Murder So Rash: Penrose & Pyke Mysteries, #5

Unwelcome News

Chattering voices and childish squeals drifted down the train carriage. Grace Penrose sat in silence, as dread pricked her nerve endings and churned her innards into a gurgling mush.  

The view from the train window did nothing to calm her anxiety. Dark waves rolled towards the shore, sprouting white tips as they surged onto the rocks. Across the harbour, Otago Peninsula hid under a blanket of ill-tempered cloud. Not the day for a sea voyage, however short.

But it was not the thought of the boat trip to Quarantine Island that worried Grace – it was what they would find at their destination.

Two weeks ago, a ship had steamed into Port Chalmers carrying a dozen cases of measles. Fortunately, the captain had raised the yellow flag and the harbour master had put the ship under quarantine orders. Today, Grace was part of a small medical team sent out to make a final examination of the passengers and crew. If there were no more cases of measles, the passengers would be released from quarantine.

The consequences of making the wrong decision were unthinkable. If measles got into the community, the death toll amongst vulnerable children would be devastating. Although the life and death decision would be made by wiser heads than Grace, she felt the burden weighing heavily on her conscience. Of all the deadly diseases in the age of Queen Victoria – plague, cholera, typhoid, scarlet fever, smallpox and many others – measles was the one Grace feared the most, from bitter experience.

Her great-aunt, Anne Macmillan, was also a member of the medical team, but appeared untroubled by the day ahead. Anne sat opposite Grace, engrossed in the latest issue of the Dunedin Ladies’ Journal.

Grace did not read the Ladies’ Journal as a rule. She dipped into the pages only when in need of a frivolous diversion after a gruelling day. The earnest enthusiasm of the articles rarely failed to bring a wry smile to her face. ("Ostrich feathers are de rigueur for every lady of distinction this season! ... Whether toque or bonnet, spring hats simply must perch daintily upon the head, angled just so, and sprigged with an abundance of nature’s bounty!!").

On rare occasions, Grace envied the path chosen by other women, but mostly she relished the challenges of being the first female medical student in New Zealand. If other ladies were aghast that Grace also chose to assist the police surgeon, she simply replied that the work was fascinating and she needed the job to support her studies. As her mother often lamented, perhaps recalling the agonies of childbirth, Grace had been born with a stethoscope in one hand and a scalpel in the other.

Besides, dabbling in the malodorous art of autopsy had brought Charlie Pyke into her life. She had known Charlie was the man for her from the first moment they bumped heads over a corpse. Back then, he had been a lowly police constable. Now, he was a detective in the only private investigation agency in the country, in partnership with his former commanding officer.

Grace was never happier than when she was working by Charlie’s side, using her medical skills to help bring criminals to justice. Not that there had been much of that lately. Since the Southern Investigations Agency’s dramatic first case, Charlie had spent his time chasing lost dogs and missing valuables, with not a single corpse in sight.

Grace’s musings were cut short by an unladylike splutter from her great-aunt.

Why the snort, Auntie? Grace asked. "Has the Ladies’ Journal finally roused itself to outrage over the appalling failure of our parliament to allow women the vote? Or is it something truly important, such as the rise to fashion of a mauve chiffon bow so large as to obscure the entire bosom?"

Grace held out little hope of the former. Despite the largest ever petition presented to parliament, the Franchise Bill of 1892 had recently been scuppered by last gasp trickery. Yet another reason for her uncharacteristic despondency.

Anne’s lips pinched to a thin line at the reminder of the women’s suffrage defeat. Now in her mid-seventies, Anne Macmillan had spent her entire life fighting for women’s rights. With her rapier-sharp wits and fearsome determination, Anne Macmillan was a force to be reckoned with. Woe betide the man or woman who dismissed her as an addled-headed old lady.

Grace, dear, you simply must keep up with the significant events of the day. Anne tapped a page of the Ladies’ Journal and began to read out loud. A new arrival in Dunedin, Mrs Fendalton-Dabney, dazzled the assembled company at last week’s Mayoral tea party, in a gown of ruched green velveteen, with cuffs of crème corded silk, braided in gold.

How enthralling, Grace muttered. She recognised Anne’s tactics as a diversion from the terrifying duty they were about to undertake. Grace had no wish to be churlish, but it would take more than Mrs Fendalton-Dabney and her ruched green gown to distract Grace from a potential epidemic of measles.

Anne looked over the spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. I take it you have no wish to hear more of the Mayoral tea party? The pink bows, silver spotted gowns, shot-silk parasols ... oh, and an entire column on the very latest fashion in footwear, made from crocodile skin. You should go out at once and purchase all of the above, Grace, before the stock sells out.

Now it was Grace’s turn to snort. The only place I wish to see a crocodile is on the floor of the parliamentary debating chamber. But, do go on, Auntie. What occasion was being celebrated? The presentation of an award for the most fatuous comment by a local politician?

A visiting trade delegation from Australia, Anne replied, with a smirk. You will be fascinated to hear that they are looking forward to making a tour of our frozen meat export plant. In truth, the reporter wastes few words upon the marvels of refrigeration and many, many words upon the fashion choices of the ladies present.

Perhaps a wise choice, if the delegation’s interests range no further than frozen legs of lamb. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than attending such an event.

Anne turned the page. Grace dear, if you insist on mimicking the face of a constipated bulldog –

A constipated bulldog? Really Auntie, of all the breeds of dog, I would claim the least resemblance to the bulldog. And my bowel movements are perfectly regular, thank you very much.

Perhaps not a bulldog in looks, at this point in your life, but in character there is a certain resemblance. Anne forestalled Grace’s rejoinder with a raised hand. Very well, point taken. If you insist on mimicking the face of a disgruntled whippet, no man will wish to take you to anything half so exciting as a reception for frozen meat devotees, regardless of the number of pink bows upon your bonnet. The point is, Mrs Fendalton-Dabney is obviously attempting to establish herself as a new presence in town. I must hasten to inform her that the path to social acceptance passes through the gates of charitable works.

Anne considered it her duty to know the who, why, what and how of every citizen of their city. As the director of a free medical clinic and refuge for the women of Dunedin’s poorer areas, Anne relied on them for the little titbits of information that helped her target wealthy folk for donations. Without women like Mrs Fendalton-Dabney, Lavender House would fall to rot and rust. Anne’s intimate knowledge of the populace was also a boon to the detective agency. Their society spy, as she had dubbed herself.

"Does the Ladies’ Journal say nothing about the terrifying consequences of measles reaching our shores? Grace queried. Or anything at all remotely important?"

Anne arched an incredulous eyebrow. Hardly likely, Grace. Let’s see what the Lady Detective has to say in her column. She has quite the nose for a story, that one ...

Anne’s mouth formed a tiny puckered circle as her sentence trailed off. Grace diagnosed a particularly titillating bit of scandal. To her surprise, Anne closed the Ladies’ Journal and rolled it tightly, declaring it was a load of horse manure and they were almost at Port Chalmers station anyway.

Grace hadn’t got to where she was today without a stubborn streak that would put a mule to shame. With a lightning lunge, she snatched the Ladies’ Journal.

Grace, no, Anne pleaded. Please don’t read it. It’s nothing but foolish gossip.

Grace skimmed the pages until her eyes froze on a headline. Has Dunedin’s Dashing Detective Met His Match? The Ladies’ Journal, via the wiles of the reporter who called herself the Lady Detective, had hounded Charlie Pyke in recent weeks. Since their discovery of the existence of a private detective agency in Dunedin, privacy and discretion had been blown to oblivion. Charlie could scarcely venture from his lodgings for fear of eager ladies accosting him in the street.

On seeing the headline, Grace was certain her own name would be exposed as Charlie’s faithful companion. She read on. The reality was far worse. Dunedin’s dashing detective, Mr Charles Pyke, the article said, was observed with Miss Caroline Davenport, loitering companionably outside a jewellery shop, which featured a window display of diamond rings. After several lines of feverish innuendo, the article ended with a suggestion that readers should not be surprised if an engagement notice appeared in this paper in the near future.

Grace ripped the page out of the paper and tucked it into her satchel. Charlie Pyke was not a reader of the Dunedin Ladies’ Journal, but someone would show him the article sooner or later. She would rather do it herself.

Anne eyed her great-niece warily, as one might a whippet with rabies. Surely you trust Charlie, Grace. Anyone with eyes in her head can see the way he looks at you and only you.

I’m not concerned in the least about Charlie’s choice of companions, Auntie, Grace lied. I’m only worried about the effect of this ongoing campaign of falsehoods on the Southern Investigations Agency. Charlie’s ability to solve cases discreetly has been hopelessly compromised by this woman calling herself the Lady Detective.

I have one or two acquaintances in the newspaper industry, Anne said. I could try to find out who she is and have her admonished. Perhaps I could persuade her editor to change her by-line to ‘Miss-Informed’?

Grace knew she ought to brush the matter aside as the foolishness it was. But, as Anne had told her more than once, Lady Detective had a finely tuned nose for scandal. Lady Detective’s literary style might tend to the exuberant when it came to the use of adjectives and was positively gravid with hints of intrigue, but there was always a nub of truth behind every story. The article wouldn’t say that Charlie Pyke had been seen outside a jewellery shop with the divine Miss Caroline Davenport, eldest daughter of the Davenport sheep-farming empire, if it was entirely untrue.

Charlie knew the lady, as he had recently been employed by Caroline Davenport to find a stolen set of diamond jewellery – a parure of perfectly matched diamond necklace, earrings and brooch. After an initial burst of activity, Charlie had become tight-lipped about the case. As far as Grace knew, the case was over. Or, at least, he had not mentioned Miss Davenport or her fabulous diamonds again.

With the potential for a measles outbreak hovering over their heads, Charlie Pyke ought to be the least of Grace’s problems. But, the truth was, he had been behaving oddly in recent days. When he dined with them on Friday evening, he had changed the subject when asked about his day and affected the face of a poker player when asked why. As soon as he thought Grace had looked away, he had reverted to an expression somewhere between naughty schoolboy and unrepentant sinner. Most telling of all, he had toyed with his food and refused a second helping of dessert, an unheard-of departure from normality.

Grace hadn’t seen Charlie since Friday night. He hadn’t even offered to see her and Anne to the railway station this morning, despite knowing how nervous Grace was feeling about going out to Quarantine Island.

Charlie Pyke was hiding something. Grace knew it in her bones.

Emerson & Son

Charlie Pyke arrived at Emerson & Son, Watchmakers & Jewellers, a full fifteen minutes before opening time on Monday morning. The closed sign on the door mocked his eagerness. By now, the proprietor should have been downstairs to turn on the gaslights and prepare for the day.

Through a gap in the shutters, Charlie could see nothing but the looming shapes of cabinets, whose contents were rendered invisible by the feeble light.

Charlie paced the empty lane to keep his toes from freezing, pulling his thick overcoat close against the chilly southerly wind. Halfway through spring it may be, but winter had a nasty habit of making an encore appearance in the southern city of Dunedin. In his pocket, the roll of banknotes felt crisp and portentous to his nervous fingers. Charlie glanced around to ensure no loitering footpad was waiting to relieve him of the money, which represented a not insignificant portion of his life savings.

He had found Emerson & Son’s jewellery shop quite by chance, after a rapid retreat through a series of dingy alleys and quiet lanes the preceding Friday. Charlie had been escaping from a persistent woman called Caroline Davenport, who had developed an annoying habit of appearing when he least expected it. On Friday, it had been in Princes Street, outside another jewellery shop.

Miss Davenport’s presence had been particularly unwelcome, because Charlie was searching for a gift for his beloved Grace Penrose. Grace’s spirits had been low after a difficult year – being implicated in one death and injured in another tragedy, seeing months of effort to gain women the vote fail at the last hurdle, and now the threat of a measles epidemic weighing heavily on her mind. The rapid approach of end-of-year examinations at medical school was not helping either.

Once Charlie had escaped Miss Davenport, fate had intervened in the form of Emerson & Son’s, an Aladdin’s cave of glittering gems and expensive watches. Inside the tiny, out of the way shop, Charlie had seen a piece of jewellery that would send Grace into raptures. By the time he had gone to the bank to get enough funds, the shop had closed. Hence, his nervous wait until Monday morning to make his purchase. Grace had commented on his distraction and accused him of being secretive. Sometimes he wondered if she was a better detective than he was.

Charlie risked the biting wind to reach for the watch in his waistcoat pocket. Two minutes to nine o’clock. Still no signs of movement in the shop. He glanced down the lane, worried that Miss Davenport would appear again and attempt to invite him to an intimate supper party. The woman was a menace.

As he peered into the shop again, Charlie wondered if he had made the right decision. He had seen a pretty locket too – a far safer choice as a token of his affection. The canny shopkeeper, Mr Emerson, had talked him into the riskier and more expensive choice. With deep-set blue eyes sparkling within a wrinkled face, the elderly jeweller had looked into Charlie’s soul and shown him perfection. Charlie had hesitated. How would Grace react? Was it too much? But the hesitation was short-lived. It was meant to be.

A grandfather clock chimed the hour within the shop. Charlie tried the door again. Locked, as it had been the previous three times he had tried it. He glanced upstairs, but the curtains were still drawn. The only light shone out from the attic, which seemed odd. Perhaps Mr Emerson was stocktaking upstairs and had forgotten the time. Unlikely, as a dozen clocks within the shop were now chiming the hour.

Charlie peered through the crack in the shutters again. The changing angle of the sun reflected on shiny fragments on the floor. Broken glass, by the look of it. Instincts aroused, Charlie circled the block of buildings, looking for a rear entrance. The gate to the little courtyard at the rear of the jewellery shop was easy to spot, as it was hanging open. The back door beyond the gate banged in the wind.

The door had been levered open by force, breaking the old lock. Charlie entered the shop, quietly at first, in case the intruder was still there. Inside, every one of the glass-topped cabinets was smashed. The rows of expensive watches and exquisite necklaces, rings, lockets and other valuables were gone. Including the one he had his heart set on for Grace.

Hello? Mr Emerson? Charlie called up the stairs. He ought to call for a policeman, but his gut told him to waste no more time.

Charlie ran up the stairs, calling the proprietor’s name with increasing alarm. Upstairs, in one of the two bedrooms, he found Mr Emerson tied to a chair. A gag bound his mouth and nose so tightly, breathing must have been near impossible. Bruises marred Emerson’s kindly, shrivelled face. A thin trail of dried blood ran down the side of his head, underneath his nightcap. Charlie searched for a pulse on the cold skin, knowing it was far too late.

Not content with the riches from the display cabinets in the shop, the robber must have come upstairs looking for more. Presumably, Mr Emerson had been bound and assaulted to force him to disclose the location of the shop’s safe. A decent, honest man, needlessly murdered for a sack of glittering baubles. For how could one old man, whose rasping breath had indicated a weakness of the lungs, stop a determined villain?

Charlie touched Mr Emerson’s cold, battered face and swore he would find the man responsible for this outrage.

Setting his anger aside, Charlie stepped back to the doorway, surveying the scene of the struggle slowly and thoroughly. The trail of destruction told a simple, tragic story. The robber had pulled Emerson out of his bed, casting his blankets aside and knocking over the items on the bedside table. Splayed pages of a novel, thin spectacles trampled to splinters, a water glass shattered on the wooden floorboards. The chair had been dragged into the centre of the room, leaving scratches in the polished floor. A mantelpiece clock lay on its side, miraculously undamaged and still ticking, its back panel gaping open to reveal the inner workings.

As far as Charlie could see, the robber had left nothing behind but the victim and the ropes and gag that bound him.

Victim. The word recalled that there were two bedrooms and a sign saying Emerson & Son above the front door. Charlie reluctantly left Mr Emerson’s body and searched the rest of the residence. He got as far as the deserted cubicle that served as a kitchen, when he heard banging and scraping from above.

Charlie climbed the steeply angled steps to the attic, a heavy pot grasped in his hand. A second body lay on the floor of the attic, but this man was alive. Although thoroughly trussed, blindfolded and gagged, the man was banging his bare feet on the rough floorboards in a desperate attempt to call for help. Dressed only in a nightshirt, after enduring a freezing night, it was a wonder he managed that much. Beyond the man, a large iron safe stood open and empty within a cavity in the wall.

Help is here, Mr Emerson, Charlie called as he hurried across the room. I’ll have you untied in a minute. I’m a customer. Charlie Pyke. The robber has gone.

Charlie eased off the gag and blindfold first, revealing a middle-aged man with a shock of greying red hair. Blood matted the hair behind his right ear, but the wound did not appear too serious. The rope was cutting off the man’s circulation, so Charlie ignored the knots and cut the bindings with his pocketknife in the interests of speed.

Don’t try to move just yet, sir. Best to get the blood flowing first. Charlie draped his overcoat over the man and gently rubbed his wrists and ankles to restore circulation. Emerson must be in agony. How’s that head injury?

Aches like the devil, but I’ll live. Emerson’s voice was little more than a croak. With obvious effort, he pushed himself to his elbows.

Charlie kept a small flask of brandy in his jacket pocket. Not for his own use, but to revive clients in times of distress. He held it to Emerson’s lips. The jeweller’s son sipped and paused, before taking a larger gulp. He shuddered, but a little colour returned to his cheeks.

Woozy eyes locked on his rescuer. Daniel Emerson, at your service. You’re a welcome sight, Mr Pyke. Can I ask you to see to my father, please? The robber hit him.

Charlie helped him to sit up. I’m very sorry, Mr Emerson, but I regret to inform you that your father didn’t survive his injuries.

The sharp cry of anguish his words elicited cut straight to Charlie’s heart. For all the satisfaction detective work brought him, the pain of imparting tragic news never grew easier. He replaced the overcoat, which had fallen to the floor, on Emerson’s shaking shoulders.

Emerson clamped a hand on Charlie’s arm. Those villains killed my father? Two of them against one frail old man. I’ll see those devils hang, if it’s the last thing I do.

I promise to help you, Mr Emerson. But, right now, you need to rest awhile after your ordeal. I’ll summon the police and return as quickly as I can.

Wait. You’re the customer who came in on Friday, aren’t you? My father said you are a private detective.

Charlie nodded. Mr Emerson Senior had subtly interrogated him during his first visit. Without realising it, Charlie had divulged much of his life story in the face of the man’s persuasive questioning. His determination to forge a living as a private detective, after being forced out of the police force. His adoration for a certain young lady. His plan to work hard, so that someday, in the distant future, he could afford to give her the life she deserved. Her insistence that she would not marry until she qualified as a doctor, even if he could afford to ask for her hand.

I’ve no doubt you have thought your situation through with commendable logic, Mr Emerson Senior had observed on Friday afternoon, with a twinkle in his eye, but it doesn’t mean you cannot declare your intentions to the lady. Life is short, young man, and love is precious. My advice is to leave your beloved in no doubt of your true feelings. As I always say, better a long engagement than a lifetime of regret.

Charlie had tried to tell the elderly jeweller that his lady was in no doubt of his love.

Mr Emerson Senior had ignored his protestations and cut to the chase. What type of jewellery does the young lady prefer? Does she have a birth stone she favours? Silver or gold? Simple or ornate?

I’m not sure, Charlie replied. Grace does not wear rings because of her work. The only time I have heard her talk with enthusiasm about an item of jewellery was when she told me about a beautiful sapphire and diamond necklace her grandmother wore. They keep a portrait of her grandmother wearing the necklace in the drawing room.

Ah, in that case ... Mr Emerson Senior beckoned him along the counter to another display case. He removed a tray of exquisite sapphire and diamond rings and slid it in front of his customer with a knowing twitch of his lips.

Nestled in the exact centre of the tray was a ring with a lustrous blue sapphire, surrounded by tiny diamonds. Charlie’s fingers plucked it from the tray of their own accord. The ring might have been made to match the sapphire necklace treasured by Grace’s grandmother. It was perfect. He had to have it. Grace had to have it. Whatever the cost. And Mr Emerson Senior had known it.

Charlie hadn’t been able to put the ring down. He’d stared at the twinkling diamonds and deep blue of the sapphire. The discreet little numbers on the tiny tag made the price look less shocking, but it would still take a hefty chunk out of his hard-earned savings, which he had set aside for more sensible expenditure. A horse, a home (eventually), rainy day savings. On the other hand, there was nothing he wanted more than Grace Penrose. The old jeweller was right. Secure an engagement now, even if they married later.

Mr Emerson Senior had watched Charlie closely. You seem a worthy young man. I’ll make you an offer. A ten percent discount on the price, as long as you return with the young lady. I confess, nothing makes me happier than seeing the perfect ring adorning the hand of a blissful recipient.

Reluctantly, Charlie placed the ring back on the tray. Unfortunately, I do not have sufficient funds on me at present.

Don’t you worry, young man. I’m about to close up for the day. This ring will be safe here, awaiting your return on Monday. Emerson settled the tray back into its spot with a flourish. We have a payment plan, if required.

Charlie found himself assuring Mr Emerson that he would be back with the full amount as soon as he could and pleading with him not to sell Grace’s ring to anyone else. He distinctly recalled the satisfaction on the old man’s face. Without a doubt, Mr Emerson Senior had taken pride in finding the perfect item for each customer. He had certainly been good at his work.

Now, only three days later, Grace’s ring was gone and so was the