A Death at the Beer Soup Club Read online

  “Yes. Found by his valet, or so Ridley says.”

  “Then let us speak to the valet, Fitz. That fellow may have much to tell of the death and even other matters.”

  Once at Dawkins’ door we found that his valet, Mr. Simms, was not the least reticent to tell what he knew. And, as Montclaire had suspected, he was quick to say that the men from Scotland Yard did not seem much interested in anything he had to convey, except the time of morning that he found his employed dead.

  “And what time was that, precisely?” Montclaire asked.

  “It was at 1:30 o’clock precisely, sir. I’d heard a noise and entered to see what the matter was. I recall looking at my watch as I left the room to use the telephone device to summon assistance.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Simms. How did your master appear, in death? Was there anything unusual as you recall?”

  “Oh yes, sir. He was a frightful mess. Laying across the bed, rather than in it, his head and arms hanging across the side. And his face, sir. It was deep red. The color had not yet gone out of it – as it had by the time the police arrived – and that was most distressing, sir. Most distressing. And . . . and he had vomited, sir.”

  “Oui, I see,” said Montclaire, pausing with a thoughtful look on his face as he pondered another question.

  “I suppose you greeted Mr. Dawkins when he arrived home from his Club?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what time was this, s’il vous plaît?”

  “About 11:30 o’clock, sir, though I do not remember consulting my watch to mark the time precisely.”

  “How did Mr. Dawkins appear? Anything particularly the matter with him?”

  “No, sir. Though earlier in the evening – that was before he departed for his club -- he’d complained of a restless stomach. I remember I’d mixed bicarbonate of soda for him to have before he departed.”

  “And did he drink it?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir. Just as I handed it to him.”

  “That relieved his problem?”

  “Apparently, sir. Still, Mr. Dawkins was prone to have delicate digestion, sir, and so it was not unusual for him to require a bicarbonate.”

  Montclaire paused and parsed his lips, thoughtfully.

  “You say it was a noise that drew you to your master’s bedchamber. What sort of noise?”

  “Well, sir, I was at quite some distance in the house and preparing to go to my own bed. So, I could not identify the noise precisely, as you ask. But I would say it was a loud groan. Not like Mr. Dawkins to utter such a noise, so I went at once to investigate. When I reached his door, I heard another groan, though much quieter. The door was unlocked and when I entered . . . well, that was when I saw . . . when I saw it. Mr. Dawkins, I mean, sir.”

  Even as we stood upon the street out front of Dawkins’ house a few minutes later, I felt a little shaken by Simms’ description of his master’s corpse. My own stomach had not improved since breakfast.

  Montclaire needed no time to consider our next task.

  “We’ll be well served by introducing ourselves to Scotland Yard. If Inspector Fish discovers us by surprise, tramping about in his case, he is likely to be put off, and we don’t want that. But I suspect Fish is likely to be put out regardless.”

  Montclaire maintained a brooding silence as our cab from Dawkins’ residence to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, on the Victoria Embankment. The drive gave time for me to consider that it all seemed to be a clear case of murder and the most likely villain was Belloc. It only remained, now, I concluded, to discover why he’d done it. I supposed also that he might have paid someone – Peters perhaps or his sister -- to slip the poison in Dawkins’ soup.

  4

  Detective Inspector Jericho Fish was not difficult to find and what’s more, he seemed prepared for our visit. A burly man with a soup-strainer mustache, he groused audibly as we entered his office. At first, his manner was decidedly frosty, which I thought entirely in keeping with the Season. But then, it turned hot.

  “Aye, Montclaire. I heard the Club chaps had gone to see you. And one of’em – Sir Joshua Gould – has even gone to the Home Secretary, who tells me I must tolerate your interference.”

  Montclaire’s jaw tightened slightly.

  “A pity they cannot trust the discretion of the Yard,” he continued. “We know how to be discreet, ye’know. And then too, there’s the matter of Englishmen relyin’ upon our competence. We do know how to solve crimes, eh?”

  Montclaire hesitated to rise to the bait and say something patronizing. Instead, he was candid.

  “Mais, two heads are often better than one, Detective Inspector, and in this case, I can offer the heads of both Sir Francis and myself. Perhaps the three of us, working together, can find the answers quicker, if not better.”

  The Inspector did not reply but instead looked at his hands. Montclaire pressed on, as was his style.

  “Have you yet formed a theory of the case, Inspector? In particular, do you view Mr. Dawkins’s death as murder?”

  “Indeed we do, Montclaire. The Police Surgeon has not yet made a thorough examination of the corpse, but he attests that it was most certainly a case of poisoning. In my experience, suicide by poisoning is rare and usually an act of the deranged mind. There is no evidence Mr. Dawkins was unsteady and there seems no way it could have been accidental. So, now it only remains for us to determine when and how it was administered. Seems certain it was served up to Dawkins with his soup, and we know – as you undoubtedly do – of the bad blood between him and Belloc. Clear as the nose on your face. And yet, we will not make a charge until more evidence is gathered and we’ve exhausted all lines of inquiry.”

  “Have you determined what the poison was?” Montclaire asked.

  Fish frowned, it seemed to me in irritation. “There’s a bit of difficulty there, and while I wait for a determination from the Police Surgeon, I’ll pursue other lines of inquiry,” he answered.

  “And how do you propose to do that?” I asked. “Where to look next, eh?”

  Fish did not reply and instead only harrumphed a bit. When he spoke, he turned to Montclaire.

  “I’ll be direct with you, Montclaire.”

  “Please feel free, Detective Inspector,” said Montclaire in his most patronizing tone. “I do not welcome meddling in an official investigation, no matter who has invited you and no matter your reputation. Nor by you, Sir Francis. I cannot prevent you from asking questions, of course, but I advise you to withhold nothing from me that you might find relevant. Good day, sir.”

  Once on the street in front of Scotland Yard, I looked to see if the seat of my trousers was on fire. Fish had dismissed us with such a blistering that I still felt the heat. Montclaire remained silent for a long while, as we waited for our cab, and show no signs of irritation.”

  I vented my frustrations first. “The blighter! He could muster a bit of courtesy.”

  “One cannot blame the Inspector, Fritz. I would feel much the same if Sherlock Holmes came to Paris and inserted himself into one of my official investigations. Eh bien, we will take pains to stay out of the Inspector’s way and to share what we learn with him. At the same time, I doubt he will care to share what he learns with us, so we must count on doing all the hard work for ourselves.”

  I sighed inwardly and said nothing.

  Before I could sigh outwardly, as I was planning to do, Montclaire had hailed a cab and was boarding. Eventually, it occurred to me to ask Montclaire where we were going in our cab.

  “The Carlton Club, mon ami. We will find the Footman Peters on duty now, and I have a question or two that he must answer. I have no doubt that Fish has already questioned him, so he will be practiced in giving answers, but perhaps I’ll ask him a question he has not already answered.” He smiled his evil smile.

  5

  In the members' bar, we were again disappointed to learn from Mr. Brightly that Peters had been called away unexpectedly. An elusive witness it seemed and Montclai
re’s eyes showed his annoyance. However, we did find Ridley and Sir Joshua Gould, both sipping gin and ginger ale. As we approached, old Ridley had a chirpy look about him, all eagerness to help with Montclaire’s investigation and above all to free Belloc. Gould, on the other hand, had that bilious, hangdog look of a man who’d been out on a toot. I recognized the look from chaps at the Albion Club in Paris. As I was about to suggest to Gould my never-failed preparation of an egg stirred vigorously into a glass of Worcestershire Sauce, Montclaire asked about Peters.

  “Gentlemen, we are disappointed not to find Peters here. Brightly did not seem to know where he’d gone. Don’t suppose either of you would know?”

  Before either could speak, Mr. Brightly returned, his eyes wide and mouth slightly agog. “Gentlemen,” he said. “It’s Catherine Peters. She’s gone missing. Disappeared without a trace, I’m told. Good Heavens! Whatever will happen next?”

  I looked at Montclaire, who was gazing at nothing in the middle distance, his face darkened.

  “Missing,” I heard Ridley repeat. And then Sir Joshua. “Yes. Missing.”

  Chapter Two: What Poison?

  1

  Not three minutes from the time Brightly made his stunning announcement news came that Peters had been summoned to Paddington Station, where a young woman’s body had been found on the track. In a few minute's time, we were in a cab and making for Paddington at break-neck speed. Montclaire had offered the cabbie a sovereign to get us to our destination in the half-hour and he clearly intended to earn his reward.

  At the Station, we found chaos and confusion as passengers waiting to board trains mixed in the crowd of gawkers and bystanders jostling and straining to see the excitement caused by a body on the tracks. We pushed our way through the crowd to the front, where the body still lay on the tracks at Platform No. 3. The horror was covered with a bloody sheet. Police were everywhere, mostly pushing back against the surging crowd of onlookers. Detective Fish, who stood on the tracks over the body, shouted orders to the police and then ordered one of the bystanders—a small, sallow man with a balding head and goggle eyes -- to join him on the tracks.

  “I suspect that fellow is Peters,” Montclaire whispered in my ear.

  With Peters at his side, Fish knelt and drew back the bloody cover, revealing a corpse whose head and face were certainly damaged beyond recognition. The crowd gasped. Peters at first recoiled from the grisly sight, but then knelt beside it and for some reason stared at the woman’s hands.

  Suddenly he gasped, closed his eyes and put both hands to his mouth. “No!” he finally shouted. “No! It cannot be Catherine,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “My sister has a scar on her right hand, you see, and this poor creature does not. It’s not Catherine! Thank God!”

  Fish re-covered the corpse, his frown betraying disappointment that the dead woman had not solved his case for him. He was prepared to decide that Catherine had poisoned Dawkins and then had committed suicide in remorse.

  Montclaire and I quickly retreated to the front portals of the Station, without allowing Fish to know we’d seen his discovery.

  “A false alarm, Fitz, and one that is very good for our effort.”

  “How so?” I asked, not seeing the point.

  “Catherine Peters has clearly gone missing but is not yet proved dead. We must assume then that she has run away, for some reason, and may yet – when found – help us solve our mystery. I have a presentiment that knowing why she has disappeared will tell us almost all we need to know in this matter.”

  “Then let us hope she is still alive.”

  “If so, it seems likely to me she’s run away, and what’s more, that’s evidence of her guilt,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “See here, Montclaire. It’s common knowledge that poison is a woman’s weapon. Show me a poisoned chap and I’ll look for a female who slipped the poor blighter a little something extra in his favorite casserole, or ---.”

  “Or, his favorite soup?” Montclaire interrupted my thought.

  2

  Thanks to Ridley’s intervention and the absence of his client’s objections, Dawkins’ solicitor was willing to answer a few of Montclaire’s questions. Accompanied by the Professor to make the introductions, we found Mr. Edmond Thackeray, QC next morning, in his chambers near the Temple Church. He greeted us warmly.

  “Poor Dawkins. He had troubles aplenty of late, and now this. Poor fellow,” Thackeray sighed.

  “Troubles?” Montclaire asked, both eyebrows rising. “What troubles?”

  “Certainly not in his political endeavors, but in business, mainly. Oh yes. Troubles in his affairs.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Thackeray,” said Montclaire, “but I am not as current in matters of British finance as I should be. Could you explain?”

  “Yes. Of course. Dawkins was in the courts, in a dispute with Edgerton. That’s Rufus Edgerton, who was his partner in a business venture.”

  “Edgerton?” I said, looking at Montclaire. “He’s a member of the Club.”

  Thackeray seemed a little puzzled but continued. “That’s “Edgerton’s Magic Oil,” don’t you know.”

  “Oh yes. We certainly know of that. A sad thing,” I said. “Many sad memories from my youth,” I lamented, as Montclaire dropped a disappointing look in my direction.

  “I quite understand your opinion, Sir Francis, and I concur,” said Thackeray, a sympathetic note in his voice. “I remember my nurse fed the stuff to me regularly. Disgusting. A sad memory from my youth, as well I can tell you and ---“

  “Well yes, of course,” Montclaire cut him short.

  Thackeray continued. “The two had a dispute over Dawkins’ investment in a new preparation that Edgerton was attempting to produce and sell. A preparation guaranteed to restore the hair on heads of those of us who are thinning, you see. The contract was a complicated one and Dawkins disputed several articles of the agreement.”

  “The matter was settled in his favor? By the court?” Montclaire asked.

  “Indeed it was. Over a year ago,” said Thackeray, with a self-satisfied smile.

  “And, this left some bad blood between the two, eh?” I asked. “Edgerton and Dawkins?”

  “At first, I saw it that way, but in time it seemed to me that the two resolved their difficulties and had no animosity.”

  “I quite agree,” said Ridley. “No lasting hard feelings at all, from what I could see. Dawkins and Edgerton were quite friendly in our Club, I can tell you.”

  “Dawkins had nothing to complain of. After all, he’d won the dispute in court. But Edgerton . . . ?”

  “I cannot speak with absolute certainty, Monsieur, but consider how small a matter it was in relation to Edgerton’s great wealth. To him, the sums involved must have been a pittance”

  “I see,” said Montclaire, as he lit and drew thoughtfully on a cheroot that Thackeray offered from his own case.

  3

  When we had returned to the Carlton Club that evening, to join Ridley and Sir Joshua for a dinner, we arrived early and found Rufus Edgerton in the member’s bar. He noticed us and greeted.

  “I’ve been meaning to speak with you again, Monsieur de Montclaire, Sir Francis, and I am pleased to find an opportunity.”

  “Quite the same here,” said Montclaire. I merely bowed my agreement and took his outstretched hand.

  “This business of Dawkins is most distressing. We Club members are especially distraught to know that the poor fellow was poisoned by his soup. I shan’t think the same of Beer Soup again, I can assure you. I have even given some thought to dropping the Club altogether.”

  “Nor will I think of it the same,” said Montclaire, without the least irony in his voice that neither of us had ever given Beer Soup a thought.

  “And to think that Dawkins is now gone. Only the other evening we had dined together and he was as cheerful as I had ever seen him. Not a care in the world.”

  I sighed but said nothing. Montclaire ordered an
aperitif.

  “It is especially distressing that that slow-witted fellow from Scotland Yard has arrested poor Belloc,” Edgerton continued. “Everyone knows that Belloc is the mildest of men, despite his rough exterior, and despite the harsh words that passed between him and Dawkins. It is simply impossible to think him guilty of such a thing. Impossible!” he repeated.

  “Then do you have another theory of the thing?” Montclaire asked. “After all, Dawkins is dead and Scotland Yard believes he was certainly poisoned.”

  “Someone must have done it,” I added.

  Edgerton’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned in. “I cannot know how it was done, Montclaire, but I believe Dawkins was done-in by one of his political enemies.” He nodded and took another sip of his drink.

  “Oh? I had not considered that possibility. Can you tell more? Who are these political enemies and why would they hate Dawkins so?”

  “If you look into it you will find that Dawkins has won his seat in Parliament the past two elections against vicious opposition in Oxford. That constituency had been Labour for a generation – since Gladstone for sure – until Dawkins came along a took it for the Tories.”

  “That may be so,” I said, “but political rivalry is a fair distance from murder.”

  Edgerton’s eyes flashed. “There’s more, Sir Francis. If you look deeply enough into the thing you’ll find that last time out Dawkins’ life was threatened by his opponents. Oh yes,” he insisted, “that’s a fact. It tells me who murdered the poor fellow. It was political,” he added, raising his chin slightly.

  Just then the professor and Gould arrived and after fraternal Club greetings, we adjourned to the dining room for our meal. All the while, however, I considered the very interesting political dimension that Edgerton had raised, and I wondered what Montclaire would make of it in time.