man, sir?’ asked Bailey. ‘This Lord Wutherwood, I mean.’
‘Oh, pretty well, you know,’ said Alleyn vaguely. ‘There’s a monstrous place in Kent, I think. Not that that tells one anything. May have been hanging on by the skin of his teeth.’
‘It sounds an unpleasant business,’ said Dr Curtis. ‘Through the eye, didn’t you say?’
‘Yes. Beastly, isn’t it? Fox was very guarded when he rang up. I recognized his suspect-listening manner.’
‘Large family of Lampreys?’ asked Dr Curtis.
‘Masses of young, I fancy. Damn! We’re in for a nasty run, no doubt. Why the devil do these people have to get themselves messed up in a case like this?’
‘Another instance,’ said Dr Curtis dryly, ‘of the aristocracy mixing with the commonalty. They’ve tried trade and they’ve tried big business. Why not a spot of homicide? Sorry!’ he added uncomfortably. ‘Silly statement. Very unprofessional. The peer was probably pinked by a – what? A servant? A lunatic? Somebody with an axe to grind? Here we are in Sloane Street. Cadogan Gardens, isn’t it?’
‘Pleasaunce Court. Do you know the doctor, Curtis? His name’s Kantripp.’
‘I do, as it happens. He was in my first year at Thomas’s. Nice fellow. Awkward business for him if, as one supposes, he’s the family doctor.’
‘It may not be awkward. Let’s hope it’s a simple matter. Some nice homicidal maniac wandering about the top storey of Pleasaunce Court Mansions and going all haywire at the sight of an elderly peer in a lift. Let’s hope there are no axes to grind. Here’s the turning. How anybody can get a kick out of homicide is to me one of the major puzzles of psychology.’
‘Was there never a time,’ asked Curtis, ‘when you read murder cases in your newspaper with avidity?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes.’
‘And do they always bore you, nowadays?’
Alleyn grinned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not bored by my job. One gets desperately sick of routine at times but it would be an affectation to pretend one was bored. People interest me and homicide cases are so terrifically concerned with people. Each locked up inside his mental bomb-proof shelter, and then, suddenly, the holocaust. Most murders are really very squalid affairs, of course, but there’s always the element that pressmen call the human angle. All the same, Curtis, it’s a beastly sort of stimulus. One would have to be very case-hardened to feel nothing but technical interest. O Lord, here we go! There’s a gaggle of PCs coming along in the car behind. Fox said we might need some spare parts.’
The car pulled up. With that unmistakable air of being about their business, the four men got out and walked up the steps. A knives-to-grind, returning from a profitable day in Chelsea paused at Pleasaunce Court corner and addressed himself to a newsboy.
‘Wot’s up in vere?’ asked the knives-to-grind.
‘Wot’s up in where?’
‘In vere. In vem Mensions.’
The newsboy looked. ‘Coo! P’lice.’
‘P’lice!’ said the knives-to-grind contemptuously. ‘I believe you! ’Ere! Know ’oo that is? That’s ‘Endsome Ell-een.’
‘Crippy, your right, mate! Fency me missing ’m! I’ve doubled me sales on ‘Endsome Ell-een many an evenin’. Coo, there’s ’is cemera-bloke. That’s a cemera all right in that box. And ’tover bloke’ll be ’is finger-print expert.’
‘It’s a cise for the Yawd,’ said the knives-to-grind.
‘Ar. Murder,’ agreed the newsboy.
‘Not necessairilly.’
‘Garn! Wot’s the cemera for if it’s not murder? Taking photers of the lift-man? Not necessairilly! ’Ere, wite on! I’ll git orf a Stendard on the old bloke in the ’all.’
The newsboy ran up the steps crying in a respectful manner. ‘Stendard, sir, Stendard?’ The knives-to-grind thoughtfully salvaged a cigarette butt from the kerb and put it in his waistcoat pocket. A second car drew up and four constables got out and entered the flats.
The newsboy reappeared and with an unconvincing show of nonchalance returned to his post.
‘Well,’ asked his friend, ‘’ow abaht it?’
‘Been a neccident.’
‘What sorta eccident?’
‘Old bloke ’ad ’is eye jabbed aht in the lift.’
‘Garn!’
‘Yeah,’ said the newsboy, assuming a slightly hard-boiled transatlantic manner. ‘And it’s just too bad abaht ’im. ’E’s a gorner.’
‘Dead?’
‘Stiff.’
‘Cor!’
‘Eccident!’ said the newsboy with ineffable scorn.
‘Eccident! Oh yeah?’
‘Wiv cops and cemeras floating in by dozins,’ agreed his friend. ‘Oh, yeah? Not ’alf. I don’t fink.’
And taking up the shafts of his grindstone he trundled down Pleasaunce Court, pausing at the corner to raise the mournful cry of his trade.
‘Knives to grind? Knives to grind?’
His voice floated up in the evening air. Alleyn heard it as he rang the Lampreys’ doorbell.
‘Any old knives to grind?’
Fox had lavished the most delicate attention on the skewer. It was tied down to a strip of cardboard and lay in a long box. Alleyn held the box under the lamp. The plated ring at the broad end of the skewer caught the light and glinted. The blade did not glint. It had had time to dry a little.
‘Disgusting,’ said Alleyn. He laid down the box. ‘Yours, Bailey. The blade had obviously been lifted by the point.’
‘That’s me,’ said Dr Kantripp. ‘I thought it better to avoid the ring as much as possible, though of course in drawing it out –’
‘Of course,’ said Dr Curtis.
‘Well, you’d better try the ring and top of the shaft, Bailey,’ said Alleyn.
‘It’s
