pointing like a pantomime actor, and saw what disturbed him: a man lying on his side, partially covered with a dust-sheet, his head turned at an impossible angle, nearly facing backward.
“Oh, my God,” I gasped, rooted to the spot. He was not a young man, nor yet middle-aged, with very dark oily hair and broad, almost gypsy-like features, dominated by large surprised black eyes; his somewhat disordered clothes were flashy and expensive-looking but not well-made, and his shoes were too pointed and bright, with an almost metallic sheen. Not a gentleman, certainly, but further than that I couldn’t say.
The old man and I both just stood there for the longest time, gawking uselessly, before I managed to spur myself into action, “You stay here — no, not right here , stay in the next room and don’t touch anything. I’m going to go get help.”
“Not much help for him , poor mug,” the old man shook his head sadly; nevertheless, someone had to be called, so I ran across the corridor and started hammering away at the door marked ‘Private: Enter Room A.’
“Can’t you read?” the door flew open to reveal a stout old buster in a black frock coat and the kind of massive white beard one usually only sees in the National Portrait Gallery, “Go around to Room A!”
“I need to use your telephone,” I pushed past him rudely, heading for his desk and plucking the instrument from its cradle. Jiggling the cradle brought a chirpy response from some unseen receptionist, no doubt perched on a stool in Room A, “Hello! I need you to ring the police. Sergeant Oliver Paget at Scotland Yard. Hurry!”
“Mr. Hardcastle?” the voice queried with a note of disbelief.
“No, this is Lord Foxbridge. There’s been a murder across the hall. Call Sergeant Paget right now .”
“Yes, sir,” she gasped and rang off.
“Lord Foxbridge?” the old buster, whom I took to be Mr. Hardcastle, gaped at me, “Lord Vere’s son?”
“The same. I’m dreadfully sorry to have barged in on you like this, but you understand — emergency and all that. I had better get back, I left an old man, I assume he’s the janitor, guarding the body.”
“You left that lazy fool Doyle guarding something?” Hardcastle followed me across the corridor, where he started berating the janitor for all the litter and dust and letting someone get murdered on the premises. I tried to intervene on Doyle’s behalf, feeling a sort of loyalty to the old bird, but Hardcastle just rounded on me, taking everything I said as fresh evidence that I was just as barmy as the janitor. It kept us fully occupied until the police arrived, at least.
“Lord Foxbridge, why are you here?” Chief Inspector Brigham strode purposefully into the office, fixing me with his gimlet eye and making me feel like a schoolboy caught out of bed at night. Twister was right behind him, pretending he didn’t know me.
“I was in my sitting-room and heard people talking in this room, I mean that room over there, earlier this morning. I came around to see what it was.”
“You heard voices through a wall ?” his raspy voice dripped sarcasm, “In London? Where every wall is slam up against another wall? You surprise me.”
“I hadn’t heard anything through that wall before,” I pouted defensively, “It struck me as odd. So I wanted to find what was here.”
“And you found a corpse,” Brigham looked at me as if trying to decide if I was a villain or an idiot, and leaning heavily toward the latter, “This seems to have become a habit of yours, Lord Foxbridge.”
“A habit I would happily break,” I arched my eyebrow at him, offended. I would grant that I am unnaturally inquisitive, but it’s not like I came there hoping to find a dead body. An opium-den or a sinister brotherhood, perhaps, but not some poor bloke with his head on backward.
“If you gentlemen will all please step out into the corridor,” Brigham shooed me out through
“Oh, my God,” I gasped, rooted to the spot. He was not a young man, nor yet middle-aged, with very dark oily hair and broad, almost gypsy-like features, dominated by large surprised black eyes; his somewhat disordered clothes were flashy and expensive-looking but not well-made, and his shoes were too pointed and bright, with an almost metallic sheen. Not a gentleman, certainly, but further than that I couldn’t say.
The old man and I both just stood there for the longest time, gawking uselessly, before I managed to spur myself into action, “You stay here — no, not right here , stay in the next room and don’t touch anything. I’m going to go get help.”
“Not much help for him , poor mug,” the old man shook his head sadly; nevertheless, someone had to be called, so I ran across the corridor and started hammering away at the door marked ‘Private: Enter Room A.’
“Can’t you read?” the door flew open to reveal a stout old buster in a black frock coat and the kind of massive white beard one usually only sees in the National Portrait Gallery, “Go around to Room A!”
“I need to use your telephone,” I pushed past him rudely, heading for his desk and plucking the instrument from its cradle. Jiggling the cradle brought a chirpy response from some unseen receptionist, no doubt perched on a stool in Room A, “Hello! I need you to ring the police. Sergeant Oliver Paget at Scotland Yard. Hurry!”
“Mr. Hardcastle?” the voice queried with a note of disbelief.
“No, this is Lord Foxbridge. There’s been a murder across the hall. Call Sergeant Paget right now .”
“Yes, sir,” she gasped and rang off.
“Lord Foxbridge?” the old buster, whom I took to be Mr. Hardcastle, gaped at me, “Lord Vere’s son?”
“The same. I’m dreadfully sorry to have barged in on you like this, but you understand — emergency and all that. I had better get back, I left an old man, I assume he’s the janitor, guarding the body.”
“You left that lazy fool Doyle guarding something?” Hardcastle followed me across the corridor, where he started berating the janitor for all the litter and dust and letting someone get murdered on the premises. I tried to intervene on Doyle’s behalf, feeling a sort of loyalty to the old bird, but Hardcastle just rounded on me, taking everything I said as fresh evidence that I was just as barmy as the janitor. It kept us fully occupied until the police arrived, at least.
“Lord Foxbridge, why are you here?” Chief Inspector Brigham strode purposefully into the office, fixing me with his gimlet eye and making me feel like a schoolboy caught out of bed at night. Twister was right behind him, pretending he didn’t know me.
“I was in my sitting-room and heard people talking in this room, I mean that room over there, earlier this morning. I came around to see what it was.”
“You heard voices through a wall ?” his raspy voice dripped sarcasm, “In London? Where every wall is slam up against another wall? You surprise me.”
“I hadn’t heard anything through that wall before,” I pouted defensively, “It struck me as odd. So I wanted to find what was here.”
“And you found a corpse,” Brigham looked at me as if trying to decide if I was a villain or an idiot, and leaning heavily toward the latter, “This seems to have become a habit of yours, Lord Foxbridge.”
“A habit I would happily break,” I arched my eyebrow at him, offended. I would grant that I am unnaturally inquisitive, but it’s not like I came there hoping to find a dead body. An opium-den or a sinister brotherhood, perhaps, but not some poor bloke with his head on backward.
“If you gentlemen will all please step out into the corridor,” Brigham shooed me out through
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