Max Collins: The London Blitz Murders

She peeked in to the specimen-lined, bottle-and-beaker-flung cubbyhole. “Working all hours again?”

Looking very much like Sherlock Holmes, Sir Bernard, in his lab coat, sat perched on a stool at the counter with a microscope before him; but in one hand was a big-eyed Halloween-worthy gas mask, which he was examining through a magnifying glass held in the other.

He looked up sharply and his words were edged as well. “Whatever are you doing out of bed, young lady? I was just about to come down and check on your status.”

She moved to his side; a small pile of what appeared to be sand rested on a slide that had as yet to be slid under the microscope. “I have a clean bill of health, I’ll have you know…. I was hoping for a ride home, but you look to be in the midst of things. What do you have there?”

He held up the bug-eyed mask. “Inspector Greeno had it delivered around-it’s a gas respirator, part of an RAF kit. A man who may be our Ripper dropped it when a potential victim proved uncooperative.”

Another black mark against the boy; could young Cummins be so careless, so stupid? She began to wonder if this accumulation of clues was too good to be true-was there a possibility the cadet could have been fitted for a frame?

Frowning, she asked, “When did this happen?”

“Last night, I believe. That is, Thursday night. It is now technically Saturday.” Having delivered this typically precise pronouncement, the pathologist held the magnifying glass over the surface of the mask for her to look; she did so and saw nothing of note.

But the pathologist did: “I’ve found something most interesting on the fabric.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, since he seemed to want her to do so.

“Sand! I’m about to compare it to sand and mortar fragments taken from the air-raid shelter where the Hamilton woman’s body was discovered.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Can that gas mask be traced?”

“Most certainly-there’s an Air Force number stamped inside. I spoke to the inspector… he’s working ’round the clock, it seems… and he’s getting in contact with your friend Glanville, to put the number with a name.”

She risked a smile. “Playing with sand is a far cry from performing autopsies, Bernard.”

“Agatha, forensics only begins with medicine. Science is science…. May I make a suggestion?”

“Always.”

“Why don’t you borrow my Armstrong-Siddeley? I can take the train home, when the time comes.”

“That’s very kind of you. I hope it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition….”

“Nonsense.” Then he looked at her. “This assumes you are in a condition to drive.” He arched an eyebrow and only one who knew him well could have detected the trace of a smile. “I would hate for anything to happen to my Armstrong-Siddeley.”

She grinned her most unguarded, horsey grin. “I know, Bernard. You’re so careful with it.” She gestured elaborately to herself. “No concussions, no broken bones. Tiny sprain-my left ankle. Otherwise I’m fine.”

“And you would like to go home and get some rest in your own bed? Understandable.”

She left with the keys to Sir Bernard’s automobile, the great man wholly unaware that she had entered his lab with that very intention.

Agatha prided herself a lay master of psychology. She felt certain her friend would have come to the hospital in order to keep an eye on her, and would pass the time by going to work on something or other in his laboratory.

And once Sir Bernard had become involved with his work, he would be loath to leave it, not even to give his ailing friend a ride home from the hospital….

Agatha had her own agenda, and driving to Hampstead to the Lawn Road Flats to curl up in bed was not first on that list.

It should have been: this she knew. Now that the gas mask had turned up, with its identifiable service number, the guilt or innocence of Cadet Cummins would soon be ascertained by Inspector Greeno and his minions. No need for any further involvement on her part; she was a civilian observer who, common sense would say, needed to retreat to the sidelines, and promptly.

Later she would reflect upon the events, and wonder if she would have behaved so recklessly, had the earlier brush with death not taken place. For now, she merely moved forward following her intentions.

St. John’s Wood had changed, since the time she and her first husband had lived there. In 1918, when Agatha and Archie had first moved to London, the district had been one of big old-fashioned houses with large gardens. Now the area had been invaded by large blocks of drearily modern flats, taking the place of many of those homes, particularly the smaller ones.

The address Cummins had given Agatha took her to Viceroy Court, between Edgmont and Townshend Streets, a particularly large example of the lusterless modern buildings that had invaded the district, a seven-story structure faced with yellow brick. Requisitioned for billets by the RAF, the building could not have dated back more than a few years and had a cold institutional quality that displeased Agatha.

Having left the Armstrong-Siddeley on the street, Agatha-a most unmilitary figure in her fur coat, copy of the new Poirot tucked under one arm-approached the building, which loomed monolithically in the moonlight. She entered to find the lobby a functional area of the same yellow brick with a few patriotic posters on several bulletin boards-“Let’s Go! Wings for Victory,” “Tell Nobody-Not Even Her!” and ( irony again , she thought) “Hitler Will Send No Warning-Always Carry Your Gas Mask.”

A pair of guards in RAF uniform played cards at a small table near the door; looking painfully young to her, they looked up at Agatha curiously. Standing, one asked, “Help you, ma’am?”

“Just visiting my nephew,” she said.

“At this hour, ma’am?”

“I only just got in to town by motor-terrible delays. He said he’d be up late. Am I breaking a rule? After visitors’ hours, is it?”

“We don’t stand on ceremony around here, least not on the weekend. What’s his name, ma’am?”

“Gordon Cummins.”

“Oh,” the guard said with a smile. “The Count!”

Oh dear , she thought.

“Pardon?” she said.

“Nothing, ma’am, just a sort of nickname the blokes call your nephew…. I’m not sure LAC Cummins is in, ma’am. Hardly anybody is, y’know. Friday night. It’s an empty building, you’ve dropped by to.”

“I spoke to him on the telephone. I think he’s expecting me.”

“Do you know what billet, ma’am?”

“I do indeed. Room 405.”

“Go on up, ma’am.”

The guards returned to their cards-that new game, gin rummy, if she wasn’t mistaken-and she took the automatic lift to the fourth floor.

Flats faced each other across a central hall, in hotel fashion; the brick walls and the tile flooring again gave off an institutional air which seemed appropriate for the building’s commandeered use as a billets, but which must have been depressing for apartment living.

The guards were correct: the hallway was deserted. No Saturday night parties or card games could be discerned, no radios blared behind doors. The troops had no doubt descended upon Piccadilly.

She hoped she wouldn’t have to return to the lobby to request that one of those young guards unlock Cummins’s door for her-and she didn’t: after her knock went unheeded, she tried the knob and found it unlocked. Not surprising, in what was after all a glorified barracks.

The flat, drably modern, was a sitting room beyond which lay a small, separate kitchen and two small bedrooms, one of which was off the kitchen, the other off the sitting room, which also had an adjacent bathroom. Four cots had been erected in the sitting room and each cramped bedroom had a single cot. Those using the sitting room were apparently living out of small wooden RAF-issue trunks; but each tiny bedroom, glorified closets really, had bureaus-Viceroy Court had apparently provided furnished apartments to its prior tenants.