Arcane Adversaries Page 7

  “Well, put that away,” Cal said. “Hardly fit reading for first class.”

  “Why would anyone need seven copies of it?” I asked. I held one of the rough, ink-smudged papers by the corner, wary of smudging my fingers as well. The fare was pretty much what one might expect: lurid tales of crimes and misdemeanors, gossip and speculation about London’s Good and Great, and dark insinuations about wealthy industrialists that bordered on slander—all tapped out in short, declarative, occasionally misspelled sentences with too many exclamation marks. Then a drawing on the back caught my eye.

  “By God,” I said. “That’s them—the young woman on the stairs and her mother. Mrs. Hazel Lewis, it says, and her daughter Caroline.”

  “Oh, aye?” Cal leaned closer. I handed him the paper so he could read the article for himself.

  Mr. Oliver Lewis—husband, father and businessman—had passed away after a very quick but ultimately fatal illness. The police hadn’t considered the death suspicious, but Abraham Whittaker, a writer from The Record Register disagreed. The article hinted that Lewis’s death had been more than a bit suspicious, and probably stemmed from shady business dealings, possibly going back to his past employment with the now-defunct East India Company.

  Cal scoffed. “There’s not enough real scandal in the world, I suppose.”

  “I agree,” I said. “It sounds like rubbish. At the same time, why would the Lewises buy so many copies of this rubbish?”

  “Probably didn’t want the other passengers to see it. Think about it. Whispers and staring all the way to York. That’s where they’re going, I imagine. According to the article, that’s where his family lives.”

  “Possibly,” I said. “Although our fellow passengers probably aren’t reading The Record Register.”

  “But the staff might be,” he said.

  It was a fair point. Porters, waiters and kitchen staff could dine out for months on tales of first-hand encounters with figures depicted in the Register’s melodramatic pages. He folded the paper and handed it back to me. I was about to stuff it back into my satchel when another thought occurred to me.

  “How long is one meant to mourn at home before traveling?” I asked. My own parents had passed in close succession when I’d been too young to pay any attention to rules and traditions. I’d done as I was told, worn what I was told, and hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond how much I was missing them.

  Cal said, “Not sure, but if Mr. Lewis had specific instructions to bring his body back to his family in York, I reckon no one would object.”

  “But he died the night before last,” I said. “I’ve attended plenty of deaths, and a lot happens. The family physician declares death and fills out a certificate. If the death was unusual, someone contacts the police. The family has to arrange for a coffin-maker. People of means, like the Lewises, often commission memorial photographs. And the ladies’ mourning clothes. How long would it take to have those made up?”

  I spread the remaining papers across the bench between us. The London Morning Dispatch was also carrying the story. No dark insinuations there, but it was interesting that the Dispatch, and, indeed, any respectable newspaper was reporting the story at all. The death of an upper-middle-class merchant wasn’t generally considered newsworthy.

  As I continued to read, though, I saw that Oliver Lewis was no ordinary merchant.

  Lewis Imports, Ltd. Dated back some thirty years. The firm dealt mainly in silk from China and indigo dye from India. Lewis had started his career in the textile imports division of the East India Company. What was remarkable, however, was Mr. Lewis’s charity work. Since the inception of his business, Mr. Lewis had worked very hard to improve the lives of workers on his Calcutta indigo plantation, and had gone on to found a charity devoted to that same goal.

  “Oh, that’s a very respected organization in social justice circles,” Cal said. “We’ve even heard of it up in Edinburgh.”

  “It’s a shame,” I said. “He’d been invited to speak on that subject before the Houses of Parliament, but he died before he could do so.”

  Unlike The Record Register, the other newspapers appeared to be satisfied to take Lewis’s death at face value—the result of a short but serious illness.

  “Huh,” Cal said, reaching for my copy of The Evening Sentinel. “It says here that Miss Lewis is engaged—to the son of another plantation owner.”

  “I wonder how her parents felt about that,” I said.

  “They might have arranged it, actually,” Cal said. “Combine family fortunes, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, one might wonder what Miss Lewis herself thinks about it.”

  Cal shrugged. “I’d think that any young woman of her class would be familiar with such arrangements and more than capable of expressing any relevant objections.”

  “Possibly,” I said.

  I turned again to the Record Register. There were actually a few articles about Lewis’s death, one of which addressed reports of his illness specifically. I read out the description of the symptoms to Cal: trembling, heavy perspiration, slurring of words, weakness, and finally, seizures and death.

  “Have you heard of anything like that?” I asked.

  “There have to be a hundred diseases with those symptoms,” he said. “But what concerns me is the quick onset.”

  “That’s unusual?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Highly.”

  “The author of the article is concerned it might not have been an illness at all, but possibly poison. What do you think?”

  His frown deepened and he pursed his lips. “I hope it’s poison. I mean, I hope not, obviously, but the prospect of a disease like that spreading through King’s Cross Station at New Year’s is terrifying.”

  “Excuse me,” a voice said. The conversation on the other side of the carriage fell silent as the train manager entered the carriage. I started to reach for my money when he said, “Is anyone here a doctor?”

  “I’m a medical student,” Cal said. “Third year.”

  “Then you’ll have to do,” the train manager said. “One of the passengers needs your assistance. Please come with me.”

  As they left the room, the two couples by the window began to murmur amongst themselves. As for me, I started to pace. The Lewis family tragedy had some interesting elements, but at the end of the day it was just that—a tragedy. One I’d made worse through my clumsiness and distraction, but ultimately not a police matter. What might have been a police matter—or who, rather—was the hulking bruiser currently sitting in Cal’s compartment wearing a scowl with my name on it. I’d imagine he was no stranger to the inside of a Maria. And to look at the man, he had less business in first class than The Record Register did. Had he seen me, somehow, after I’d clambered aboard? Was he waiting to start something once we were alone?

  Fortunately, Cal returned before I could continue this line of thought.

  “Simon,” he said. His demeanor and tone of voice made me straighten. “May I ask your professional opinion on something?”

  “Certainly.”

  He was still standing in the doorway, so I crossed the room to join him.

  He said, “You told me that you interacted with Mrs. Lewis back at King’s Cross.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Approximately what time did you see her, and how did she appear at that time?”

  “It was right before we both boarded the train, so….” I consulted my watch. “About two hours ago. Is that the unwell passenger?”

  He nodded. “And she seemed fine to you, then? Not run down or weak?”

  “She was annoyed,” I said. “Though that was understandable, considering the fact that some oaf had just trampled her daughter and scattered their newspapers.”

  “But otherwise she seemed in good form?”

  “Fine, as far as I could tell.”

  “That’s what her daughter said, as well.” He paused for a moment. Then he fixed me
with an expression of doctorly concern. “And how are you feeling?”

  “Me?”

  “Are you feeling weak? Tingly? Not trembling, I hope?” I shook my head. He peered closer. “You’re not sweating, that’s good.”

  “Mrs. Lewis is showing the same symptoms as her husband,” I said.

  Cal nodded. “Exactly, according to Miss Lewis.”

  “And how is Miss Lewis herself?” I asked.

  “She’s fine, which is strange, considering she’s not left her mother’s side, and I assume she helped to care for her father as well.”

  “Perhaps Miss Lewis has some sort of natural immunity.”

  “Perhaps.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Do you think The Record Register might be on to something?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. Such rapid onset of an infection isn’t unheard of, but it’s definitely unusual. And, well, a lot of poisons have the same symptoms as certain illnesses.”

  “A child poisoning her own parents?” I asked.

  “It’s horrible, but not unheard of.”

  “True, but if that were the case, it wouldn’t make sense for her to ask for a doctor,” I said.

  On the other hand—and I didn’t say this—someone who had thought it through might summon a physician after it was too late, to strengthen the appearance of innocence.

  Cal said, “Mr. Lewis was a textiles importer. Perhaps some exotic illness arrived from abroad with the textiles. Although it seems unlikely the company owner would be handling the merchandise directly.” He tapped his shoe impatiently against the floor. “Of course if it were poison, it wouldn’t necessarily have to be the daughter.”

  “Someone else on the train?” I asked.

  “I know, it seems strange. But perhaps Mr. Lewis had enemies who are now striking out at his wife as well.” He turned his head to meet my gaze directly. “Unfortunately, that line of enquiry is out of my expertise. But it’s right up your alley.”

  •••

  The train manager was standing guard outside of the door of the first class compartment Miss Lewis and her mother were sharing. He stood aside as we approached. Cal made the relevant introductions, then knocked on the door. Miss Lewis greeted him with a tired smile. When she saw me, her expression went hard.

  “How can I help you?” she asked coldly.

  Cal said, “Miss Lewis, please allow me to introduce Sergeant Pearce.”

  I produced my warrant card for her inspection. She glanced at it then thrust it back in my general direction. “We don’t need a policeman, we need a doctor.”

  I said, “My apologies, again, for how we met earlier. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “There’s no crime, here. My mother is ill. I can’t leave her.”

  Mrs. Lewis was reclining along one of the benches in her compartment. She was pale and trembling, and I’d have thought twice about leaving her alone myself. There was a dark patch along the side of her dress. I tried not to think what bodily fluid it might represent.

  “Mr., er, Dr. Webster will stay with your mother,” I said. “As for a crime, there very well might be, but if you won’t speak to me, I’ll have to form my own conclusions.”

  Cal said, “I promise to notify you if anything changes.”

  “All right,” she conceded after another worried glance at her mother. “But only for a few moments.”

  I led her back to the observation carriage, which was thankfully empty now. She took a seat on one of the leather benches. I sat on the other end.

  “You think I did this,” she said abruptly.

  I said, “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, I’m not ill, am I? And it’s always a family member, at least that’s what they say in the papers.”

  Going on the offensive isn’t an uncommon way to deflect attention from one’s own guilt. But then again, her father had just died, and her mother appeared to be seriously ill. All things considered, her rudeness was understandable.

  “Please understand, Miss, this isn’t an interrogation, and I’m not accusing you of anything. But Mr. Webster’s examination did turn up some concerning findings.”

  “I’ll say they’re concerning.” Her lower lip trembled, and she swallowed hard. She took a brief second to compose herself, then said, “My father passed away the night before last from the very same illness that Mother has now. It didn’t take but a few hours, and I’m terrified Mother….” Her voice cracked over the last few words. “I’m terrified Mother will follow.”

  “Are you certain it’s the same condition? The symptoms were the same?”

  “Exactly the same,” she said. “When Father came home that night, he seemed fine. He had a drink, something to eat, and then he retired to his bed. A few hours later, I was awakened by the arrival of our family physician. Mother told me to stay out of the way, but I pushed my way inside their room, and when I did, I saw….”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “He was sweating heavily, had a terrible headache, and was so, so weak. My big, strong Papa….”

  “It must have been very distressing,” I said.

  “It was. He was trembling, and he was slurring all his words. When the seizures started, the doctor made me leave. Not long after that…not long after that, he was gone. And now it’s happening to Mother, as well.”

  Her words had the ring of authenticity. At the same time, there were still quite a few puzzle pieces out of place. If the illness was so virulent and quick to develop, why hadn’t she succumbed to it? And if she hadn’t poisoned them, had someone else? I said, “Could you take me through that day, the events leading up to your father’s death?”

  She drew a deep breath, swallowed, then nodded.

  The day had proceeded much as other days. Oliver Lewis had risen early, breakfasted with his family, then gone to work. A late meeting had prevented him from coming home for supper, but he’d returned around nine o’clock in the evening, looking and feeling well.

  “Did he mention with whom he was meeting?” I asked.

  “Some people he used to work with, a long time ago, before he started his company.”

  “People from the former East India Company?” I asked.

  She hadn’t expected that. “I believe so. How did you know about that?”

  I said, “A number of newspapers have carried the story of your father’s sudden death. A few of them had biographical information as well. Your father is a well-respected man.”

  “Yes, he is—was.” She sighed.

  “Did he say anything else about the meeting?”

  She shook her head. “No, he wasn’t in the habit of discussing his business with me. Mother might be able to tell you more, if….”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She straightened, seeming to pull herself together. “Sergeant, you said that there might be a criminal element to all this. What makes you think that?”

  I said, “There are two concerns, actually, only one of them criminal in nature. First, the rapid onset of your father’s sickness, and now your mother’s, raises the possibility of a quick-acting, deadly illness. The idea that such an illness could spread through the New Year’s crowd at King’s Cross Station, and even outside of London on this train, is worrying enough.

  “At the same time,” I continued. “Mr. Webster has never seen symptoms such as those presently afflicting your mother. But I have, and those symptoms are consistent with several different kinds of poisoning.” The last part was my invention, but I wanted to see what her reaction would be.

  “You think someone poisoned my parents?” Her tone suggested surprise, dismay.

  I said, “I don’t know. That’s why I’m speaking to you.”

  Her expression grew dark. “Surely you don’t think I did it.”

  “I don’t know that they were poisoned at all,” I said. “Though if your father had died from a disease that came on that quickly, I’d expect you to be feeling symptoms. How are you feeling?”
<
br />   “I feel fine.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. But right now, there are several other parts of this story that aren’t fitting together.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m curious why you and your mother left London in such a hurry.”

  “We’re traveling to York,” she said. “That’s where Father’s family is. We’re taking him home. You can ask the train manager.”

  “But why leave so quickly after his death?” I pressed. “It’s difficult to find a coffin-maker on such short notice, and there couldn’t have been time to schedule a funeral so far away. Surely your family would have scheduled a bereavement photo, as well.”

  She let out a sharp huff “Mother made the arrangements. I had nothing to do with any of that.”

  “And speaking of your mother,” I said. “It’s interesting that you both managed to have mourning dresses made up in less than twenty-four hours. Do you have a team of seamstresses on your domestic staff?” She drew a quick breath, but before she could interrupt, I continued. “Cotton twill is an economical choice, as well. I’d have expected some of your father’s silk, as well as a more flattering design.”

  “What does my clothing have to do with it?” she demanded.

  “Cotton is a servant’s fabric,” I said. “More importantly it can be reused for any number of purposes.”

  She shot up from her seat, breathing heavily, cotton skirts rustling. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Sergeant, but I don’t like it, and I don’t have to listen to it.”

  “Not right now, you don’t. But lack of cooperation at this point would definitely look suspicious.”

  She sat back down again and crossed her arms tightly. “You sound just like that Mr. Whittaker,” she muttered.

  “Abraham Whittaker? From The Record Register?” Whittaker had authored the articles in the Register about Mr. Lewis’s death.

  “The very one. He came to interrogate us yesterday morning, right after the police left. I don’t know how he heard about Father’s death, but he couldn’t wait to get the details so he could write up that vile story in his nasty little paper. He thinks Papa was poisoned, too.”