CHAPTER 11

No sooner had Beech arrived at his desk than a constable appeared with an urgent message from the Murcheson house. “Please come at once. Your constable is gravely ill,” the message read, and Beech noted that the time on the message was just five minutes ago. He lost no time in summoning a police car to drive him with all possible speed to Belgravia. There he was met by a distraught cook who informed him, between sobs, that she had been unable to rouse Constable Eastman all morning and he was still, seemingly, unconscious, “if not worse!” she wailed. “We let him sleep in this morning because he said he would stay awake during the night, in case Dodds came back. But Esme took him a cup of tea at lunchtime and she couldn’t rouse him. Lordy, haven’t we had enough death in this house, sir?” she continued in some distress as Beech made his way down to Dodds’ room, off the kitchen.

Eastman was lying on the bed, still in his trousers, shirt, and braces. Whatever had overcome him was swift and happened before he had time to undress. Beech was able to discern some faint, shallow breathing, and an odor. Of what? Pears? Unhesitatingly, he grabbed the telephone and dialed the exchange, requesting an ambulance with the utmost urgency.

By now, there was a little huddle of tearful female staff in the doorway. “Will he live, sir?” asked a tremulous Esme.

“It may be touch and go,” answered Beech, as he replaced the receiver. “The constable appears to have been poisoned.”

The cook shrieked her distress. “It weren’t nothing I gave him, sir! We all ate the same mutton pie with treacle pudding for afters and we’re all alright.”

Beech looked stern. “You’re quite sure about that? There was nothing that Constable Eastman ate or drank that was different from all of you?”

“Well, he did have five mugs of cocoa, sir,” said the parlormaid, Anne, in a timid voice.

“But we all had a mug, too,” Esme pointed out. “It was just that the constable said he loved cocoa and he always drank lots of it.”

“Where is this cocoa?” asked Beech. Esme pointed to a shelf behind him.

“It’s Mr Dodds’ special blend, sir,” she said. “He said he gave it to the master, God rest his soul. He said that a good mug of cocoa always helped people sleep.”

“And it does, too, sir,” added the cook, drying her eyes on her apron. “I never used to sleep well at all until Mr Dodds shared his special cocoa with us.”

Beech opened the tin and sniffed the cocoa powder gingerly. “Well, it smells like cocoa but I suspect it has something in it that has caused the constable to be taken ill. That would probably explain, too, why you all slept through the night of the murder and did not hear Lady Harriet or her husband screaming.”

Cook looked horrified. “Do you mean to say that that awful Mr Dodds has been drugging us every night?”

“Well, yes. It would seem so.”

The ambulance bell could suddenly be heard in the distance and Beech screwed up the lid of the cocoa jar and motioned the women to make way.

“I can’t lift Eastman up; he’s a dead weight. He’ll have to be stretchered. Ladies, I suggest you make yourself scarce, so that the ambulance men can have ready access.”

“But, sir, what about our protection? We shall be even more afraid of Dodds coming back … now that we know he’s capable of anything.” Cook looked as though she was about to start crying again.

“Well, Constable Rigsby will have to stay here tonight, until I can find a replacement. Will that suit you, ladies?” There were general smiles and murmurs of relief all round as Beech left to instruct the ambulance crew.

*   *   *

Caroline arrived at the Women’s Hospital feeling sluggish and bloated after the large lunch forced upon her in the Grosvenor Hotel by Lady Maud.

At least I won’t have to worry about eating this evening, she thought gratefully, as she unlocked her consulting room and started her preparations for ward rounds.

She was just buttoning up her white coat when a flustered Beech arrived.

“Hello, old thing,” he said distractedly and brandished a tin of cocoa at her.

“It’s a little early for cocoa, isn’t it, Peter?” she said dryly. “It’s only two-thirty in the afternoon.”

“Ah, yes. The cocoa. Look, the constable I installed at the Murcheson house appears to have been poisoned …”

“Good Lord!”

“… yes. And the cocoa would appear to be the culprit. I was wondering if your pharmacist lady might be able to do some tests?”

Caroline smiled. “Mabel would love to do that. Come with me.”

She walked briskly down the corridor, Beech trailing behind her, and informed the receptionist that she was taking the Chief Inspector through to the pharmacy. It was down in the bowels of the building and, as usual, the ever-busy Mabel was peering down a microscope and making some notes.

“Mabel! I’ve brought Chief Inspector Beech to see you,” Caroline announced and Mabel looked up expectantly.

“Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector,” she said breezily. “I won’t shake your hand at the moment, though. I’m just dealing with some tuberculosis bacterium.”

“Er … I quite understand,” said Beech, suddenly feeling outnumbered by very intelligent women who made him feel rather inadequate.

“Mabel,” Caroline said cheerily, “Peter has a suspected poisoning case he needs some help with.”

Mabel looked as though someone had brought her a box of chocolates. “Splendid!” she exclaimed. “Let me just wash and disinfect my hands and I’ll be right with you.”

While she was preparing herself, Beech explained the situation.

“I’ve just had to hospitalize one of my constables who was found in a stupor having consumed five mugs of cocoa last night. The cocoa was a special concoction of a man, who is now on the run, and he was giving it to the staff of the house where he worked, so that they would sleep soundly at night. I was hoping you might be able to tell me what’s in this tin.”

He placed the tin of cocoa on Mabel’s workbench, and she opened it carefully and sniffed.

“Definitely cocoa,” she said with a grin, “but I do detect a slightly acrid undertone,” she added, as though appraising fine wine. “Let’s have a proper look.” Taking a long-handled spoon, she carefully scooped a little of the powder on to a glass slide and deftly slid it under her microscope. “Did you notice any odors from the body?” she asked.

“Yes!” Beech remembered swiftly. “Like pears, or some sort of fruit?”

“Chloral hydrate!” said Caroline and Mabel together.

Mabel peered into her microscope. “Yes, it looks as though it’s chloral hydrate mixed in with the cocoa. I can see some colorless globules. Is your constable a big man?”

“Yes,” said Beech, “about six feet two but not stocky. I’m told he’s a fast runner, so he’s on the thin side, if you understand me. Will he live?” Beech asked anxiously.

“I would think so,” answered Mabel, “but I can’t be certain. It depends on the state of his liver and kidneys. He must have ingested—let’s see …” she looked at the instructions on the tin “… three heaped teaspoons per cup, so that’s fifteen heaped teaspoons … my guess is around 10 grams of chloral hydrate, which can be a fatal dose but probably not enough to kill a big man. How long had he been unconscious?”

“At least fourteen hours, I understand.”

“Ah, well, he should be fine. Deaths from overdose usually occur within eight hours or less.” She peered in the microscope again. “Plus the fact that the man who mixed the chloral hydrate with the cocoa used Dutch processed cocoa, where it has been washed with potassium carbonate, which makes the cocoa darker and almost alkaline, as opposed to unprocessed cocoa, which is very acidic. Chloral hydrate can begin to degrade in potency when it comes into contact with alkalines, so it may actually have lost a little of its strength lying in the tin with the processed cocoa.” She looked satisfied and smiled at Beech. “Your man should live providing, as I said, he has a healthy liver and kidneys, but he could have prolonged vomiting or diarrhea when he comes round, so I should warn the hospital to turn him on his side while he’s still unconscious. Oh, and tell them not to bother with a stomach pump. He will have metabolized the chloral hydrate hours ago.”

“I’ll phone them,” volunteered Caroline. “Where is he? Charing Cross?”

Beech nodded and turned to Mabel. “Thank you … er …”

“Mabel …” she gently reminded him.

“Thank you, Mabel. I really appreciate your assistance. That was very impressive.” Beech offered his hand.

“Anytime,” said Mabel. “I mean that. I enjoy analysis. Feel free to contact me anytime.”

“I may just hold you to that,” Beech answered, shaking Mabel’s hand with sincere appreciation.

“Oh, by the way, Caroline,” Mabel added, “I did some more tests on your sample of heroin. It was mixed with hydrated magnesium silicate and cornstarch … in other words, talcum powder. Which means it is definitely adulterated by criminals, not a pharmacy.”

“Why do you say, that, Mabel? asked Beech, curiously.

“A pharmacist would never use talc in one of their powders. Not for any moral reason, I hasten to add—some of the disreputable chemists use far worse adulterants—but just because talc is not soluble in water and leaves a greasy film of powder on a glass. Most chemists produce powders that are supposed to be dissolved in a glass of liquid. No, the heroin I tested was meant to be sniffed and that is the favorite method of application on the streets.”

“Thank you, Mabel.” Caroline flashed her a grateful smile.

“Yes, thank you indeed, Mabel. Most helpful.” Beech was truly impressed.

As Caroline and Beech made their way back to the front door, he said quietly, “That lady could be a very useful addition to our team.”

Caroline laughed softly. “Mabel would love that. Really she would. Shall I invite her round for tea one day and we can offer her membership?”

Beech smiled. “Once we have this case done and dusted, and we have the tacit approval from the Commissioner to continue, I think that would be a very good idea.” He pecked Caroline on the cheek. “I shall see you later.”

“Much later,” she answered. “I’m working the night shift.”

“Ah. Much later then.” And off he went, clutching his tin of cocoa.

*   *   *

Billy and Tollman were seated on an omnibus on their way to Holborn. From there, they would walk through to Clerkenwell and the Anglo-Italian Club, where they hoped to find the leader of the Sabini Gang.

“How old are your daughters then, Mr Tollman?”

Arthur gave a wry smile. “Eighteen, nineteen and twenty. A widower’s nightmare, lad, I can tell you.”

Billy’s interest was piqued. “Oh. How’s that then?”

Arthur looked at him sideways and laughed. “Use your imagination, lad! Three females, all of marriageable age, all with plenty to say for themselves. I tell you, lad, I find chasing villains a rest from home life!”

Billy laughed. “Garn! It can’t be that bad.”

Arthur sighed. “Billy, I know you are fond of the ladies and have a way with them but try and imagine being my age, sitting down of an evening, just wanting a bit of peace and quiet and a read of the evening paper - but I don’t get the chance. All I get is an earache from the constant chatter of three spirited females—and that’s on a good day; on a bad day it can be constant squabbling!”

Billy found it impossible to put himself in Arthur’s shoes and replied, “I dunno, they sound like fun, your daughters. Are they courting?”

Arthur made a face. “Now and then,” was the enigmatic reply. He decided to enlarge upon that point. “What I mean is that the oldest one gets a gentleman friend, who comes a-calling on a Sunday—which means I can’t relax and lounge around in my shirtsleeves and slippers. No, I have to put a jacket on and make polite conversation with some gormless youth while having some artificial meal called ‘high tea.’ Then, the two younger daughters take a fancy to said gormless youth and start making eyes at him, thus causing the oldest one to take umbrage, and said youth is sent packing so that the three daughters can have a barney that lasts until Sunday bedtime. It’s purgatory, lad. A never-ending purgatory.”

Billy laughed. “You should invite me round for this high tea, Mr Tollman.”

“Never in a million years, lad. Never in a million years.”

Billy’s face fell. “Why? Wouldn’t you want me as a prospective son-in-law, then?” He seemed genuinely affronted as Tollman shook his head.

“Billy, lad, I would like nothing more than if a strapping, reliable lad like you took one of my daughters off my hands but someone as handsome as you would be torn limb from limb before you raised that first salmon sandwich to your lips. Once my daughters got an eyeful of you, you’d be mincemeat. Trust me. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

Billy took this as a compliment and was just about to respond when a middle-aged woman in front turned round and said cheekily, “I’ve got two lovely daughters, darlin’. You can come round to my house for tea any time!”

“Thank you, missus!” Billy laughed. “But my boss here thinks I’m a danger to women, so I’d better not!”

Tollman nudged Billy. “Sorry to interrupt, lad, but this is our stop.”

Billy gave the woman in front a wink as they got up and left. Several women waved and blushed from the omnibus as Billy and Tollman walked away.

“See what I mean, lad,” said Tollman. “You’re like catnip to a bunch of cats. You ain’t setting foot in my house, that’s for sure.”

They walked up Gray’s Inn Road in companionable silence, then Tollman’s tone changed. He wanted to talk about the seriousness of the task ahead.

“When we walk in this club, Billy, you say nothing. Do you hear me? You’re there to be seen and not heard. Silent intimidation unless provoked. Understand?”

“Gotcha,” said Billy firmly. “Nasty crew are they, these Eyeties?”

“All these gangs are the same, lad; you should know that.”

Billy nodded.

“Darby Sabini can be a reasonable bloke,” Tollman continued. “Depends what sort of mood he’s in. But be warned. If he gets riled he’s got a helluva punch. Broke a man’s jaw with just one right hook last year. Boxes under the name of Fred Handley.”

Billy stopped in his tracks. “Handley?! Blimey, I know Fred Handley! Trains at Hoxton Baths like I used to. I didn’t know he was Italian! He don’t have an accent or anything.”

Tollman smiled. “Doesn’t speak Italian either, even though his father’s from Italy. Darby Sabini and his brothers—there are four—work the racetracks, intimidating the bookies with various levels of nasty violence. But, of course, their business may go down the tubes if the Government decides to close down horse racing for the duration of the war, as has been rumored. I wouldn’t normally suspect the Sabinis of selling drugs but who knows what these gangs have decided to try in order to supplement their usual incomes.”

Tollman led the way round the corner into Theobald’s Road. “You must know this area well, Billy, seeing as you come from Hoxton.”

Billy shrugged. “I know it but it wasn’t actually a place any sensible bloke would enter. Little Italy is worse than Chinatown in some ways. They don’t like English blokes much. Especially coppers.”

“Mm. Although, I’ve had my suspicions for some time, that the Sabinis have got certain coppers on their payroll. They seem to be unusually fireproof sometimes. Whenever they have a fight with another gang, the Sabinis always seem to get ignored when the police turn up to make arrests.”

Billy’s face set hard at this information. “I’d like to get my hands on any of those bent coppers, Mr Tollman. I think they are the worst kind of scum. I mean I didn’t set out in life to make the police my career but now I’m in the force, I don’t see the point in not doing an honest job. It’s worse than being a criminal.”

“It’s not always black and white, lad. Let’s hope you stay honest, Billy. But just make sure that when you do marry, your private life is lived far away from the reach of these gangs. I have known a few coppers who have co-operated with them because their wives and families have been threatened. There’s bent coppers and there’s desperate coppers.”

They turned down a side street to see a stocky man standing guard outside a basement well. At the sight of Billy and Tollman, the man turned and swiftly went down the stairs—presumably to report the approach of the police.

“That’s the place,” Tollman nodded to Billy. “Remember, lad, don’t be provoked into anything rash.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tollman went down the steps and entered first. Billy had to remove his helmet before he could duck down through the doorway.

There was a movement of chairs, as Billy’s frame filled the doorway, and several men, heads down to avoid recognition, slipped out of the door at the back of the bar. Tollman made a mental note of this as he flashed his warrant card at the barman. Always note all the exits when you enter the presence of criminals, his old sergeant had told him when he was a young copper. You always want to know how to get out of a place in a hurry.

“I’m looking for Darby Sabini,” he said in a firm voice, to no one in particular, and was rewarded with a reply from the back of the smoke-filled room.

“Detective Sergeant Tollman,” said the voice, with an element of jovial surprise. “I thought they’d put you out to pasture.” A barrel-chested young man walked forward with an icy smile on his face.

“Ah well,” replied Tollman, “they had to bring the experienced coppers back on account of all the young ones going off to war, didn’t they? By the way, Darby, when are you going to do your bit?”

Sabini flushed slightly and the smile on his face slipped a little. “I would love to do my bit for King and Country, Mr Tollman, but I got turned down on account of a medical condition, didn’t I?”

“And what medical condition would that be then? A severe case of malingering? Or would it be idle bones?”

Sabini’s mouth drew up into a sneer. “I see you haven’t lost that famous sense of humor, Mr Tollman—” he paused and then said menacingly “—despite you being widowed an’ all. My condolences on the loss of your lady wife.”

Tollman didn’t rise to the bait. He merely replied, “I’m surprised that your—” he paused for emphasis “—‘medical condition’ allows you to still box.”

“Nah. I don’t do much of that anymore, Mr Tollman. I’m more of a fight promoter. Speaking of fights—” Sabini eyed Billy curiously “—your copper there looks familiar. I feel I should know him.”

“Billy Rigsby,” answered Tollman. Billy stared straight ahead, his back ramrod straight, but he could feel Sabini’s eyes boring into him.

“Billy Rigsby!” It was almost a yelp of recognition. “Hoxton boy? Fought light heavyweight afore you went in the army?”

Billy nodded.

“Well, well. What’s a Hoxton boy doing joining the filth, eh?”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Darby,” Tollman warned.

Sabini began to circle Billy with a predatory look on his face. “I heard you was invalided out of the Guards and can’t box no more. Crippled hand, they say. Ain’t that a shame, boys?” he addressed the men in the room and they laughed.

Billy twitched. He had a powerful urge to punch Sabini and was desperately trying to control himself.

Sabini crouched and started shadow boxing around Billy, goading him.

“So you can’t do the old one-two anymore, eh, Billy Rigsby?” He demonstrated a quick right-left combination jab at Billy, coming within inches of Billy’s stomach. Billy felt his heartbeat quicken and clenched his good hand around the knuckleduster he was wearing under his glove.

Sabini continued to dance around Billy and goad him. “What are the police doing employing a cripple, eh? I bet you’re no use to man nor beast, with that hand? Is it your old punching hand, Billy?

“No,” said Billy suddenly, causing Sabini to stop in his tracks and Tollman to say “Rigsby!” in a warning bark.

“It’s this one,” said Billy, ignoring Tollman and raising his rigid left hand. Quick as a flash, before Tollman could stop him, Billy extended his arm and caught Darby Sabini square in the throat, hitting his Adam’s apple with the hard scarred cartilage between his bound finger knuckles and the base of his thumb. Before Darby could react and even catch his breath, Billy had pushed him back, by the throat, until he had him pinned against the wall. “This is the hand that I punch with!” and he raised his right hand, as though he was going to smash it into Sabini’s face.

There was a sound of chairs scraping and falling as Sabini’s men stood up to take Billy on, but then Tollman’s hand closed firmly over Billy’s clenched fist and he said, “Enough! That’s enough, lad! Take your hand away from Mr Sabini’s throat and let me talk to him.”

Billy, shocked out of his blind rage, obediently dropped his right arm and reluctantly let Sabini out of the vice-like grip of his left hand. Sabini gasped for breath and had a coughing fit, motioning to his men to stand down.

“I always knowed you were a useful fighter, Billy,” he said hoarsely. “And you ain’t lost that killer instinct, I see.”

“Barman,” said Tollman matter-of-factly, tossing some coins on the table, “get Mr Sabini a brandy.”

The barman duly obliged and Tollman sat Sabini down at the nearest table and drew up a chair next to him. Billy stood stiffly to attention and feared that he had disgraced himself until Tollman, his back to Sabini, gave him a wink and a nod. Billy relaxed.

“What is it that you want, Mr Tollman?” Sabini croaked.

Tollman slapped the picture of Dodds on the table. “Dodds aka Sumpter aka Egan. Know him?”

Sabini curled his lip. “I know him. Right toerag. Don’t come from these parts.”

Tollman raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So how come he’s been before the beak at Clerkenwell, then? Seems like this might be his home patch to me.”

Sabini shook his head. “I dunno,” he said, then he added in exasperation, “look, he used to run with the Titanics—that’s probably when he got done over at Clerkenwell. Then he joined up. Then I heard he got invalided out of the army for whatever reason, and then he got some fancy job over Belgravia way. Last I heard he was a part-time pimp and was mixing it with a gang up West. I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s a small-time piece of dirt and I wouldn’t have him in my manor if you paid me.”

“So you wouldn’t know anything about where he might have got a load of drugs, then, Darby?” Tollman looked hard at Sabini.

Sabini looked genuinely affronted. “Drugs! Leave it out, Sergeant Tollman! I don’t touch drugs, you know that! Strictly the turf and the ring. I’m a sporting man. I leave the drugs to the foreign scum.”

Arthur snorted at this Italian calling other immigrants foreign scum.

“So which ‘foreign scum’ would we be talking about, Darby?” he asked quietly.

“Look—” Sabini lowered his voice and leaned forward “—I don’t want no trouble from the West End gangs. I’m happy at the moment to let them Irish boys slug it out with the King’s Cross boys. They leave me alone and I leave them alone.”

“Oh, so we’re talking Irish scum, are we? Exactly who? The McAusland brothers?”

Sabini looked at the floor and said quietly, “I ain’t saying no more.”

“That’ll do,” replied Tollman and he picked up the picture of Dodds. “If Mr Dodds or Sumpter or whatever he’s called, should turn up on your doorstep, you would tell me, wouldn’t you, Darby?”

Sabini looked at Tollman and said sarcastically, “Of course, Mr Tollman, I’ll send my valet with the news!”

Tollman pulled Sabini toward him and spoke very softly in his ear. “If I were you, I’d think very carefully about protecting a man who is wanted for murder …” Sabini stiffened and shot Tollman an anxious look. “… after all, you wouldn’t want me to write you up as an accessory, would you?”

“I thought you said it was drugs!” hissed Sabini.

“Did I? Oh no, lad. Dodds is wanted for a hanging offence and anyone involved will be taken down with him, mark my words.”

With a satisfied look, Tollman stood up, tipped his hat at Sabini and said, “Come along PC Rigsby.”

As they turned to go out of the door, Sabini called to Billy. Expecting a threat of retribution, Billy turned, with a menacing look on his face, only to be surprised by Sabini saying, “Billy, if you get fed up of working for the filth, come and see me. I could use some muscle like you.”

Billy said nothing and turned on his heel.

Outside, Tollman slapped Billy on the back and said, “Well, we got some sort of a result! How about I buy you a plate of pie and mash before we head up West?”