I opened the file. A smell of charred paper hit me at once. A couple of documents were enclosed within, tied up neatly with waxed string. I released them and swiftly read them over.
The first was a scrap of good-quality notepaper. On it was written the legend:
K TO V.C.?
«Looks like hotel stationery,» I said. «Shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.»
The next was a long white envelope containing a sheet of slightly singed foolscap.
I glanced across at the young man. His face twisted into a shy smile.
I folded the letter on my lap and replaced it in its envelope.
«The trunk of course, did not escape the flames,» muttered Joshua Reynolds miserably. «Foolish youth! Such wilful egotism has more than once cost us dear. If a conspiracy is discovered then simple can-dour is absolutely essential!»
I could only agree. I recalled the Shanghai Balloon Incident — which so nearly did for one of our lesser PMs — and the fatal damage caused by one fellow’s refusal to share what he knew with his colleagues. I should know. That fellow was me.
I tapped the envelope. «Any suspects in the Poop murder?»
«They’ve rounded up the traditional pretty lot. Smashers, thugs, vitriol throwers, extortionists…»
«A veritable catalogue of vice!» I cried cheerily. «Now isn’t that a good idea? The kind of catalogue I’d instantly subscribe to.»
«Lucifer,» said Joshua Reynolds, warningly.
I tapped my fingers against my chin. «„Shake the pillars of the Empire“, eh? What the deuce could he have meant?»
The next morning found me on a train rattling through a muggy north London. Dreary villas streamed past in a blur of hideous brightness. As soon as I reached the nearest post office, I thought, I would send a wire to Miss Bella Pok apologizing again for the hasty termination of our lesson and looking forward to another meeting soon. What would it be like to flee this baking wen of a city and run barefoot through a field of ripening green corn with that lovely girl? I pictured us laughing gaily, tumbling into the undergrowth, the cyan sky blazing above us…
I ran a finger under my collar and sighed, horribly stifled by my summer rig. Surely the cause of Men’s Dress Reform must do most of its recruiting during the interminable London Augusts? I longed to throw my straw hat from the carriage and toss my cream waistcoat into the Thames as the Reformers are wont to do. Leafy Belsize Park was not, I reasoned, quite ready for the sight of yours truly in the buff, so I hopped from the train still fully clothed and, after contracting my business at the post office, found myself outside the offices of Mr Tom Bowler Esq. — the undertaker who had so disquieted Mrs Sash.
I began by taking a quick look around the yard at the rear of the premises. A dog-cart with a sad-looking horse in its shafts stood squarely in the centre but it was otherwise empty, save for a heap of dead flowers and wreaths that might have been the beginnings of a bonfire. I crouched down and picked through the wilted debris. Here was a wreath for the late Professor Sash. Here was a bouquet of flattened lilies, reeking dreadfully. And here — aha! A wreath for Professor Eli Verdigris! Both funerals had been taken care of by the same firm! And with a similar want of respect for the trappings of grief. I made my way around to the front.
The door was ajar and the rooms within lit. I adopted my most doleful expression and made my way inside.
It was a bare-looking suite of rooms with frosted windows and a long, dark counter that occupied half its width. Framed mezzotints of cherubs and angels crowded the green walls. There were pots of lilies everywhere and motes of orange pollen drifting from them through the dim gas-light. I wrinkled my nose at the faint smell of brackish water.
There seemed to be no one about. I rang the brass bell on the counter and, after a time, a door opened somewhere in the rear of the premises and footsteps sounded on bare boards.
Black curtains parted and out stepped a burly man with oily hair the colour of wet slate. He seemed a very jovial chap for one of his profession, grinning all over his face and, rather surprisingly, tucking into a chicken leg with gusto. Closer to, I noticed his bluey, poorly shaved chin and the spots of grease on his tie.
«Hello,» he said brightly.
I made a small bow. «Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Bowler?»
«You do, sir!» he said, wiping his greasy fingers on his coat.
Incredibly, he dropped the chicken leg down on to the counter and rubbed his hands together. «Now what can I do for you?»
I fiddled coyly with my tie-pin. «I was recommended to your predecessors’ excellent firm by a family friend.»
«Ah, yes! We bought the old fellows out! So, you’ve had a bereavement?» His brows drew together and his mouth turned down like some operatic clown. «Aww.»
«Indeed.» I managed to hide my astonishment at his behaviour and made a quick grab for my handkerchief. «My dear wife,» I croaked, stifling a sob.
Bowler inclined his head slightly but still smirked. «Please accept the firm’s sincere condolences, Mr…?»
«Box.»
«Mr Box. I regret to say, however, that we are currently overwhelmed with… um… clients. Dying, you see, being one of the few things that never really goes out of fashion! Ha, ha!»
I blinked and returned my handkerchief to my pocket.
Bowler’s gaze strayed longingly to the greasy meat he had laid on the counter and he wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand. «It would be rather wrong of us to take on your wife’s funeral at this time.»
«Well, I’m… delighted to see you are prospering.»
«Very much so,» grinned Bowler. «I can recommend another firm if you like? They’re really very reasonable.»
«Expense is not the issue.»
«Of course not, sir. Ha, ha. I would further add that they are discreet and most respectful.»
I nodded. «You are very kind.»
Bowler brushed a stray hair from his eyes. «If you just wait here, I will furnish you with the details.»
I smiled weakly. He disappeared back behind the curtain.
I glanced about and then, looking down at the counter, ran a gloved finger down its length, scoring a mahogany-coloured groove in the patina of dust that covered it.
The scrape of curtain rings announced Bowler’s return. He handed me a bit of paper upon which he’d written the name of another firm in a bold hand. The black ink was smudged by his greasy thumb-print.
I thanked him for his kindness.
«Not at all, sir. Good day.»
Then, without a second thought, he picked up the chicken leg and sank his teeth into it. I made my way out. Bowler watched me until I was through the door. Through the frosted pane I distinctly saw him wave.
I stepped out on to the street and crossed the road, pausing under a shady lime tree. The state of the counter alone told me that the firm of Mr Bowler was not prospering. So why had he turned down my business and recommended a rival? And, more revealingly, why had he signally failed to comment on the fact that, despite my recent «bereavement», I was dressed head to toe in white linen?
Just then, a loud creaking close by drew my attention and I stepped closer to the tree so as to remain unobserved. I realized that I was at the entrance to the undertaker’s yard. As I watched, both the rickety gates swung open and the dog-cart rattled through and on to the street. At the reins was a hard-faced fellow in a rust- coloured coat with a great scar across his nose.
