Chapter 30
Pevensey had meant to take a hackney coach to Ralph Aldine’s flat, but when he arrived at Baker Street, he found that Miss Cecil had rousted out Auld Donald, the carriage driver.
“I’m afraid that we are the vegetables that might overturn today,” said Pevensey as the carriage swayed violently at every course correction or corner. “These London streets are harder on an old carriage than country lanes.”
“I must admit,” said Miss Cecil, “that this is not the carriage I would have hired, but Helena was kind to let us use it. And I think Auld Donald likes to drive as fast as he can in town—it makes him feel like he can still cut a dash like he did in Bonnie Prince Charlie’s day.”
When they reached the outside of Mr. Aldine’s flat, Miss Cecil stared up the narrow staircase. “I am glad we did not bring Helena. How depressing it would be for her to see Ralph’s accommodations.”
Pevensey forced a suitable reply. What would Miss Cecil say at the sight of the dilapidated tenement building where he laid down his head at night?
At the top of the stairs on the second floor, Pevensey attempted to open the door. It was locked.
“Dear me,” said Miss Cecil, “I should have thought about the fact that we have no keys. Do you think we can find the owner of this building, and—” She stopped abruptly, her mouth making an astonished O as she watched Pevensey at work.
He had removed a pair of lockpicks from his waistcoat pocket and inserted them in the keyhole. Ten seconds later there was a click.
“I see no one in London is safe from our Bow Street officers breaking and entering.” Pevensey could not tell if that was admiration or censure in her voice, but her next words confirmed that it was the former.
“You must teach me how to do it, so that I shall not have to throw rocks at Edward’s window when I forget my keys to our house in Sussex. ”
“I am certain your butler would be more than happy to let you back inside,” said Pevensey dryly. Miss Cecil did not belong to a world where picking locks was a necessary skill.
Once inside, Pevensey made a cursory search of the table and the chimneypiece above the fire. “Did Aldine say where the letter was?”
“No, only that there was one.”
“His trunk is here in the bedroom. Let me go through it.” Pevensey entered the small room attached to the parlor of the flat and began to unpack the shirts, cravats, and pantaloons inside the trunk.
They were clean and neatly folded but as well-worn as a watchman’s boot soles.
At the bottom of the trunk, he found a leather portfolio.
Taking it out, he searched inside for documents.
“Have you found anything?” called Miss Cecil cheerfully from her position in the parlor. Thankfully, she had the good sense not to enter a bedroom with him to help him search.
“Just,” replied Pevensey. He brought the portfolio out of the room to the parlor, a letter in his grasp. “Here is a cousin to our others.”
Miss Cecil took it and began to read: “Libby, you naughty minx—Oh, I see, it is more of the same. This one is quite feminine in script, however. And signed with the name Will? How peculiar.”
“I believe it was an enclosure in this letter.” Pevensey handed her another letter to peruse.
Mr. Aldine,
How dare you accuse me of dishonesty! Of course, I am not trying to pawn off a cuckoo bird, as you so insolently put it.
The baby is indeed your brother’s. As proof, I will make you a copy in a fair hand of the letter I sent him announcing my pregnancy and another letter of his reply. What other evidence could you want?
Please reply with the requested funds or I shall be forced to turn elsewhere. I must remind you that not only do I know the father of my own baby, but I know the father of your wife’s baby as well. The newspapers would be delighted to learn of it should I make bold to tell them.
In haste,
Elizabeth Clifford
Rosa Mundi
“What a bold piece of baggage!” said Miss Cecil, incensed for the sake of her friend.
“Certainly an articulate piece of baggage,” murmured Pevensey.
That was what perplexed him the most about this letter.
He had spoken to Libby Clifford before, during his investigation in January, and while she might be able to fake the diction of Mayfair on stage, her normal cant was straight out of Whitechapel.
Miss Cecil took a deep breath. “I suppose one could say this is motive for murder. He was protecting his wife’s reputation. I wonder why Ralph thought it would help for you to see it.”
“I daresay he wanted me to see the copy of the letter from ‘Will.’ And if I had not already found the matching letters at the theater, it would be invaluable.” Pevensey walked over to the small table, moving a dark bottle and an empty vase, and laying the two letters side by side.
“As it is, this is simply further confirmation of what we already know. The same hand formed each of these.”
“And look at that tail on the ‘f’ and the cross on the ‘t,’” said Miss Cecil. “It is rounder than the other copy you found at the theater, but still the same hand.”
“Our forger is quite inexperienced,” agreed Pevensey.
“You mean Miss Clifford?”
“Miss Clifford,” agreed Pevensey, although he was beginning to question that assumption after analyzing the prose of the letter with her own name on it.
“I wonder,” mused Miss Cecil, “if she was blackmailing anyone else besides Ralph Aldine and Lord Fremont.”
“I wonder what’s in this bottle,” mused Pevensey, looking at the small dark bottle he had moved to lay down the letters. He removed the stopper, and instantly, the smell of almonds filled the room.
“Dear me,” said Miss Cecil. “What is that?”
Pevensey froze. Almost mechanically, his fingers moved to close the bottle once again. “Doubtless some kind of medicine.” He looked back towards the chimneypiece to distract her.
“Is there anything else we should look for?” Miss Cecil turned to examine the contents of the parlor once more.
Pevensey put the small dark bottle in his pocket. “I think we have everything we need. Come, Miss Cecil, I must take you home. Tibbs will be furious that I’ve stolen a march on him and investigated Aldine’s flat by myself.”
“By yourself?” asked Miss Cecil cheekily.
“Officially, yes,” Pevensey informed her. He had no intention of telling Tibbs, Sir Richard, or anyone he knew that he had conducted this investigation in the company of one of the prettiest detectives in London.
“Sir Richard told you to take me with you,” said Tibbs with a terrific frown on his face. He had just learned about the trip to Ralph Aldine’s flat, the trip from which he had been excluded.
“I didn’t think you’d be awake that early.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m no gin-swiller. I see the sun rise like an honest man more often than not.”
“Well, you’re with me now,” said Pevensey, concealing his sigh of vexation, “and we have a visit to pay to the coroner.”
Dr. Legget had given medical evidence at the inquest concerning the demise of Libby Clifford, and Pevensey had found the matter strange but straightforward.
Apparently, Miss Clifford, without any signs of struggle, had drunk a large quantity of cyanide that put her into a stupor that led to death.
And apparently, Miss Clifford, after her heart had already stopped, had been stabbed just below the breast with a short knife with a gilded hilt.
“Could this have been a case of suicide?” the magistrate at the inquest had demanded.
“Why the stabbing then?” Dr. Legget had responded. “I’ll stake my wig on it that she drank the cyanide under coercion. I found a pinprick from the knife under her throat.”
“Could you explain to the jury what that means?” the magistrate had asked.
“Well, if I was to coerce a lady to drink something, that’s exactly where I’d hold the knife point.”
Pevensey was familiar with the coroner from previous cases, and he knew that the man demanded respect for his profession. He hoped that Tibbs would have the presence of mind to treat the coroner as an ally and not a hostile witness.
“What does Bow Street want now?” Dr. Legget demanded, glancing up from another corpse on the table.
This one was so pale and bloated it must have been a drowning.
Pevensey saw Tibbs’ eyes grow wide with disgust. He made himself a mental reminder never to let Miss Cecil intrude on an errand of this sort.
“Just a few questions for you about the Libby Clifford case.”
“Oh, the actress. Very well then. What?” Dr. Legget threw a cloth over the corpse to preserve some semblance of its dignity.
“I wonder if you might help me match this to the poison used.” Pevensey removed the small dark bottle from his coat and handed it to the coroner. Dr. Legget unstopped the bottle and sniffed it.
“That’s cyanide all right. It has a very distinctive smell.”
“Could this bottle have been the poison used?”
“I don’t know that from a simple sniff. The key to knowing that is concentration. Do you mind if I send it to a chemist I know?”
“Not at all,” said Pevensey.
“And let him know that it’s Bow Street business,” interjected Tibbs, “so he’d best bestir his lazy bones.”
Pevensey stiffened. That was obviously not the way to get any medical man to do something.
“Hmm. Yes,” said Dr. Legget. “And what was your name, sir?”
“Jedediah Tibbs.”
“Well, Mr. Tibbs, my associates and I have the same speed for anyone that requests our help. We shall notify you once the job is done, which will be exactly when we’ve had time to do it.”
“Completely understandable,” said Pevensey, giving a slight bow of farewell. He nudged Tibbs with his toe to encourage the fellow to follow suit. And then they left the coroner’s office—no further enlightened, but in a good deal less charity with each other than when they had entered.
“Why did you kick me?” demanded Tibbs once they were out on the street again.
“Because you were being a boor,” said Pevensey firmly. “Haven’t you ever learned to use honey not vinegar to catch flies?”
“I’m not interested in catching flies,” said Tibbs. “I want this job done properly.”
“It will be done properly,” said Pevensey, finally losing his temper enough for it to show, “unless you get in the way of that.”
Tibbs stared at him, his expression hurt. “I believe you’ve benefited from my help so far in this case, Mr. Pevensey.”
Pevensey was silent, refusing to affirm that statement. Yes, Tibbs had brought him Danvers’ log of deliveries, but it was nothing that he could not have found too had he searched the office himself.
“Well then,” said Tibbs, crossly, “I know where I’m not wanted. I’ll see what other work Sir Richard has for me since you’re too high and mighty to need me.”
Again, Pevensey made no reply. Tibbs stalked away in high dudgeon.
Pevensey felt a small pang of apprehension about what Tibbs might do next, but at least he would not be sitting in Pevensey’s pocket all through the investigation.
For Pevensey had more interviews to do at the King’s Theatre, and these ones would require both tact and finesse, two qualities that Tibbs was woefully without.