The Fatal Engine Page 5

  “A confession, you mean? That would be convenient. A quarrel followed by a violent shove leading to his bleeding out. And is it ever as convenient as that for us?”

  “Not often,” said the Major, “but you know I’m an optimist. So, what do you make of her state of health?”

  “She’s either under the influence of something – most likely an opiate – or she has some rare condition that might be attacking her faculties. She has been taking some cordial she says came from Throcktons, which is a little strange. She may have some violent antipathy to that, of course.”

  “I think I am quite justified in going to Oil Mill Lane and taking the bottle,” said Major Vernon, “given that she is hardly herself.”

  “And I shall admit her to the Infirmary,” said Felix, “to be on the safe side. You should talk to her now, before she falls asleep. She is quite drowsy as it is.”

  At this moment Captain Lazenby came along the passageway accompanied by another gentleman.

  “Dear God, that’s Truro,” Felix murmured. “What’s he doing here? I thought he was supposed to be at The Bugle today.”

  Captain Lazenby presented them to the famous author. When the introductions had been made, Mr Truro, like a ferret picking up a scent, went and looked through the hatchway to the interview room door.

  “An interesting case?” he asked. “I see a young lady in deepest mourning.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say at this point,” said Major Vernon.

  “Mr Truro has suggested to me that he follows a case from its earliest stages,” said Captain Lazenby. “He wishes to write a series of articles for his magazine on modern police work. It would be a beneficial thing for the public to have our work explained to them by someone they find so compelling, don’t you think?”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Truro. “Indeed, you cannot underestimate the public’s fascination with this subject. Those who pursue justice are great heroes in the eyes of the public.”

  “I think they like the criminals,” said Major Vernon, “whether we catch them or not. And sometimes the ones we never catch become even greater heroes. What about Robin Hood? Nowadays we would have to transport him to Tasmania, if we could.”

  “Ah yes, Robin Hood,” said Truro. “One of our great myths. One of my favourites, in fact. But I see no reason why the thief should be more popular than the thief-taker. I have read of your exploits, Major Vernon, and I think the world needs more of your kind as idols.”

  “Idols?” said Major Vernon, and Felix could hear the amusement in his voice.

  “So you are agreeable to Mr Truro accompanying you on this investigation, Major Vernon?” said Captain Lazenby.

  “I’m not certain I am,” said Major Vernon.

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” said Mr Truro. “I will be silent as a faithful hound.”

  “I have met a great many faithful hounds that were never silent,” said Major Vernon.

  “I see this is going to take some art on my part to persuade you,” said Truro.

  “You need not exercise yourself, Mr Truro,” said Lazenby. “I’m sure Major Vernon really does understand the importance of this for the reputation of our profession. After all, when he has done so much to promote the good name of the Constabulary and its officers, surely he can only welcome further explanation, and by such a hand! No, Mr Truro, do not fear, Major Vernon is only quibbling with us. He will be glad to have you as his companion – no, as his faithful hound.”

  Major Vernon said nothing for a moment. His hand was on the door handle to the interview room. He glanced in and then looked back at Truro again.

  “Very well, sir, but I would like to see what is written before it goes to print.”

  “Is that a courtesy that Mr O’Brien extends to you?”

  “It’s only because of that precedent that I feel I have to grant you this favour, notwithstanding what Captain Lazenby has said,” said Major Vernon.

  “Excellent,” said Lazenby. “I knew you’d see it.”

  “Perhaps we had better get on,” said Major Vernon.

  He opened the door and went into the room. The others followed.

  Miss Roper rose from her seat and staggered towards Major Vernon. Felix went to help her.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Roper,” said Major Vernon. “Please do sit down.”

  “No, no,” she said. “I think I must stand... or I will...” She glanced at Felix. “Why am I so sleepy?”

  “We are going to try to find out, Miss Roper. Come, you had better sit, you will be more comfortable then.”

  She consented.

  “Who are –?” she gestured towards the others.

  “This is Captain Lazenby, Miss Roper, and the other gentleman is merely observing.”

  Truro made her a bow.

  “Yes, do not mind me, my dear. I am not here.”

  “I have to talk, before I forget. I forget things all the time now.”

  Major Vernon took his chair and sat down close to her.

  “Perhaps you will take notes, Captain?” he said.

  Lazenby was reaching for a notebook when Truro said, “Allow me, please, I have shorthand.”

  He went and sat near to Miss Roper, his notebook open, a pencil in hand. He was already making indecipherable marks. Felix had often wondered if he should learn shorthand, and now he felt a curious mixture of annoyance and envy.

  “Now, shall we begin, ma’am?” said Major Vernon. “What was it you wished to say?”

  “My father,” she said. “I think – oh dear God, forgive me, but I think I killed him!”

  “Let us step back a little,” said Major Vernon. “When did you last see your father, Miss Roper?”

  “I... I cannot be sure. I can see him lying there in the workshop, you see, and all that blood, and there was blood on my hands, because I stooped down...” Her voice were slurred and indistinct. “Oh, I am so...”

  “You saw him lying in the workshop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe what you saw?”

  “He was lying on his back,” she said. “He was looking up at me. He was... twitching,” She struggled with the word. “He wanted help... and I did not...” Now she pressed her hands to her face and slumped back in her chair, making a low moan. “Oh, it is all so... and I can’t... my mouth can’t...” Her voice trailed away.

  “I’m not sure we ought to continue this,” said Felix, taking her hand and feeling again that alarmingly sluggish pulse. “I think she should go to the Infirmary at once.”

  He was now obliged to support her in his arms to keep her upright. She did not seem far from unconsciousness.

  “Certainly, I’ll go and arrange it,” said Major Vernon, getting up at once and leaving.

  “What a mystery,” said Truro, gazing at Miss Roper. He then made some more scribbles in his book.

  “Here, Carswell, let me help you,” said Lazenby, and together they carried her out of the room, making a seat for her with crossed hands, and letting her brace herself on their shoulders. It was no great difficulty. She was feather-light, and Felix wondered as they went down the passageway towards the courtyard if she had the strength in her to accomplish the attack to which she had just confessed.

  In the carriage to the Infirmary, she fell into a fitful doziness, leaning against him as if she were sleeping in the ordinary way after a long tiring drive. Eleanor often did this, and it sometimes happened that it ended with her head in his lap. This strange, troubled woman seemed inclined to do the same, but Felix did all he could to keep her upright and from drifting away entirely, tapping her cheeks and shaking her gently.

  At one moment she stared at him, blinking hard to keep her eyes open.

  “I have killed him, haven’t I?” she said, almost inaudibly. “And I will be hanged for it.”

  Chapter Six

  “So – what now, Major Vernon?” said Mr Truro, his notebook still in his hand.

  “We shall have
to let her stay at the Infirmary and see what transpires,” Giles said. “Patience, Mr Truro, will be our friend in this.” Truro nodded. “And in the meantime, I have other matters to see to. I have an appointment. If you will excuse me, Mr Truro, sir,” he added, with a nod to Captain Lazenby.

  Fortunately the hint was taken, and he returned to the Northern Office alone to find the newly promoted Inspector Coxe just returned from visiting every printer’s shop in Northminster.

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing, sir,” said Coxe, who was evidently annoyed by his failure, “I’m sorry to say.”

  “Have you heard what happened in Oil Mill Lane?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to do a search. Will you come with me?”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  “I was thinking, though, sir,” Coxe said as they left the building together, “we should extend the search for the printer. Perhaps to Axworth and Market Craven in the first instance? There have been a few reports of stirrings there. There was a meeting in a pub in Market Craven, The Black Horse – I had a note from Sergeant Gibbs there about it.”

  “Perhaps some of those gentlemen we failed to discover last night,” said Giles. Their search for intelligence had been singularly unrewarding. “After all, it’s a small matter to get here on the railway now.”

  “Quite, sir, and cheap too.”

  “Yes, you must look into that. Gibbs is proving a useful man.”

  “Certainly, sir. Keen since we put him there.”

  “A good suggestion of yours. Now, what have you heard about Oil Mill Lane?”

  “A suspicious death, that’s all.”

  Giles gave him what details they had gleaned, ending with Miss Roper’s confession.

  They stopped first at Mrs Steele’s house. Mrs Steele informed them that Amy Roper was upstairs with the children. She had spoken to Mr Edwardes and heard that Sarah had left her room.

  “Amy has not been back to the house?” Giles asked.

  “No, sir,” said Mrs Steele. “I thought it better she stayed away.”

  “Those young women are lucky with their neighbour,” said Giles when they had left her. “As are we. I do not want Miss Amy back in the house just yet.”

  “So what sort of people are these, sir?” said Coxe as they went into the Ropers’ house.

  “Highly respectable, but fallen on lean times. No servants kept, as far as I can tell, but there are a few things here which suggest there was money at one time. The young women clearly had a certain amount of education, so there must have been money for that. There was talk of the mother’s jewellery being sold, and Miss Roper has apparently being selling various valuables to pay for life insurance policies.” They were now on the landing which served as a sitting room. “We will start with Sarah’s room, given she is our chief person of interest.”

  The room was a generous one, but there was a sparseness about its contents. There were no curtains, only shutters, and though the handsome bed retained its chintz hangings, they were bleached by the sun and their trimmings were fraying. A pile of drab-coloured blankets and patched sheets served for bedclothes. There was a Bible and prayer book by way of reading matter, as well as some old copies of The Bugle. Her clothes, dark and serviceable, had been bundled in a trunk with apparently little ceremony and only in the hanging corner cupboard did he discover any sense of a young woman who might have hopes and dreams. On one shelf was a miniature of a woman, perhaps her mother, a small silver candlestick, a wine glass and a bottle with a label printed with ‘Throcktons the Grocer, Northminster’. The bottle was almost empty, but contained about half an inch of cloudy red liquid. On the shelf below was a bundle of letters and documents as well as writing paper, ink and pens.

  “Are those the life insurance policies, sir?” said Coxe.

  “They seem to be,” said Giles, looking through them. “And a few love letters from Edwardes. Anything in that cupboard?”

  “Just a few clothes,” said Coxe. “Where next?”

  “The sister’s room,” said Giles.

  This was smaller and showed attempts, despite a lack of money, to project some air of prosperous femininity. Several bonnets hung on the peg rail while a bunch of artificial flowers in a vase, a cake of sweet-smelling soap on a dish and various bottles, carefully placed on lace mats, decorated the dressing table. Giles flicked open a pink enamel box with a dove and ribbons on it. Inside was a piece of folded muslin, inside which, to his surprise, he discovered a French letter. He folded it back into the muslin and slipped it into one of the envelopes he had brought to collect evidence. He glanced around him again at what was ostensibly the bedroom of a respectable young woman. Did Amy pay for her small luxuries by selling herself? If so, she was going about it in a sensible and clear-sighted way which struck him as unusual. French letters were neither easy to obtain nor cheap, and he could not at that instant imagine where in Northminster she might have got hold of something of that nature. Had one of her clients supplied her with it?

  “Let’s take those bottles on the dressing table, Coxe,” he added. “I want to see if Mr Carswell can make anything of them.”

  The kitchen yielded little of interest. Giles stood at the kitchen door, looking out at the workshop, trying to determine what was general disorder and what might have been forcibly rearranged. There were tools and pieces of metal and wood scattered about apparently at random. Had Miss Roper in her fury swept the benches clear?

  “What was his trade, sir?” said Coxe.

  “Clockmaker,” said Giles. “But now an engineer and unsuccessful inventor. Let’s look upstairs. He slept up there, I think.”

  There was a door to the room at the top of the stairs, opening onto another workshop space, with large windows giving better light. It was more orderly than downstairs, with a bed shoved in the corner and the walls pinned with diagrams. The workbenches were meticulously arranged, with various contraptions in different stages of construction.

  “An inventor?” said Coxe, looking about him.

  “Trying to devise the next spinning jenny,” said Giles, picking up a drawing from the drafting table and trying to interpret it. “Or some such.”

  “There’s a lot of money in that, for those who succeed,” said Coxe, examining some finely-made cogs and wheels.

  Giles went to the window and looked out at the yard. It was packed with tea chests and crates. There was a door to the lane beyond, but it looked scarcely usable, due to the amount of lumber in the way.

  “Theoretically, someone could have come in and left by that gate,” he said, pointing it out to Coxe.

  “Not easily,” said Coxe. “And the wall is a good eight foot. Perhaps if you went up on the wash house roof there, it would not be impossible. But coming in?”

  “Perhaps Roper let his attacker in at the front door and he left by the back gate, unseen by the women in the house.”

  “You are discounting the young lady’s confession, sir?” said Coxe.

  “I don’t entirely credit it. I think there may be more to this.” He turned back to the workshop. “An interesting profession, certainly, and as you say, lucrative for the successful. I wonder what he was working on.”

  “Something for the wool trade?” said Coxe, holding up a length of worsted. “There is a whole basket of stuff here.” He held out two large scraps sewn together with clumsy, uneven stitches.

  “A device for sewing?” Giles said. “That would be something worth doing.”

  “Certainly would,” said Coxe.

  Giles looked about him, trying to see if there was anything that might perform such a function. They were several odd-looking contraptions with belts and wheels and treadles and all of them might have answered such a purpose if one had the mind and the eye of a mechanic to interpret them correctly.

  “I wonder if anything has been taken from here,” he said. “Perhaps one of the young women might be able to spot if something significant is missing. In the meantime, th
ere may be some correspondence or a journal that may give us some indication of what he was actually up to and if that has any bearing on his death.”

  “I’ll have it all boxed up and taken back to the office,” said Coxe. “There’s a lot to get through, certainly.”

  “I shall have to ask Captain Lazenby for a couple of extra men,” Giles said. “And he will send me Mr Truro along with them, no doubt.”

  “Mr Truro, sir? Is that the fellow who wrote ‘The Henshawes of Moorcrag?’” said Coxe. “What is he doing here?”

  “He wants to write about us. He is going to follow the case.”

  “Lord!” murmured Coxe. “Excuse me, sir,” he added.

  “It’s a great pity we can’t take Miss Roper at face value and close the case at once,” said Giles. “But there we are. Now let’s go and look at the yard.”

  This was no easy matter, particularly as the light was now fading fast and the sleet was coming down. Giles managed to find a way through to the gate, but only by dint of squeezing himself between the end of a hand cart and a pile of boxes. As he did so, he stumbled over a block of wood in his path, and attempting to steady himself, found himself obliged to grab hold of a protruding timber and narrowly missed impaling his hand on the end of a nail. Stepping back in surprise, he noticed a scrap of red flannel caught on another exposed nail. It was as if someone else had negotiated the same difficult path and had got entangled.

  He managed to remove the flannel – it was the sort of stuff reserved for nightshirts and petticoats – and marked the place with a strip of herringbone tape. He then continued on his awkward way to the gate. This was not locked, but it only opened partially, so he had to push himself through the gap and into the lane beyond. It was a plausible means of escape, but by no means a straightforward one.

  The sleet had now turned to snow as he stood in the lane, noticing the silence brought by the bad weather that had now settled on the city. It was too dark to investigate any further so he resolved to send an officer to see if any of the occupants of the neighbouring houses had seen or heard anything unusual that night.

  ~

  “At present, we cannot rouse her,” said Felix. “Something is having a strongly narcotic effect on her. It is most likely an opiate, given the reduced size of her pupils.”