Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

But I wasn’t there, as most bystanders were, merely to goggle. I set to, and organized a human chain to convey buckets of water from the river as an auxiliary to the pumps. I doubt whether any of my shabby helpers recognized me, but they deferred at once to the authority represented by my silk hat and cane.

For upwards of an hour, we struggled to gain ascendancy. The falling slates became a considerable hazard, and I was obliged to borrow a helmet from a fireman who readily conceded that my skull was more precious than his own. As so often happens, just as we were getting control of the fire, reinforcements arrived from Holborn and Fleet Street. The stop, to employ a term we fire-fighters use, came twenty minutes before midnight. The house was a mere shell by that time.

Wearily, we senior fire-fighters gathered by the nearest coffee-stall and slaked our thirst while the firemen were winding up the hoses. Flanagan looked ready to drop and I told him so.

“I’m feeling better than I look, sir,” he said.

Firemen work longer hours than the police or the army. Even a Superintendent takes only one day off each fortnight as a matter of right. Of course he slips away when things are quiet, but he is constantly on call.

“What exercises me about this fire,” I remarked to Eyre Shaw, “is how it started. If no one was inside, what could have set it off?”

He nodded, taking my point. The wily Captain Shaw hasn’t much faith in the theory of spontaneous combustion.

He said an investigation would be set in train first thing next morning. I offered to take part, if not first thing, then as soon as my other engagements allowed.

My dear wife, the Princess of Wales, had retired by the time I returned to Marlborough House, or she would certainly have passed a comment on my appearance. As it happens, we have separate bedrooms, so it was not until breakfast that she tackled me. By then, of course, I’d bathed and changed my clothes and really believed she would have no clue how I’d spent the previous evening. She doesn’t altogether approve of my pyro-exploits. Such is my optimism that I’d forgotten that Alix has a keener sense of smell than your average bloodhound. More than once it has been my undoing over breakfast, and not always due to smoke fumes.

“You really ought not to spend so much time with the Fire Brigade, Bertie. I can smell it in your hair.”

“Oh?”

“If your Mama had any idea, she would be deeply shocked.”

“Mama is shocked if I cross the road,” said I.

“Where was the fire this time?”

I gave Alix an account of my evening and told her about the advocate of cremation who had unluckily been removed to the mortuary before his house burnt down. “If his timing had been better, he’d have had his wish. I wonder if one of his supporters put a match to the place in the belief that the body was still inside.”

Alix commented, “It would be rather extreme, burning down an entire house and putting Charing Cross Station at risk.”

“True, but someone must have started the fire. The servant wasn’t there. He was dismissed the day after Millichip died.”

“Who by?”

“One of the family, I gather.”

“Well, the servant must have been unhappy about losing his job so suddenly,” Alix mused aloud, and then added emphatically, “He came back with a match to deprive the family of their inheritance.”

It’s often said and often demonstrated that women are illogical. Obviously I married a notable exception. I wouldn’t have thought of the servant as an arsonist, but Alix was onto him already.

I’m in the habit of taking a constitutional at 12.15, and that morning I directed my steps to the site of the fire, where I discovered Superintendent Flanagan and his deputy, First Class Engineer Henry Locke, in earnest conversation with a tall young man dressed in mourning.

“Your Highness, may I present Mr. Guy Millichip, the son of the late owner of this house?”

The young man’s grip was clammy to the touch. You can tell a lot from a handshake. I should know; I’ve shaken more hands than you ever will, I’ll warrant, gentle reader. A clammy hand goes with a doubtful character.

“My condolences,” I said. “All this must be a fearful shock, coming so soon after your father’s passing. Was he a sick man?”

“No, Your Royal Highness. It came out of the blue.”

“A sudden death?” My detective brain was already working on possibilities.

“Yes, sir. His heart stopped.”

“Isn’t that always the case?” said Flanagan in his irritating Irish lilt.

Millichip glared. “I meant to say that the doctor diagnosed a sudden heart attack. The post mortem has since confirmed it.”

“I see. And was anyone with your father when he died?”

“Only Rudkin, the manservant.”

“Where were you at the time?”

“Of Father’s death? In Reigate, where I live. I hadn’t seen him for over a year. When I noticed the announcement in The Times , I came to London directly.”

“And dismissed Rudkin directly?”

“He’ll find other work. I gave him an excellent character, sir.”

“Where is he to be found?”

“Rudkin? I have no idea. He resided here.”

“Until he was dismissed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now he has no address? You consigned him to the streets?”

“I had no use for his services and no certainty of being able to pay his wages, sir.”

Here, Flanagan’s deputy, Engineer Locke, observed, “You’ll inherit something, surely? Aren’t you the only son?”

Young Millichip shook his head. “I don’t expect to get a brass farthing. Father made it abundantly clear that the entire proceeds of his estate would go to the London Cremation League.” He spoke without rancour, as if remarking on the weather. Then he showed himself to be human by adding with a slight smile, “Their windfall has been somewhat reduced by the fire.”

“Has the will been read?”

“Not yet, sir. The family solicitor will reveal the contents after the funeral, but I know what’s in it. Father told me months ago, when he drew it up. That’s why we fell out. I was incensed. It was the last conversation I had with him. Those cremation people will blue it all on beer. They’re Bohemians for the most part. Writers and artists. Trollope, Millais, Tenniel. People like that. They meet once a month in some plush hotel in the West End with no prospect of achieving their aims.”

“If it isn’t impertinent to ask, how much was your father worth?”

“A cool three hundred pounds, sir.”

“That’s a lot of beer.”

When the young man had left us, Flanagan pre-empted me by commenting, “I recommend that we look for signs of arson.”

“I should have thought that goes without saying,” said I in a bored voice. “Clearly the servant must be found and questioned at once.”

“The servant?” said he, as if I’d named the Archbishop of Canterbury. “I was about to suggest that Millichip must have set the place alight.”

“Millichip? But why?”

“To deprive the Cremation League of its legacy. He’s a very embittered young man, sir.”

I wasn’t persuaded. However, we had much to do. I proceeded to examine the building with Flanagan and Locke. The ash was thick on the ground, but so are shoeblacks at Charing Cross, so I didn’t hesitate. It’s fascinating to look at a gutted building with a man of Flanagan’s experience. He had no difficulty in finding the seat of the fire, which was in the basement, close to the street, and he rapidly concluded that arson was the most likely cause. By picking at fragments of ash and sniffing his finger and thumb he was able to inform us that a paraffin-soaked rag had been used as tinder, probably set alight and pushed through a broken window by the arsonist.