The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)
Page 51“What is this?”
Grayling’s cheeks became slightly more ruddy. “It’s my case-wall. I find it easier to study and make observations when the information is spread out in front of me.”
What a fascinating way to display the elements of an investigation. I was entranced.
“He stares at it for hours on end, he does,” came a voice behind us. “Waste of time, I say, all those photographs and measurements. Good afternoon, Miss Holmes.”
I turned to see Inspector Luckworth. He carried two paper-wrapped sandwiches (which immediately caught Angus’s attention) and a new cup of something steaming. Coffee, from the smell. His gait was even, which indicated he’d finally taken my previous advice and had his mechanical hip adjusted—although he clearly hadn’t changed his habit of trying to shave in the dim light of morning rather than lighting a lamp.
“Hello, Inspector Luckworth,” I said. “Wife’s been away to the Brighton shore for a few weeks, I see. Taken the children with her too, I presume.”
“What? Hm? How did you know that?” He looked around as if to see the ghost of his wife or some other specter standing behind him, giving me the information.
I gestured to his desk. “The postmarked envelope from Hove and its accompanying letter signed ‘All my love, Bettina’ was the clue. Along with the small finger smudges on the paper itself. It appears your children are very fond of toffees.”
Luckworth mumbled something about cheeky young ladies and unceremoniously dropped Grayling’s sandwich on his desk. “Don’t know why you’re wasting your time with that Bertillon bloke’s ideas.” He settled into his chair with an ominous creak. “And now you’re all worked up about that Doctor Frauds and his harebrained schemes. Detective work’s not about photographs and measurements. It’s ’bout long hours, lots of talking to people and tracking blokes down, and paperwork. Lots of blooming paperwork.”
I slid a glance at Grayling, whose mouth had tightened at his partner’s diatribe. “Dr. Faulds has a sensible theory that fingerprints can be used to identify people,” he replied evenly. “There’s no harm in beginning to build a collection of them, ye ken, if I choose to spend my own time and resources on it?” The fact that his Scottish brogue had become more pronounced seemed to indicate his rising irritation.
Then, as if recalling I was still present and witness to this exchange, Grayling turned to me. “Miss Holmes, as you can see, I’ve not forgotten about the unfortunate Mrs. Yingling. Chloroform was found in her body, confirming our suspicions that she was, indeed, murdered. Poisoned. And at this time, it’s my belief the murderer was an individual—most likely a man—approximately five feet, eight inches tall. His hair is medium brown and he—or she—is presumably of the upper class, and with a fairly athletic ability, for as you are aware the perpetrator entered or exited from the window. And the perpetrator was in Mayfair within twenty-four hours of the violent event taking place.”
“Indeed.” I confess, I was a bit taken aback by Grayling’s certainty. He sounded uncomfortably like my uncle.
“And, of course, you would already be aware that he is right-handed.” Now there was the most subtle note of triumph in his voice.
“Indeed,” I replied. “But there are countless upper-class men with brown hair of that height in the city.”
“I don’t argue that. But I have a copy of the culprit’s fingerprint, which, despite my partner’s rude comments, could be matched to a suspect, should we identify him.”
“Or her.”
“Or her.” Grayling nodded. “Precisely. And as poison is generally the tool of a woman, one must keep all options open. It would have been no trouble for even a slight woman to overcome the frail Mrs. Yingling with a rag soaked in chloroform.”
At that moment, an energetic rustling caught my attention. “Oh, no, Angus!”
The recalcitrant pup had sneaked Grayling’s sandwich from the desk and was now tearing into its paper.
“Angus, ye blooming beast!” The ginger-haired detective lunged and managed to save most of his sandwich, but I suspected he’d find puppy bite-marks in the bread anyway. “This is for you, ye nogginhead.” He picked up a bone from the floor and gave it to the pup. Angus sniffed at it, then crawled under the desk with his prize. He looked out at us with a woebegone expression, then began to gnaw on his treat.
“Very well then, Inspector. I appreciate your information and would like to add some of my own.” I went on to tell him what I’d learned about the dirt sample from Miss Ashton’s front porch. “Therefore, the list of suspects is rather more limited than you might have believed.”
“Thank you, Miss Holmes,” he said. “That is very helpful information. I shall take it under advisement and compare my measurements with the list of individuals who visited the Ashton household.”
“Very well, then. I’ll be on my way.” I started toward the door.
“Miss Holmes.”
I turned to discover Grayling in my wake. As always, I found it irritating to have to look so far up to meet his eyes. “Yes?”
“I see.” I didn’t, quite, but I wasn’t about to make a scene with Luckworth as witness, despite the fact that the older inspector seemed quite involved with his ham and cheddar sandwich. Angus, for his part, had emerged from exile under the desk. He was delighted with the shower of crumbs from the crusty bread.
“I trust you came through the activities of the other evening with no ill effects,” said Grayling as we walked down the corridor together.
“None whatsoever.”
“The injury on your arm?”
“A mere glancing blow. And you?”
“None at all, of course.”
We walked several more paces in silence, then he added, “And I trust your party wasn’t completely disrupted by your unexpected bathing in the river?”