The Vesuvius Club

10. What Kitty Backlash Had to Tell

AN hour later, Inspector Flush’s fat face beamed cheerfully at me from the other side of his desk.

We were in the brown office he called home. There was a little spirit burner in the corner and a quantity of tinned food that led me to believe the inspector kept unsociable hours. Then I noticed a whitish band of flesh on his finger where once a ring must have been. Perhaps Mrs Flush had recently quit the scene.

I had called at the Yard, fully expecting to be fobbed off by some flunky in a helmet, only to find the man himself still at his post, though without a collar and nursing what I think was a mug of brandy.

«Don’t you see,» I said. «It’s just as feasible to imagine poor Mrs Knight leaving the Mechanical Institute and being murdered elsewhere as it is Christopher Miracle knocking off the wretched woman in a lavatory!»

Flush made a helpless gesture. «Mr Miracle is unable to provide us with a witness for his activities between half-past nine and ten o’clock. He could have strangled her and left her in the convenience until later.»

«And carried on an entire class without turning a hair?»

«Some killers are exceptionally cool.»

I gave an exasperated groan. «But where’s the motive, man!»

Flush gave a satisfied smile and produced a long, cream-coloured envelope from his coat. He held it before me like a lure.

«What’s this?» I asked.

«It’s a copy of Mrs Knight’s will. Amongst numerous small bequests is the sum of five hundred pounds to her dedicated art-master, Mr Christopher Miracle.»

«What? Well, what of it? Miracle’s filthy rich.»

«Many have killed for less, sir.»

I took the envelope from him and examined the contents. «Hmm. By that argument, it could look blacker against the husband.»

«The husband?»

«Yes. She leaves him the sum of two thousand pounds, an annuity from her previous husband which… it seems… he was unable to control during her life-time.»

«Mr Knight was seen to drive away from the Mechanical Institute.»

«Then he could have employed someone to do it for him.»

«Mr Box»

«You’ve met the man, Flush. Even if money wasn’t the motive, it’s obvious he disapproved of his wife having any kind of social life. When she began to grow more confident and independent he found he couldn’t tolerate it and strangled her!»

Flush gave me a hard look. «You’re running away with yourself, sir. What about the glove?»

I waved my hand impatiently. «Easy enough to steal a lady’s glove! And where did this blood come from? The coroner says she was strangled, I believe.»

Flush seemed to consider this for a moment. «Well, well. I’ll bear your theories in mind, sir. Now, if you don’t mind, I have rather a lot to be getting on with. I’m afraid this isn’t the only case I have on hand.»

I was shown out into a dreary corridor. I thrust my hands into my pockets and walked disconsolately towards the exit, glancing halfheartedly at the walls, scarcely taking in the bills tacked to cork boards, the ugly illustrations of wanted felons, the sooty smears that marked the walls above the cracked gas-lamps. I was utterly stumped as to my next move. It was imperative I get to Naples forthwith, yet how could I leave Miracle in such peril? Would I have to put myself further into Joshua Reynolds’s debt by asking him to use his influence? My musings were suddenly interrupted.

«Oh Lor!» came a hoarse shriek. «Don’t ’urt me! Don’t ’urt me, please!»

I turned to the left to see a constable «escorting» a woman from the premises. She appeared to be little more than a heap of dirty electric blue skirts, a grisly-looking drudge, hair all askew.

«You can’t just sling me art!»

«You just watch me,» said the policeman.

«But what about me friend?»

The policeman pushed open the door and warm air rolled inside. «Cor, you’re sweating gin, woman! I told you. We got more important things to do than go chasing after your imaginary pals. Now, gertcha!»

He slung the creature through the doorway. As the door swung back, I just caught her croaking call. «’E done ’er in, I know that! That miracle man!»

My ears pricked up and I walked swiftly to the door, which the constable held open for me.

«Evening, sir.»

I gave him a nod and then walked out into the night.

The woman was stumbling to her feet on the steps of the station.

«Forgive me, my dear,» I said, offering my arm. «Would you like some help?»

She shot me a suspicious glance, then grabbed at my sleeve and hauled herself up.

«We haven’t been introduced.» I smiled. «Lucifer Box.»

«Kitty,» she said, swallowing nervously. «Kitty Backlash.»

«I couldn’t help overhearing you. Something about a miracle?»

She nodded feverishly. «It’s that Mr Miracle. I read the story in the papers. ’E done ’er in!»

«Mrs Knight?»

«No! Mrs Frenzy!»

«Who?»

What was this? Two murders poor Miracle was fingered for?

Kitty Backlash blew air noisily from between her lips, making an unpleasantly blubbery sound. «Couldn’t stand us a drink, could you, sir? It’s a ruddy long and strange tale I ’ave to tell and I’ve been tramping ’alfway across town today.»

«Of course. Come on.»

We found a suitably bright and rowdy pub only a street away. I lined up two glasses of gin for my guest, just enough to show I could be generous but also to ensure I got her story while she was still sober.

«Now, Miss Backlash,» I said, sitting down next to her in a corner seat. «Pray continue.»

She sank a draught of gin and rubbed at her face with a shaking hand.

«It’s ’ard to think straight, sir. Honest it is. But I’ll start at the start, if you takes me meaning.»

I watched her closely, her ugly face reflecting back even uglier in the shining mirrors of the pub.

«My friend, then, is called Abigail Frenzy. She’s a parlourmaid, or was. Worked for a foreign gent over Barnes way. Anyway, one day she says to me, Kitty, I’ve come into some good fortune. I says, ain’t you a maid no more? And she laughs — I’ve got it easy now. A fiver just for sitting about and scribbling all day.»

I sat up at this. «What did she mean by that?»

Kitty Backlash scratched at her chin. «Well, I’ll tell you, sir. Seems her employer comes up to her one day, months back and says how would she like to earn proper money? Now Abigail’s no slut and I’m sure she thought the gentleman had improper notions, even though she ain’t no spring chick, her face must’ve been a picture, but he says, no, it’s nothing like that. Fact is, there’s a lady he’s sweet on but her ’usband’s a terrible brute and he can never get near ’er. Only time she’s left on ’er own is when she goes to an art lesson down in Chelsea.»

I leant forward, all attention. «What is the name of your friend’s employer?»

«Don’t recall the name. Foreign. Great big chap. Eye-talian.»

«Is he, by George?» A little shiver ran through me.

Kitty Backlash drained her second glass of gin. «Well, anyways, I’ll give you a fiver a week, he says, if you’ll only swap places with this lady for an hour or two. She says, well, is she my twin? ’cos otherwise people is going to notice and he smiles and says not to worry because the poor soul’s all hidden behind a veil on account of terrible burns she got when she was a gel.»

«And what did your friend Abigail say to this curious request?»

«At first she was having none of it, but then she got to thinking what a lot of money it was for so little a thing. It’s always down to lucre, sir, and that’s a fact.»

«I have heard it said. Go on.»

«Well, sir, she went ahead with it. Her master ’ad it all worked out. The lady in question would be dropped off by ’er ’usband. She always wore the same violet dress and veil. Soon as she was inside, she went to the lavs — pardon me for speaking so, sir — and out of the other lav would come my friend Abigail in another dress just like ’ers. One in, one out.»

«Like figures on a weather-house,» I said quietly.

«Yes, sir! Just like the pair on them little houses. Abigail’d go in and ’ave ’er lesson and the lady’d sneak away for an hour or two with her lover.»

«Miss Backlash,» I said. «I cannot tell you how pleased I am to have met you. Now, tell me slowly, what happened next.»

The crone took a big breath and held out her empty glass. «Difficult to talk, so parched I’m gasping!»

«All the grog you want, just go on with your fascinating story.»

«Couple of weeks back, she came to see me and poured out the ’ole tale. Fact is, she was nervous. She thought Mr Miracle was getting suspicious, on account of her being no good at drawing. Then, just this week — poof! — she vanished.»

«Did you not go to the house where she worked?»

«Yes, sir! But the foreign gent’s leaving, they’re shutting up the place and wouldn’t give me the time of day. I hung about the studio ’oping to see Mr Miracle. Thought maybe he knew where Abigail’d got to. Then I ’eard he’d been arrested for murder and I didn’t know what to do and I went to the coppers but they don’t want to listen either — oh, sir!»

«All right,» I soothed. «All right. Landlord! Another two gins here! Tell me, Kitty, did your friend have any… distinguishing marks on her person?»

There’s nothing quite like a visit to a police mortuary to take the spring out of one’s step.

The white tiles of the long, low structure glistened wetly in the gas-light as Inspector Flush led me inside. The room housed three or four long tables, their surfaces mottled with unpleasant stains like a butcher’s chopping block. Only one, the furthest from the open door, was occupied.

«Now look here, Mr Box,» said the policeman in a grumbling baritone. «We can’t go exhibiting the dear departed to all and sundry just ’cos of some theory or other. Until we lay our hands on who did in Mrs Knight»

«The woman over there, Inspector,» I said quietly, «is not Mrs Midsomer Knight.»

That did the trick.

«’Er ’usband identified her,» he protested.

«Identified a bloated corpse with its face eaten — or cut — away.»

Flush scratched his ear and shook his head. «A ’usband would know ’is own missus.»

«Perhaps not. I didn’t enquire as to details, of course, but I got the distinct impression that relations had in all probability never occurred between the Knights.»

Flush did not look pleased. «Did you now? Been doing a little sleuthing have you?»

I slammed my hand on to the stained slab and immediately regretted it. My hands are delicate and shouldn’t be trifled with. «Damn it, Flush! This is important! If I’m right you have a different murdered woman in here.»

«And who might that be?»

«A Miss Abigail Frenzy.»

«Who?»

«I’ll explain everything if you’ll just let me see the body,» I said exasperatedly.

Flush sighed. «Very well. But if this is some kind of prank I’ll have your bloody vitals, Mr Box.»

«Lights and lungs, my dear chap, if you want them. Shall we get on?»

«I hope you ain’t squeamish.»

Now I have always wondered how one gets into undertaking as a profession. Who, other than chaps who get some sort of morbid thrill from it, would want to do such a thing? Like choirmasters and their desire to improve young boys, one always suspects a sinister motive.

So it was that a goggle-eyed, deeply suspicious fellow with a thatch of ginger hair was the one who pulled back the sheet from the faceless corpse with all the gusto of a stage conjuror.

I gave him a look that told him not to enjoy himself too much and he skulked away to join a very green-looking Flush.

The body was that of a woman of about forty-five. Her torso was stained purple (by the wet dress I realized at once) and her rather fine hair matted and weed-clogged. Vermin — or a blunt blade — had indeed been busy on her face for it was little more than a gory hole. This entire case seemed to be a study in wet reds and blacks.

I stooped to examine the neck, which was livid with the bruises of the strangler’s hands then turned the corpse’s head slightly. It made a horrible stiff clicking sound like a bag of coral being smashed against a wall.

«You have a lens?» I barked at the goggle-eyed assistant.

He produced one. I took it and stooped to examine the ears of the corpse. «You see?»

Flush took the lens and peered through it. «See what?»

«The lobes are not pierced for rings.»

«So?»

«Unlike those of Mrs Knight,» I cried triumphantly.

«How the devil»

«I took the liberty of having a little chat with her charming husband. He had recently purchased a pair of earrings as an anniversary present.»

Flush blushed. I pressed on.

«Whoever killed this woman was careful to destroy her face so that we would think it to be the body of Mrs Knight.»

«What? Wait,» pleaded Flush. «What is all this? Who is this Abigail Frenzy?»

I tapped the lens against my chin. «The point is, if this is the substitute, then where is Mrs Knight?»

I drew the sheet back over the horror on the morgue slab.

«Perhaps she is still alive!» I announced, almost to myself. «Flush, if you will come with me to the Swan With Two Necks around the corner I will introduce you to a very interesting lady by name of Kitty Backlash. After that, I trust you will release Mr Christopher Miracle without delay!»

The upshot was that Mr Knight was sent for and Miss Kitty Backlash interviewed. Rather pleased at my virtuoso display, I waited in Flush’s office for Delilah to arrive in the brougham. Kitty had given me the address of her missing friend’s foreign employer. Now all I had to do was nip down there and collar him before he disappeared. Exactly who he was, I could not be absolutely certain, but suspicions were forming. Which «great big Eye-talian» with a connection to Miracle had I recently encountered who was just preparing to shut up his house and leave for the Continent? After apprehending the Duce I felt confident I could leave this curious case in Joshua Reynolds’s capable little hands while I pursued the business of the missing professors.

Brooding on this, I thumbed through Mrs Knight’s particulars once more. Here was the account of the trip to Chelsea by the grim husband. Here was the last will and testament showing the annuity from the first husband.

«A free-thinker,» Mr Knight had said.

I glanced thoughtfully at the reams of print.

Then I saw it.

I read the words over four times before I sank back into the chair, my blood running cold.

In faded black ink was the name of Mrs Knight’s first husband. The other man in the photograph of the Cambridge Four!

Maxwell Morraine.