The Ring by M. J. Trow

Author:M. J. Trow [Trow, M. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2018-08-08T04:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

‘Name?’

‘Abel Beer.’

‘Domicile?’

‘Do what?’

This morning was not going well for Daddy Bliss. George Crossland had come down with something; Bliss could hardly expose the public to Constable Brandon. So, here he was, having to do his own paperwork. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Uplyne,’ Beer told him.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Dorset.’

The inspector leaned back in his chair. He’d lost count of the ghouls who had crept out of their hidey-holes since women’s parts had begun turning up along the Thames. He had predicted all this, of course, but that didn’t do much for his temper. ‘Suppose you tell me the reason for your visit,’ he said.

‘My sister Mary has gone missing,’ Beer said. ‘I haven’t seen her since early August.’

‘This was in Uplyne?’

‘No, here in London.’

‘Where, precisely?’ Bliss needed to know.

‘I left her lodging with Mrs Christian in South Street, Battersea.’

‘And what does your sister do for a living, Mr Beer?’ Bliss was still going through the motions.

‘Nothing,’ Beer said. ‘She’s in London to settle her affairs.’

‘Affairs?’ That was a word that could easily be misconstrued in Daddy Bliss’s world.

‘To see her solicitor. She’s about to come into some money.’

‘And did she see said solicitor?’

‘No. That’s the first place I checked. He hasn’t seen her.’

‘So, you last saw her in early August …’

‘And I sent her a telegram – four, in fact – and never got a reply.’

Bliss was trying to place Beer’s circumstances. A man’s dress, the cut of his jib, told a lot about his status. So did his manner of speaking, but Beer’s West Country burr all but destroyed that. He was sharply dressed enough, but did he have the air of a man whose sister was about to inherit? He wasn’t sure. ‘So, you came to find her?’ he checked.

‘Yes. Mrs Christian hadn’t seen her. But … and this worried me, Inspector; she told Mrs Christian that she had been assaulted by four men near Victoria Bridge one night.’

‘Did she report it to the police?’

‘Mrs Christian didn’t know.’

‘Right,’ Bliss sighed. ‘Well, then, we’d better have a look.’ He scraped back his chair. ‘I have to warn you, Mr Beer, that the corpse … er, the subject … is not a pretty sight. The doctor has tried to reconstruct the head.’

‘Reconstruct?’ Beer wasn’t sure he had heard right.

‘The skull itself hasn’t turned up,’ Bliss said. ‘Only the skin.’ The inspector was a little unnerved to see Abel Beer cross himself. That’s all he needed, a bereft Papist under his feet. ‘This way.’

He led the Dorset man through the labyrinthine passageways that linked Dr Kempster’s laboratory to the mortuary. It was nearly eleven by this time and he hoped that Mrs Kempster wouldn’t be much longer with his morning coffee, two lumps, please.

Bliss had done this so often that he had lost all sense of reverence. The disarticulated woman, turning less human every day, was beginning to annoy him now, if only because she wasn’t providing any answers. He whipped away the shroud and Beer gasped. He wasn’t looking at the head at all. ‘It’s her,’ he gulped.

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