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THE CURZON STREET CONUNDRUM
Blood was flowing from the wound, forming a neat crimson pool on the carpet. But at least now he was safe. Surely he was safe? And the wound … well, certainly it was serious, but not fatal. He would survive. He tried to reassure himself of this fact as darkness edged in from all corners of his vision, like ink seeping across blotting paper.
Inspector Edward Thornton leaned forward and gazed out of the tiny window of his office in the upper reaches of Scotland Yard. It was a cold November day in 1897 and grey swirls of fog wreathed the adjacent rooftops, reducing them to vague silhouettes. They loomed like giant ghosts, ready to envelop the building.
Thornton sighed wearily at this fancy that so easily took his mind from the very difficult matter in hand. Sergeant Grey looked up from the case notes he was scribbling in his crabbed hand. ‘It’s not that Curzon Street business is it, sir?’
Thornton replied without moving. ‘Of course it is, Grey. There is something not quite right about it, but I cannot fathom out what it is.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. We’ve got the blighter who done it safely locked up in the cells. Case solved.’
‘Oh,yes, we have someone locked up in the cells, but I’m not so sure it’s the “blighter who done it”. And if Armstrong really is the murderer, we have so little evidence.’
‘There was the blood on his coat.’
‘Blood on his coat and the knowledge that he was in great debt to the murdered man. There’s not enough material there to weave a hangman’s hood, Grey. A good lawyer would blow those flimsy suppositions away in no time. And besides, I need to know how the crime was committed and how the murderer escaped from a locked room.’
Grey dropped his pen on the desk in a gesture of mild irritation. ‘Then you know what to do, sir. You know where to go. Don’t you? When you’ve had a real puzzle in the past…’
Thornton turned to his sergeant and pulled his thin, pale face into a mournful grimace. ‘Oh, I know all right. I don’t need you to tell me. Luther Darke. I have been trying to put off that inevitability for some time.’ He stroked his chin in an absent-minded fashion as his eyes flickered with mild irritation. ‘There is an element of humiliation in seeking his help. It’s an admittance of defeat.’
‘Go on, sir. Go and see him. At least it will put your mind at rest.’
Thornton emitted a sigh of resignation and returned his gaze to the grey curtain of fog beyond the windows.
Luther Darke poured himself a large whisky and sat back in his chair. As he did so, a lithe black cat leapt onto his lap with practised ease, curled up tightly, and began to purr. Absent-mindedly, he stroked the contented creature as he stared across at his visitor, his dark brown eyes shining. He raised his glass in a mock toast. ‘It is good to see you again, Edward. I am sorry that you will not join me in a drink. However, I am sure it is a wise move. Respectable gentlemen should not drink before noon, and then decorum decrees that it should be a sherry aperitif.’ He took a gulp of whisky, rolling it around his mouth. ‘Whisky is the milk of the Gods; sherry is their urine.’
Thorntonremained silent. Like an actor waiting for his cue, he knew when it would be his time to speak. This preamble was a variant of the usual extravagant felicitations that he always experienced when he visited Luther Darke.
‘To be honest, Edward, I am surprised to see you under my roof once more,’ said his host, affably. ‘You disagreed with me so strongly in the Baranokov affair – until my theory was proved correct that triplets had been used as a ploy in the theft of diamonds – that I thought I had lost your friendship for ever.’
Thornton blushed slightly; partly for being reminded of his failure in the Baranokov case, and partly because this strange man referred to him as a friend. He didn’t think anyone could get close enough
THE CURZON STREET CONUNDRUM
Blood was flowing from the wound, forming a neat crimson pool on the carpet. But at least now he was safe. Surely he was safe? And the wound … well, certainly it was serious, but not fatal. He would survive. He tried to reassure himself of this fact as darkness edged in from all corners of his vision, like ink seeping across blotting paper.
Inspector Edward Thornton leaned forward and gazed out of the tiny window of his office in the upper reaches of Scotland Yard. It was a cold November day in 1897 and grey swirls of fog wreathed the adjacent rooftops, reducing them to vague silhouettes. They loomed like giant ghosts, ready to envelop the building.
Thornton sighed wearily at this fancy that so easily took his mind from the very difficult matter in hand. Sergeant Grey looked up from the case notes he was scribbling in his crabbed hand. ‘It’s not that Curzon Street business is it, sir?’
Thornton replied without moving. ‘Of course it is, Grey. There is something not quite right about it, but I cannot fathom out what it is.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. We’ve got the blighter who done it safely locked up in the cells. Case solved.’
‘Oh,yes, we have someone locked up in the cells, but I’m not so sure it’s the “blighter who done it”. And if Armstrong really is the murderer, we have so little evidence.’
‘There was the blood on his coat.’
‘Blood on his coat and the knowledge that he was in great debt to the murdered man. There’s not enough material there to weave a hangman’s hood, Grey. A good lawyer would blow those flimsy suppositions away in no time. And besides, I need to know how the crime was committed and how the murderer escaped from a locked room.’
Grey dropped his pen on the desk in a gesture of mild irritation. ‘Then you know what to do, sir. You know where to go. Don’t you? When you’ve had a real puzzle in the past…’
Thornton turned to his sergeant and pulled his thin, pale face into a mournful grimace. ‘Oh, I know all right. I don’t need you to tell me. Luther Darke. I have been trying to put off that inevitability for some time.’ He stroked his chin in an absent-minded fashion as his eyes flickered with mild irritation. ‘There is an element of humiliation in seeking his help. It’s an admittance of defeat.’
‘Go on, sir. Go and see him. At least it will put your mind at rest.’
Thornton emitted a sigh of resignation and returned his gaze to the grey curtain of fog beyond the windows.
Luther Darke poured himself a large whisky and sat back in his chair. As he did so, a lithe black cat leapt onto his lap with practised ease, curled up tightly, and began to purr. Absent-mindedly, he stroked the contented creature as he stared across at his visitor, his dark brown eyes shining. He raised his glass in a mock toast. ‘It is good to see you again, Edward. I am sorry that you will not join me in a drink. However, I am sure it is a wise move. Respectable gentlemen should not drink before noon, and then decorum decrees that it should be a sherry aperitif.’ He took a gulp of whisky, rolling it around his mouth. ‘Whisky is the milk of the Gods; sherry is their urine.’
Thorntonremained silent. Like an actor waiting for his cue, he knew when it would be his time to speak. This preamble was a variant of the usual extravagant felicitations that he always experienced when he visited Luther Darke.
‘To be honest, Edward, I am surprised to see you under my roof once more,’ said his host, affably. ‘You disagreed with me so strongly in the Baranokov affair – until my theory was proved correct that triplets had been used as a ploy in the theft of diamonds – that I thought I had lost your friendship for ever.’
Thornton blushed slightly; partly for being reminded of his failure in the Baranokov case, and partly because this strange man referred to him as a friend. He didn’t think anyone could get close enough
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