Inspector Abberline and the Just King

  Thomas saw a figure dressed in a white linen suit sitting at an artist’s easel, where he feverishly brushed paint onto a canvas.

  For a while, Thomas listened as Kolbaire spoke in that quick, nervy way of his. The musician swiftly listed every member of the academy and dismissed each one as deluded, workshy or a charlatan. The only praise he heaped on one fortunate individual was himself. Kolbaire eagerly explained that he was a unique genius. And, moreover, he was the most distinctive and celebrated of composers.

  Thomas did find himself tempted to ask why he’d never heard the name Virgil Kolbaire before. However, he decided that it would be wisest for him to absorb whatever information he could. That way, he could help Abberline more effectively when he returned.

  Kolbaire appeared satisfied that he’d completed his character assassination of his neighbours. He nodded, smiled, and wished Thomas a pleasant day. Thomas recognized the hint that it was time to leave. He said goodbye to Kolbaire and walked away with his basket of mussels. He’d only offered to buy them from the fisherman in order to encourage the fellow to talk. Now he must decide what he should do with this quart or so of shellfish that were becoming smellier by the minute.

  Thomas Lloyd arrived at Samarkand Cottage to find two strangers standing by the door. Thomas immediately guessed they were policemen. He’d worked with Abberline long enough to recognize a detective, even though they wore the everyday kind of clothes an office worker or businessman might wear.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Thomas walked through the garden gate. ‘Do you wish to speak with me?’

  Both men were solidly built. They wore thick woollen overcoats and bowler hats. One had a red moustache, the other a black moustache.

  The one with the red moustache spoke bluntly. ‘I’m Detective Constable Sutton. This is Detective Constable West. We’re here from Hull CID to assist Inspector Abberline.’

  ‘Inspector Abberline is back in London.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘I’m Thomas Lloyd. I’ve been working with Inspector Abberline.’

  ‘We know who you are, sir,’ said West in a standoffish way. ‘You’re a journalist.’

  ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

  ‘We’re staying in the cottage next door. We’ll be investigating the death of Feasby while Inspector Abberline is away.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can to assist you.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Sutton told him in a ponderous way. ‘We just wanted to let you know that we’re here on the island and we’ll be taking care of things.’

  ‘That way,’ added West, ‘you can continue with your story writing.’

  Sutton looked down his nose at Thomas. ‘Rest assured we shan’t distract you from your work. Good day, sir.’

  Both men raised their hats politely, yet their expressions suggested displeasure at something they’d found squirming beneath a rock.

  Thomas had experienced this kind of suspicion from police officers before. Even contempt. Many policemen distrusted the presence of a newspaper reporter in their midst. They preferred to keep journalists at arm’s length as a rule, seeing them as meddlers, or worse, someone that might portray them in a disagreeable way in a newspaper story. Thomas wished that Abberline would return soon. Meanwhile, all he could do was wish the detectives a good day and carry his basket of mussels into the cottage.

  Thomas Lloyd sat down to write about what he’d discovered on the island. Partly this would help Abberline in his investigations when he returned but the notes would also be useful when he came to report on the murder case for his newspaper. After half an hour’s intensive writing at the kitchen table, Thomas stood up, took the basket of mussels out of the sink, and placed them on a bench outside. The smell had become overwhelming. He opened a window and returned to the table.

  So far, he only had general information – the geography of the island, its ruler, King Ludwig III, and his academy comprising thirty-three members. He’d been able to confirm Abberline’s suspicion that the academy was nothing less than a boiling pot of intrigue, envy and downright fear. Academy members would soon have to submit samples of their work from their past year’s residency on the island, whether that be paintings, musical compositions, inventions or scientific or philosophical essays. No doubt there’d be supporting presentations, too, where members would describe what they’d achieved during the preceding year as well as outlining plans for the next twelve months’ work. Eventually, the king would deliver his judgement. Ten of the academy members would be informed that their tenure here had ended, and they’d be effectively booted off the island. Thomas looked at the word ‘booted’ in his notes. Was that too vulgar and violent a word? No, he decided it was quite apt. Although the act of ‘booting’ was metaphorical, academy members failing to meet King Ludwig’s expectations were given just hours to pack up and go.

  Thomas turned his attention to the murder of Benedict Feasby. There were no obvious suspects. Facts relating to the case were minimal. All that was known for sure was that Feasby had climbed the tree one morning in order to check birds’ nests. There were no witnesses to the death (other than the killer). The assumption local police had made was that the stuffed wolf with the eagle’s wings had been stolen from the Feasby household and had been left on a branch. Feasby had noticed the creature, prompting him to move from dense leaf-cover into the open. This allowed the killer a clear shot with a longbow. The arrow had struck Feasby in the chest. By the time he hit the ground, he was probably already dead. Abberline had later found the gold pin – this was identical to the one given to Thomas by the stranger in the carriage a few days ago. Thomas also noted that Professor Giddings, who lived just a couple of cottages away from Thomas, had been forced to take cover when a gunman had fired bullets through the window.

  Thomas wrote: Who would have a motive for killing Benedict Feasby and attempting to shoot Professor Giddings? He thought about the intense rivalry between academy members. He jotted down: A member of the academy wishing to dispose of rivals? Which, when it came down to it, might possibly be all the academy members. Every single one seemed to be nervously eyeing each other, wondering who would stay, and who would be expelled. Also, there was the matter of the ten thousand pounds, awarded to the member who impressed Ludwig the most.

  He considered the murder weapon: an arrow fired from a longbow. It seemed that most of the academy members, their families, and the king’s son enjoyed archery. Each one could have let loose the fatal arrow. He recalled Jo, the striking woman in the leather kilt. She had expertly fired the arrow from the back of her horse. She was an academy member, although he didn’t know her field of work. He tried to visualize her shooting Benedict Feasby out of the tree. Thomas shook his head. No … that wasn’t likely. In fact, when he did think about Jo, he found himself sitting there, smiling, as he pictured her face. With a shudder of guilt, he replaced that mental image with one of his fiancée out in Ceylon. He pictured Emma helping her father in the tea plantation.

  ‘Shellfish,’ he declared. ‘I’ll boil them.’ It would be another four hours until dinner (he recalled he’d been invited to sit at the top table with Ludwig). ‘I’ll boil the mussels and eat them now.’

  He found a large pan in a cupboard. A spirit burner stood by the sink. He could boil up the pan of mussels and treat himself to a late lunch.

  Thomas carried the mussels to the beach. They remained tightly shut in the basket, meaning that they were still alive. After standing by the pan, readying himself to tip the creatures into the boiling water, he decided he had no appetite for them after all. Thomas crouched at the water’s edge, where he tipped the mussels into the river. No doubt they’d find their way back into whatever murky, aquatic place they called home.

  At that moment, he heard voices. He glanced along the beach. There was the violinist again. He used that novel system of employing his lap as a writing slope: a board, with paper, tied to his thigh. A little further away, the landscape artist still painted. Neithe
r men appeared to be shouting.

  The voices came again: loud enough to scare birds from the trees. Thomas walked along the beach, carrying the empty basket. In the next cove he saw the two detectives, Sutton and West. They talked to a fisherman who stood by a wooden frame over which nets had been draped. The fisherman was no doubt from the community based at the northern tip of the island. Thomas, initially, would have described the policemen as talking to the fisherman but in reality they were confronting him. They spoke loudly. One grabbed hold of the man’s arm. The other detective jabbed his finger into the man’s chest as he spoke.

  Thomas walked towards the three men. When Sutton grabbed the fisherman by the lapels of his jacket and shook him, Thomas shouted, ‘Hey!’

  West grunted. ‘This is nothing to do with you, Mr Lloyd.’

  Thomas knew he couldn’t turn a blind eye to this. ‘Talking to the man is one thing, bullying him is another matter entirely.’

  ‘Go back to your cottage, Mr Lloyd. This is police business.’

  ‘Is intimidation and rough-housing the man how you conduct police business?’ Thomas took another step forward. ‘While I’m here I am the eyes and ears of Inspector Abberline.’

  ‘Sir,’ growled Sutton, ‘we need to question everyone on the island.’

  ‘Will you manhandle King Ludwig when you question him?’

  Sutton glared at Thomas. The man seemed to be getting ready to deliver more rough treatment. However, West shook his head. Without another word, the two detectives trudged back in the direction of the forest.

  The fisherman sighed with relief. ‘Thank you, sir. They’d have started to dust my chin with their fists if you hadn’t come by.’

  ‘You will be questioned by the police again, no doubt. But not so roughly.’

  The man began to adjust the nets over the wooden frame. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, and don’t wish to appear ungrateful, but I need to set my nets before the tide comes in.’

  Thomas nodded and said his goodbyes before leaving the man to finish work on his fish trap. Thomas concluded that the two detectives had been ordered to conduct tough and even menacing interviews in the hope that information about whoever had killed Feasby could be scared out of the working folk here. No doubt the police didn’t consider any of the island’s upper-class residents to be the murderer. In fact, Thomas suspected that the head of the local police would be satisfied with a quick arrest and it didn’t matter one way or the other whether the person arrested had actually committed the murder or not. The chief constable was probably under pressure from local politicians to make sure that someone was promptly caught and convicted.

  Thomas returned to the cottage to be alone with his thoughts. Now that he’d released his intended meal back into the river, he cut a slice of bread, a hunk of cheese, spooned pickle from a jar, and sat down at the table to eat. He knew full well he’d made the two local detectives angry. How long would it be before they devised a way to pay him back?

  ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘No, he’s still there in the lane.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Checking his coat pockets.’

  ‘Careful, Ivy. Don’t let him see you.’

  ‘Ah, he’s going now. Striding … striding …. like he’s lord of the world.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be back till late. He can’t stop us now.’

  Ivy turned from the window where she’d been peeping out at Professor Giddings. Her silver hair glinted in the sun as she tilted her head. ‘Maude? Why doesn’t he like you taking a sherry or two? It’s very healthful, any doctor will say so.’

  ‘Oh, my dear husband does have these thoughts, you know.’ Maude Giddings clearly felt it safe to venture forth with the bottle of sherry on its tray, flanked by a pair of tulip-shaped glasses. ‘Those notions get lodged into his brain. Stick there like limpets to a rock.’

  ‘Very fixated, your husband.’

  ‘Last year he took something fierce against walnuts. Wouldn’t have them in the house. Even the word “walnut” distressed him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Something to do with the nut being shaped like a brain inside a skull.’

  ‘Goodness gracious. How peculiar. Wait. Let me open the door for you.’

  ‘With him being a professor, he thinks deeply.’

  ‘A bit too deeply for my liking, Maude.’

  ‘Now, now, he’s a very nice man.’

  ‘Yes, I expect you’ve a lot to thank him for.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’ll move these things so you can put the tray down.’

  ‘Careful, Ivy. Those are his Constantinople papers.’

  ‘No harm done. I’ll put them on the sideboard.’

  ‘You said I had a lot to thank Charles for? Hmm?’

  ‘Oh, let’s not fall out. We’ve time for a drop of something warming before supper.’ She glanced back at her sister and met her ferocious glare. ‘Dad always said you could give a look that’d curdle milk. At this rate you’ll sour the sherry.’

  Primly, Maude straightened her back. ‘I had my home taken away when poor Frank passed. Forty-six years old I was, and me a widow. They turned me out the week after I buried him. I’d still be living in a pauper’s shack if it wasn’t for Professor Giddings.’

  ‘Like you say, Maude, he thinks deeply about things. He looked deep into you and saw a person he cherished, even though you …’

  ‘Even though … what?’

  ‘Even though you were of a lower class.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he did. A wife couldn’t have a better husband.’

  Ivy smiled at her sister. ‘We’ll drink a toast to your Charlie.’

  Maude smiled back. ‘Yes, all right. ’Ere, don’t go spilling any sherry on his papers. He’ll have our guts for garters.’

  The two sisters toasted Charles Giddings. Ivy downed the glass in one and then held it out for more. Maude filled the glass again.

  ‘You don’t have any gin, do you, Maude? I mean, for later?’

  ‘Sherry will be quite sufficient.’

  ‘We might as well finish the bottle.’

  Maude raised an eyebrow. ‘Thirsty?’

  ‘It’s good to see you again after so long, Maude. I feel celebratory. Spree-ish.’

  ‘I’d hate it if Charles found us tipsy. He dislikes inebriation.’

  ‘As much as he’s disgusted by walnuts?’

  Ivy realized that the walnut comment had tripped off her tongue much too quickly. She waited for her sister to erupt with anger. Maude looked at her very directly. The corner of her mouth twitched. A second later, laughter burst from her lips.

  ‘Walnuts, indeed. You’re a devil, Ivy Kellet, an absolute devil.’

  Both laughed, enjoying each other’s company. Ivy quickly took the opportunity to top up both their glasses – to the brim this time.

  ‘Oh, you will get me tipsy. Brrr …’ Maude rubbed her arms. ‘Why – it’s gone so chilly in here.’

  ‘Goodness, the papers are blowing. Who let the draught in?’ Ivy plonked a vase down on the professor’s Constantinople essay to prevent it from fluttering away.

  ‘That’s odd.’ Maude frowned. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Maude quickly left the room. Equally quickly, her sister emptied her glass. She’d refilled it by the time Maude returned.

  ‘Kitchen window wide open,’ she declared. ‘Letting in a hurricane. It’s a wonder it didn’t blow the fire clean out of its grate. Now, I really must have some supper or I’ll be drunk as a lord.’

  ‘The meal’s all ready. The rice can be eaten cold. S’nicer like that.’

  Maude smiled happily. ‘Rice, the Calcutta way. My, I haven’t eaten that in years.’

  ‘Then there’s no time like the present. I’ll bring the bottle.’

  The two sisters made their way to the kitchen. The fragrant aroma of spices filled Ivy’s nostrils as she lifted the lid from a tureen and stirred the rice and its bright speckling
of exotic herbs. Maude set out plates and cutlery on the table. Both women sat down and Maude began to eat. Ivy topped up the glasses. She wanted to enjoy the drink before eating any of the rice. After all, food soon blunts the charming effect of alcohol. They chatted in a lively way about this and that. Ivy told Maude that she and her husband planned to take over a small tavern in Bridlington by the harbour. Maude laughed and commented that the profits would be poured down her throat. Ivy chuckled, too, not taking offence at the clear hint that she was an inveterate tippler.

  Maude had begun eating hungrily. Now she picked at the food, a frown on her face.

  Ivy paused. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Too much spice?’

  ‘Rice the Calcutta way. It’s not how I remembered.’

  ‘Oh? I used the same recipe.’

  ‘Ouch. The heartburn it’s given me.’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘No … no. I think I’ll go and lie down. I feel quite at odds with myself.’

  Maude stood up quickly and left the kitchen.

  Ivy called after her: ‘I’ll just clear the plates first and then I’ll come up and see how you are.’ Ivy sniffed the food. ‘I hope the chicken wasn’t off. I’ll never hear the end of it if I’ve given her a case of the doings.’

  As she put the tureen on the little table by the sink, she heard a loud thump from upstairs.

  ‘Maude?’ She hurried into the hallway. ‘Maude, are you all right?’

  A faint voice echoed from upstairs. ‘Ivy … will you come up? I think … I’m quite ill.’

  Ivy hurried up to Maude’s bedroom. Maude was trying to climb to her feet from where she’d clearly fallen on the floorboards.

  ‘Uh … Ivy … my stomach’s burning.’

  One glance at Maude’s grey face told Ivy that her sister wasn’t at all well.