Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

On the landing-with a candle-lamp in hand, a uniform more dishevelled than usual, and hair rearing up at all angles from a helmetless head-stood Constable Horatio Cobb.

“Thank Christ you’re here, Marc. This is the worst bloody mess I’ve ever seen. It’s like an abattoir up there.”

“Where’s Hilliard?”

“He’s in the tavern, through that door at the foot of the stairs, in the charmin’ arms of General Spooner.”

“Spooner?” Lieutenant Barclay Spooner was the governor’s current aide-de-camp, the man who had succeeded Marc in Bond Head’s office. “Sir Francis is in on this? What the hell has happened?”

“I’ll show you in a minute, though it ain’t pretty. Doc Withers is upstairs an’ Sarge is in the tavern herdin’ all them hyster-ect-ical actors an’ makin’ sure General Spooner don’t set off another war with the States.” “Sarge” was Cobb’s colleague, Chief Constable Wilfrid Sturges.

So that was it, Marc thought: one of the American actors had been murdered and one of ours-a British officer-had been accused of the crime. That would be more than enough to bring the governor wide-awake with his political antennae twitching.

“Go on back to the tavern, Ogden,” Cobb said not unkindly to Frank, who was dry-washing his hands in futile frenzy, “an’ help Sarge keep a stopper in Spooner’s gob, if you can.”

Frank nodded, thankful to be doing something other than contemplating his imminent financial ruin.

“Who is the victim?” Marc asked as he and Cobb reached the hallway on the second floor. The name he had been repressing for the last half-hour now forced its way into his consciousness: Tessa Guildersleeve.

“The fella who played the whorin’ husband,” Cobb said, pointing the way towards the far end of the hall.

“Jason Merriwether?” Marc asked, astonished. How in the world could Hilliard have been involved in murdering Merriwether?

“That’s the fella. Stabbed through the chest with Hilliard’s sword.”

Yes, Marc recalled, Hilliard had strapped on his sabre before leaving earlier in the day in order to impress the girl. “I can’t believe that, Cobb.”

“Me neither, Major. But they claim he was found with both hands on the haft.”

Marc froze in his tracks. Whatever he had been steeling himself for, it was not this.

“In here,” Cobb said, easing open the door to Tessa’s room. “Brace yerself.”

Someone had brought one of the Argand lamps from the stage to illuminate Tessa’s room, in addition to several other lit candles. Marc was unprepared for the sudden light that greeted him when he entered. He blinked, then slowly directed his gaze towards the horrors on the carpeted expanse before him.

Jason Merriwether lay flat on his back, as if he had just made the perfect theatrical pratfall and was waiting for a burst of applause before popping up to take a bow. But the famous tragedian and farceur had taken his last curtain call. Like a stake driven through a vampire’s heart, Hilliard’s battle-sword was sticking straight up out of Merriwether’s chest and, in the unsteady candlelight, appeared to be still quivering from the force of the blow. The details surrounding this pièce de résistance Marc took in at a single glance. Blood had geysered out of the wound, splashed indiscriminately over the victim’s nightshirt from throat to crotch, trickled down his bare thighs, and was still seeping into the beige carpet. Angus Withers, physician and surgeon to the rich and highborn, the governor’s personal doctor, and county coroner, was crouched beside Merriwether’s head. With his fingertips he was probing a vicious wound at the base of the cranium. That area of the skull appeared to have been crushed by a blow made either by a heavy, blunt object or something lighter delivered with tremendous force. From his vantage-point several feet away, Marc could see pieces of bone protruding through matted hair and blood. Had the man been attacked twice?

Dr. Withers looked up and flashed Marc a grim smile of recognition and welcome. They had met briefly during Marc’s second investigation and taken an instant liking to each other. “Looks like somebody wanted to make sure he went straight to his Maker,” Withers said, and picked up from the pool of blood on the far side of the body a large, bronze ashtray. “This could’ve been used on his skull, but I can’t be sure. It was already covered with blood when I found it here.”

But Marc could not take his eyes off Hilliard’s sabre. There was no doubt that it belonged to Rick: the initials RH were visible even through the gore smeared all over it. Had the killer dipped his hands in the victim’s blood? Surely the founting of it from the wound could not have reached the haft on its own.

“I’m damned glad you and Cobb are here. That jackass Spooner roused me from a rare erotic dream to inform me that the governor was near apoplexy-again, I must add-over the murder of some prominent American by one of his officers in a den of iniquity. Spooner had orders, duly passed along to me, to keep this mess contained. What he didn’t know was that Frank panicked after visiting Government House and beetled on down to the police station and blabbed it all to Chief Constable Sturges, who had fallen asleep in his office.”

“An’ that’s like disruptin’ a hibernatin’ bear,” Cobb said gleefully. “It was me who took the brunt of his temper when he come fer me, though Missus Cobb herself was just comin’ home from one of her customers an’ managed to keep him from poppin’ the buttons off his vest.”

“Which blow killed Merriwether, then?” Marc asked, suddenly hoping that there might be some explanation other than the obvious.

Withers gave the question careful thought before answering. “Well, it seems certain the blow to the back of the head stunned him, and he must have tried to stand up before collapsing onto his back right here where you see him. That blow alone would eventually have resulted in his death, but I am compelled to say honestly-and will have to testify so-that the sword to the chest was the immediate cause of death. I can say this with certainty because the heart was still pumping blood when the sword-blade cut the aorta. You can see the consequences for yourself. In fact, the sword is imbedded in the floor under the body.”

“But why would anyone crush the man’s skull and then savagely drive a sword through him?”

“That’s for you to discover, lad,” Withers said.

“What do you mean?”

“Looks like the governor may have forgiven you your apostasy. Among the orders he issued to Lieutenant Spooner, who as we know will obey them to the letter no matter how repugnant to him personally, was that you are to lead the investigation. Spooner’s charge is to keep things contained until you catch the murderer.”

“That explains why my colonel was involved.” Marc was trying to take in what he was seeing and being told, while still trying not to think the unthinkable. “But how could all this have been managed in such a short time? Major Jenkin and I left Rick here with Tessa Guildersleeve no later than eleven-thirty or so.”

“Whatever provoked this carnage didn’t take long to develop because we know the precise time it took place,” Withers said. “The actor who found the body-”

“The fella who played the country bumpkin-Beasley,” Cobb said.

“Yes, Beasley. He heard the scream and came running in here at twelve-thirty, according to that clock in the corner.”

“What scream?” Marc said.

“Tell Marc what we think we know,” Withers said, getting up and moving over to Tessa’s bed. As Marc watched him, he noticed several things he had not observed before: droplets and smudges of blood were scattered on the carpet in an irregular trail from the feet of victim to the settee, where more blood was smeared, one patch of which appeared to resemble a handprint. Had the killer wallowed in Merriwether’s gore, then gone back and sat on the settee to admire his handiwork?