Byways to Evil. Lloyd Biggle, jr.
morning I joined a regular duty boat headed downstream. There was an inspector in command; he sat in the stern to steer. There were two constables at the oars, and I took the bow seat as surplus ballast. Shadwell Market, as we passed it, seemed bustling with its usual morning business, apparently untouched by the previous night’s tragedy. My companions had already heard about the murder, and all four of us scrutinized the wharves and warehouses from time to time for some sign of a large, ferocious animal, but there was too much traffic to attend to on the thronged river for us to devote much attention to the shore.
We pulled in and out among the crowded shipping, now skirting the wharves, now rounding the stem of a deserted schooner to make certain thieves weren’t at work in it, racing to overhaul a suspiciously evasive wherry, checking flotsam, capturing a derelict skiff, searching a barge for contraband goods. We passed row after row of moored black hulls with their riding lights still burning brightly. Steamers slipped past us, their sirens and hooters hoarsely warning river craft to make way. There were dapper passenger ships; grimy colliers; fish trawlers whose reeking cargo advertised their presence even when we passed them upwind; blunt-nosed coasters; Dutch eel scoops; sailing ships carrying timber from Norwegian pine forests; barges from the Medway, hay-laden halfway up their stubby masts.
A brig had caught fire and run aground, but fire floats had that problem in hand before we reached it. Several times we narrowly missed being run down by faster vessels.
My mates kept reminding me to watch for floating bodies, for—the night’s storm excepted—the weather had been lovely for a number of days, and lovely weather is drowning weather along the Thames. Not all of these deaths are accidental. Suicides happen far more frequently in nice weather.
“But not very often in winter,” one of my mates said. “The cold water puts ‘em off, seemingly.”
At mid-morning, I had them land me at a convenient wharf, and I took a cab back to Connaught Mews. I now had seen the Thames from a steam-launch and from an oared duty boat, studying the crowded river traffic and pondering ways in which thieves might make off with goods by the boatload. I had no answer to the problem, but Lady Sara wouldn’t expect one at this early stage.
I reached Connaught Mews in time to change my clothes and make myself presentable for Lady Sara’s coffee hour. She held this at eleven o’clock in her drawing room whenever anyone from her own social class asked to discuss a personal problem with her. Her friends would have been offended if she had received them in her study and positively insulted if she refused to waste her valuable time on their trivialities. The coffee hour answered both objections.
Lady Sara liked to have me present to take notes—and also, I suspected, so I could practise conducting myself with propriety under her severely critical gaze, for despite my many years as a member of her household, I was still attempting to acquire social ease in the presence of lords and ladies.
On this day, the annual social Season being over and most of Lady Sara’s friends having left town, there were only three guests. The first to arrive was the elderly Lady Cowlan, Viscountess of Durgess. She was a remote cousin of Lady Sara’s on both sides of her family. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, and she wore a heavy, fur-trimmed gown on that pleasant autumn day.
She was escorted in by Charles Tupper, one of Lady Sara’s two footmen. Except for his small stature, he looked the part perfectly. His uniform, demeanor, deferential expression, and humble politeness in the presence of such a dazzling noblewoman were impeccable. He also was poised to perform any necessary service, which he demonstrated by deftly recovering the scarf the Viscountess dropped and returning it to her with a bow. There was nothing unusual about this except that his performance in other capacities, including that of an investigator, was equally polished. Both of Lady Sara’s footmen were trained to act any part required of them—as were her other employees. In those days even a small domestic establishment like Lady Sara’s required a large staff of servants, and her housekeeper, cook, maids, footmen, coachmen, grooms, stable-boys, and such supernumeraries as she retained from time to time, all had to become adept at following a suspect, watching a suspicious address, or making enquiries in situations where their special talents could be useful.
The Viscountess ceremoniously settled herself in a comfortable chair and looked about disapprovingly. It was her first visit to Lady Sara’s drawing room, and she probably thought the place threadbare. Lady Sara’s simple tastes were completely unlike those of the Dowager Countess. At Connaught Place, the rooms occupied by her mother were filled with expensive clutter: gold tea and coffee services, heavily engraved; fruit stands and side dishes, also of gold, supported by arching palm trees with sculpted animals and cherubs about their bases; cruets blazoned with sea or land battles; silver urns crowded with sculpted flowers; trays with an entire ballet represented on them; statuettes of every kind; stoneware that displayed the history of England; clocks ornamented with Egyptian obelisks; mechanical figures that moved to music. In Lady Sara’s quarters, everything was plain and functional, like her gowns, and in exquisite taste.
Before the Viscountess could state her problem, Lord Woolston ambled in. He was an elderly baron with white hair and a spectacular white, drooping moustache. His black frock coat was set off by a gold-coloured embroidered waistcoat and a gold-coloured silk cravat. He had come directly from home; his trousers were not even wrinkled. He ceremoniously removed his gloves, gold-coloured to match his waistcoat, before he accepted Lady Sara’s hand and gave me a condescending nod.
The third arrival was the Honourable Blanche Dillion, a shy young woman about twenty, who was a younger daughter of the Viscount Dillion. She might have been almost pretty had she not been so obviously distressed. She was dressed much too severely for her age in a brown coat and skirt with just a passing nod to fashion in the lace trimming on her blouse. Her face was pale, and she behaved in an extremely subdued fashion.
Lady Sara got everyone seated. Her maid poured coffee and served an assortment of biscuits. The previous night’s storm dominated the conversation for a few minutes. Then Lady Sara diplomatically suggested that she see them one at a time in her library if they had anything to discuss with her.
Immediately all three turned shy and wanted to be last. Lady Sara was never willing to waste time on social trivialities. “Very well,” she said. “Usually it is ladies first. Since the ladies are reluctant, Lord Woolston, why don’t we start with you?”
He nodded and smiled. “Jolly good idea. Let’s get on with it.”
Lady Sara led him into the library and I followed, leaving the maid to keep the two ladies supplied with coffee and biscuits.
We seated ourselves comfortably, and Lord Woolston harumphed twice, bit his lip, and then announced, “London after the Season is a stupid place. Nothing to do, don’t you know. My granddaughter is about to have a baby, and Lady Woolston insisted on staying in town to be near her. That’s women’s business, nothing to do with me, but Lady Woolston insisted I stay, too. London is a thundering dull place with everyone gone.”
“It must seem so,” Lady Sara said sympathetically. Since Lord Woolston seemed reluctant to come to the point, she added, “You haven’t been quarrelling with both Lady Woolston and your valet, I hope.”
“Why do you say that?” Lord Woolston demanded.
“If you had been on speaking terms with either of them, you wouldn’t have been allowed to leave the house wearing that cravat with that waistcoat.”
Lord Woolston gave his cravat a bewildered glance. “Really? Never gave it a thought. Edward went to Cornwall for a few days to visit his parents, and to tell the truth, both Lady Woolston and I were upset. I went to one of my clubs last night, White’s, and the place was practically empty. I met a friend there, though. At a loose end himself, but he said he knew where we could have a friendly game of cards. So we went together.”
“How much did you lose?” Lady Sara asked.
Lord Woolston winced and chewed on his moustache. “Matter of a bit more than five thousand pounds,” he said finally.
Lady Sara nodded gravely. “Not what I would call a friendly game. What were you playing?”