Byways to Evil. Lloyd Biggle, jr.

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      Compared with the brightness of central London, St. George Street was dark and rather quiet. It was named for St. George’s in the East, one of the great churches of London. Establishments like the Seamen’s Mission Hall and the Seamen’s Chapel indicated how close we were to the docks. There also was Jamrack’s, where you could place an order for any living creature that interested you, from a humming-bird to an elephant, and eventually get it. At that hour of the night, long stretches of the street were deserted except for scattered groups of people talking or sitting in front of open doors. Perhaps they were already discussing the horror that had occurred at Shadwell Market.

      In neighbourhoods near the docks, an apparently deserted street conveyed no impression of emptiness. Every second or third house was a pub, and all of their patrons were seamen with wives or sweethearts. From the open doors came strains of robust sailors’ songs, sung with an excess of enthusiasm and a marked absence of musical talent.

      When we reached the turning to the market, we found the street blocked. Three constables were directing traffic away—not that there was much to direct. Shadwell Market had been established as a fish market to compete with Billingsgate. It did not seem to be thriving, but it tenuously survived. It did its business in the morning, however, opening at five o’clock. During the early hours of the night, the area should have been all but deserted, but police milled about with flares and bull’s-eye lanterns. Points of light flitted here and there as though someone had mobilized an army of fireflies.

      Old John brought the carriage to a halt, and Lady Sara leaned out. “What’s going on here?” she demanded of the constable.

      He turned his light on her for a second and then directed it away apologetically. All of the police in the metropolitan area knew Lady Sara well and admired her. They considered her their friend and supporter, which she was, but the constable seemed reluctant to discuss this particular crime even with her.

      “There’s been a n’awful murder, my lady,” he said. “I have to ask you to move on.”

      “Where is Chief Inspector Mewer?”

      “The Chief Inspector is busy. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to move.”

      “So am I busy,” Lady Sara said. “Tell the Chief Inspector I want to see him.”

      The constable hesitated helplessly. At that moment a sergeant arrived, and the constable said in hushed tones, “Lady Sara wants to see Chief Inspector Mewer.”

      The sergeant knew how to deal with a problem like that. He went looking for his inspector. Old John was allowed to make his turn and wait for instructions.

      Eventually Chief Inspector Mewer appeared. He had his regular duties, but within the confines of Scotland Yard he was known as Commander of the Lady Sara Branch, the commissioner having decided years before that making one senior officer responsible for handling Lady Sara’s complaints, requests, suggestions, and revelations would be time saving. The Chief Inspector bore the burden of that responsibility with gloomy resignation.

      He murmured, “Evening, my lady.” Then he demanded, “What are you doing here?”

      He was not exceptionally tall, but he was unusually sturdy-looking, a Gibraltar of a man, and his mere presence at the scene of a crime brought comfort to victims and fright to anyone with a guilty conscience. When he chose to display it, he had a gentle refinement that seemed entirely out of character, but usually he hid this behind his bristling moustache. He might have been the prototype of the music hall joke that asked, “Who’s that gentleman?” And answered, “That’s no gentleman. That’s a police officer.”

      “What am I usually doing?” Lady Sara asked.

      “Something horrible has happened,” he said. His voice was sharply accusatory as though she were somehow responsible.

      “I heard. Your wife made it sound like another Jack-the-Ripper murder.”

      “That’s what the constables who found the body thought, but they were far off the mark. As near as we can make out, there’s some kind of wild animal loose along the waterfront. It’s killed a man—mutilated him horribly. As you know, animals like lions and tigers are imported from time to time for zoos and other exhibitions. We’re checking to see if one could have escaped from a ship. We’re also trying to get hold of someone from Jamracks to see whether they are missing an animal.”

      “How did the animal kill him?” Lady Sara asked.

      “He was clawed—as I said, horribly. Practically had his face torn away.”

      “That killed him?” Lady Sara asked sceptically.

      “He also suffered a blow to the head and claw marks on his arms from trying to defend himself.”

      “I want to see this corpse myself,” Lady Sara said.

      The Chief Inspector looked at her angrily. Lady Sara was always challenging his sensitivities by demanding to see and discuss things that he felt compelled to protect her from.

      “Come along,” he said finally. He had learned that arguing with her was a waste of time.

      The police were still awaiting the arrival of the divisional surgeon, and the body lay on its back where it had fallen—not in the market area, but in an adjoining street. It was a ghastly horror. The animal had swiped the unfortunate man’s face twice, or done it simultaneously with both front paws. Flesh had been ripped from the face. The left eye had been torn out. The Chief Inspector showed us how the victim had raised his hands to defend himself. Claws had ripped his coat sleeves away and cut vicious stripes along almost the whole length of the back of his forearms. The blow to his head had crushed the skull on the left rear side.

      For more than a minute, Lady Sara stood scrutinizing the corpse. It was always a moment of high drama when she stepped onto the stage where a crime had occurred, but she behaved so quietly, not to mention decorously, that the police, and especially Chief Inspector Mewer, never seemed to comprehend what was taking place. I had seen it happen so often—her level, emotionless gaze, her complete indifference to what was happening around her, her intense examination of the entire scene, and then the sudden question or revelation—that I always held my breath while I waited. I performed my own scrutiny at the same time, but only rarely did my deductions keep pace with hers.

      It was a moment of high drama, but it was not a performance. She never displayed her deductive abilities merely for effect or to impress bystanders. She said only what the occasion called for, and she was careful not to burden anyone, especially the police, with flights of deduction they would not be able to follow.

      She took a step backward and asked a constable to direct his lantern at the cobbles surrounding the corpse. They looked bare, but she studied them with care anyway. Then she returned her attention to the dead man.

      “There doesn’t seem to be much blood,” she observed suddenly.

      “There isn’t much to be seen,” the Chief Inspector conceded. “There may be a pool of it under the body.”

      “Or there may not be,” she said. Leaning over, she placed her fingers next to the dead man’s face, using them to measure the spacing of the claw marks. Then she raised his head. Again she called for light, and when she had examined the cobbles under the СКАЧАТЬ