Part 9 (2/2)
”Thank you,” Ryan said with a tone of finality.
Disappointed, Mrs. Warden returned to the kitchen, where she no doubt continued to eavesdrop.
”The murders,” Father said.
”Yes,” Ryan said. ”Last night near Ratcliffe Highway.”
Father's blue eyes contracted. ”How many victims?”
”Five. Three adults and two children.”
”Oh, my,” Father said. With a look of defeat, he reached into the left side of his coat, pulled out a flask, and poured a ruby liquid into his teacup.
”What are you doing?” Ryan asked.
”Taking my medicine.”
”Medicine? What kind of medicine comes in a flask? Is that alcohol?”
”No. Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. But no.”
”Don't tell me that's laudanum.”
”As I said, I'm taking my medicine. I'm subject to severe facial pains. Laudanum is the only way to relieve them.”
”Facial pains?”
”And a stomach disorder.” Father took a deep swallow from his teacup. ”It dates back to when I was a young man.”
Constable Becker pointed. ”But you poured at least an ounce.”
Father took another swallow.
”Stop.” The constable reached for the teacup. ”Good heavens, man, are you trying to kill yourself?”
Father pulled the teacup close to him, preventing Constable Becker from grabbing it. ”Kill myself?” The film of sweat on Father's brow became more noticeable and yet duller. ”What a strange idea.” He pointed toward an object that Ryan held. ”I see you have my latest book.”
” 'On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts,' ” Ryan said.
Father swallowed more liquid from his cup. ”Yes, that is an essay in the book.”
Becker looked at me and said, ”Miss De Quincey, perhaps you'd like to join your housekeeper in the kitchen or else go to your room.”
”Why on earth would I wish to do that?”
”I'm afraid our conversation might disturb you.”
”I've read Father's work. I know what it contains.”
”Even so, what we need to talk about might shock you.”
”In that event, if I find it shocking, I shall leave,” I p.r.o.nounced.
No one said anything for a moment. Ryan and Constable Becker glanced at one another, as if determining how to continue.
”Very well, if you insist on remaining,” Ryan said. ”In eighteen eleven, on Ratcliffe Highway, John Williams entered a linen shop that was about to close. He used a mallet with the initials J. P. to shatter the heads of the shopkeeper, his a.s.sistant, his wife, and his infant. Then he slit the baby's throat.”
It was my impression that Ryan was needlessly graphic in an effort to persuade me to leave the room, but I steeled myself and showed no reaction.
”That is correct,” Father said.
”The same thing happened last night in the Ratcliffe Highway area,” Ryan told him. ”Except that two children were killed, not one.”
”Two children?” Father slowly set down his cup. ”Oh.”
”We have numerous questions,” Ryan continued. ”Why do you know so many precise details about murders that occurred forty-three years ago? Why, in all that time, did you persist in praising those murders? Why did you feel compelled to write about them in extremely graphic detail as recently as last month? Finally, I'll ask you again, where were you at ten o'clock last night?”
”And I'll answer again, I was walking the streets.”
”Which streets?”
”I have no idea. I was lost in my thoughts.”
”You expect us to believe that you paid no attention to your surroundings?”
”In the fog? Even if I hadn't been preoccupied, there weren't any surroundings to notice.”
”Preoccupied about what?”
”A personal matter.”
”When it comes to murder, no topic is too personal for us to ask about.”
I couldn't keep silent any longer. ”This is outrageous. Surely, you are not suggesting that my father had something to do with the murders?”
”He's an expert in them. He's obsessed about them.”
”Murders forty-three years ago!” Embarra.s.sed that I'd raised my voice, I moderated it, but my tone was nonetheless stern. ”My father is a professional magazine writer. On occasion, he writes about sensational topics so that he can help publishers sell their magazines. Murder is a popular topic.”
”Last night it certainly was,” Ryan said. He looked at Constable Becker, as if giving him a cue to take over.
”Miss De Quincey,” Becker said, obviously trying to win me over, ”do you have any idea when your father might have returned from walking the streets?”
”No.”
”Do you know when he went out?”
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