Three Bodies in London

by L. A. Nisula

  “So you suspected Beauregard Hilliard?”

  “He was on the list, we just didn’t know what his motive was, or if we could connect him to the weapon.”

  “Now you have both, thanks to me.”

  “Motive came from Jimmy. Weapon connection was thanks to you, but next time it would be better if the weapon wasn’t found sticking out of your chest.”

  “I’ll remember that. So there will be a next time?”

  “I didn’t mean—There will not be a next time, is that clear?”

  I was prevented from answering by the constable coming back into the office. “Here’s the statement, sir. She just needs to sign it.”

  I grabbed it out of his hand and said, “Thank you, Constable,” before Inspector Peterson could say anything else.

  “Read it, and if it’s correct, sign at the bottom, then get out of my hair and let me get back to work.”

  I read it as quickly as I could, refrained from correcting the typing mistakes I found, and signed it, then handed it over to Inspector Peterson. I could tell he was at the end of his patience, so I didn’t ask any more questions and left as quickly as possible.

  Milly was waiting for me in the lobby. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Constable Jenkins sent a message to Nell Lane so I wouldn’t worry. Wasn’t that sweet? How did it go?”

  “Fine. Everything’s fine. But I’m starving.”

  “Then let’s have a late dinner. Do you mind if I ask Constable Jenkins?”

  I had had more than my fill of policemen for one day. “We don’t need to talk to him anymore.”

  “It’s only polite. He did help save your life.”

  I was all set to protest, but she was already half-way across the room. I sighed. One more meal with a policeman, then we could begin the more civilized adventures we’d planned. And then I noticed she’d tucked her arm through his and was hanging on his every word as they walked towards the elevators, completely forgetting about me. Perhaps I could have some civilized adventures on my own.

  The Mystery of the Mechanical Bird

  STAYING WITH MILLY IN LONDON was not turning out to be quite the trip I had been expecting. I had planned on spending my evenings solving several murders, but in those plans, the murders had all been in books purchased in London. I had been expecting there to be all sorts of things published there that hadn’t reached the Cleveland bookshops yet. But trying to get Milly out of prison and keep her out had left me very little time for finding bookshops. I hadn’t even had time to write home and let everyone know I’d arrived, although Milly seemed to think that wasn’t a problem and everyone back home would simply think we were too busy having adventures. Which I suppose wasn’t far from the truth, if you consider a murder investigation an adventure. But now that Milly was more or less sorted out, I decided it was time to let everyone know I hadn’t been lost somewhere in the Atlantic and to find out what was going on with the Farmington situation back home.

  As I had promised Milly I wouldn’t say a word to Aunt Lydia about her arrest—and really I didn’t know how to phrase it anyway—it seemed best to send a note to someone else who would be up on the gossip, but accept that I couldn’t tell them any shocking news from London before the family had been informed of it. I decided on Mrs. Raybourn who lived three doors down from us. She always knew everything that was going on on the street, and if I told her I wasn’t sure I would get accurate information from Mother or Aunt Lydia—which, now that I thought of it, was also true—would be more than happy to supply anything she knew. The only question was how to send it.

  I didn’t particularly want to wait for the mail; sending a letter even by airship took an exceedingly long time, and as long for the reply. And I didn’t want everyone on the block to know Mrs. Raybourn had received a letter from London, which was quite likely to happen if Mr. Quincy happened to be delivering that day. Even worse if I sent a telegram. There wasn’t a single person at the telegraph office that wouldn’t let the occasional piece of information slip, and not a person on our block who wouldn’t notice Mrs. Raybourn getting one and wonder why. So Monday morning I took myself off to the nearest aviary before Milly had quite sorted out her wardrobe for the day, meaning I didn’t have to explain to her where I was going.

  The aviary was a bit of a walk from Milly’s building, all the way on the other side of the market, near the theatres, but when I got inside, it was surprisingly uncrowded. I supposed that was because it was a Monday and the theatres were closed. There were two women behind the counter, one at the window waiting for customers and the other in back at the work table sorting out the birds that had come in so far. London was large enough that the birds traveled in stages and sometimes had addresses re-entered three or four times on the way to the proper destination. I assumed that was what the woman at the work table was doing. I went up to the counter and stood near the large cage of mechanical birds waiting to be sent out. They were all quite still, but I could hear the faint clicking of gears as they awaited their next mission.

  The woman at the counter noticed me at once. “Good morning, miss. How can I help?”

  “I’d like to send a short message to America. Cleveland.”

  “Of course. Let me get the rate book out and give you some choices.” She went from the counter to the shelf of books and scanned the covers, looking for the one that covered the part of America I was interested in. I looked at the perch of mechanical birds for short notes, trying to look interested and not in a hurry, which wasn’t hard, as telling Milly I’d been forced to wait at the aviary was a good excuse to have been gone a while.

  The clerk was just getting to the books when the one at the worktable called over, “Patty, when you have a minute, can you see if you can do anything with this one?”

  Patty looked over from her pricing books. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s dented.”

  Patty went to have a look at the bird in question. “It’s more than dented, Angie. It’s mangled. What did they say happened to it?”

  Angie shook her head. “Crashed into the side of the building. I have never heard of one of our birds crashing into the side of a building, but that’s what the boy said when he brought it.” I assumed they had a system similar to the one back home where someone bringing in a bird that had malfunctioned without opening it received a small reward.

  “The address must have been entered incorrectly. Can you get the tape out?”

  It seemed this was going to be a bit of a wait. I settled in more comfortably against the counter and tried to guess which birds went where, tricky since they were identified by their markings and the color of the gems that made up their eyes, and I hadn’t been in London long enough to have received any. Still, it was better than staring at the two clerks as they tried to get the back of the dented bird open and remove the tape the would tell them where it was supposed to be going. I could still see them well enough to notice they gave up on that pretty quickly, and the one who had originally been working on the bird took it back. She paused then shook it more forcefully than I would have thought necessary. “Do you hear something rattling in there?”

  “Definitely,” Patty answered.

  They both turned to me and I nodded. There was definitely something rattling around inside the bird. “Maybe a gear shook loose?” I offered.

  Angie shook the bird again. “Sounds wrong for that.” She took a thin watch knife off the desk and started poking at the bent panel on the bird’s belly. She didn’t manage to open the panel, but she got it open enough to have a look inside. “There is something in there, and it doesn’t look metallic.” She pulled out a hairpin and shoved it into the panel, holding it open, then turned the bird over and started poking at the back of it. She managed to pry up the panel on the back and started poking around with the watch knife and a small bodkin. She pulled out an uncoiling spring and a screw, then a piece of the thin paper used to write messages for mechanical birds on, and what s
eemed to be the end of the tape used to direct the bird. “This should help.” She turned the bird over again and poked at the panel. “No luck. Want a go at it, Patty?”

  Patty took the bird from her and poked at the same part of the panel. “You can almost see it... We need more light. If we could go around to the window?” She looked up at me.

  From her look, I assumed getting from behind the counter to the front windows wasn’t as simple as opening a gate somewhere and walking through, so I offered, “Would you like me to try?”

  “If you aren’t in too much of a hurry.”

  By now, I was curious to know what was being sent in the lost bird, so I held out my hand for him then carried him to the large front window. The corner of the front panel was bent enough that it was quite thoroughly jammed against the edge of the opening, but I did manage to pry it open enough to look inside. I had to twist the bird at an odd angle to get any light at all inside, and then it was only a sliver. “It looks like a rubber ball.”

  “That’s odd,” Patty said.

  “It does fit the sound, though,” Angie added.

  I tried tipping the bird so the object would move around. “It looks round, but I can’t be certain.” I gave the bird a couple more shakes, then admitted defeat and brought it back to the counter.

  “I think you shook something loose,” Patty said as she picked up the bird again. She stuck a hairpin in the back. “Can you hold that and twist it just a little bit when I say to?”

  I did as she asked and watched as she managed to shove a small pair of tweezers inside and pull out the address tape. “Success.”

  “I don’t know how you two managed that,” Angie said and she took the tape and the bird from Patty.

  Angie brought the address tape over to the reading machine and fed it into the top. While gears punched out the coordinates on the tape into something readable, Angie opened another panel on the bird’s back and began poking at the small gears while Patty pulled out her form book. “Now, you were here to send a letter, not fuss about with broken birds. How can I help you with that?”

  “I wanted to get prices to send a letter to America, Cleveland, to be precise. Not more than half-a-page.”

  “That was why I had the Northeast quadrant book in my hand. Just a moment.”

  “Well, here’s the problem,” Angie said, although I wasn’t sure if it was said to us or just a general comment. “The second map gear was in backward. It must have thought 46 George Street was the boarded-up side of 23 Hopp Lane. They’re in about the same location on the block.”

  I was quite impressed that she knew the map of London so well.

  Patty saw my expression and smiled. “Her father’s a cabbie. She used to ride with him.”

  “We’ll have to send this one to the main station for repairs. I can’t do a thing with it.”

  “And Silas can?” Patty turned back to me. “Silas is an idiot.”

  “Silas is a drunk.” Angie sniffed a bit and pulled a ledger book off the shelf.

  Patty chuckled in a way that told me the second statement was the more accurate one then turned back to the rate book. “You said Cleveland. Let me see. Don’t get many letters going that far here.”

  “Patty, can you help me with this? I can’t figure out what Sean wrote.”

  “Of course, Angie. Will you excuse me just one more moment?”

  I nodded as I had nowhere else to be and watched as the two of them leaned over the ledger book. “No, you’re right. That can’t be right. One forty-nine Piccadilly is Apsley House, and unless the Duke of Wellington rose from his grave and walked into his local aviary, that can’t be the sender’s address. And no name? Then I don’t see how we can contact them.”

  Angie sighed. “I suppose I’ll send a damaged bird form there on the off-chance someone knows something, but really. Still, if Silas can get whatever it is out, we can send it on to the recipient, in a bird with a properly inserted map gear.”

  Patty shrugged and picked up the note they’d pulled out of the bird and looked at it then flipped the page over and stared at the other side. After a moment, she flipped it back and forth again. This time, I paid more attention and realized it was blank on both sides.

  “I told you the whole thing was odd,” Angie said as she pulled out a blank missing bird form from a tray on the worktable and started to fill it out.

  “I suppose the recipient won’t mind not getting this.” Patty turned back to me. “Sorry about that. Silas is a drunkard and an idiot. He fixes the birds when they can’t be repaired on-site, or he’s supposed to. I think his assistants do most of it, or at least when it’s done right, or something like that. Now, without further ado, rates to Cleveland.” She picked up her pen and the scratchpad, only to find no paper left. “Argh. As I said, no further ado.” She flipped the blank note over and started to scribble on the back. “Cheapest would be the post, but I assume you would have gone to the post office had you wanted that. Next is telegram.”

  After I’d finally managed to get the rates for my letter—which I stuck in my pocket to avoid another such incident when I didn’t have the need for an excuse to be out—and got the bird to Mrs. Raybourn sent on its way, I went to a nearby bookshop. It gave me something to tell Milly should she ask where I’d been, and naturally, if I was going to tell her I had been to the bookshop, I’d need a few new books as proof I’d gone. So after an enjoyable bit of time poking around the shelves of two different bookshops—I decided the first one was too far from the apartment to seem credible as my destination, also, they didn’t have the newest Crimes of Lady Harcourt I was looking for—I stopped by a small grocer’s shop to get some sandwiches for lunch—Milly’s kitchen hadn’t become any better stocked since her release—and made my way back to the apartment to find Milly sorting the mail in the sitting room.

  “Nothing for you, I’m afraid, Cassie.”

  “Hardly surprising since I just got here.”

  “Really? It seems like you’ve been here for ages.”

  “You did spend a fair bit of it in prison.”

  “Oh, I suppose that could be it. Are those sandwiches?”

  “They are. You can buy them next time.” I knew she wouldn’t, but I thought I’d make the suggestion, to make myself feel better if nothing else.

  “Is that where you were all this time? Getting sandwiches?”

  “And books.” I held up my other parcel.

  Milly didn’t seem particularly interested. “Well, I moved a few things around in the closet so you can hang up some of your things. I’ll help you if you like.”

  I was a bit surprised by that, until I remembered Milly was always one for borrowing clothes and not returning them. She probably wanted to see if I’d brought any good candidates along. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

  “Nonsense. I would have started while you were gone, but your suitcases were locked.”

  I made a note to always lock my suitcases while I was staying with Milly. But thinking of my suitcases reminded me of something that would distract her. “Aunt Lydia did give me some things to bring you. I’ll get them.”

  I wasn’t surprised that Milly followed me to my pile of luggage and watched as I unlocked the small, brown chest, and I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised when she noticed the new green walking suit I’d gotten for the trip and said, “That’s such a pretty color. It would look wonderful with my brown hat.” I was tempted to say then I should borrow the hat when I wear it, but I didn’t want to bring up the idea of borrowing things.

  “Here we are.” Aunt Lydia had given me a small bag with what felt like a few packages inside. I’d been tempted to poke around and had resisted the temptation.

  Milly sat on the bed and started unpacking it at once. “Oh look, that was nice of her. A new handbag. And twenty dollars inside. I’ll have to get that changed over. And isn’t that sweet? Mr. Farmington sent something as well.”

  “I’d be careful with that.”

  “
Oh Cassie, you worry too much. What could possibly be wrong with something from Mr. Farmington? And look how nicely he’s wrapped it.” She held up a small parcel that had indeed been wrapped in pretty paper with a complicated bow on top and a few small silk flowers tied to it with a piece of lace. My first thought was that it had been done professionally at the shop where he bought it, my second, that making the wrapping hard to re-create was one way to stop anyone nosy from opening it and looking inside. I kept both ideas to myself.

  Milly unwrapped the present and pulled out a jar of Lady Viola’s Patented Face Cream, which was honestly the last thing I wanted to see after all the trouble it had caused me back home. “Why would he send you that?”

  “There’s a note. He says he knows it’s hard to get American products abroad and hopes it will remind me of home when I use it.”

  “He thinks you use your mother’s face cream?”

  “I suppose. I mean it would be a logical assumption. Mother does insist she has the skin of sixteen-year-old debutante.” Milly casually dropped the jar on the box that was serving as her dressing table. “He probably found it in a cupboard and was too cheap to buy something himself. You know she has Mr. Brentwood mix up a six-months’ supply at once to get the discount.”

  But my mind was running along another idea. A face cream meant for a young woman. A six months’ supply ordered just before Milly left for an extended trip abroad. It was a logical assumption. And if that were the case... But why? “Do you have a will, Milly?”

  “That’s a morbid question, but of course, same as you. Don’t you remember when Mr. Virtanen had to get Grandfather to write his?”

  I nodded. That had been the answer I was expecting. Grandfather had been a stubborn old man and refused to believe he was sick, even when at ninety-one he’d been a textbook case of at least three heart conditions and two lung complaints. Mr. Virtanen had finally convinced him to write a will by saying the lot of us should, so all the children and grandchildren had been gathered at the house and any of us who didn’t have wills had written them there. “Who did you leave your shares to?”