mix a tonic for you. Hello, Colin. Glad Sara hasn’t worked you to death. But it’ll come, it’ll come.”
Lady Sara greeted him with a kiss. “Did you bring it?” she demanded.
“Of course I brought it. Did you think I would come without it? But it still isn’t clear to me what you wanted with it. On the telephone, you sounded as though the Houses of Parliament would collapse, the Thames would reverse its flow, and war would break out with France if this museum piece weren’t placed in your hands at precisely two o’clock. I wouldn’t have dared not bring it. Sorry the train was late.”
Chief Inspector Mewer, always fearful that London would be ravished by crime while he was absent from his office, was becoming increasingly impatient. He harrumphed twice, but Lady Sara was too occupied with Lord Anstee to notice.
Lord Anstee handed her a package. “I removed the handle,” he said. “Awkward to carry on a train with the handle attached. Hope you can manage without it. I’d hate to think war broke out with France because I left the handle at home.”
“I can manage splendidly without the handle,” Lady Sara assured him. “As for the train being late—bosh. I know when your train gets in. You would have arrived early if you hadn’t made a detour to the Caledonian Club.”
“How did you know?” Lord Anstee demanded.
“By the whisky Mac on your breath. The odor—or perhaps you would rather I said ‘fragrance’—of Scotch whisky and ginger wine is unmistakable, and nowhere else are the whisky Macs as potent, and as fragrant, as at the Caledonian Club.”
Lord Anstee laughed sheepishly. “The Caledonian wasn’t so very much out of my way, and train rides are a dull, dry business. A man has needs, you know.”
“I do know,” Lady Sara said with a laugh. “To tell the truth, you weren’t even late. Would you like me to mix you another?”
“Thank you, no. For all your talent, you don’t have quite the right touch for mixing drinks. A moderate drinker never does.” He nodded at the package. “Now that you’ve got it, do you need me?”
“I may,” Lady Sara said. “The Chief Inspector is a hard man to convince.”
The Chief Inspector was on the verge of exploding with impatience, but there was further delay while the Countess settled the question of tea with Lord Anstee. She departed, finally, taking the still-awed Reggie Dempster with her, and Lady Sara got everyone seated around the oaken table.
Because of his sturdy build, the Chief Inspector should have dominated the scene. He dominated most scenes he was a part of, but on that occasion, sitting next to Lady Sarah, an earl’s daughter, and across the table from Lord Anstee, a marquis, he shrank noticeably. Not only was he ill-at-ease, but he seemed to be following Mrs. Humphry’s credo concerning conversation with royal persons. He was waiting for someone to address him before he dared open his mouth.
Sir Thomas had a look of anticipation on his face.
Lady Sara turned to the Chief Inspector. “Have you found any animal tracks?”
He shifted his feet uneasily. “Well—no. Last night’s storm pretty much settled that, but we’re still looking. One might have been left in a sheltered place. If it was, we’ll find it. We only need one. Doctor MacIver—he’s the divisional police surgeon—agrees with me. Only an animal could have clawed the man’s face like that.”
“Have you identified the man?”
“Yes. His name is William Havill, usually called Bill, and he was employed at the London Docks as a night-watchman. He had always been steady and reliable, and he never missed work—until last night.”
“Then he was killed on his way to work,” Lady Sarah mused.
“The market wasn’t on his way to work. He came down Broad Street from his home—he lived over in Limehouse—and he should have continued straight ahead to the Shadwell New Basin warehouses. There was no reason for him to wander down toward the market. We’re wondering if he encountered the animal somewhere along Broad Street and was trying to escape from it.”
“Probably he encountered his murderer—murderers, more likely—and they forced him into a place where there would be no witnesses when they disposed of him. The area around the market is pretty much deserted early at night, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes.”
“Lord Anstee has brought something that will help you identify the animal. He has a remarkable collection of medieval torture instruments. This one is called a ‘Spanish Tickler.’”
She unwrapped the package Lord Anstee had given to her and took out a bar of iron about four and a half inches long and an inch thick. Curving out from it were four claw-like iron projections, each terminating in a razor point. There was a hole in the end of the bar where a round shaft could be inserted to serve as a handle.
Sir Thomas leaned forward and studied it intently. Then he smiled and shook his head in amazement. “You’ve convinced me,” he told Lady Sarah.
The Chief Inspector stared open-mouthed at the iron claws. He said nothing.
“It’s also known as a ‘Cat’s Paw,’” Lord Anstee said. “There are illustrations in early books showing how it was used. They would string a nude victim up, hoisting him high into the air by his thumbs or wrists, and then, with a long handle on this thing, they could rake his entire body with it—make a bloody mess of him in very short order. These points are sharp.”
Chief Inspector Mewer was still staring. “I’ll be—” He cleared his throat apologetically and then reached out a finger and tested the point of one of the iron claws. “You think something like this tore Havill’s face?”
“I’m sure of it,” Lady Sara said. “No animal would have raked both sides of his face simultaneously, and if he had raised his arms to protect himself, he wouldn’t have had the backs of both forearms raked—it would take an extremely awkward position to make that possible, try it. The claw marks would have gone across his arms, not down the length of them. Someone killed him with a vicious blow to his head. Then, with him lying on the ground dead, claw marks were produced on his face and the backs of his arms with an instrument like this. Because it was done after he was dead, there was very little blood.”
The Chief Inspector harumphed indignantly. “Then someone applied a fancy touch in an effort to confuse the police.”
“Possibly, but I doubt it,” Lady Sara said. “I take it you’ve found no reason why anyone would want to murder a steady, reliable worker like Havill. He couldn’t have been carrying much in the way of money or valuables. Since there were no witnesses, the police would have been confused enough without the claw marks. Someone had a reason for mutilating his face and arms. It may have been a ghoulish reason, but it was a reason. It does seem strange that there were no animal tracks, though.”
“But you just said there was no animal!” the Chief Inspector protested.
“There wasn’t. But if the murderers could mutilate the corpse with claw marks, they easily could have left a few fake animal tracks. It would have been the right artistic touch. I wonder why they didn’t.”
“I’m going to have a hard time convincing my superiors about
