenilworth, only a mile or so distant, the route taking them away from the city, something they hoped would be in their favour.
Having been spotted at the racecourse, it was Finch who was the more conspicuous now. He buttoned up his jacket, turned up his collar and, thanks to some quick-thinking on Annie’s part, ‘acquired’ himself a Homburg hat from a park bench.
As insurance, they walked apart, dog-legging through the backroads till they arrived on the main street within minutes of each other.
Wynberg – ‘wine mountain’ – was founded on its vineyards, though unlike rural Stellenbosch, out to the east, it had become absorbed into the suburbs. Nonetheless, it maintained its sedate country feel with its verandas and stoeps and dirt roads.
Rideau’s home, according to his card, was on a street named Hangklip. They found it easily enough, set back from the main thoroughfare, one of a row of townhouses in what looked like converted offices, from perhaps what was once the local bank. The door, with its shiny black paint and brass knocker shaped like a lion with a ring in its mouth, looked to Finch like a vague homage to 10 Downing Street.
It was early afternoon and the residential streets were quiet. While Annie hung back, loitering behind a lamppost, Finch walked up the three steps to the door marked number four and rapped.
There was no answer for a while, though Finch thought he sensed some movement behind the ground-floor window. It unnerved him and he began to beat a retreat, walking backwards down the steps and almost tripping over.
Suddenly the door cracked open.
“Finch?”
It was Rideau.
“What the hell?” he continued.
He peered out, his eyes darting back and forth.
“Sorry to drop in on you like this.”
“No.”
Finch gestured and Annie stepped forward into view.
“Nurse Jones of the New South Wales Army Nursing Service Reserve,” he introduced. “I’m afraid we’re in a spot of bother.”
“You can say that again,” said Rideau. “There have been military police up and down here all day.”
He opened the door and beckoned them in.
“Quick!”
The cordiality did not last long. Once inside, door closed, Finch and Annie found themselves staring down the barrel of a gleaming revolver – a Colt, Finch recognised. Its handler was not smiling.
“Look, I’m sorry to do this to you, old boy,” said Rideau, motioning for them to raise their hands, “but I’ve heard some pretty unsavoury things – some rough stuff with Lady Verity; that you escaped police custody; are on the run. Was at the police station this morning.”
Finch eyed Rideau. He was in shirtsleeves with a lilac silk paisley patterned waistcoat over the top, which matched his cravat. There was a breadcrumb on his moustache.
“You can add a charge of murder if you wish.”
“Murder?”
“You’ll read about it soon enough. Kenilworth Races. Someone set us up.”
“It’s true,” chimed in Annie. “They’ve got it in for us.”
Despite the gun, Rideau didn’t look threatening to Finch. He was ex-military but didn’t carry its bearing. Finch was more concerned about an accidental discharge of the weapon.
“Look, maybe you should put that thing down.”
“You seemed a decent chap at lunch. But now this …?”
Keeping his hands raised, Finch turned sideways, slowly.
“Albert. In my right-hand pocket you’ll find my gun, a Webley. I assure you it’s my only weapon. Please … take it.”
Gingerly, Rideau edged over. He put his hand in and pulled out Finch’s pistol. He held the stock by thumb and forefinger and laid it, slowly and deliberately, on a nearby occasional table.
The place was tastefully decorated, observed Finch – polished floorboards, some oil landscapes of India on the wall. Above the dado rail the paper hung in cream and pink stripes. Through the doorway into the living room he could see a fine Persian rug, a divan and, in the corner, still in some state of disrepair, the grand piano he had evidently been working on.
No Ordinary Killing Page 33
