Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [42]
“Queue,” muttered Sir Magnus. “If Cumber grew his hair long at the back, then it could—”
“Magnus,” said Susan Shrike softly.
Magnus nodded.
“Yes, yes, awfully sorry. Please do explicate the matter, Inspector.”
McIntyre picked up the top paper from the file, gripping it as if he might hurl it to the ground and throw himself upon it in a wrestling check.
“These are the salient points,” he said. Clearing his throat, he began to read.
“On the morning of the ninth instant, that is to say yesterday, at twenty-one minutes past five o’clock in the morning, P.C. Whitstable was proceeding upon his usual beat and had reached the corner of Clarges Street and Piccadilly when he heard a shout on the other side of the road, at the point where a path exits from the Green Park. Dawn was approaching, the gas lamps were still lit, and there was no fog. He clearly saw a man in a long coat and unusual wide-brimmed hat run out of the park and start to cross the road. But on seeing P.C. Whitstable approaching, he turned to the left and increased his speed. P.C. Whitstable, blowing his whistle, set off in pursuit, and was joined by Park Keeper Moulincourt—”
“Moulincourt?” asked Sir Magnus. “I knew a fellow called Moulincourt. He wasn’t a park keeper, though—”
McIntyre shook his paper and resumed reading. “ . . . and was joined by Park Keeper Moulincourt, who was shouting ‘Stop! Stop the murderer!’ Moulincourt, who had already pursued the suspect for some distance, fell back as P.C. Whitstable took over the chase. Whitstable, a champion runner and keen footballer, soon caught the fellow. However—”
“There’s always a however,” said Sir Magnus. “Had to be. I was expecting it to come in before this. However.”
“However!” blasted McIntyre, shaking his paper in barely suppressed fury. “When Whitstable gripped the fellow’s arm, the coat and hat came off, and there was no one inside, only a great shower of daffodils that fell onto the road.”
Sir Magnus tilted his head until it was completely sideways and peered at McIntyre.
“Daffodils,” he repeated. “Stolen from the park?”
“Yes,” said McIntyre, through gritted teeth. “Stolen from the park, and a park keeper murdered in the process.”
“It wasn’t Moulincourt who got murdered, obviously,” added Sir Magnus, whose head was slowly righting itself again. “Were they the first daffodils of the spring?”
“I don’t know!” protested McIntyre. “No one’s ever tried to steal flowers from the park before. There are daffodils all over the place. Why bother with those ones? And anyway, how did the bloke escape—”
“First flowers of spring from a royal park, cut with a silver blade between dawn and moonset,” mused Sir Magnus, almost to himself. “Your park keeper had his throat cut?”
“Yes, how on earth . . .”
A look of suspicion crossed the inspector’s face. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes was not playing a game with him, but sending him a suspect.
“Where were you yesterday morning between five and six o’clock?”
“Locked up,” replied Sir Magnus. He looked across at Susan Shrike and gave her a cheery smile.
“Yes, that’s true, Inspector,” said Susan. “Sir Magnus is locked inside his rooms at the hospital from dusk to dawn. It is part of his treatment.”
“Then how did you know about the throat cutting?” asked McIntyre. “None of this has been in the papers. Did Sherlock tell you? He has his ways of finding out.”
“No, Sherlock didn’t tell me,” complained Sir Magnus. “Why does everyone always think Sherlock does my thinking for me? No, I deduced it, from my knowledge of folklore and ritual.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded the inspector.
“It’s quite simple, really,” drawled Sir Magnus. He slid his chair away and leaned backwards for a moment, precipitating a mad grab at the edge of the desk as he almost tipped over. “There is a . . . belief . . . among certain quarters that if flowers from a royal park are cut with a silver knife at a particular time, it will enormously enhance their natural poison. Lycorine, as Sherlock would tell you. Nasty