Snifter of Death Page 2

  Ruddy admired Archie’s manner with traumatized victims. He was the best of all the men in the detective bureau. It was a special talent. Ruddy tried to cultivate a little of the personable warmth that flowed from Arch. His attempt never quite translated the same.

  Ruddy joined Archie and squatted so he was eye-level, too. “I’m Detective Bloodstone, Miss Janes. Once we have your tea, if you wish, we’ll relocate to the interview room. It’s private. Would you prefer to talk to us there?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Clive returned with the tea. Archie helped the victim to her feet and led her to the interview room. Ruddy grabbed a notepad, his pen, a soft lead pencil, and his drawing pad, and followed.

  He freshened his tea on the way and closed the door to the room after the other three took their seats. They went through the details of getting her age, address, and the best place and time to contact her. She sipped her tea, then looked at Ruddy and a faint smile briefly touched her lips.

  “Are you ready to tell us what happened or do you need a few more minutes?” Ruddy asked unsure of how deep the calm ran.

  “I’m better now.”

  “Start whenever you’re ready.”

  “I was walking to work on Ormond Street.”

  “What time was this?” Archie asked. Turning to Clive, he instructed, “That’s your patch. Make note of where and when she saw the suspect.”

  “It was half-seven. I’m an embroiderer for Dobson’s Haberdashers. All the ladies who do detail work buttons, embroidery, monograms and the like start early.”

  “Go on,” Ruddy said.

  “I’d just crossed Powis Place when a hideous man jumped out from a doorway with a knife, waving it in my face. He forced me around the back of the building and into the mews—said he’d cut me ear-to-ear if I didn’t go.” She dropped her head and her hands began to tremble. Archie immediately eased her through the fearful memory with soft reassurances.

  While he talked to the victim Ruddy wondered how no one saw anything. At half-seven the sun is up and there’s a good amount of foot traffic. “You walk this beat. How could someone not see him accosting her in this mews?” he asked Clive.

  “It’s a dark and narrow alley with piles of rubbish stacked about, sir. Not fit for wagons even, all the deliveries are done by handcarts.”

  The victim took a deep breath, let it out slow, and then turned back to Ruddy. “I’m ready to go on. Once he got me in the mews, he had me step behind a smelly stack of broken wood pieces. ‘Lean against the wall,’ he said, and I did. ‘Don’t move or I’ll cut you.’ Then, he got on his knees, raised my skirt and laid his cheek on my thigh and began to rub, up and down, back and forth—this thigh.” She tapped her left thigh with her finger and shuddered. “Can you imagine how disgusted I was detective?”

  “I can. Then what did he do?”

  “He switched and did the same to my other thigh. After he finished rubbing his filthy face over me, he...he...unfastened my stockings, took them off me, sniffed them, and pocketed them. Then, without a word more, he stowed the knife behind his back and dashed off to I don’t know where. I ran to the mouth of the alley, but he was out of sight already. I screamed and the young officer here came right away. Together we searched but the bugger was nowhere to be found.” She gave a short gasp and clamped a hand onto Ruddy’s wrist. “Now that he’s seen me, do you think he’ll come after me again?”

  Ruddy gently unwound her fingers. “No. He’s a twisted sort that’s for certain, but I believe he was only after your stockings. However, it wouldn’t hurt to take a different route to and from your work.”

  Ruddy set aside his report forms, picked up his soft pencil and opened his drawing pad. Archie had a way with making victims comfortable. Ruddy had a way with art. “Describe him for me.”

  She locked on him with fearful doe-like brown eyes. “I can’t. I don’t want to think on his face so close to mine, that knife so near to me.”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Ruddy explained. “But it would help immensely to know what he looks like.”

  “He’ll likely hurt another, won’t he?” she asked.

  “Probably.”

  Her gaze fell to Ruddy’s hands on the sketch pad. She kept her head down for several minutes. Long enough for Ruddy to think they weren’t going to get much more out of her. Then she reached over and ran a finger across the monogram on his shirt. “Fine work. RCB, what’s the RC for?”

  “Rudyard Cerdic.”

  “Cerdic. A Welshman.”

  “Yes.”

  “My people are from Ireland. They came over during the famine.” She pulled her hand away and said, “He wore a tweed woolen cap with a tattered bill. He never took it off, but from what I could see, his hair was ginger.”

  She continued and Ruddy quickly started drawing. She did a fine job considering how traumatized she’d been. The problem was the suspect looked like ten-thousand other scruffy men of middle age and middle height and weight in London. Just once, Ruddy wished he’d get a suspect with all gold teeth in the front or a skull and crossbones tattooed over his face or warts in the shape of a boot on his cheek. Something that made you say, “You’re him,” with one look.

  Ruddy showed her the sketch. “Is there anything else I should add?”

  She shook her head and grew very quiet. She sat still as stone for a minute and then slammed both hands on the table and shot forward. All three officers jerked back. “The bounder stole my stockings. My new, not a snag in them, stockings. Cost me two bob. When you catch him, I believe I’m owed a free kick. One kick, in the naughty bits, fair is fair.”

  Ruddy avoided eye contact with Archie. If he looked at Archie, he’d surely laugh. From the corner of his eye, he’d seen Archie’s mutton chop whiskers twitch from trying to stifle a giggle. “Actually Miss Janes, you’re not entitled to a revenge kick.”

  She tipped her head and tilted her chin. She didn’t bat her eyelashes but blinked slowly in an odd way as though she was thought it seductive. “Are you sure, Detective Bloodstone?”

  “Flirting with me will not earn you a free kick, Miss Janes,” Ruddy said and smiled. “But we’re all sympathetic to your cause. If there’s nothing else, Officer Northam here will escort you to your work.”

  Ruddy tore the sketch from the pad and gave it to Northam. “When you’re done escorting Miss Janes, show this picture around to the other officers that border your patch and to the shopkeepers. See if anyone recognizes him.”

  “Sir...a word.” Northam stood and stepped outside the room and out of earshot of Miss Janes and Archie.

  Ruddy joined him.

  “I wondered why you let her go off, and well, natter on about your monogram instead of the crime. Why let her be distracted from the matter at hand?”

  Northam hoped to be a detective one day and was enthusiastic to learn from Ruddy and Archie. He sat in on as many interrogations and interviews as he could and often asked questions after.

  “If a victim is hysterical, then you must do whatever it takes to calm them down,” Ruddy explained. “A victim making no sense is no help. She wasn’t hysterical but terribly distressed. You have to let her find a sense of normalcy again. Stitchery is part of her normal, daily life. It’s a touchstone for her. That’s what she needed to help her move forward.”

  “I see. What of her sudden anger?”

  “Anger is often the other side of fear.”

  “Thank you. The pretty thing was flirting too, sir,” he said even softer with a wink.

  Ruddy pulled Northam into the corner. “Heed this warning, Clive. Never socialize with the females on a case. I know you know to avoid suspects but avoid the victims too. If the defense discovers it, they’ll cast a shadow over your involvement in the case in court. They’ll suggest your relationship influenced your handling of the case and tainted your professionalism. Trust me. Don’t do it. Now go.”

  Northam offered Miss Janes his hand and escorted h
er from the station.

  Ruddy and Archie returned to their desks to find Geoffrey Marsden, a reporter for the London Gazette, sitting where Miss Janes had. Marsden puffed on a pipe engulfing the area around the desks in a giant smoke cloud. The smoke didn’t bother Ruddy. A constant haze filled the Boot and Bayonet, his favorite pub. Most of the soldiers he’d served with smoked pipes or cigars. He’d even smoked a pipe for a short time when he first joined the army. He quit because he didn’t like the taste it left in his mouth. The problem with Marsden’s smoking was the tobacco he used. Ruddy wasn’t sure where he bought it or what brand he favored but it had to be the cheapest in London. It smelled worse than what most soldiers smoked, like it was mixed with dried horse shit. Ruddy’d bet a quid it was part manure of some kind.

  “Why are you here?” Archie asked, waving the smoke cloud from his desk.

  Marsden removed his pipe and blew out a stream of smoke. “You know me. I like to check in and see what’s up with you fellows. Not that I don’t trust you to share a ripe story with me should one occur—but I don’t.”

  “Rightfully so, as we’ve no obligation to share any story with you, ripe or not,” Ruddy told him. “Take your arse and equally stinky pipe out of here, Marsden.”

  “Come on, Bloodstone. Don’t be like that. I’ll bet there’s a press-worthy story about that woman who just left. I was heading this way when Officer Northam brought her to the station. I saw you take her into a private room to talk. What’s going on? Is there a rapist in the neighborhood?”

  The glee in the reporter’s voice at the possibility of a serial rapist on the loose set Ruddy’s teeth on edge. “What happened to the lady is none of your business. There’s no rapist running around. And if you think to bribe Seamus, the shine boy again into tattling what he overhears from the detectives, I’ll ban him and you from the station until one of us dies of old age. Now get out.”

  “You’re not being fair, Bloodstone. When the whole city was trashing the police for their failure to capture the Ripper last fall, I made you and Holbrook look good for your work on the museum murders and the Viscount Everhard case, which I wasn’t obligated to do.”

  Ruddy had had enough. He snatched the still lit pipe from Marsden’s hand and flung it into his trash can. “Bull’s balls, you’re a lying dog and that’s an insult to all dogs. We looked good because we did a good job.”

  “My pipe!”

  Marsden’s eyes widened and he pulled back as Ruddy pressed close, spitting his words. “Speaking of obligations, you only got those stories because you used shady means to position yourself and the paper to extort the department into giving you an exclusive. How you managed to stretch that into weaseling another exclusive out of us this past spring, I don’t know. But, as far as I’m concerned we’re done.”

  Marsden slid his chair back a few inches. “See here, Bloodstone, we can work together.” He pulled a handkerchief that might have been white once but was grey now from his frock coat pocket and wiped a thin line of sweat that trailed down his temple. “Your lot can use some decent press. It wouldn’t hurt to have us on your side. The police still haven’t recovered from the Ripper debacle.”

  Ruddy thought about the different forms of harm he’d like to do to Marsden and what discipline each would bring.

  Archie recognized the look in his eyes and slipped a hand under Marsden’s arm, lifting him from the chair. “It’s best for you to go now. Believe me.”

  “Just think about what I said. A joint effort all around benefits everyone.”

  “Leave.” Archie made a shooing motion. Marsden gave one last begging look Ruddy’s way and left.

  “You shouldn’t let him stir you up like that. He’ll find a way to be a barnacle on us again, you know that don’t you?” Archie poured the remnants of his tea on the small fire Marsden’s pipe had started in Ruddy’s trashcan. He poured another cup of tea and sat at his desk. “What do you think of our stocking thief? I’m hoping since she’s never seen him before that this might be a one-time thrill seeking caper.”

  “It would be nice if you’re right but I think he’s just getting started. He enjoyed the exchange too much for it to be a one-time event.” Ruddy then started to recreate another copy of the suspect’s face on his sketch pad.

  Chapter Three

  Graciela took advantage of Mrs. Zachary’s Tuesday and Thursday afternoon naps to slip from the house. She used Tuesday’s free time to acquire the nondescript clothing she’d need when she researched details of Cross’s home and business. A woman alone without parcels or visible purpose, tarrying in the area, was bound to be noticed. She was unknown in the neighborhood. Sooner or later someone would ask about the strange woman loitering about.

  A walk through her neighborhood observing who people paid the least attention to gave her some ideas. She settled on a newsboy. They went everywhere and no one looked twice. She kept looking until she found a boy about fourteen who was her size. “How much for your clothes?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “How much for your knickers and shirt?”

  “Blimey.” The boy laughed and then nudged a shine boy sitting on the curb next him and pointed to her. “The mad cow wants me clothes.”

  Graciela grabbed him by the arm and started to pull him away from the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

  “Lemme go, you mad cow,” he said almost yelling now.

  “Hush up, you little guttersnipe. I’m going to offer you a shilling for your clothes but you’ll get a swift kick and nothing else if you don’t stifle yourself.”

  The boy stopped yelling but jerked his arm out of her grasp. “What do you want with my clothes?”

  “None of your business. Are you wearing drawers?” She waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind. I don’t care what you’ve on under your knickers. Do you want a shilling or not?”

  “Show me your money first. I’m not convinced you’re not barmy.”

  Keeping a tight hold on her reticule, Graciela took a shilling out and showed him.

  “Right then, I’ll sell you my knickers and shirt.”

  “I want your hat, too.”

  “I should charge you another tuppence for that.”

  “It’s stained. Include the hat or the deal is off.”

  He nodded his agreement.

  “Here.” She handed him a tapestry knitting bag. “Go in the alley and put your clothes in this bag. Don’t dawdle.”

  She waited for him at the mouth of the alley. He returned a couple minutes later wearing a too small undershirt, torn drawers, and scuffed boots. He didn’t appear at all embarrassed by the lack of clothing. She’d ask but if he didn’t care, why should she?

  When she finished with the exchange, she bought a pair of black high-top shoes and socks. After a thorough washing, she stored the clothing in a small valise and stored the valise in an upper nook of Zachary’s carriage house.

  On Thursday she spent two tiresome hours going over archived articles in the London Times Financial Pages. Bartholomew Cross would be in there somewhere. His type went into law or banking or finance in some way. Her theory proved right but the blurb she found didn’t relate to him professionally. The small entry was an announcement of his mother’s passing away last year. Anne Cross, mother of Bartholomew Cross, Senior Financial Advisor at Kingman and Kingman, has passed away after a long illness. Services will be held at St. Jude’s Church, Kensington, 21 August, 10:00.

  Rather than go further back into the archives and waste more tedious hours, she headed for St. Jude’s. The residence would be listed on the mourner’s guest book. He’d take that book home. She’d need to see the church’s records.

  Once there, she realized what a mistake running off without a plan was. She stood in the middle of a lovely medieval chapel with no idea of where to find the funeral records.

  “Daft ninny.”

  “Can I help you, Miss?” a charwoman sitting up on her knees in the corner asked.

  Graciela jumped
and turned. “Ah...” was all she managed until her heart stopped pounding and dropped from her throat to her chest. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Didn’t mean to give you such a fright. I thought you were speaking to me.”

  “No, I was just speaking my thoughts aloud.”

  “Lovely day to you, Miss. I’ll get back to my work.”

  Graciela wandered along the main aisle of the nave trying to figure a way to get a look at the records. There had to be a way to talk the vicar into giving the information on Cross. Then the penny fell. She’d use Mrs. Zachary. Zachary never came this way. The odds of her coming into contact with the vicar and finding out about the ruse were slim to none. But since she was the widow of a respected former secretary to one of Mr. Disraeli’s cabinet members, it made sense she’d know someone like Cross.

  Graciela hurried back to the charwoman. “I can use your help after all. Can you direct me to the Vicar’s office?”

  “Out this side door, past the cloister and rose garden, there’s a small cottage with a green door. That’s his office and residence.”

  “Thank you.”

  Graciela knocked and the housekeeper answered and led her to his office. What a dark, intimidating space his office was with books piled on the floor and desk. Blood red wool drapes were pulled closed over the windows blocking out the sun. Black oak and brown leather chairs were set one behind the desk and one in front. She imagined it was how the Inquisition’s Priests’ rooms looked. One oil lamp burned and it cast the Vicar’s face in a weird shadow that deepened the hollows of his cheeks, lit the cheekbones and forehead, and hid his eyes under the overhang of his brows. The brightest spot in the room was the man’s bald head, which gleamed in the lamplight.

  By contrast the unflattering impression was forgotten when the rich smell of roast cooking hit Graciela. Her stomach rumbled loud and long. “Thank you for seeing me. Please excuse the unladylike roar of my hungry stomach. If you’ll pardon the obvious nature of my compliment, but your lunch smells heavenly, Vicar.”