A Death at the Beer Soup Club Page 3

  4

  Next morning as I arrived for breakfast I found Montclaire just ending a telephone conversation. Montclaire’s uncle had just arrived and I explained to him briefly Edgerton’s belief that Dawkins’ murder was political.

  “Aye. The Laborites are capable of anything. Villains all, if you ask me,” he huffed.

  I figured Montclaire was already pursuing the possibility that Dawkins’ murder was political. He noticed my interest and his explanation surprised me.

  “I have just spoken with the Home Secretary, Fitz. Very helpful chap and it matters that he’s an old school chum of Uncle.” Montclaire bowed slightly across the table.

  “And . . . ?”

  “Despite Fish’s continued objections, the Home Secretary has arranged for us to interview the Police Surgeon. A fellow named Archibald Galbraith. Detective Fish protests there is nothing to be learned, except that Dawkins was poisoned. Something that was rather obvious from the way he died.”

  “And you are not so sure, eh?”

  “Alors, mon vieux. Depending on this Dr. Galbraith, there may be much more to know. However, yesterday I took the liberty, which the Home Secretary has confirmed, of asking Dr. Watson – that clever friend of Holmes’ -- to assist. He is the very best man I know for getting to the minutia of why a corpse is a corpse.”

  “You are right there,” I agreed. “Watson is the very best. A former Police Surgeon himself, if I am not mistaken. However, inviting him into this risks that Holmes will come sniffing about. You know what a hound for crime he is.”

  “Yes. That occurred to me. However, Watson assures us that Holmes is in Scotland at the moment and will not return until after the New Year. So, his interference is unlikely. Though it might be interesting to have Holmes in the thing.”

  “Oh? How do you see that?”

  “Imagine Fish’s apoplexy at finding both Holmes and me messing about in his case,” Montclaire said, and then smiled his wry smile.

  The London morgue still held Dawkins’ body, on remand that further examination was required and pending a Coroner’s Inquest. All this was quite the usual thing in matters where murder was suspected.

  Dr. Gailbreth greeted us at the door of his office and seemed more than usually pleased that we had taken an interest. When we entered, we found Dr. John Watson himself, seated in a comfortable chair, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Good to see you again, Montclaire. Sir Francis,” Watson said, looking up. “You’ve got us a pretty problem here, Montclaire.”

  “Oh?” said Montclaire. “I was prepared to hear you say that poor Dawkins’ death was a run-of-the-mill poisoning and no more.”

  “Not at all,” said Gailbreth.

  “Watson is correct in every way. This is a most interesting case A difficult issue, Monsieur. You see, I have not been able to isolate the culprit, but by the damage that it did to internal organs, I can tell you approximately what it was. And, if you will permit me, I will make a guess. That is all that can be done. And Watson here agrees with me,” he said, nodding to his colleague.

  “Can we know what that agent was and when it was administered?” Montclaire asked.

  Watson spoke up.

  “Not precisely, I’m afraid, because the local police surgeon who examined Mr. Dawkins to begin, merely established “death by poisoning,” without making any further inquiries. After a bit, changes within the corpse progressed to prevent a precise determination.”

  “Well then, what can we know?” I asked, a little perplexed. Watson glanced at Gailbreth as if to confer.

  “Not nearly as much as I would like, Sir Francis. But we do know from our chemical analysis of Dawkins’ stomach that the poison was a derivative of some species in the Euphorbiaceae family of plants.”

  “Well that narrows it down,” I supposed.

  “No it certainly does not,” Galbraith protested. “You see the Euphorbiaceae family is comprised of 7,500 separate species, and there is just no telling which of those was used. Many of the flowering plants in that family are poisonous.”

  Our conference with the two doctors left me disappointed and convinced that we would never know what killed Dawkins and therefore less likely to know who murdered him. At home that evening Montclaire seemed less disappointed than I, but I had no time to ask why. He soon retreated to the Duke’s substantial library and there seemed content to brood. But after a bit, he began to search the library’s fairly extensive shelves on thing botanical, the Duke being an avid gardener and having had a great experience himself in growing plants he’d become familiar with during his service in India.

  As I thought about it, I convinced myself that it was enough to know Dawkins was poisoned. What good is it to know the precise poison, I asked myself?

  As I learned later, Montclaire’s casual reading soon turned into highly focused research and when I encountered him again next morning at breakfast, it was clear his reading had consumed much of the night.

  “What was it that so fascinated you in your reading last evening,” I asked, thinking I would learn what had interested him.

  “The Euphorbiaceae family, as you might have suspected, and based on what the good doctors told us yesterday. They were certainly accurate in describing the family as large and deadly.”

  “Learn anything of interest to our investigations?”

  “I’m not sure, but I learned one thing, in particular, that might serve. Most of the poisonous plants of the family kill, but not quickly. Apparently, it takes a while to die of their poisons.”

  “That seems to me to eliminate them as the agent that killed poor Dawkins. He died in only a few hours. So, it must have been another poison altogether?” I suggested.

  “Eh bien, the good doctors were not entirely certain of the Euphorbiaceae family. That is true. They said as much. So, you may be right, mon vieux. We may need to search for another poison, after all. But, maybe not.” He smiled, and as he did so, his Russian manservant Petrovsky arrived, with a note that had been delivered by hand just that morning.

  Montclaire tore it open and read and then explained.

  “Bien, Fitz, we are summoned by the French Ambassador,” he said, frowning. “I doubt that Monsieur Cambon is eager to help us meddle in English crime, so I suspect it is a problem for us.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “Not sure, but before we go to the Embassy, I think we might find it useful to stop by the Carlton Club and see if Peters is available.”

  At the Carlton, we found Ridley and Chambers in the smoking saloon, but just as we greeted them, Fish arrived, followed by several of the burliest of London’s gendarmerie. Without a word, he proceeded to the kitchen, from which moments later three policemen guided the hapless and protesting footman, Peters, out the front entrance. When Fish returned, he noticed the four of us standing by in our amazement.

  “Ah, Montclaire. Gentlemen,” he said, a wolfish grin on his face. “I think I can assure you that we have our man. ‘Twas the footman, Peters, for sure who done it.”

  “How can that be?” Ridley asked. “Why have you arrested Peters?”

  “You should be pleased, Professor. I’ve released your friend, Belloc. Peters is our man, right enough.”

  “How so, Fish?” I pressed. “Upon what evidence?”

  “Upon the evidence of his own sister’s words, and perhaps her last words, for all we know. The poor girl is still missing. Probably dead.”

  “Words?” Montclaire asked.

  “This,” said Fish, handing Montclaire a scrap of paper. “Found in her room at Edgerton’s house, by the housemaid.

  Montclaire read aloud.

  “He said it would only make him ill. God forgive me. We killed him.”

  “That same housemaid has now told us a bit more about Catherine. It seems Dawkins had found some opportunity to trifle with her, and even says that her brother was angry about it. Not the first working girl to be abused by a gent, but there it is. Motive as plain as day. Peters poiso
ned Dawkins’ soup for abusing his sister and she was his accomplice, though she apparently didn’t expect the poison to kill the gentleman.”

  “Well fry me for an oyster,” Chambers exclaimed in disbelief. “Peters and Catherine. I never . . . .”

  “Nor did I,” added Ridley. “What a terrible thing. But at least poor Belloc is free. I suppose that’s something.”

  “Good day, gentlemen,” said Fish and with a tip of his hat followed the policemen into the street, where we could still hear the sounds of Peter’s protests.

  5

  Montclaire consumed the next day mainly with more reading upon the subject of poisonous plants of that blasted unpronounceable family. That evening, we found an unexpected visitor at our door. According to Petrovsky, the French Ambassador, Monsieur Paul Cambon, had asked a few words with Montclaire, and of course, Montclaire agreed.

  Cambon, a small, birdlike man with a long narrow face, small mouth, and considerable Gallic nose, was all frowns, as we greeted him cordially in the Duke’s library.

  “Welcome, Paul,” said Montclaire, “I’m pleased to see you again after, what is it, two years? May I offer you coffee . . . or tea?”

  Cambon brushed aside the offer, preferring instead to get down to the important business that has brought him to Grosvenor Square. I had a notion it concerned the Dawkins murder.

  “I’ll get right down to cases if you please Gérard. This business of your investigation into the murder of the MP Dawkins is suddenly causing friction with Whitehall. To put it plainly, the English don’t much like it.”

  “I can understand that. We already know that Scotland Yard resents it. Detective Fish has made no secret of that.”

  “Yes, well it has gone rather farther than that. The Home Secretary summoned me yesterday and told me right out that he wants you to desist. Your investigation is ruffling more than a few feathers.”

  It did not take much imagination to deduce what was afoot. Suddenly, some powerful interests – perhaps moneyed interests within the Tory Party – were breathing fire at the Government and especially the Home Secretary. And now, we were about to feel the heat.

  “And, that brings you here?” Montclaire asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Indeed. I am telling you to abandon this venture of yours. As you may know, relations between England and France have improved of late and there is even talk of a more profound rapprochement. To speak plainly, we do not want you irritating the English at this crucial moment in our relations.”

  I was waiting for Montclaire to explain that Franco-English relations had to take a back seat to the concerns of The Beer Soup Club, but he did not.

  “I see,” said Montclaire, with a tone of resignation, as Cambon took up his hat and clearly prepared to leave. In fact, he said no more, except to bid us good-day and departed. As the library door closed behind him, I thought to commiserate with Montclaire that our investigation must clearly end.

  “Fish has finally gotten his way, eh? You are out, and he is free to make his case against Peters.”

  “Perhaps his is the correct assessment of this crime and mine is not, Fitz. Depends if you believe Peters, who has already said he knows no reason his sister would wish to harm Dawkins.”

  “So you are prepared to draw-off. As Cambon as ordered?”

  “You may put such thoughts aside, Fitz. I have no intention to drop this matter, though now it is going to be more difficult. Happily, I believe we are close to an end of the thing.”

  “Oh? It has not seemed that way to me.”

  Montclaire started to explain, but Petrovsky interrupted, carrying a morning copy of The Times. He handed it to Montclaire, with a page open upon a terrible headline.

  Body found in Thames.

  Thought to be that of missing Catherine Peters.

  Chapter Three: Do Poisoners Panic?

  1

  The news shook me like nothing else in that terrible affair, for I had convinced myself that Catherine Peters would somehow emerge from hiding and clear-up the mystery of Dawkins’ murder. Now, that was not possible and yet another tragedy had piled upon the first. Just as I was about to ask Montclaire what he proposed to do next, Petrovsky returned to announce a visitor.

  “Mr. Thackeray, sir.”

  Montclaire shot me an inquiring glance, just as the door opened to admit our unexpected visitor. The greetings exchanged, Thackeray lost no time starting his business.

  “The other day, Monsieur, I . . . well . . . well, I had thought to tell you something, but then I reconsidered. Now, I’ve decided it’s best to tell all I know . . . or rather, all I have heard and allow you to judge its value.”

  “A wise thing, Mr. Thackeray, but what is it that brings you this time of evening?” asked Montclaire, as he offered the solicitor a comfortable chair by the hearth.

  “It’s gossip, really, and that’s what made me hesitate to say it. Solicitors hear things, you know, around the Inns of Court . . . things that often have no foundation. You know the sort of thing, eh?”

  “Bien sûr, the same is true of the French courts in Paris. We call it le moulin à ragots (gossip mill), and I imagine it functions exactly the same here in London.”

  “Yes, well, for what it’s worth, there’s a rumor around the courts that Mr. Rufus Edgerton’s solicitor has recently consulted several noted barristers about the prospect of reviving his suit against Dawkins. Apparently, Edgerton did not consider it a settled issue.”

  I had not expected Thackeray report of court gossip to prompt Montclaire to bound out of his chair, but that is exactly what it did.

  “And is there a rumor about what Edgerton’s solicitor found?”

  “Yes. They say he found no one to take his brief. The barristers advised that such a suit was highly unlikely to win and would, therefore, be a waste of time and money.”

  At this last Montclaire’s eyes narrowed and his jaw flexed. He suddenly looked at me in a sort of blank way and then again at Thackeray.

  “This bit of rumor you have brought me, Mr. Thackeray, is decisive.”

  The solicitor seemed bewildered to hear it, and so was I.

  “How’s that, Montclaire?” I pressed.

  “Fitz, just before Petrovsky came with news of Catherine Peter’s death, I was about to speculate. Now, I am about to proclaim.”

  “Proclaim what?” I asked a tad annoyed that he would not come to the point.

  “Forgive me for being obtuse, mon vieux, but there’s no time to explain.”

  Thanking Mr. Thackeray heartily for his information, or rather gossip, Montclaire practically ushered him out the door to his waiting coach. Then he turned to me.

  “There’s no time to wait, Fitz. We must hurry.”

  Montclaire turned suddenly to Petrovsky, who stood behind us in the drive and who was clearly as puzzled as I about what Montclaire was intending.

  “Petrovsky, use the telephone instrument to contact Detective Inspector Fish at the Scotland Yard. Tell him that I wish him to meet me at The Carlton Club as quickly as he can get there.”

  And with that, he flagged a passing hansom cab, chivvied me into the thing, and ordered the cabbie to “Whip up for the Carlton Club!”

  2

  “I dare say, Montclaire, that Fish will reach the Carlton Club before we do. And what do you suppose he will do while he waits for us to arrive? I certainly hope you have good reason to summon him.”

  My cautions and fretting had no influence at all upon Montclaire. He’d lost himself in his own thoughts, staring out the window of our hansom, as we sped through Mayfair toward Piccadilly. I sat silently at his side, wondering what he had put together that now convinced him he knew who killed Dawkins and, I supposed, caused poor Catherine Peters to take her own life. I’d come to trust Montclaire’s ability to solve complex puzzles, and yet I could only hope that his formidable talents had not failed him on this occasion. Otherwise, I imagined that Fish and the Home Secretary would send us both packing to Paris on
the next boat train to the Continent.

  Montclaire was on the pavement of Pall Mall and dashing into the Carlton Club before the hansom stopped. I tossed the cabbie his fare and rushed after, quick on Montclaire’s heels. We found a fretting Brightly at the front, but no sign of Fish.

  “Where are Ridley and his fellows, Monsieur Brightly?” Montclaire asked. “Hurry. There’s no time to waste.”

  The astonished little steward pointed to the left. “There, sir. They are presently in the smoking room. When the great doors to the room opened, the assembled members of the Club, together with Fish, turned in unison to see us, an expectant look on every face but one. Fish looked angry, as usual.

  “What is it, Montclaire?” Fish asked. “Why have you brought me here? And at this time of day?”

  Montclaire stopped short, adjusted his cravat, brushed his hair, and put one hand in a pocket.

  “Just the small matter of bringing this terrible business to an end, Detective Inspector.”

  “It’s at its end. Or, almost. Peters is in the lockup, waiting his turn at the Old Bailey. Then he’ll be off to the Newgate gallows, I suspect, and that will be the true end to it,” Fish replied.

  “I beg to differ. You have in custody a man who is entirely innocent and you are standing here now, Detective Inspector, in company with the true villain. Can you identify him for me?”

  Everyone present began to look at each other in astonished silence, except for Fish, who guffawed once and then snorted. He glared at Montclaire, rather than glancing at his companions.

  “I’ll save you the trouble, Detective Inspector,” said Montclaire, his voice laced with derision. “He stands at your right elbow.”

  “This time Fish could not avoid a glance to his right, and there stood Rufus Edgerton, his mouth agape and his eyes flashing scorn at Montclaire.

  “Oh yes, Edgerton. Your guilt is now proved, and it is you who will meet the hangman.”