«Couple of weeks back, she came to see me and poured out the ’ole tale. Fact is, she was nervous. She thought Mr Miracle was getting suspicious, on account of her being no good at drawing. Then, just this week — poof! — she vanished.»
«Did you not go to the house where she worked?»
«Yes, sir! But the foreign gent’s leaving, they’re shutting up the place and wouldn’t give me the time of day. I hung about the studio ’oping to see Mr Miracle. Thought maybe he knew where Abigail’d got to. Then I ’eard he’d been arrested for murder and I didn’t know what to do and I went to the coppers but they don’t want to listen either — oh, sir!»
«All right,» I soothed. «All right. Landlord! Another two gins here! Tell me, Kitty, did your friend have any… distinguishing marks on her person?»
There’s nothing quite like a visit to a police mortuary to take the spring out of one’s step.
The white tiles of the long, low structure glistened wetly in the gas-light as Inspector Flush led me inside. The room housed three or four long tables, their surfaces mottled with unpleasant stains like a butcher’s chopping block. Only one, the furthest from the open door, was occupied.
«Now look here, Mr Box,» said the policeman in a grumbling baritone. «We can’t go exhibiting the dear departed to all and sundry just ’cos of some theory or other. Until we lay our hands on who did in Mrs Knight»
«The woman over there, Inspector,» I said quietly, «is not Mrs Midsomer Knight.»
That did the trick.
«’Er ’usband identified her,» he protested.
«Identified a bloated corpse with its face eaten — or cut — away.»
Flush scratched his ear and shook his head. «A ’usband would know ’is own missus.»
«Perhaps not. I didn’t enquire as to details, of course, but I got the distinct impression that
Flush did not look pleased. «Did you now? Been doing a little sleuthing have you?»
I slammed my hand on to the stained slab and immediately regretted it. My hands are delicate and shouldn’t be trifled with. «Damn it, Flush! This is important! If I’m right you have a different murdered woman in here.»
«And who might that be?»
«A Miss Abigail Frenzy.»
«Who?»
«I’ll explain everything if you’ll just let me see the body,» I said exasperatedly.
Flush sighed. «Very well. But if this is some kind of prank I’ll have your bloody vitals, Mr Box.»
«Lights and lungs, my dear chap, if you want them. Shall we get on?»
«I hope you ain’t squeamish.»
Now I have always wondered how one gets into undertaking as a profession. Who, other than chaps who get some sort of morbid thrill from it, would want to do such a thing? Like choirmasters and their desire to improve young boys, one always suspects a sinister motive.
So it was that a goggle-eyed, deeply suspicious fellow with a thatch of ginger hair was the one who pulled back the sheet from the faceless corpse with all the gusto of a stage conjuror.
I gave him a look that told him not to enjoy himself too much and he skulked away to join a very green- looking Flush.
The body was that of a woman of about forty-five. Her torso was stained purple (by the wet dress I realized at once) and her rather fine hair matted and weed-clogged. Vermin — or a blunt blade — had indeed been busy on her face for it was little more than a gory hole. This entire case seemed to be a study in wet reds and blacks.
I stooped to examine the neck, which was livid with the bruises of the strangler’s hands then turned the corpse’s head slightly. It made a horrible stiff clicking sound like a bag of coral being smashed against a wall.
«You have a lens?» I barked at the goggle-eyed assistant.
He produced one. I took it and stooped to examine the ears of the corpse. «You see?»
Flush took the lens and peered through it. «See what?»
«The lobes are not pierced for rings.»
«So?»
«
«How the devil»
«I took the liberty of having a little chat with her charming husband. He had recently purchased a pair of earrings as an anniversary present.»
Flush blushed. I pressed on.
«Whoever killed this woman was careful to destroy her face so that we would think it to be the body of Mrs Knight.»
«What? Wait,» pleaded Flush. «What is all this? Who is this Abigail Frenzy?»
I tapped the lens against my chin. «The point is, if this is the substitute, then where is Mrs Knight?»
I drew the sheet back over the horror on the morgue slab.
«Perhaps she is still alive!» I announced, almost to myself. «Flush, if you will come with me to the Swan With Two Necks around the corner I will introduce you to a very interesting lady by name of Kitty Backlash. After that, I trust you will release Mr Christopher Miracle without delay!»
The upshot was that Mr Knight was sent for and Miss Kitty Backlash interviewed. Rather pleased at my virtuoso display, I waited in Flush’s office for Delilah to arrive in the brougham. Kitty had given me the address of her missing friend’s foreign employer. Now all I had to do was nip down there and collar him before he disappeared. Exactly who he was, I could not be absolutely certain, but suspicions were forming. Which «great big Eye-talian» with a connection to Miracle had I recently encountered who was just preparing to shut up his house and leave for the Continent? After apprehending the Duce I felt confident I could leave this curious case in Joshua Reynolds’s capable little hands while I pursued the business of the missing professors.
Brooding on this, I thumbed through Mrs Knight’s particulars once more. Here was the account of the trip to Chelsea by the grim husband. Here was the last will and testament showing the annuity from the
«A free-thinker,» Mr Knight had said.
I glanced thoughtfully at the reams of print.
Then I saw it.
I read the words over four times before I sank back into the chair, my blood running cold.
In faded black ink was the name of Mrs Knight’s first husband. The other man in the photograph of the Cambridge Four!
11. The Library of Emmanuel Quibble
ALL the nice girls love a sailor. That they also like secret servicemen is fortunate as yours truly is no Jack tar. Some days later, while my fellow passengers took in the broad curve of Naples harbour on the prow of SS
There was a knock at the slatted wooden door and some flunky entered.
«Mr Box, sir?»
«Mmmhhmm?»
«We’re here, sir. Naples, sir. Arrived safely and come to tell you, as instructed.»
«Hhhuunnhhh!»
«You just take your time, sir. I’ll arrange transportation.»
The door closed behind him.
Like some valetudinarian, I was carried from my cabin and hurried into a carriage scarcely noticing my surroundings at all as my stomach continued to lurch and my head to spin in defiance of having reached terra firma. I planted a ’kerchief to my mouth — the stink of the dockside hitting me at once — and was carried the short
