When he talked her—us—back to our present surroundings, I knew he had been successful. Without mumbo jumbo, his ordinary magic had worked. Most unexpectedly, it had worked on me; I felt as refreshed and relaxed as my partner told Alcinda she now felt.
Although Felicity and Alcinda said there was no need for us to accompany them all the way back to Sydenham, Jesperson insisted. What if Smurl should be lurking outside their home, with an accomplice, ready to seize his escaped prisoner? Perhaps Miss Travers might like to reconsider. We could go to Scotland Yard before we left London …
But she was adamant that she would bring no charges against Mr. Smurl and begged us to respect her decision.
We walked to the Holborn Viaduct Station, and from there bought tickets to Sydenham. It was just as well, really, that we had come, because although Felicity had a return ticket, she did not have quite enough money to buy a single for Alcinda. I wondered, as Jesperson dug into his pocket to pay for one first-class single and two returns, if we would ever make any money from the curious cases we took on.
Leaving the two sisters outside their house—they preferred to be alone with their family—I felt that we were being gently pushed out of the story; whatever explanation Alcinda had come up with would not feature the names of Jesperson and Lane. But if that was their decision, what right had we to argue? Sometimes good deeds must be their own reward.
No one was waiting for them with evil intent. The street was quiet; a few birds singing in the trees. After we had seen them go safely inside, my partner and I set off, without discussion, for Smurl’s house.
It was evening by the time we arrived; the streetlamps were not yet lit, but most of the houses along the street now had warmly glowing windows, hinting at comfort within—except for Smurl’s. But someone was ahead of us, someone had pushed open the gate beside the laburnum bush, and was making his way, steps a trifle hesitant, towards the front door.
The figure looked familiar. In a moment, I recognized the cemetery’s caretaker, Eric Bailey.
We continued to approach the house, walking more slowly to observe him. He rapped several times upon the door: the sound carried clearly through the quiet air. We heard him call out to Mr. Smurl, identifying himself, but received no response. By this time, we were just outside the gate, so we were able to watch him try the door handle, and then bend to inspect the keyhole.
When he straightened, his manner had changed. I wondered if he had seen something through the keyhole that worried him. He rubbed his chin and fidgeted nervously, turning around on the spot. At this point, Mr. Jesperson opened the gate, and we walked through.
Giving a start of surprise, the man called out an uncertain greeting.
“Good evening,” said Jesperson, touching his hat. “We meet again, Mr. Bailey!”
Recognizing us, he relaxed a little. “Why, fancy! Have you come to call on Mr. Smurl?”
“Indeed. That brochure you gave me was very interesting. I thought I should like to hear more about his famous security coffin, from the inventor himself.”
He could not have looked more astonished if my friend had said he’d an invitation from Saint Peter to discuss his place in Heaven. “You don’t mean to say Mr. Smurl invited you here, to his house?”
“Why, is that so unusual?”
“Never heard of such a thing! Never for business, and not for anything else since his wife took ill—four, five, maybe six years now? I felt a bit strange coming here myself, but didn’t know what else to do. They haven’t seen him in the parlor since he left just before one. I expected him at three o’clock, but when he didn’t show up, didn’t think too much about it. He likes to show his face at the graveside, but I thought something must have come up. They told me he missed two meetings, and never a note, never a word of explanation—well, that’s not like him. He went home for his dinner at one o’clock; I thought, if his wife had taken a turn for the worse …” He mentally pulled himself back, looked sharply at Mr. Jesperson. “You had an appointment? You say he invited you here, to his own private abode, to talk business?”
“No, I did not say that. I decided to call by, on the chance. But I take it he is not at home.”
He’s on the run, I thought. Packed up his remaining “wives” and headed for the Continent to hide out. Or maybe they were in Southampton, planning to sail to America, where he might hope to be met with open arms by the polygamous Mormons.
Eric Bailey shook his head unhappily. “The door is locked from the inside.”
“Perhaps his wife is not inclined to admit anyone before her husband returns.”
“Mrs. Smurl is an invalid. He has told me so often enough. She could not come downstairs to let him in—or to lock the door.”
“There must be another way out,” I said. “A back door, into the garden.”
There was a high wall and a locked gate barring access to the back garden, but this, of course, was small obstacle to a long-legged, strong, and agile young man. While we waited for Jesperson to come back and tell us, as I expected, that the house was empty, our quarry flown, Mr. Bailey and I looked at each other and then awkwardly away, finding nothing to say. A very long minute or so went by before we heard him coming back over the wall.
In the gloom, his face was ghostly.
“I think, Mr. Bailey, you had better go for the police,” he said.
* * *
On the side of the house, as he told us, there were French doors that served as the dining-room window. Looking in, he had glimpsed what he described as a tableaux of death. Although many details were obscured by darkness, the positions of the bodies—fallen across the table, collapsed in chairs, or in a contorted position on the floor—suggested they had all died quite suddenly and horribly.
“Bodies?” squeaked the guardian of the cemetery in horror. “But whose?”
“One man, five women,” he replied shortly. “Although I am certain they are all past saving, nevertheless—what is the quickest way to the local police station?”
We went with him but, as strangers to Mr. Smurl, were not detained. We learned the results of the police investigation only after they were made public and, although we did not agree with their conclusion, it seemed neither necessary nor wise to tell them so.
Albert Smurl was a respected local figure with many influential friends. The official verdict was “accidental death” caused by the ingestion of an arsenic-laced soup. There was never the slightest suggestion of murder—except amongst low-minded gossips. It could only be an accident. Mr. Smurl’s mother was known to be wandering in her wits. Perhaps, trying to be helpful, she had put what she thought was salt into the soup prepared by her daughter-in-law. “Who keeps arsenic in the kitchen?” was not a question anyone felt like asking.
The questions that were asked largely concerned the identities of the three unknown women who had been dining with the Smurls. From their closeness in age and genteel dress it was thought they were more likely friends of Mrs. Smurl than servants or impecunious relations. There was evidence within the house to show that they had probably been living there for some weeks or months at least.
Newspapers cooperated with the police in requesting that anyone with missing female relatives of the right age should come forward. The postmortem photographs of the nameless victims were too unpleasant to be published but might be inspected at the local police station. I don’t know how many people came forward, but if anyone ever said, “Why, if I didn’t know she had died three years ago, I should say that was a picture of my neighbor’s daughter!” that news was not reported, and the identities of those three women remained a mystery to the police and public.