City of Bells (26 page)

             
“Sang and Mr. Weaver, you say?” Rayley asked with genuine surprise.

             
“Anthony Weaver was quite specific that he had not gone into the kitchen on the morning of the deaths,” Trevor said, “which still could be true, I suppose.  Those fingerprints could have been on the knob for days.  Good work, Davy, to lift four separate sets from a single drawer knob.  And this does give us something to chew on. First of all, I can think of very little reason why a bodyguard and the master of the household should be rummaging around the kitchen.   Secondly, why were those of the nurse so pointedly missing?  If Davy is right about this drawer being the spot where Rose kept her medication, and if Miss Hoffman is correct is saying that Adelaide was the one to lay out that medication….”

             
“Miss Hoffman does know at least a bit about the Weaver household routine,” Emma said.  “For she told me today that she escorted Adelaide to the Weaver home on the first morning that she went to work there.  She claimed it was to ensure that the environment was suitable for a woman of Adelaide’s unique temperament and limitations and to get some notion of what her responsibilities would be.  She might have seen where the medication was kept and precisely what Adelaide was expected to do with it in her role as nurse…”

             
“Then we can simply ask her,” Rayley said.  “We do not want to put too much stock in these fingerprints until we have confirmed that particular empty drawer was indeed where the medication was kept.”  He took off his glasses and polished the lenses on his sleeve, his eyes looking surprisingly different without their customary shell.  “If Miss Hoffman can verify the steps of this routine then I will be inclined to drop my role of devil’s advocate and say that yes, the laudanum and not some random curry was the vehicle of the poison.  It is admittedly strange that one drawer in a kitchen should be utterly empty.”

             
“We can ask her, but we dare not trust her answer,” Emma said.  “I feel like Davy, jumping ahead in the order to make my report, but I noticed today that when Davy was asking the questions and Miss Hoffman was translating, that the cook and the maid always began their answers with the same two syllables.  Something that sounded like the English words ‘thick high.’”

             
“Do you have any idea what this means?” Trevor asked.

             
“Yes, for I asked one of the schoolgirls.  Your pretty Catherine, in fact. The words mean something along the lines of ‘As you say’ or even ‘Amen.’”

             
“So Miss Hoffman was nudging the cook and housekeeper toward certain answers,” Rayley said thoughtfully.

             
“Interesting, but perhaps not as damning as it sounds,” Trevor said.  “It is very hard to ask questions with utter impartiality, as we all know through our own experience.  One of the key things the Yard teaches trainees is how to avoid our natural human tendency to lead the witness.  Miss Hoffman has no such training and may have been phrasing her questions badly through sheer inexperience.”

             
“You need not always be so quick to defend her,” Emma said.

             
“I am not defending her, I assure you,” Trevor said, looking at Emma directly.  “She is a complex creature, and I find her likeable one moment and disagreeable the next.  In that sense, she is much like the accused, Anthony Weaver, who seemed to also have a strange split in his manner.  Calm and rational one moment, then swept up with agitation.”

             
“Just as a man in an enforced state of opium withdrawal might be expected to behave,” Tom said smugly.

             
“Wash the devil and hang him to dry,” Trevor said.  “I suppose it is incumbent upon me to concede the point.  I shall interview Weaver again on the morrow, or perhaps you’d like to give it a crack this time, Rayley.  And Emma, are you suggesting that we need to interview the cook and the maid yet again?  Do you believe Miss Hoffman misled them to any significant degree?”

             
“Obviously it is hard to say,” Emma replied, and then added. “But she and I had an interesting encounter later in the garden.  She did not know that Pulkit Sang was dead, and the information seemed to sadden her.  Genuinely sadden her, I mean, far beyond the automatic statement of regret when you learn someone has died.  She said she had met him when she first took Adelaide to the Weaver home and that Sang had treated them with great courtesy.  Something that I gather has been a rare experience for both women.”

             
“We shall see Miss Hoffman again soon enough,” said Geraldine.  “And Adelaide as well.  I have persuaded them to join us at the Byculla Club picnic which is scheduled for Friday.”

             
“Picnic?” Trevor said.  “A chance to observe the complicated citizenry of the Byculla Club is always welcome, and this might be our one crack at Adelaide and her fingerprints.   But I am not sure we all have time for a picnic.  You go, Geraldine, and you too Emma and of course Davy.  You can report back to us if – “

             
“But I think we should all come,” Geraldine said.  “This is no ladies’ outing to the berry fields, Trevor.  They are going to Cawnpore.  A new piece of the memorial is being dedicated.   A plaque commemorating the exploits of Roland Everlee and the very subject was mentioned at dinner last night, do you remember?  They keep talking about how marvelous the memorial will be upon completion, although at the rate things move in Bombay I doubt any among us will live to see it. In the meantime, they seem to be quite content to affix plaques to heaps of rubble and mutter at how this must never happen again.”  Geraldine looked around the circle.  “But the point is that I believe a sizable contingent of the Club will be traveling to witness this latest gesture of tribute.  Certainly everyone who has piqued our interest to date.”

             
“Including Miss Hoffman and the totality of her pupils,” Emma said drily.  “Gerry bought their presence with a sizable check.”

             
“Another one?” said Trevor.  “Before this business is over, the school shall have to tear down its erotic wall not to silence the memsahibs, but to make way for a statue dedicated their greatest benefactor, Geraldine Bainbridge.”

             
“Perhaps they can simply summon a mosaic master and add my image to the existing wall,” Gerry responded, sending a wave of mirth around the room and causing Trevor to uncomfortably flush.

             
“Auntie,” said Tom, unscrewing his flash to add a dash of gin to his afternoon tea.  “You are utterly beyond redemption.”

             
“It runs in the family,” Geraldine said.

Chapter
Fifteen

August 30, 1889

8:20 AM

             
The next morning, Trevor and Davy set off early in a rented carriage to visit the address that Jonathan Benson had written in his notebook.  After a brief ride to the mouth of a narrow street, they found themselves standing in front of another rooming house quite similar in appearance to the one Trevor and Rayley had visited the day before.  But the landlord of this new establishment assured them that there was one large difference; he did not let rooms to “transients,” but rather only to “gentlemen of standing,” by which Trevor could only assume he meant those who were stationed in India for long stretches of time.  The landlord, profoundly unimpressed by their Scotland Yard credentials, furthermore refused to tell them the name of the man who had let Room 5, much less grant them access.  If it all hadn’t been so thoroughly inconvenient, Trevor would have admired the man’s staunch defense of his tenants’ privacy.  He could only hope his own landlady back in London would stand half so firm in guarding his own should a similar matter ever arise.  Somehow he rather doubted that she would.

             
“So where to now, Sir?” Davy asked as they leaned against the building across the alleyway from the boarding house. 

             
“Let us give it a little longer,” Trevor said, nibbling at a bowl of breakfast rice he had bought from a vendor on the corner.  “The house seems to be astir with men rising and preparing to leave for their places of employment.  The fellow we seek may present himself on this sidewalk soon enough.”

             
“But how shall we know which man resides in Room 5?” Davy asked.

             
“I suppose we shall have to ask every man who leaves the building for his room number,” Trevor said.  “And hope that they are more intimidated by the mention of the words ‘Scotland Yard’ than their landlord proved to be.”

             
“We could be stuck here all morning, Sir,” Davy said.  “Leave me to do it if you will, so that you can move on to some other task.  Is not Detective Abrams setting out to interview the Secretary-General?” 

             
“Oh, I believe my time is better spent here,” Trevor said.  “The waiting is tedious, I know, but I think it is possible that the man boarding in Room 5 is also the one who tipped Benson off about the use of poison.  Not only had Benson very carefully recorded this address on the same page as his dosage chart, but the landlord’s remark about ‘gentlemen of standing’ actually gives me some hope.  Whomever we are seeking at this address has evidently lived in India for some time, at least long enough to have a better understanding of the local flora and fauna than most Europeans.  So I believe we should –“

             
And just at that moment the front door of the rooming house opened and a man exited.  He was heavy and ponderous of movement but his clothing indicated that he indeed had lived in India long enough to develop an understanding of what the climate demanded.  He wore a light linen suit, a deep-domed woven hat and, although the day was cloudless, he carried an umbrella in one meaty hand. 

             
The minute his foot struck the sidewalk he saw them, and he seemed to know at once that he was caught.  He exhaled sharply, a gesture Trevor saw in the rise and fall of his great shoulders, although they were standing too far away from the man to hear the sound. 

             
And then, with resignation, Hubert Morass turned to them and tipped his hat.

***

The Byculla Club

8:5
5 AM

              “Good God,” said Tom, removing his jacket and attempting to shake off some of the water before handing it to the Byculla Club majordomo. “I have spent a lifetime in England and never felt rain like that.”

             
“Late summer brings the monsoons,” said a man who had arrived at the door at about the same time as Tom. “Torrential rain coming without warning, a cloudless sky turning dark within minutes.”

             
“How did you know to bring an umbrella?”  Tom said, accepting a towel from the majordomo, who appeared to be equally prepared to handle murder, monsoons, and the unexpected arrival of Jews.

             
The man smiled.  “After living in Bombay for a while you begin to smell when the rains are coming.”

             
“Perhaps you can help me,” Tom said.  He started to introduce himself but then thought the better of it.  Announcing you were on police business was a double-edged sword, as he had learned over the past year.  It made some people chatter nervously and others clam up entirely.  “I understand the older men of the Club meet here to breakfast in the morning?  I am seeking a doctor.”

             
“You are ill?” said the man, as Tom mopped the rainwater from his face and patted his hair, then returned the towel to the majordomo.

             
“I come on behalf of my aunt,” Tom said, improvising quickly.  “My elderly aunt.  The long voyage from England has not agreed with her.”

             
“Then you are looking for Dr. Tuft,” the man said, pointing through a set of double doors.  “The retired gentlemen generally sit on the terrace but this morning, the rain has undoubtedly driven them all into the library.  You will know him because he has a tuft of hair on his head, which is quite the little joke, although the good doctor is the only one who does not seem to be in on it.”

             
“Thank you,” said Tom.  The man nodded and departed in the other direction leaving Tom standing uncertainly in the foyer, wondering if it were better form to put on a wet jacket or to enter the library in shirtsleeves.  As if reading his mind, the majordomo very pointedly held out his wet jacket.

             
Of course
, thought Tom, wincing with discomfort as he pulled it on. 
Tradition trumps practicality, form matters far more than function.  Welcome to India.

***

The Tucker House

9:20 AM

             
“I do not feel entirely comfortable with any of this,” Geraldine said to Emma.  “The two of us should not be conducting interviews without Trevor’s permission.”

             
“If he sent us to interrogate the cook and maid once, I hardly see why he should object if we choose to interview them a second time,” Emma said reasonably.  “Besides, you are acting as if I am sneaking about behind him, while in truth I did not concoct this plan until well after he had left this morning with Davy.  Think of it, Geraldine.   It is obvious that our earlier interview, the one translated by Miss Hoffman, is utterly tainted, no matter how inclined Trevor might be to give the woman the benefit of the doubt.   Felix will be a far more objective translator.”

             
“That is not what worries me,’ Geraldine said.  “Yes, it is all quite fine for us to talk to the servants a second time and yes, Felix is well-suited for the task.  It is your plan to meet them at the Weaver house that raises the stakes, to use a phrase my nephew Cecil would always say.  I do not think Trevor would like the idea of the two of us traipsing through a crime scene unattended.”

             
“Then we shall take care not to traipse,” said Emma, busily scribbling a note as she spoke.  “And neither shall we cavort, sashay, nor flounce.   Meeting in the Weaver home makes complete sense, Gerry, which you know as well as I do.  This way the three servants can not merely talk us through the morning routine of the household, they shall also act it out for our benefit, including the business about this mysterious empty drawer which Davy suspects once held Rose Weaver’s medication.  We have an address for Felix and he doubtlessly knows where we might find the women, so we shall send Mrs. Tucker’s driver to round them up and take them back to the Weaver house.  Both Rayley and Davy claim it stands quite open for inspection.”

             
“The idea is sound,” Gerry said.  “But that isn’t the point. Trevor would not want us to proceed without one of the men with us.  He has said as much to me many times, that you and I are not to take matters into our own hands in a situation which may be dangerous.”

             
“The men have scattered,” Emma said, folding the note and copying Felix’s address on the outside of an envelope.  “Heaven knows when they shall return and this is something useful we can do in the meantime.  Besides, I scarcely think investigating a kitchen counts as danger.” She paused to look up at Geraldine curiously.   “I have never known you to hesitate to act without male protection.  What is behind all this?”

             
“Trevor already thinks I am too old and frail for these journeys,” Geraldine said fretfully.  “If I disobey one of his direct orders, he shall cast me from the Murder Games Club entirely.”

             
“Do not be ridiculous, Gerry,” Emma said, cramming the note inside the envelope.  “Trevor would never sack you, no matter what you did. You’re the money.”

***

The Byculla Club

9:20 AM

             
Tom found the library much as he expected it – a long, dark-paneled room with more sporting trophies than books lining the shelves.  The worn Oriental rug was dotted with chairs, each of which held an elderly man with his nose thrust in a paper.  One of the heads sticking out from one of the papers displayed a wild tuff of silver hair protruding from a bald scalp, making its owner look much like a molting cockatoo.  Tom approached with confidence.

             
“Doctor Tufts?”

             
The man looked up from his reading. The financial section, Tom noted, glancing down.  A London paper and God knows how out of date. 

             
“My name is Tom Bainbridge,” Tom said, holding out his palm. “Recently traveled from England with my aunt, who is now unfortunately taken ill so I –“

             
“I know who you are, young man,” said the doctor, rattling his paper in lieu of a handshake.  “We met just two nights ago and yesterday afternoon you were here at the club on your hands and knees, going through that great mass of wire in the dining room.”

             
“Indeed,” said Tom. “Please forgive me.  I met so many people on that eventful evening.”

             
“I was also introduced to your aunt at that time,” Dr. Tufts said. “And she struck me as one of the heartiest women of her age I had ever met, certainly not the sort who would swoon at her first sight of Bombay.  So you needn’t dissemble and pretend you have come on her behalf. You are one of those Scotland Yard investigators, are you not?  Here to badger me about my former patient, Rose Weaver?”

             
“Indeed I am, Sir, and should we find a more private place to confer?” Tom asked, dropping his voice, for the doctor, like many older people who were losing their hearing, tended to talk in a bellow.  The other five or six men scattered around the room were staring pointedly at their own newspapers, but Tom had no doubt they were eavesdropping.

             
“And where would you like to sit?” asked the doctor.  “The terrace?”  This question was followed by disconcerting bark of laughter, for the rain outside the large arched windows had not abated in the least.

             
“Let us step into the dining room,” said Tom.  “It is still being held as a crime scene and is thus private.”

             
“Crime scene?” the doctor snorted, but he did fold his paper and push to his feet.  “The only crime which took place in that room was ignorant negligence, which you have doubtlessly already concluded if you have half a brain. And you look as if you do.  They told me you are studying medicine?”

             
Tom nodded and the two men proceeded past their audience of listeners from the library, down the hall, and into the dining room.  It was even darker there, the low-hanging sky beyond the single window offering little illumination, and Tom glanced around for a candle.

             
“Here,” said the doctor.  He reached for a heavy-looking candelabra, which he lifted from a sideboard with surprising ease.  He deposited it on the table with one hand, digging in his jacket pocket for a match with another, while Tom pulled out the chairs. 

             
“Now what have you really come to ask me?” the doctor said, when they were seated, the candle offering a comfortable glow.  After a moment of consideration, Tom stood and pulled off his damp jacket, draping it over the back of his chair to dry.  Tufts did not seem to be a man who stood on ceremony.

             
“We have come to understand that Rose Weaver was a habitual user of laudanum,” he began.

             
Tufts nodded. “She was, but you need not lay that one at my feet.  She was already an addict when I met her.”

             
Given Gerry’s description of her voyage on the
Weeping Susan,
Tom was not surprised, although he was slightly nonplussed by Tuft’s ready use of the word
addict. 
Most doctors in London shied away from the term. “So you are suggesting that she first began taking the drug during her visit to England?”