The Vice Society by James McCreet Read Free Book Online

time in the company of Sergeant Williamson has taught you something of investigation.’
    ‘Yes, s—. Yes, Inspector Newsome.’
    The room was cold due to the window still being wide open. The inspector walked over and looked at the ledge outside where the victim must have held on. There were no marks, but the night rain may have obliterated any. A scuff mark on the wall below the window may or may not have been caused by a rapid exit.
    ‘What causes a man to leap from a third-floor window?’ said Mr Newsome.
    ‘Perhaps he was thrown,’ offered Constable Cullen.
    ‘I think not. Had he been thrown, I fear he would have gone head-first and been unable to grab hold of the ledge. No – something happened here that he wanted to escape from. And the door must have been barred to him.’
    ‘There are four dirty glasses here,’ said Mr Cullen pointing to a plain three-legged table. ‘Were not only two men present?’
    Mr Newsome bent and smelled each glass. ‘Sherry. I must speak again to Mrs Colliver about her claim that the men ordered no drink. What else?’
    ‘Neither bed appears to have been slept in. They are barely disturbed.’
    ‘True, but look here by the pillow of the bed nearer the window: a long blonde hair, possibly of the unruly variety. Neither man had such hair.’
    ‘Did the gentlemen have a lady in the room with them, then?’
    ‘That remains to be seen, Constable. If they did, they did not use the beds, and she must have made a hasty exit after the precipitation of Mr Sampson. Or perhaps the hair has been here for weeks. Keep looking; there must be something else.’
    In truth, there was little else to be seen. It was a room like any other room of its sort: a hearth with the fire long ago burned to ashes; a generic rustic painting slightly askew on the wall; a few sticks of unimpressive furniture and a smeared looking glass above a table.
    ‘Can you smell something, Inspector?’
    Mr Newsome sniffed. ‘Nothing unusual. What is it?’
    ‘I don’t know . . . just the faintest . . . I don’t recognize it.’
    ‘I cannot smell anything. Have the chamber pots been used?’
    Mr Cullen gingerly pulled them out from under each bed. He held out the one from the bed where they had found the hair. ‘Yes. Look.’
    ‘I have seen the contents of a pot before, Constable.’
    ‘No, sir. It is something else.’
    The two peered inside the gleaming white interior at the small brown mass inside.
    ‘The pith and pips of an orange,’ said Mr Newsome blankly. ‘Perhaps it is that you could smell.’
    ‘But there is no skin. Just this one chewed mouthful spat into the pot.’
    ‘So what are you saying? That our case rests upon a missing fruit? Are we to alert the police constables of the city to keep an eye out for an injured orange?’
    ‘No . . . but Sergeant Williamson—’
    ‘Sergeant Williamson is no longer with us. We will have to do without him and his superhuman detective vision. I will admit, however, that there is a mystery here: the four glasses, the single strand of hair, the reason for Mr Sampson’s leap. There are people we must speak to, and we can begin with Mrs Colliver.’
    The two investigators ensured that the room was secure and returned downstairs to the private quarters of the landlady, where the air was close and hot from the fire. No matter what the temperature, Mrs Colliver did not remove her bonnet, nor loosen the cords that held it stubbornly to her head. The two policemen had already removed their coats before sitting at the bare table in the centre of the room.
    ‘Do you want coffee?’ asked Mrs Colliver.
    ‘That would be very nice,’ said Constable Cullen.
    ‘We will not, thank you,’ said Mr Newsome. ‘Let us get straight to business. I know, madam, that you have recounted the facts before, but I may understand them differently. I am a member of the Detective Force.’
    ‘What’s that, then?’
    ‘It is a lot of trouble for you if you don’t moderate your tone.