The Body At Old Royal Street
Fiction
Out across the flats near Skelfleet, there was always a wind. Salt. Seaweed. Seagulls screeching their heads off because of the fog.
Jack Strand. Private Investigator. Owning four quid sixty to the bar at The Flying Duck up North Street. A right pub. Full of regulars who were proper irregular till they had a pint of Special down ’em.
Jack gets a message from Bob Moore. Police Inspector. Get down Old Royal Street, sharpish. Weird one, because Moore hated asking Jack for anything. Jack being a private eye and Moore being a proper copper. Jack didn’t give a toss. He operated on what he called Extended Thinking. ET. His own invention.
If Moore wanted him, he’d go. As fast as the No. 4 bus could shift. Jack didn’t drive. Driving stopped you thinking. And thinking was what Jack was good at. He’d come up with ET, hadn't he?
He looked out the bus window. Not at the street—at what was going on inside his head. Strange bits and pieces. Three things. A house smelling of metal. A room wiped clean. A corpse with no blood left in it. Jack turned them over and over. Tricky bastard of a puzzle, even for him.
The bus dropped him off. Jack pulled up the zip on his black bomber jacket against the nip in the air and paced it up to number 54. Inspector Moore was outside, looking like he’d had enough of everything. Especially Jack.
—About bloody time, Strand, innit? I said today, not next week.
—Mornin’, Inspector. Keep your hair on. I’m here now, aren’t I?
—Never know if yer talkin’ funny or just takin’ the piss. C’mon, move it.
Moore went in first. Standard semi. Same as half of Skelfleet. Jack had a sniff. Like an old sailor checking the weather. There it was. Copper. —Coppery smell, he said. —Hmm, a coppery smell, he muttered.
—What? Copper? Wasn’t sure mesen. Have yer had a godge at the body yet? It’s proper weird.
—Copper, yeah. Definitely.
Moore stopped at the back room. Dining room, usually. Not today. Nothing in it except a woman on the floor. Middle-aged. Long black hair spread out around her head. Flat on her back, arms straight down. Face dead calm. Skin white as chalk. Drained. Long black dress, bare feet.
—Who is she then, Inspector?
—Name’s Tabitha Candy. Writes books, apparently.
—How d’yer know?
—Upstairs. Office. Books with her name on ’em. A bill as well. It’s called deduction, Strand. Thought you were supposed to be the master at that.
—I am. Just need one thing.
Moore looked at him. Suspicious.
—What?
—Need everyone out. You as well.
—Piss off, Strand. It’s a crime scene.
—That’s where you’re wrong, Inspector. It isn’t.
—Strand. Don’t start pissing about—
—Dead serious. Trust me. Besides, you called me, didn’t yer?
Moore let out a massive sigh.
—Right. Leaving Jenkins by the door. Rest of us are outside. One hour.
—Plenty.
—What are yer playin’ at, though? Look at her. No blood. Drained out. Murder, innit?
—Why d’yer say that?
—Because folk don’t drain their own blood, do they? Don’t treat me like a scrob, Strand.
—Not treating yer like anything, Inspector. I just need a proper look. Then I’ll tell yer.
Moore rolled his eyes, shook his head, and stomped off shouting at his lads.
Jack pulled surgical gloves out of his jacket. Snapped them on. Stared at the body.
—Right then, Tabitha. What’ve yer got to say?
Jack went to the window. Weak sun coming through. He nodded. Back to Tabitha. Walked around her three times, checking the window each time.
Nodded again. Wrote in his notebook. Got down on his knees next to her. Pulled out a glass. Checked her face. Note. Checked her arm. Note. Checked her legs, other arm. Note after note.
Next, he inspected the flesh on her arm, as close as he could without touching her. Made a further note and nodded again. He repeated the process numerous more times, inspecting both her legs and the other arm.
—Thickens up, Tabitha love. But you’ve told me plenty.
Upstairs to the office. Quick look round. Jack saw everything in one go.
Gothic romance. That’s what she wrote. Latest one set in 1840. Jack had another look round, scribbled a note, smiled to himself, and went down to the kitchen.
Proper search now. Not much there. Packets of wafers. Jack swapped his gloves, took a wafer, smelled it. Smiled. Note.
Checked the top cupboards. Jack slapped his hands together. Bottles of vinegar and Buxton water. That was it.
—Gotcha, Tabitha.
Under the sink. Two jars of arsenic.
—Sorted, Jack said.
Out to the front door. Told Jenkins to get Moore back in.
—Well? Got it figured then? Who done it?
—Not a who, Inspector. A what.
—For fuck’s sake, Strand. Don’t start with that woo-woo shite—
—No woo-woo. Simple stuff.
Moore groaned.
—Go on then. Out with it.
—She wanted to look pale. On purpose. Writing about Victorian times, wasn't she? Back then, pale was proper grand.
—Aye, dead nice. But where’s the bloody blood gone?
—Pooled at the back. Abdomen as well. Plus the light in here makes her look whiter than she is.
—What?
—Medics’ll tell yer the same. Guaranteed.
—Right. What killed her then?
—Arsenic overdose. Putting it on wafers. Drinking diluted vinegar to make herself pale.
—How the jumpin’ fuck d’yer know that?
—Looked at her skin. Found the arsenic, wafers, and vinegar in the kitchen.
Moore stared at him.
—You taking the piss?
—Nope.
—Show me.
Jack showed him the lot in the kitchen.
—Right. Means nowt to me. Folks over in ’Ull might party like that, but not here.
—Victorian beauty routine. Stay out of the sun, eat arsenic on crackers, drink vinegar. Standard history, Inspector.
—Why would she bother?
—Getting into character, I reckon.
—Fuck me. Poor lass. Better get the medics back in pronto.
—Good idea. It seems—
—Aye, shut up, Strand. Doesn’t mean I think you’re Sherlock Holmes or nowt. But cheers.
—Any time, Inspector. See yer around.
Jack left 54 Old Royal Street and headed straight for the Flying Duck.