The Angst of Arthur Boyd [short story]

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Titles by Ellis Blackburn

  About the Author

  The Angst of Arthur Boyd by Ellis Blackburn

  Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.

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  For more information or to contact the copyright holders, send inquires to info@inklingwell.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover photography © Shutterstock

  uncanny press is an imprint of inklingwell

  Chapter 1

  “BLUE LIPS, PALLID complexion—” I begin.

  “He is dead, after all, River,” Archer says smartly. Taking a cursory first look around the room, his gaze flits from one object to another. Intermittently sucking his teeth as though to dislodge a strawberry pip from between tooth and incisor—the left side, his usual preference—I hear the odd tsk sound. At this very moment, my eldest brother is utilizing a classic coping mechanism to distance himself from the situation. Myself, I usually try to focus my attention on something bright and cheerful, like the glorious vaulted ceiling and the tiny, blue dancing flames in each of the pendant light fixtures overhead.

  While the man collapsed on the Aubusson rug is not the first dead body he nor I have ever seen, I understand why the exercise is necessary in this particular case. Emotions are distracting in our line of work, especially when raw. This mansion and particularly this study—or library or whatever its proper label—is a reminder of a similar room in the monstrosity we call home; the house we most of the time fondly refer to as the ‘Purple Palace,’ although the black and bronze sign fixed to the iron gate out-front reads ‘St. Clair House.’ And it’s more muddy-lavender in color than garish purple.

  Before you go making inferences about our class or some-such from the little information I’ve so far put forth for your examination, it would behoove you to also note this fact: The St. Clairs did not name the place all high-and-mighty, official manor-like. Ironically, Marlowe St. Clair happened upon it attributed just that way. Stranger still is that the plaque is original to the house, which was built sometime before 1871 on a street also seemingly named after us. But our nickname for the gothic structure is psychedelically apt too. That, however, is another story best left for another day.

  I suppose every house nowadays has a room like this one. Indeed, there are quite a few buildings quite like ours too. “I say, St. Clair, what a keen observer you are,” I offer in my most pompous dandy accent. Then seriously, I explain. “Though, I suspect not dead long enough for the signs of death from some natural cause to manifest. He’s still relatively warm. Rigor hasn’t set in.”

  “Not a heart attack or some other non-murderous cause, then?” he asks, pausing to study the volumes in the bookshelf on the other side of the room. After a quick glance in my direction, he adds, “He doesn’t look that old, but then I think most people die relatively young in this time period.”

  “He couldn’t breathe; his tongue has fallen to the back of the throat.…And it looks as though he seized as well, there’s traces of blood on his teeth, bite marks on the inner tissue of the cheeks as well as bruising there. Of course, he also smells faintly of whiskey, but it was cyanide poisoning which prompted death; there’s the unmistakable odor of bitter almond. I would say the actual cause was either suffocation, or he choked on his own blood and saliva.”

  Archer nods and continues ambling around the room with his hands folded behind his back, casting a glance from the crown molding to the leaded glass windows framed in olive green and taupe jacquard drapes, the gold crucifix mounted to a narrow strip of puce painted wall in one corner to the bland landscape painting in its gaudy gilt frame over the equally overstated marble fireplace mantel. Stopping in front of the massive cherry-wood partner’s desk, he nudges one of two crystal tumblers a few inches from its place with his middle finger and then repeats the gesture with the second glass. Both are almost empty; a small amount of amber liquid is left in each. The first glass leaves a conspicuous wet streak on the polished surface of the desk while the other not even a drop. The decanter and the glasses were aligned purposely and perfectly with one another. The stopper rests next to the bottle, untouched at least by us. He leans down to take a whiff of the libation, eyeing the beverage set closely before proceeding with his inspection.

  Extracting a ballpoint pen from his vest pocket, he inserts the front tip into the brass keyhole of a large mahogany box. It is unlocked, the lid lifts easily. The rich aromatic smell of pipe tobacco and cedar fills the air like a waft of sudden smoke. For a split second Archer’s eyebrows rise, leading me to believe the humidor contains a clue. He reaches in and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he snorts mildly and squints at the note as though the pretense of X-Ray vision will reveal more. I practice the look, piercing the corpse before me with a steady glare.

  This is our first on-site case together. Usually, I keep to the confines of the morgue at the police station as it’s safer that I am not out in public for the time being, and by usually, I mean the past month. We have not been here long. Although we are all, my two brothers and I, making our way in this Chicago as best as we can—until Quinn figures out what happened—undoubtedly they’ll have an easier time of it than I do or will.

  Obviously, being men, they are naturals at bearing themselves as such. Whereas I have everything to learn about sporting my masculine disguise and quite a bit to suppress of the feminine aura that I too project as instinctively. Therefore, every once in a while looking down at the body I’m meant to be studying, I observe Archer with more interest instead. I cannot learn much about being a man from a dead one. Besides, determining the cause of death was easy, even without the help of my usual advanced analytical tools.

  I notice how he palms the scrap of paper with the fluidity of an illusionist. I’m not a sigher, but a self-pitying sigh escapes my lips nonetheless, then I groan in an attempt to recover from that distinctly girly sound. I glance at the door, remembering to be wary of the two sergeants often in Archer’s wake. Smirking, my brother turns a profile toward me. Despite my augmentation, I never realized before how his appearance, stance, mannerisms, are so…manly. Sisters do not usually check-out their brothers. But wow, yeah, from this vantage point, with him as my role model, my quest seems impossible. What choice do I have, though? I suppose it depends on who you ask. As a formerly free woman transplanted to this oppressive place, I’m of the mind I have none at all.

  He looks under the desk, behind the curtains, and in the cupboard. I watch his every move. It’s apparent by the subtle purposefulness with which he sets about his task; he feels the weight of my surveillance. He hates it, but there is only so much he can do to dissuade my study of the male specimen.
Mainly, he becomes more standoffish, avoiding direct eye contact with me. If he faces me, I will not be able to stop myself from trying to gauge his emotional state either. For one thing, our wounds are too fresh, and I care about his pain. Secondly, men and women even grieve differently.

  I would read the planes of his face for the slightest twitch and search his eyes for signs that even he did not know were hidden in their depths. My enhancements are inconvenient at the best of times; it is because of them I have trust issues. Archer’s gifts are by far less intrusive to himself and others, even though on many an occasion his extraordinary memory has ticked me off, usually when he reminds me of something I would rather forget. Damn Quinn and his crew for their ingenuity. I take that back, the tech force of the Division is a godsend.

  Possibly to catch me off-guard, Archer crouches down, meeting my scrutiny of him head-on. Holding out the note he says, “See what you can derive from this.”

  Carefully torn from a larger sheet of high-quality paper-stock, stationary perhaps, in black ink and inscribed by a skilled hand in purposely structured print is a single word, ‘CLUE.’ “Your murderer thinks he’s clever,” I comment. “He is either a businessman or gentleman and the meticulous sort. A colleague of the victim?”

  “Could be, though, not likely given the evidence. And placing that note amongst these surroundings doesn’t necessarily make our murderer a he, River. You, of all people, should know better than to jump to that particular conclusion. Also,…” His eyes roam my face, assessing me; his expression blank but for a slight frown. “I know it’s too early to expect—”

  “I’m sorry, Archer. You’re safe, is all. I stare too long at anyone else and, well, invariably they get the wrong idea. Women think I’m forward or vulgar, men think I’m a deviant of some kind.”

  “Mm. It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he says softly, placing a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently, and then rising. “Dent!” he calls.

  “Yes, sir. I’m here, sir,” replies the new sergeant promptly, poking his head around the doorjamb. He looks small and uncertain, like a boy in a costume, when he steps forward into the midst of the massive gap to stand erect with his arms rigid at his side and that silly hat sitting low on his forehead.

  “If, uh, Reid is done with the body have it relocated to the morgue.” Waving at the desk, he adds, “Have all of it taken into evidence, including the contents of the drawers. Try to find out where the cigar box came from. And this, this workspace…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I gather, it’s quite a normal piece of furniture for a factory office, but in his personal study,…I think Mr. Boyd here was a workaholic.”

  “A what, sir?”

  “Diligent, Dent. The man was hard-working. Anyway, judging from his attire, I’m guessing he’s in the merchant trade. Talk to his wife and the servants. Get any details of his business, habits, and the names of anyone who might bear a grudge as well as that of the man who sits on the other side of this secretary—whatever it’s called.” The deputy pauses his note-taking to look up expectantly at his superior for further instruction. “Go on then; that’s plenty for you to do for now.”

  “Yes, s—”

  “And let us also try to keep the sirs to a minimum going forward, hmm, Theo? I do not require confirmation of your stellar hearing at every turn. I have faith you will do what I ask regardless of your attentive genuflections,” Archer says proceeding his sergeant from the crime scene.

  “Sure, um, got it.”

  I make a mental note: The air of authority, that exact macho flare is something I lack. Swabbing the corpse’s mouth, I drop the stick into a paper sack. I re-record the body temperature and a few more details before following the officers out.

  Chapter 2

  AT THE BACK of the building, I lean casually against the wall in a dark corridor outside of an office space the size of a large closet. Archer has taken to using the room to conduct interviews on the occasion when I’m needed to eavesdrop on a conversation. His office is not right for this sort of thing.

  Peering covertly through the wooden blinds of the partition window, I watch the exchange. My brother sits across the small oaken table from a thin, middle-aged but not unattractive, well-dressed lady in black. Harriet Boyd, the victim’s wife; a gold wedding band gleams through the dotted mesh and delicate lace of her glove. Despite a couple of quiet tears that have streaked down those faintly powdered cheeks, I cannot muster sympathy for the woman. Her rigid posture and the way she dabs affectedly at her cheeks and under her nose is telling enough. The time-worn droopiness about the corner of her eyes and mouth would also suggest her to be a rather grumpy person in general, one used to putting on airs to get what she wants. Judging by her mannerisms and appearance and home, I conclude the stratagem usually works for her.

  “Mrs. Boyd, your husband owned Boyd and Sons, an importer of fine textiles, is that right?” He speaks slowly and clearly for my benefit. Still, I can only just about make out what he is saying; his back is to me, and the plaster walls are thick. As a human lie-detector, my purpose here is really to gauge the interviewee’s reactions to the questions posed to her; thus the reason for the shenanigans. I need to see and hear the other person, not Archer sitting at his desk.

  “Yes,” the lady replies bluntly.

  “We spoke with your husband’s partner earlier, a Mr. Charles Washburn?”

  “That is correct. He has been Arthur’s partner and foreman for a little over the past year.”

  “Did your family have any connection with Mr. Washburn prior to his involvement in the business?”

  “No.” Again, her expression is unchanged.

  “How did they come to be partners?”

  “Arthur required capital to expand his venture, and Mr. Washburn was able to provide it.”

  “Would you say they got along, your husband and his partner?

  “Well, they worked very closely together…even more so these past few months. I understand there was consideration of opening a warehouse facility in Milwaukee.”

  “The business was profitable then.”

  “Never was I given reason to believe otherwise.” She sniffed and gently cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Washburn was led into thinking that before he died Mr. Boyd intended to sell just over half-share of the business to him. He currently holds thirty-percent interest, which I assume was based on his initial investment.”

  Apart from a nod of confirmation, I did not catch Mrs. Boyd’s reply.

  “Seems to me a grand gesture to make to a man who has not been a colleague long…controlling interest of a family business of which he is not a member.” Archer pauses and turns so I can see his profile. “Interesting. So, who stands to inherit now?”

  I notice Mrs. Boyd appears more relaxed. “William,” she pronounces with a hint of pride.

  “Your eldest, I take it?”

  “My youngest.” Her lips purse and her eyes take on a glistening quality in the lamplight. There is definitely remembrance and grief in her visage. “William’s older brother is no longer with us; he died in the fire that killed so many. Heard tell my George saved a few people before the Lord took him. God rest his soul.” It looks as though she is trying to hold back real tears, and I like her a little more for not using the death of her son to bolster her performance today.

  Considerately Archer pauses in his line of questioning, allowing the woman to return to the moment at hand. “You have a daughter too, Mrs. Boyd. Mr. Washburn also informed us he and she are to marry. Would you confirm for me that the wedding has been simply postponed due to your husband’s untimely death?”

  “No, inspector.” If possible, her posture appears stiffer than before although she has not moved noticeably.

  “No, the wedding is not temporarily forestalled or no, your daughter and Mr. Washburn were not to be wed at all?”

  “The latter,” she says with a slightly fierce undertone.

  “Why is that now, M
rs. Boyd?”

  “Agatha does not truly care for Mr. Washburn.” A new line appears between her brows as her eyes become slightly more hooded and lower lip curls minutely into a snarl afterward.

  “I see. Then, do you think your son will honor your husband’s wishes to sell controlling interest in the family business?”

  “My husband had never spoken to me about the details of his business dealings. Furthermore, he is dead…” She swabs under her nose and pecks at the corner of her eyes in turns as well as gasps a few times for good measure. However, not a single new tear falls. “He may have intimated as much to Mr. Washburn.… He was eager to see Agatha settled; her prospects are few as she is nearly a spinster now. Regardless, the fact remains…their betrothal would not have changed anything as far as I can tell, inspector. I fail to see how any of this is relevant.” She drops her hands to her lap, looking down at them for an extended period.

  Her head snaps up at something Archer said, presumably that her husband did not die of a natural cause; he was murdered. “Really? How horrible. Poor Arthur.” She makes a show of being further dejected by the news, her crying increases. Her narrow shoulders remain squared, though, and she leans rather than curls forward into her handkerchief before finding her composure again. Nodding stoically with a practiced mien, she puckers her lips in restraint one last time and blinks several times at Archer before they both rise from their seats. I sidestep away from the door, waiting for them to emerge from the room.

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am. I appreciate your coming here; we did not want to alert your staff of the truth of the matter, you understand.”

  “Certainly, detective. I sincerely hope you find the person who did this. Oh! Arthur.” Wrapping an arm around her midsection, she draws her shoulders in and sniffs a couple of times into the napkin still clutched in her fist. Archer is about to place a hand on the small of her back but thinks better of it. Still, his fingers lightly graze her waist. She senses his guidance and a small smile appears on her face, allowing him to lead her forward. I follow their progress down the hall.