Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose Page 5

  I spoke confidently, showing my contempt for Flanagan’s theory that Millichip was the arsonist and incidentally omitting to mention my reservations about the efficiency of the Metropolitan Police.

  Straightforward their task may have been, but in the event the raw lobsters required five days to find Rudkin, in cheap lodgings in the shabby district of Notting Hill. I had him brought to Chandos Street Fire Station for questioning on the following Thursday.

  James Rudkin may have looked the worse for wear from his new way of life, but in deportment and speech he was still the gentleman’s gentleman, with airs of refinement. I suppose he was forty-five years of age, dark-haired, with mutton-chop whiskers going grey. He claimed to know nothing whatsoever about the fire. “This is calamitous. When did you say it occurred, Your Royal Highness? Last Friday? Was there serious damage?”

  “Never mind that,” I told him, eager to catch him out, for Flanagan and Shaw were sitting beside me, and I wanted to prove a point or two.

  “Where were you last Friday evening?”

  “Me?” He piped the word as if to imply that anything connected with himself was unworthy of consideration. “You wish to know where I was, Your Royal Highness?”

  Indifferent to the wretched fellow’s play-acting, I tapped the ash from my cigar and waited.

  Rudkin hesitated, apparently collecting his thoughts. “Last Friday evening. Let me see. Oh, yes. I was at South Kensington, at the Art Training School.”

  “The Art School?” I said in total disbelief. “You’re an artist? I can’t believe that. How could you afford the fees?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t required to pay a fee, sir. They paid me. I was, em, sitting.”

  “Sitting?”

  “Well, reclining, in point of fact, sir. The School advertised for models and I applied. It was force of necessity. I needed the money to pay for a night’s lodging.”

  “I follow you now. What time was this?”

  “The class lasted from 7 to 9 p.m., sir, but I had to report early to remove my clothes.”

  “Good Lord! You were posing in the buff?”

  “It was the life class, sir.”

  I turned to Eyre Shaw. “At what hour did the fire break out?”

  He coughed nervously. “Approximately 8.30, sir. Certainly no later.”

  That evening, I told the Princess of Wales that her theory about the servant had been confounded and in a manner acutely embarrassing to me personally. “Rashly I asked the fellow if he could prove this extraordinary alibi of his and he said there must be twenty drawings of his anatomy from every possible angle. He couldn’t swear that every one would be a good likeness, but I was welcome to enquire at the school. Imagine me—asking to examine drawings of a naked man.”

  “It wouldn’t be advisable, Bertie.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear. I may have been a trouble to you on occasions, but I’ll not be caught looking at drawings of a butler in his birthday suit. I’m just relating the facts so that you can see how mistaken you were. Rudkin cannot possibly be the arsonist. It was such a persuasive theory when you mentioned it.”

  “I’m not infallible, Bertie.”

  I sniffed. “Regrettably, it seems that Flanagan—that bombastic Irishman from Chandos Street—is the one who is infallible. Young Millichip put a match to the house to prevent it from passing to the London Cremation League. I shall suggest to the police that they arrest him in the morning. Frankly, I’m not interested in questioning him a second time.”

  Alix continued with her sewing.

  “It’s a great pity,” I maundered on, more to myself than Alix. “I should have liked to have solved a case of arson. I shall have to bide my time, I suppose. My chance will come. It’s becoming a common crime—every other Friday, in fact.”

  “Speak up, Bertie.”

  Alix is somewhat deaf.

  “I said arson happens every other Friday. A slight exaggeration. A house in Tavistock Street three weeks ago, and the Villiers Street fire last week.”

  She stopped her sewing and gave me a penetrating look. “You didn’t mention two cases of arson when we discussed the case.”

  “At that time, my dear, I hadn’t heard about the Tavistock Street fire. I missed it. I was, em, otherwise engaged that evening . . . putting the world to rights with the Dean of St Paul’s, if I remember correctly.”

  “Two houses set alight?” said Alix.

  “Two.”

  “On Fridays?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both started maliciously?”

  “Apparently, yes.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, no. Both houses were uninhabited.”

  “Then let us suppose both fires were started by one individual. How would he—or she—have known that no one was inside?”

  I said, “I’m damned if I know. One individual? What makes you say that?”

  She ignored my question. “Presumably, the late Mr Millichip’s death was reported in the newspapers.”

  “That is true,” said I. “His son read it in The Times.”

  “And do you know the identity of the owner of the Tavistock Street house?”

  “That was Carson, the explorer. He left for the Amazon three weeks ago.”

  “Was his expedition reported in The Times?”

  “It may well have been. He’s a famous man. I’ll speak to the editor and find out, if you think it’s important.”

  She gave a slight shrug and lowered her eyes to the needlework. Poor Alix. She never knows whether to encourage me in my investigations. But she’d said enough to stoke up my analytical processes again. I asked myself whether it was conceivable that some wicked arsonist was lighting fires at random. No, not at random, but by reference to The Times. If so, it would be devilish difficult to identify him. What facts did we have? He was a reader of The Times, presumably a Londoner. He selected houses that were empty and he favoured Friday evenings for his fire-raising. Would there be another fire this week, or next? If so, where?

  There was a panic below stairs when I asked the head butler for the entire week’s issues of The Times. Normally I never see a copy that has not been freshly ironed and then they tend to get creased and sprinkled with cigar-ash in the course of my perusal. Lord knows what happens after I’ve finished with them. One thing was certain: the prospect of retrieving six copies and getting them fit for inspection caused my head butler’s eyes to resemble coach-lamps, even after I assured him that ironing would not be necessary. In the end, six immaculate newspapers were supplied from heaven knows where and I set to work compiling a list of recently vacated properties. Within a short time I realized the scale of the task I’d set myself. The deaths column alone ran to fifty or sixty names each day. I therefore confined myself to names in the vicinity of Chandos Street Fire Station, where the two previous fires had taken place. At the end of two hours, I had a list of twelve residences that I considered prime candidates for arson.

  I was so pleased with my detective work that I showed Alix the list.

  Somewhat to my surprise, she laughed. “Oh, Bertie, what will you do now—travel the district on a bicycle keeping watch on all these houses?”

  “That isn’t the object,” I explained. “If one of them goes up in flames tomorrow night, I shall know for certain that my theory is correct. The arsonist selects the houses from The Times.”

  “And then you can make another list next week,” said Alix with a lamentable lack of sensitivity.

  “What else do you propose?” said I chillingly.

  “I make no claim to be a detective, but I would look for a motive, my dear.”

  “It’s all very fine to talk in such terms,” I protested, “but why would anyone put a match to a house? To see a damned good fire. Believe it or not, there are people who derive a morbid pleasure from watching a property go up in flames.”

  “Oh, I believe it, Bertie.”

  “They are known as pyromaniacs.”

  She regarded m
e steadily. “Yes.”

  “Then what is the use of looking for a motive?”

  “There may be a more practical motive.”

  “I doubt it,” said I.

  But later, in bed—my own bed—I paid Alix’s last observation the compliment of considering it at more length. Suppose there was a practical motive. Why set light to a building if it isn’t for the undoubted satisfaction of seeing it ablaze? It wasn’t as if some insurance swindle was involved in either incident, so far as I was aware.

  And there was no attempt to put anyone in personal danger; in fact, the reverse was true. The arsonist appeared to have gone to some trouble to select an empty house and so avoid an accident.

  In the small hours of the morning, a theory began to form in my brain, a brilliant theory that I was perfectly capable of putting to the test. It encompassed both motive and opportunity. I could hardly wait for Friday evening to learn whether the arsonist would strike again.

  He did not.

  I had to wait another full week and compile another list of properties from The Times before this drama came to its conclusion.

  Two weeks to the day since the Villiers Street fire, I took high tea instead of supper and arrived at Chandos Street Fire Station sharp at 7. Captain Shaw had not yet appeared and nor had the Duke of Sutherland, so after changing into my fireman’s uniform I had a game of billiards with Superintendent Flanagan and beat him soundly. Then I put my proposition to him.

  “If there’s a fire this evening, I’d like to have command of one of the escapes—with your consent, of course.”

  He pricked up his eyebrows. Generally, I’m content to take a subordinate role in fire-fighting. “Is there a reason for this, sir?”

  Damned impertinence. I ignored the remark. “You have no shortage of escapes?”

  “Oh, we have more than we ever use.”

  “Mine can be surplus to requirements, then.” I added cuttingly, “I wouldn’t want to hamper the work of the London Fire Brigade through inexperience.”

  He had the grace to mumble, “That’s unthinkable, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Very good, then. And Flanagan . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “We won’t mention it to the others.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  George Sutherland arrived soon after, and restored my joie de vivre in no time. He’s an old friend and a marvellous eccentric who happens to own more land than any other man in the kingdom. The Shah of Persia (another notable eccentric) once advised me that Sutherland was too grand a subject and I’d be well advised to have his head off when I come to the throne. I never miss an opportunity to remind George of this.

  The alarm came at twenty minutes past eight. A house at the Leicester Square end of Coventry Street was well alight. Marvellous!

  It was on my list. The owner had died ten days ago, according to The Times. I told nobody the significance of the address at this juncture. I was playing a cautious hand, by Jove. I made sure that I was last in the rush to the fire-fighting vehicles. I watched two engines and an escape being whipped out, bells jangling. Flanagan and George Sutherland were aboard the first to leave.

  My team of two firemen waited deferentially for me to step up to the driver’s box, and I took my time, making certain that everyone else was out of the yard and would be clear of Chandos Street before we followed.

  “All ready, Your Highness?” the driver asked.

  I nodded. “Except that we shall not be going to the fire. Kindly drive to Eagle Street.”

  “Eagle Street, sir.”

  “Eagle Street, the other side of Holborn.”

  “I know it, sir, but I didn’t know there was a fire there.”

  “Wait and see,” I said cryptically.

  We set off northwards up St Martin’s Lane. People are pretty considerate when they see a fire appliance coming and we rattled through to High Holborn at a good trot.

  “Has the engine gone ahead, sir?” the driver enquired.

  “An engine won’t be required,” I told him. Perhaps I should explain that an escape, such as the vehicle I had commandeered, is simply a cart with extending ladders. The fire engine is the vehicle that provides the steam for the pumps. It is unusual, to say the least, for an escape to attend a fire in the absence of an engine. You can imagine the look on the face of my driver. The look became a study in disbelief when we turned into Eagle Street and there was no engine and no fire. Not even a puff of smoke.

  “Shall I turn about, sir?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him. “Draw up outside number 39.”

  “That’s Mr Flanagan’s address,” he informed me. “Our Superintendent.”

  “I’m aware of that. Just do as I say.”

  We trundled to a stop. There was no sign of a fire at 39, Eagle Street. Nobody was at the windows shrieking, or on the roof.

  “Raise the main ladder,” I ordered. “And make as little sound as possible.”

  The firemen exchanged mystified glances. Fortunately, they didn’t dare defy me. They cranked the ladder upwards.

  “That will do,” I presently said. “Now can you swing it closer to that large window at the top?”

  I made sure that the top of the ladder didn’t touch the window-sill, but it was pretty close. “Is it stable?” I asked. “In that case, I’m going up.”

  Watched by an interested collection of bystanders, I mounted the ladder briskly, as firemen do. I have an excellent head for heights and this was only three storeys high, so I went up almost without pause. I drew level with the window and looked in. This being a September evening, there was still a good light and the curtains had not been drawn. What I saw may offend some readers; it would have offended me, had I not been prepared. Indeed, I might well have fallen off the ladder.

  This was the Flanagans’ bedroom. There was a large double bed, occupied by the personable Dymphna Flanagan and a man who couldn’t possibly have been Flanagan, because Flanagan was fighting a fire in Coventry Street. Without wishing to be indelicate, I have to say that Dymphna and her visitor clearly weren’t discussing Irish politics. They were naked as cuckoos. I should state here that I’m no prude, and I’m no Peeping Tom either. The reason I remained staring into the room for two more minutes is that I needed to be certain of the man’s identity. I was waiting for him to turn his head.

  When he did, our eyes met. He saw me on my ladder and I saw Engineer Locke, Flanagan’s deputy.

  I had fully anticipated this, of course. Friday—every other Friday —was Henry Locke’s day off. He had been setting unoccupied houses alight once a fortnight in order to make sure that Flanagan was usefully occupied for the evening. And I had deduced it.

  One cannot defend an arsonist, yet I must admit to some sympathy for Henry Locke. It’s a frightful shock to be caught in flagrante by anyone, let alone the Heir Apparent in a fireman’s helmet poised atop a ladder.

  I descended, stepped to the front door and knocked. Dymphna herself answered, having flung a garment over her head in the short time it took me to dismount from the ladder. She even managed a curtsey. Perhaps she hoped that I hadn’t recognized her lover, for when I asked to speak to Engineer Locke she clapped her hand to her mouth. To his credit, Locke then stepped forward. There was a distinct whiff of paraffin coming from his clothes—more confirmation, if needed, that he was the arsonist.

  It was not needed, for he confessed to the crimes. Manfully he refused to implicate Dymphna in the fire-raising, though I’m privately certain she was an accessory.

  In November, 1870, Henry Locke pleaded guilty and was sentenced to penal servitude for life. You may think it a harsh sentence—as I do—for a crime passionnel, but that’s the penalty for arson, and it was a dangerous way to court a lady.

  Dymphna Flanagan parted from her husband soon after and took off to France with an onion-seller. Flanagan lost all his bounce and retired prematurely from the London Fire Brigade in 1873.

  To end on a rising note, Captain
Shaw kindly offered the unemployed servant Rudkin a job as a fireman third class, which he accepted. When I last enquired, he was performing ably. All things considered, I would recommend the fire service as a satisfying career for any man with a sense of public duty and a wife he can trust.

  THE CASE OF THE EASTER BONNET

  Good Friday, 1995. In their usual box at the Theatre Royal, John and Olga Hitchman were enjoying the new production of The Seagull unaware that a thief had just forced his way into their mansion on Lyncombe Hill. There would be rich pickings. The Hitchman family had made millions out of Bath stone and expanded into mineral extraction world wide. John had succeeded his father as company chairman.

  The thief was a high earner in his own line, a top professional, identified only by the name the press had given him: Macavity. ‘For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!’ runs the line in T.S.Eliot’s poem. Burglar alarms and security lights didn’t inhibit this cat burglar one bit. In the previous six months he had neutralised four expensive systems in the Bath area and profited by upwards of fifty thousand pounds. He picked his victims shrewdly, studied their routine and struck when they were not at home. He knew what he was after this time: Olga Hitchman was from a Russian emigre family. She owned a Fabergé egg her great-grandmother had been given by the Tsarina as an Easter gift in 1911. Gold, of course, intricately crafted, enamelled and inset with emeralds and rubies, it was insured for a six-figure sum.

  It was to be Macavity’s present to his partner Jenny. Her Easter Egg.

  Eventually he found the correct combination and removed the prize from the safe. The job had taken under two hours. He had left no prints and he took nothing else. He was out and into his black Alfa Romeo and away along the drive. Another coup for Macavity. Except that on his way downstairs he passed through a sensor he hadn’t been aware of. It triggered an alarm at Manvers Street Police Station and a response vehicle passing down Wellsway was diverted to the house.