Chapter One

“Tell your gov’nor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?”

“’E’s up the stairs, guardin’ the room, so’s not to ’ave the scene disturbed.”

The detectives looked up the tilted stairway toward the second floor.

The sign at the front of the building showed a black lion couchant, bearing in his dexter paw a Maltese Cross. It said the inn was “Est. 1730.” The stairway had celebrated its centennial a few years past. It showed worn spots caused by boots climbing up and down all those years. The building had settled and tilted, taking the stairway with it.

The shorter, stouter, shaggier man said, “Mind that there loose board, Duff.”

At the top of this hundred-year monument, the landlord had placed himself in front of a door. He held his arms folded tightly over his chest, about halfway between his burgeoning belly and his purple-veined nose.

“We is Blathers and Duff from the Metropolitan Police. I’m Blathers, and this here is Duff.” He pointed to the tall, skinny person who followed him up the stairs. “What’s the situation here, then?” Blathers was the spokesman for the detective duo.

“There’s been a bloody murder, hasn’t there. See fer yarselves.” The landlord released his grip on himself, turned, and opened the door.

The scene was bloody, all right.

Duff’s practiced eye estimated the room to be about twenty feet by thirty feet, although, like the rest of the ancient inn, it was not perfectly plumb. In the center sat a large pine table. It fit the room in a way that allowed for benches on each side. The bench, which should have been at a shorter end of the table, to the right of Blathers and Duff as they entered the room, had been tossed aside, against the adjacent wall.

At that end of the table lay the body of a young woman, legs bent over the edge at the knees, feet dangling above the floor.

“’Tis just as I found her. No ’un has been in the room t’day ’cept me. I sends for ya as soon as I discovers her. I’s been standin’ guard here at the door e’r since.”

Her throat had been slashed. From one angle, it looked like she had a second, very bloody, mouth. Blood covered the tabletop. Some had run down each leg and dripped from her heels onto the floor. Two dark red pools had formed. The girl looked to be in her late teens. She was almost naked. Several stab wounds were visible on her exposed breast. Her tattered skirt hung on the displaced bench. Blood-soaked underwear clung to her thighs. Slashes in her legs and stomach contributed more blood to the ghastly sight.

“What’s it they calls ya, Landlord?” Blathers asked while Duff surveyed the room. The detectives were used to blood-spattered corpses and the smell of death.

“Phil Squod.”

“Duff, are ya done looking round here?”

“I am.” The boney detective’s Adam’s apple bounced in his neck.

“Mr. Squod, does ya has a key to this here door?”

“I does.”

“Then why don’t you lock it? Then ya won’t be havin’ ta stand round here for the rest of your bloody life, will ya. We can have our little chat about what it is has happened here down in your lovely taproom.” Squod locked the door, and they all plodded down the tilted stairway.

“I’ll have a bit o’ brandy,” Blathers said. “It’s a wee too early for me to be ’joyin’ an ale, but there’s a chill in the air.”

“Tea for me, please.” Any time of day was too early for Duff to partake of intoxicating drinks.

Squod didn’t know he had offered refreshments, but went off to secure the drinks without comment. When he returned, he had a pint of ale for himself. The three sat at a small pine table near the fireplace. Glowing logs eased the dampness of the morning.

Blathers downed his brandy in one swig, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and said, “Now then, tell us all about it.”

Squod gripped his pint with both hands. “I have no idear what happened, do I. There were a private party in that there room last night, but I were busy wi’ other customers. We had quite the crowd last night, we did. My girl, Jane, took care o’ the party. It were a special cel’bration among them writer and actor types. A bir’day party, I believes.”

“Does ya know the name of the poor girl upstairs?”

“I doesn’t, but I has seen her on the streets at times.”

“Is Jane the girl we saw as we came in?” Duff asked.

“Oh, no, that’s Sally. She’s here to help wi’ them what comes in fer their noon meal. Jane does fer the even’ folk.”

Duff asked another question. “How is it the writers and actors chose your establishment for their party, Mr. Squod?”

“It’s me son, Jack. He acts down at the playhouse. He knows all ’em actors and writers, and he brought ’em in, didn’t he.”

“Were he a part o’ the party?” Blathers regained control of the interrogation.

“He were at the start, but he were performin’, and he were required to go out early. He left while the early drinkin’ were goin’ on.”

“Is actin’ your son’s only work, then?”

“Oh, no, Jack helps out around here wi’ the cuttin’o’ the meats and the cookin’.”

“Who was the guests?”

“I don’t right know. Jane would know. ’Em young men sure love her, doesn’t they.”

“We’ll be needin’ ta talk ta her, then. Where do she live?”

“Just down the alley. Sally’ll fetch ’er fer ya.”

Squod told Sally to go for Jane.

“Afore you go, Sally girl, I’ll be havin’ a wee bit more brandy.” The chill continued to bother Blathers.

Sally brought Blathers another drink, more tea for Duff, and headed out the door. Five minutes later she was back with Jane in tow.

“You’re wantin’ to talk to me?” Jane had neatly combed blond hair. A full skirt partially disguised shapely hips. Beneath the skirt one could see lovely ankles that hinted at lovely legs. Her beautiful face featured big blue eyes, soft pink skin, and heart-shaped mouth. Duff admired her sweet face. Blathers admired the fact she was “buxom.”

Blathers began. “There’s been a murder. A young woman is stabbed and sprawlin’ on the table in the room above. They’re sayin’ ya might be the one to tell us about it.”

“I knows nothin’. Honest, mister. I seen her come into the party, and I knowed there was to be trouble, so I skedaddled.”

“How did you know there would be trouble?” Duff asked.

“Every time one o’ them whores shows up there’s trouble. Them men are all alike. When they brought her in I says to meself, this is it, and I takes me leave. Whores is bad business anywhere. They does nothing but lead men to the devil.”

“What time were it that she arrived?” Blathers asked.

“Were ’bout half ten, I guess.”

“And who was the gents what was remaining when you left?”

“Well, there were Mr. Dickens. Ya’ know, the writer.”

“Ah, Pickwick!” Duff knew the name.

“That’s the feller. And his good friend Mr. Forster. There were a couple of others I doesn’t know as well as I knows Mr. Dickens and Mr. Forster. Them two comes round here quite often, and always asks fer me ta serve ’em.”

Duff made a note of the two names and asked, “So the girl was still alive when you left the inn?”

“I swears she were, sir.”

“Was Mr. Squod’s son, Jack, at the party when you left?”

“Jack weren’t there. I doesn’t know where he were. He could ha’ been anywhere. Maybe he were out getting more whores fer the party.”

“How did the gentlemen get their drinks after you left?” Duff continued.

“I guesses they just fetched for themselves, sir.”

Duff turned to the landlord, “Did you know Jane had left, Mr. Squod? And if so, did you serve any drinks to the upstairs room?”

“I did not. I were busy wi’ me other customers. Likes I says afore, I had no’in’ to do wi’ any goin’s on outside the taproom.”