Art in the Blood - a Gaslight short story “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” Lady Evangeline St. Claire muttered the Shakespeare quotation, while surveying the corpse weltering in its gore. Beside and slightly behind her, Rhiannon Moore – her partner in the private detective enterprise, as well as in life – pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, and stared at the body in the centre of the wide-spread scarlet pool. A fly buzzed in through the open window and settled on the dead man’s eyelid, which had frozen open to show a crescent slit of white. “That’s not all blood,” said Inspector Harry Valentine, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat, and rocking back and forth on his heels as was his habit. The Scotland Yard inspector had a unlit cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth. “Alfred de Morgan is an artist… but perhaps I ought to let his friend, Mr. Watts, give you the particulars.” He indicated a gentleman standing nearby, his back to the gory scene. Solomon Watts proved to be a very neat and tidy figure of a man; he was spotless, perfectly groomed from his pomaded head down to his masterfully shined shoes. “Alfred and I were boys together in school,” he said, looking down his nose at Lina – a difficult feat since she was unusually tall for a woman – and sniffing loudly. It was clear from his expression that he disapproved of her, a female inquiry agent whose conduct was far outside the bounds of polite Society… even if she was the daughter of a Duchess. He glanced at Valentine, received a bare-toothed grin of encouragement, and went on with obvious misgivings, “At any rate, Alfred and I were rivals for the affections of a young lady, the Honourable Miss Caroline Leighton. Last week, I learned that Alfred was the lucky chap who won the fair lady, and we had a falling out. He’s one of my oldest friends, after some consideration, I felt that I should extend the olive branch, hence my visit to his studio.” “What happened?” Rhiannon asked, carefully not eyeing the body, but still unable to block it out entirely from her peripheral vision. In death, Alfred de Morgan was unlovely, lying on his face with his limbs a-sprawl in the pool blood and vermilion paint that surrounded him. The stain was contained to the immediate area, and had not spread beyond. There was a single small splash of blood – a few elongated droplets – on the wall near the window, where the artist had set up his easel. She caught Lina’s gaze and nodded towards the splatter, gratified at her partner’s answering nod. “The poor fellow!” Watts grimaced. “In his haste to greet me, Alfred dropped a pot of paint on the floor, then he slipped and struck his head on the corner of the work table. I suppose the blow killed him instantly. A most unfortunate incident, most grievous…. had I not been eager to take his hand, had I been able to break his fall, Alfred might still be alive.” “Yes, if you were close enough,” Lina ventured, and Watts interrupted. “Our fingertips actually touched,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning pale. “I blame myself. I might have saved my dearest friend! This guilt will haunt me forever. I do not know what I will tell Miss Leighton. She will be utterly desolate.” “I see.” Lina turned to Inspector Valentine. “How were the police alerted?” “The maid,” Valentine said, taking the cigar out of his mouth and inspecting the chewed end. “She was upstairs and heard a thud. She came straight down, and found de Morgan as you see him, and Watts in the room as well.” “Harry, Alfred de Morgan was murdered, and before you stands the murderer!” Lina said, taking hold of Watt’s upper arm. The man’s convulsive jerk was arrested by her strong grip. Rhiannon took a step backwards, realized she was almost treading in the pool of drying blood and paint, and found herself standing near Inspector Valentine. “Care to explain?” Valentine asked Lina with a hint of sarcasm. He took a pair of Darby handcuffs out of his pocket and held them loosely while watching Watts, who pulled his arm out of Lina’s grasp. “Woman, are you deranged?” Watts asked Lina angrily, smoothing his rumpled jacket sleeve, then turning to Valentine. “You should keep better control of your… of Lady St. Claire. I am not in the mood for jests, nor do I appreciate being mauled.” Lina’s expression might have been carved from stone. “Did you believe that by eliminating Mr. de Morgan, you might have a better chance at winning the fair lady?” “I will not stand here and be insulted.” “On the contrary,” Lina said, her voice cold and silky. Rhiannon recognized that tone, and felt a frisson of sympathetic apprehension shiver down her spin. When her partner spoke so softly, so smoothly, it boded very ill, indeed. “Are you certain that you do not wish to make a confession at once, and save Scotland Yard and the Crown a good deal of trouble?” Watts sneered. The glance he threw Valentine’s way was full of scorn. “Are you going to allow this female to usurp your duty? What sort of man are you?” A flush crept across Valentine’s cheeks, but he did not say a word. Lina went on, “You came to the studio to see your ‘old friend,’ and I suspect you did not intend to kill him. That decision was made later, at the spur of the moment. Perhaps you argued with Mr. de Morgan regarding Miss Leighton. You snatched up a weapon and struck! Hearing the maid coming downstairs, you thought quickly, and poured red paint around the body to support your tale of accidental death.” “Madness! Hysterical madness!” Watts was sweating. Fascinated, Rhiannon watched a glistening bead slide down his temple, and slant towards the corner of his mouth. “Why are you subjecting me to this travesty?” he asked Valentine. “I suggest you pay attention to the lady,” was the inspector’s laconic reply. “Harry, you ought to have some of your men comb through the garden, particularly in the area beneath the open window. They will be searching for a candlestick, a small bronze… something with blood on it. I doubt Mr. Watts had time enough to cleanse his weapon of the evidence of his crime.” Valentine moved to the window, while watching Watts out of the corner of his eye. “Oi! You lot! Come here!” A muscle beneath Watts’ eye began to twitch. Lina gave him a predatory smile. The hair on the back of Rhiannon’s neck prickled. Tension thickened in the room. The fly buzzed into the air and butted against the window pane, its sound a harsh rattle in the otherwise quiet room. Rhiannon blinked. Suddenly, Watts moved. He started for the door, which put him between Lina and Valentine. The inspector made an aborted lunge, brought up short by Rhiannon, who darted forward and thrust out a foot to trip Watts. The man fell headlong, skidded on the floor, struck the wainscoting, and lay in a crumpled heap, semi-conscious and groaning. Rhiannon, meanwhile, clung to Lina’s hastily offered arm until she regained her balance. The fly found the open window and escaped to freedom. Watts did not. In a few moments, he was handcuffed and in the custody of a pair of burly constables. Rather than immediately transport his prisoner to the Metropolitan Police headquarters on the Victoria Embankment, he lingered and raised his brows at Lina, clearly waiting for an explanation. In response to his mute inquiry, Lina settled Rhiannon on her feet, wound an arm around her waist, and said, “Had events transpired in the manner in which Mr. Watts described – had he indeed been close enough to the unfortunate de Morgan to touch him - then he should have red paint splashed about his person. Most especially his shoes, which you will note show no trace of anything other than the boot boy’s polish.” Rhiannon’s gaze was drawn to Watts’ shoes, the leather glossy and without a speck of dust or paint to mar the shiny surface. “Furthermore, I believe when the police surgeon removes the body, you will find that the area directly beneath it is clean, therefore proving that the paint was spilled after de Morgan’s demise.” Lina took a breath, and transfixed Watts with a triumphant glare. “The fact that he chose a weapon of convenience speaks to the ill-considered nature of the crime. Had he intended harm to his former friend, Mr. Watts would have brought something more appropriate to the scene, such as a revolver. As to his haste… you told me, Harry, that the maid was summoned by a thud, which must have been caused by de Morgan’s collapse after Watts inflicted the fatal head wound. The murderer had no time for detailed concealment. He threw his weapon out of the open window, tipped the paint pot, and pretended horror.” Watts said nothing, but the hatred in his glittering gaze told its own tale. A young woman, fashionably and expensively dressed, came to the door. She was pretty in a chocolate box fashion, all blonde and pale except for twin spots of hectic colour on her cheeks. “Solomon? What’s happened? They told me that Alfred…” The silence in the room was broken by a brassy buzzing as a fly, disturbed by a constable who had found a bloodied candlestick in the rose bushes outside and raised a shout, flew in through the open window. The sound quieted when the insect settled on the sticky blood surrounding the body, and began to feed. A heartbeat later, startled by Miss Leighton’s screams of anguish and horrified disbelief, the fly departed through the window once more. It did not return when the silence was restored after Miss Leighton swooned. THE END |