A Monstrous Regiment of Women

“Iris Fitzwarren.”

“Not my case,” he said immediately, his eyes sharpening.

“I am aware of that.”

“Why me?”

“A drink, Inspector?”

His long day and a strong disinclination to put himself into my clutches battled with a simple curiosity, the policeman’s innate desire for information, and other, more elemental urges, as well. With the circumspection of a male black widow spider approaching his beloved, Lestrade climbed in beside me. The driver stood waiting.

“Where to, miss?”

I looked to Lestrade for advice, and he in turn spoke to the driver.

“You know where the Bell and Bugle is?”

“I do, sir,” he said, and climbed into his seat, fastened the rain cape over his legs, and we started up.

“But,” Lestrade said to me, “I’ll pay for the drinks.”

The darkness hid my smile. I had thought he would.

I allowed Lestrade to hand me out onto the wet pavement, then arranged with the driver, whose unlikely name was Mallow, to wait for me. The man had definite possibilities as an ally, and I did not wish to lose him.

Lestrade had a pint of ale; I ordered a mixed cocktail, a monstrosity I normally avoided like the plague but which fitted my present persona. He swallowed a third of his glass at one go, put it down, and fixed me with a beady eye.

“Very well, young lady, what is this all about?” he demanded. I smiled pityingly, to tell him it hadn’t worked, and began deliberately to remove my purple gloves, finger by finger.

“Ladies first, Inspector. Before I tell all, I need to know the things the newspapers are not saying about the Iris Fitzwarren case.”

“What makes you think I know anything about it?”

“For pity’s sake, Inspector, it’s obvious you do. I should think you had a meeting with the investigating team just this afternoon.” The ventured shot sank home, to my relief. I pressed on rapidly. “There was something strange about her death. What was it? What connexion did it have with the club? And why are you looking for Miles Fitzwarren?” His head came up fast.

“Do you know where he is?” he demanded.

I fluttered my eyes at him and complained prettily.

“You see? No one ever tells me anything. I didn’t know you’d lost him. How could I? I don’t know what you people do know—how could I possibly suspect what it is you don’t know?” I ran one polished finger around the rim of my glass and looked up at him. “However, if you’d like to tell me what you do know…”

“Oh, stop that,” he said irritably, and I laughed and settled back in my chair. “All right, but it’d better be worth it, and no one’s to know where it came from.”

“No one but Holmes,” I agreed, and he nodded and drank deeply.

“You’re right,” he said in a low voice, “though I don’t know how you guessed.” He stopped and shot me a glance not lacking in humour. “Oh, right, I forgot. You never guess. How you deduced, then. Yes, there was something peculiar about her death. A couple of somethings, but most of all was the way she was killed. We’ve had three other deaths like hers in the last few months, two during the same night back in July, then one in late November. There was… a kind of mutilation common to all four, after death.”

“Facial?” I suggested. He started to ask me how I had guessed, then visibly changed his mind.

“Yes. The earlier ones we knew about; the two who got it first had given us information concerning a certain importer, shall we say. The other one had a grievance against him, too.”

“A personal one?”

“Yes. He was apparently not involved with the use of… the importer’s wares, but his cousin, who was also his closest friend, was. The cousin died, he began to look into the death on his own, and five weeks later was killed for his trouble.”

“Inspector Lestrade, I’m not a solicitor looking for evidence of slander. The man was, or is, I assume, importing drugs. He’s killed three people who threatened to expose him, and he may have killed Iris Fitzwarren as well, for the same reason he killed the nosey cousin. What is his name?”

“Where is Miles Fitzwarren?”

“Safe. Unwell, but as safe as Holmes and several responsible doctors can make him. If you wish, Holmes can arrange that you or your colleague be taken to him. Now, the name?”

“Tommy Buchanan is the name he’s going by at the moment. Heard of him?”

“No. Why do you connect Iris with him, other than the circumstances of her death? Oh come now, Inspector, I have to know before I can give you my information.”

“Don’t want much, do you?” He stood up and looked at my half-empty glass. “Another drink?”

“Thank you. The same.” I lifted the glass as if to drain it, and when his back was turned, I took it from my lips and exchanged it for an empty glass from the next table. Its previous owner was deep in conversation with a young lady, and neither of them noticed, even when he absently picked up my lipstick-stained remnants and tossed down the strange contents. Lestrade came back.

“All right. But for Holmes’ sake, it better be good. There was a note in her handbag, written on a corner of newspaper, that said, ‘Tommy, the Poseidon, midnight.’ The Poseidon being Buchanan’s club,” he added. “She got there about eleven-thirty, but Buchanan wasn’t there that night; in fact, he wasn’t even in town. He was having dinner with some friends in Surrey, spent the night there.”

“Convenient.”

“Yes, but verified.”

“So he personally is off the hook.”

“Exactly.”

“Colleagues, employees, and henchmen?”

“Half a dozen of them. Nothing specific on any of them yet, but two of them have a history of knives.”

“What else was in her handbag?”

He hesitated at the abrupt change of direction but could find nothing objectionable in it.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Money purse, powder compact, lipstick, small mother-of-pearl penknife, handkerchiefs, key ring with the keys to her flat, to her parents’ place, and one to each of her free clinics. A fifth one hasn’t yet been identified, some sort of house key. She hadn’t been robbed, there was money in the purse, and she had a gold bracelet and a small pearl ring on.”

“Inspector, I should very much like to see a detailed list of what she had with her.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Russell, that’s going too far.”

“I could possibly tell you where the fifth key goes.”

He snorted. “You’d better tell me a lot more than that. How about starting with what your interest is. Was she a friend of yours?”

“Not at all. I did meet her, the night she died, in fact.”

“Where? Not at the nightclub?”

“Unfortunately, no. At the Temple.”

“You? Went there?” A curious melange of incredulity, amusement, and scorn swept across his tight little face. I ignored them all.

“Yes, I went there. Your fifth key almost certainly opens a door in there—if not an outside door, then to one of the offices.”

“Fine, I’ll tell—I’ll let the investigator in charge know. Why were you there?”

“Business.” I exaggerated.

“What kind of business? Last I heard, you were in your studies at Oxford.”

“A client asked that I go there.”

“A client? Oh, blimey, not you, too. Who’s your ‘client’?”

“I’m sorry, Inspector, there’s a certain confidentiality involved that I’m not prepared to breach just now. There are other things, however, that I think might interest you.” I looked around us. The smoke-filled room had become crowded and very noisy, and we had to raise our voices. “Not here, though. I want to go back to your