ThePerfectPoison
TWENTY-FIVE
THE BODY WAS SPRAWLED IN A NARROW ALLEY NEAR THE river. It was a small realm of perpetual twilight even on a sunny day but in the fog it reeked of an unnatural, unwholesome atmosphere. A suitable setting for death, Caleb thought. The hair lifted on the nape of his neck. He opened his senses to the currents of recent violence that swirled in the vicinity.
“Young Kit tells me that he was known as Sharpy on the streets,” he said. “Evidently he was an expert with a knife.”
“He is definitely one of the kidnappers,” Lucinda said.
“You’re certain?” he asked, not doubting her statement but curious, as always, to hear her reasons.
He had not intended to allow her to accompany him. The argument had been short, terse and he had lost. But then, he’d always had a devil of a time going against logic. When Lucinda had coolly reminded him that she’d had some experience with violent death and that her expertise could be helpful, he had been forced to concede defeat.
Truth be told, the part of him that responded to the hunt was excited by the prospect of sharing the venture with her. Furthermore, he sensed that the intense reaction was not all on his side. Energy resonated between Lucinda and himself. He had never experienced anything like this with anyone else.
“I’m sure of it,” Lucinda said. “I did not get a good look at either man but I could sense the particular blend of Nicotiana tabacum that each man smoked.”
He looked at her over the corpse. Her face was shadowed by the hood of her cloak but he could make out the serious expression on her intelligent face.
“Yours is an astonishing talent, Lucinda.”
“Tobacco is a poison, after all. A slow-acting one, but a poison, nonetheless.”
“Huh. I’ve heard it’s good for the nerves.”
“Do not believe everything you read in the press, sir.”
“I never do.” He focused his attention on the dead man again. “Well then, I doubt that Sharpy died from smoking. But, as in Daykin’s case, there is no sign of violence. Any thoughts?”
“He did not die of poison.” Lucinda looked down at the dead man. “I can tell you that much.”
Caleb crouched beside the body and studied the expression of wide-eyed horror etched on the face. “It appears he was in a state of great fear when he collapsed.”
“Like Mrs. Daykin?”
“Yes. That would account for the screams that Kit says were heard in the tavern.”
“And why his companion was seen fleeing from this alley as though all the demons of hell were after him,” Lucinda said, repeating Kit’s exact words.
“But who or what did they see?” He went swiftly through Sharpy’s clothing. “There is no question but that this was murder.” He drew a knife out of a concealed sheath strapped to the dead man’s leg. “But by what means? He was a hardened man of the streets but he did not even have time to draw his blade in self-defense.”
“Do you think that he was literally frightened to death?”
Caleb rose. “I suspect that the cause of death was of a psychical nature.”
Lucinda looked at him through the shadowy mists that pooled in the alley. He sensed her astonished shock.
“There are those who can kill with their talents and leave no trace?” she asked, sounding quite horrified.
“The ability is extremely rare,” he assured her. He studied the body. “But I have occasionally come across descriptions of such talents in the journals and records of the Society. In essence, the killer induces a level of panic so great that it causes a stroke or heart attack.”
“But it would appear that this man did not even try to flee.”
“Neither did Daykin. According to my research, the victim is literally paralyzed with fear and cannot even raise a hand to defend himself, let alone run for his life.”
“My parents were registered members of the Society. I was born into it. But I have never heard of such ghastly talents.”
“For the very good reason that the Council and my family have always gone out of their way to suppress the information.” He took her arm and drew her back toward the mouth of the alley. “Just as they do their best to relegate the founder’s formula to the status of myth and legend.”
“I suppose I can understand why.”
“For the most part, the public considers the paranormal as a source of amusement and wonder. The vast majority of those who claim to possess psychical talents are viewed as magicians and entertainers or, at worst, frauds. But imagine how the citizenry would react if it got out that some people could actually commit murder without leaving any clues or evidence.”
Lucinda shuddered. He felt it because he had his fingers wrapped around her elbow.
“The perfect poison,” she said softly. “Undetectable and un-traceable.”
“Yes.”
She turned her head to study him from the mysterious darkness beneath her hood. “The police will be helpless in this matter. They will find nothing to indicate that this was a case of murder. There will be no justice for that poor man unless we find his killer.”
He tightened his grip on her arm. “That poor man recently attempted to kidnap and murder you.”
“I will allow that he most certainly tried to abduct me but we cannot be positive that he intended to kill me. It is your theory and it is only a theory.”
“Trust me on this. I have had far more experience with the criminal mind than you, Lucinda.”
“Given the nature of my consulting work with Inspector Spellar, I think it is unlikely that your expertise is vastly more extensive than my own.”
“Declaring whether or not a man has been poisoned is not the same as investigating the death.”
“And just how long has the Jones agency been in business?” she asked far too sweetly. “A little less than two months? I have worked with Inspector Spellar for nearly a year.”
“I cannot believe we are arguing about this.” He smiled ruefully. “If either of us gave a damn about respectability or propriety, we would doubtless be shocked by our mutual fascination with the criminal mind.”
“Everyone finds the criminal mind fascinating,” she said briskly. “Although most are reluctant to acknowledge it. One need only count the number of newspapers and penny dreadfuls available for purchase on any day of the week on the streets of London. And all of them feature the most lurid accounts of crime and violent death.”
“I will concede the point.” He glanced over his shoulder at the body in the alley. “But I doubt that this murder will garner much attention.”
“No,” Lucinda said somberly. She looked back, too. “The press prefers that the stories be accompanied by a titillating scandal. The death of a lowly street villain who evidently died of natural causes will not raise any brows at breakfast tomorrow morning.”
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