The London Blitz Murders

TWO





PRESCRIPTION: MURDER





THE BUILDINGS OF UNIVERSITY COLLEGE Hospital, on Gower Street in Bloomsbury, intersected in the form of a cross, but this had not discouraged the Germans from bombing it—perhaps it had only provided a better target. At any rate, several of the buildings had been badly damaged in the air raids of 1940, and there were flattened buildings all around; and yet the hospital itself was largely standing, clean-up long since complete, though reconstruction was going slowly.

The dispensary, where Mrs. Mallowan worked two full days, three half-days (often evenings) and alternate Saturday mornings, was untouched, and remained quite the orderly rabbit’s warren it had always been. Rather like the library of a country village, whose stacks were devoted to pills not books, the dispensary was home to four dispensers (two at a time) and one Sealyham terrier.

His white sausage-like form stretched out under the shelves, the terrier was a small, short-legged, longheaded, strong-jawed, whiskered white lamb of a dog called James who belonged to Mrs. Mallowan’s longtime secretary, Carlo Fisher. Sometimes Mrs. Mallowan thought she missed Carlo’s presence as much as that of Mr. Mallowan (a gross exaggeration) (she thought) (she hoped), as Carlo was working in a munitions factory now and was unable to have James with him. So Mrs. Mallowan had adopted the dog for the duration.

James behaved impeccably at the hospital and there had been no complaints about his behavior, and he received occasional kind attentions from the charwoman, as well as from the several dispensers with whom Mrs. Mallowan shared these cramped quarters.

Of the dispensers, all five were female and of these Mrs. Mallowan was quite the senior, if in reality the least experienced, or at any rate the one who’d only recently qualified in the up-to-date medicines and tonics and ointments and such, prescribed nowadays. The chief dispenser, a serious slender woman, thirty-odd, with Harold Lloyd eyeglasses, often paused to make sure Mrs. Mallowan was “getting it right.”

Which was quite ridiculous, as on the whole, working in a dispensary was much easier these days than in Mrs. Mallowan’s younger ones. In a modern dispensary, so many pills, tablets, powders and things were already waiting in bottles or tubes or otherwise prepackaged, requiring little to none of the skill of measuring and mixing the profession once demanded; she really did seem a sort of librarian of medicines.

Mrs. Mallowan felt somewhat ill at ease, even self-conscious among these younger women. Though she would never have been so rude or bold to say so, the volunteer worker knew very well that, when she was their age, in her twenties, she would have put them to shame.

She had been a willowy young thing, a tall, slim blonde with thick, wavy, waist-long hair, delicate skin, sloping shoulders, and the half-lidded blue eyes, gently aquiline nose and oval face consistent with the Edwardian ideal of feminine beauty.

Even in her housewifely thirties (early thirties, at any rate), she could have held her own.

Now, in her white lab coat, she still struck a commanding figure, taller than these youngsters, and not yet… the word came slowly but inexorably… fat. Her waist had vanished, it was true, and she had one more chin than she felt really necessary, a formidable drooping bosom bequeathed her by her late beloved mother, and the sun-kissed fair hair had turned a gunmetal gray which she wore short, a cap of curls providing an unexceptional accompaniment to features no longer lovely (in her view), comprising what could only charitably be described as a “kind” face.

She was resigned to her new lot in life. At fifty-two she no longer viewed herself as “middle-aged”—not unless she would live to be a hundred and four, and she had no real desire of that—and yet the dreaded half-century mark had been a liberation of sorts. She had experienced a renewed verve for living, that heightened sense of awareness only years can bring; she found that she enjoyed going to picture shows, concerts and the opera with the same enthusiasm as when she’d been twenty or twenty-five.

Her marriage to Max—could it really be a dozen years ago?—had made the difference. The emotional turmoil of romantic personal relations had been replaced by the contentment of loving, harmonious companionship. With Max, she could enjoy her leisure time—travel to foreign places at the forefront, of course.

Not that the bedroom was a dull place with Max—encounters between the sheets remained a pleasure not a duty; this was one of the positive aspects of being married to a man fourteen years younger than yourself (though the weight she was putting on in his absence did trouble her).

And what a pleasure too that those infantile cat-and-mouse courtship games were ancient history (what a ghastly tedious disappointment it had been, after her first marriage had ended, to discover the courtship rituals for those in their thirties and forties differed so little from those in their teens and twenties).

Only now she and Max were separated by this war, this damned war. And here she was, back in a hospital dispensary, where she’d been in the last one. Not that history was repeating itself—the “war to end all wars” had been different, coming as it did as an incomprehensible shock, a cataclysm unlike anything in living memory, the impossible happening.

No, this conflict was quite different, even if it was the Germans again. This time the surprise came from how long the war took to really truly start. Like so many others, the Mallowans—who had heard the proclamation of war broadcast on the kitchen radio while the household help wept into the vegetables—had expected London to be bombed that first night; but nothing happened.

When nothing kept on happening, the country got itself organized, more or less, sitting waiting for disaster to inflict itself… which it refused to do. And so, with the war remaining a concept and not a reality, the country slipped back into individual pursuits, mundane daily life, interspersed with occasional wartime activities, such as when Max joined the comic opera that was the Brixham Home Guard, ten men passing around two rifles.

Embarrassed by such pointless activities, Max had gone off to London, to the Air Ministry, hoping to be sent abroad on a mission. Greenway—their newly acquired but much loved home on the river Dart, between Torquay and Dartmouth—had been requisitioned as a nursery for evacuated London children, though Mrs. Mallowan continued to live there for a time.

That was what had taken her back to the Torquay dispensary, where she’d picked up an on-the-job refresher course which had made her current University College posting possible.

When her first husband, Archie, was serving with the Royal Flying Corps, she had worked as a volunteer nurse and then as a hospital dispensing pharmacist. Nursing during the Great War had been a nasty bit of business—from the rigors of constantly cleaning the wards and scrubbing rubber sheets to attending to burn patients and assisting in the operating room, the job was not for the easily fatigued or the faint of heart.

Pampered ladies with romantic notions of soothing our brave boys’ fevered brows did not last long—not after tidying up following amputations and disposing severed limbs in the hospital furnace, they didn’t. Mrs. Mallowan had lasted fifteen months, and might have stayed longer, but a dose of flu instigated by overwork, and the attraction of more regular hours, had brought her to the dispensary.

There she found a calm seldom present in nursing; difficult at first, the dispensing job played well into her natural interest in, and facility with, mathematics. Codifying, classifying, listing, measuring, learning symbols and signs, mastering the appearance and properties of various substances… this was a kind of poetry to her.

And the dispensary was a life-and-death operation, no less than an operating room—she had seen a confident if careless pharmacist prepare a mixture based upon a calculation that was one decimal point off. Rather than embarrass the man (and kill some unwitting patient), she had spilled the mixture and endured censure for clumsiness….

Still, interesting as dispensing was, she found it rather monotonous—ointments, medicines, jar after jar of lotions to be filled and refilled, day after day. She should never have cared for dispensing as a permanent job, and had her life gone a different way, she might have been happy to remain a professional nurse.

But it was in the pharmacy that Mrs. Mallowan had picked up a working knowledge of poisons, and this personal experience she used in the writing of her first mystery novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles.

Ironically, the boring if sociable dispensary (she’d worked there with two good friends) set her mind to wandering, looking for escape from the anxiety of wartime in the form of daydreams that led to the notion of writing a mystery based upon a notably ingenious way to slip poison to a victim….

And now Agatha Christie Mallowan found herself back in a dispensary, with her mind running down a similar and yet distinctively different course. She was well aware that her mystery novels were of a polite, even cozy nature—superficially, at least—and even reflective of another era.

She did not like to think of herself as old-fashioned; and she had tried, in her work, to do things no writer of mysteries had ever dared—the narrator is the killer, all the suspects did it, a child, the love interest, even the detective himself might be the murderer. Puzzles, they called her stories, and she would smile and nod; but Agatha knew her tales of good and evil hinged on character.

In her way, Agatha was an innovator, and she had of late begun to wonder if the cataclysm of this war would result in a post-war world whose innocence was so lost that bodies in libraries and detectives exercising little gray cells would seem quaintly out of step and, well, just too ridiculous.

Her morning’s last customer (was it terrible to think of them that way?) was a tiny old Irish lady, remindful of Mother Riley from the music hall, who handed over her prescription with one hand and pressed half a crown into Agatha’s palm with the other.

In a wrinkled leprechaun face, blue eyes twinkled, and then one of them winked. “Make it double strong, dearie, will you now? Plenty of peppermint, my darling girl—double strong!”

“We don’t accept bribes,” Agatha said priggishly, returning the half-crown.

A frown wrinkled the wizened face further. “I would never insult you that way, dearie. T’ink of it as a gratuity. A gift.”

“You will receive exactly the dosage your doctor prescribed,” Agatha said stiffly, but when she turned her back, the dispenser allowed the smile she’d been stifling to blossom. She mixed in an extra dollop of peppermint water for the old girl—it could not possibly do her any harm—and then pretended to be stern when she handed it over.

Her half-day ended at noon, at which time she hung up her lab coat, to reveal her off-white blouse and the dark gray skirt of her well-made, respectable Debenham and Freebody suit. Her stockings were black and warm, her shoes heavy and sensible. She slipped into the gray suitjacket, slung her well-lined Burberry over an arm, attached the leash to James’s collar, and she and the terrier made their familiar way to the small laboratory just down the hall from the dispensary.

Within this glorified cubbyhole—workbench beneath a window overlooking the courtyard, sink and rack of test tubes nearby, counter with bunsen burners beneath specimen-lined shelves—the greatest forensics scientist of the twentieth century kept solitary company with his investigations.

When Agatha had first heard that Sir Bernard Spilsbury was her neighbor at University College Hospital, a schoolgirl giddiness ran through her. She had read and heard much about Sir Bernard, and the idea of meeting him, of discussing with him crime and murder and poisons and causes of death, frankly thrilled her.

But she had never made the journey down the hall to introduce herself. Agatha was not outgoing, at least not until she got to know a person; this reticence prevented her from making the immediate acquaintance of someone she had much admired, from afar.

She understood that Sir Bernard, too, was shy and unassuming, amazingly so for so well-known a public figure; like her, he was said to abhor attention, and despised having his picture taken. In the hallways of the hospital, she had observed him discreetly—he seemed distracted though never rude, preoccupied but nonetheless likable, displaying charm and even warmth when someone on the staff stopped to make conversation with him.

Certainly she needn’t fear offending him; and yet she could not bring herself to make an introduction—how silly she would feel, the author of homicidal confections presenting herself to the man who put Crippen away.

And yet she had longed to meet him. It was almost—but not quite—as if she were a schoolgirl with a crush. Certainly, even in his mid-sixties, Sir Bernard cut a handsome figure—always in a dark well-tailored suit with a fresh carnation, a tall figure understandably thickened at the middle, with the sharply chiseled features of a matinee idol, and eyes as gray as Poirot’s little brain cells.

Perhaps, with Max away, there was an element of propriety afoot as well. Agatha had not known how to approach this handsome, older man she so admired without fawning, even gushing, and perhaps giving him… the wrong idea.

Then, finally, he had introduced himself—not at the hospital, but inside Euston Station.

Euston Station, of course, was an undeniably shabby affair, inconvenient, shambling, with a cavernous entrance hall cutting the station in two and encouraging bedlam. She disliked crowds, hated being jammed up against people, and the loud sounds and the cigarette and cigar smoke all annoyed her; but wartime was wartime, wasn’t it? One did what one had to do.

And so Agatha—who so loved to eat, who so adored fine cooking, by herself and others—had been reduced to taking bangers and mash at a stall, sitting at a little wooden table whose secondary function seemed to be providing irony that a hospital worker should eat at so unsanitary a spot. James the terrier would curl up on the floor beside her, waiting for an occasional bite of banger to reward his good behavior.

She had noticed Sir Bernard taking an occasional lunch here, sitting engrossed in a book or writing in a journal; so it was not a surprise to see him approaching, typically natty in a dark suit, set off by a red carnation in the buttonhole, raincoat over his arm.

It was, however, a shock for him to stop and half-bow before her, even as she did her best to swallow a rather too-large bite of mashed potatoes.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Mallowan,” he had said, his voice a rich baritone, “I’m Bernard Spilsbury. Might I sit down for a moment?”

“Please! Please do.”

He did. “Forgive my forwardness. I just recently learned that you were assisting in the University pharmacy, and I very much wanted to meet you.”

Suddenly Agatha felt a wave of disappointment: could the great forensics expert really just be another enthusiast? Another fan eager to meet “the mistress of mystery?”

Where most authors might be flattered, this was an embarrassment to Agatha, and caused in her an immediate diminishment of respect for Sir Bernard.

From the day she’d taken her post at the pharmacy, she had made it clear to all and sundry that she was “Mrs. Mallowan,” not “Agatha Christie,” not on those premises. That she was not to be bragged about or paraded around for the amusement of patients and/or doctors. She would be happy to sign a book for anyone in the pharmacy, should they so desire. But after that she preferred to disappear into her role: Mrs. Mallowan, assistant dispenser.

Sir Bernard was gazing over his wire-framed glasses at her; he seemed a little embarrassed himself as he worked his soft voice above the clangs of the trains and the clamor of the crowd. “You see, Mrs. Mallowan… I’m a great admirer…”

Here it comes, she thought, with the endless questions about where one gets one’s ideas, and how could a kind-looking woman like you devise such diabolical…

“… of your husband,” Sir Bernard was saying.

She rocked back, flushed with surprise and pleasure. “Really? Of Max?”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Mallowan.” The chiseled features were softened with admiration as he shook his head. “Archaeology is a hobby for which, necessarily, I’ve had less and less time as I’ve gotten older.”

“Archaeology,” Agatha said, beaming. “Oh yes. Isn’t it simply wonderful?”

He nodded. “My son Peter used to point out that archaeology rallied my detective’s instincts.”

“Ah.” She too nodded. “In pathology you must answer the same question posed in archaeology: ‘What happened in the past to leave evidence in the present?’ ”

Now Sir Bernard beamed. “Almost Peter’s words exactly.”

She wondered if Peter was the son she had heard Sir Bernard had lost, in the air raids of 1940.

“Mr. Mallowan’s excavations at Ur with Leonard Woolley,” Sir Bernard was saying, “are legendary. And then his digs in Ninevah, Iraq, Syria… how exciting. How terribly romantic.”

She smiled. “I don’t know that sorting and listing artifacts, and cleaning arrowheads and pottery shards with face cream, is ‘terribly romantic,’ nor exciting, exactly… but I did love it.”

The gray eyes flared with interest. “I understood you accompanied your husband from time to time! You’re to be commended.”

“I shouldn’t be commended for doing something I so enjoy. Away from our so-called civilization… blessedly free from the press and the public. I do some of my best writing in the desert.”

“Yes, I understand you’re a writer.”

Her pleasure waned, suddenly; it was wonderful for Sir Bernard to be an admirer of Max’s, and a relief not to be dealing with a fawning fan.

And yet this was, somehow, a disappointment… that Sir Bernard knew so little of her, and what she did, and who she was.

She touched the side of her head, fingers in the curls. “I must say Max’s work resembles mine, as well. Stories of crime and murder can be uncovered in the ancient sands.”

“I must apologize for not being acquainted with your work,” Sir Bernard said. Perhaps he had sensed her bruised pride. “I understand your reputation is considerable… and many of my colleagues read mystery and detective stories. For my part, I have no interest in fictional crime…. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“Not at all,” she said, and her hurt had vanished. “It would be a busman’s holiday for you, wouldn’t it?”

“As I’m afraid I’ve revealed, I’m secretly a romantic—Tennyson, Wordsworth, Kipling, those are my literary heroes.”

“You display impeccable taste, Sir Bernard.”

“Please, Mrs. Mallowan. I’d be honored if you’d call me Bernard.”

“Only if you’ll call me Agatha.”

He shifted in his seat. “If you want me to… Agatha… I’ll read one of your books….”

She laughed, a rather raucous laugh that gave her a twinge of chagrin. “That’s not necessary… Bernard. Have you had lunch? Would you care to join me?”

“That’s very kind of you.”

And he did, ordering up his own plate of bangers and mash.

Thereafter they had lunch together almost every weekday, as her schedule and his work allowed. His wife Edith was living out of London, and Sir Bernard saw her only on occasional weekends. Agatha—lonely herself, without Max—could sense the man’s need for companionship.

This was no love affair—far from it. This was simply two older people whose spouses were away, two professionals pursuing their careers during wartime, as best they could, who found pleasure in each other’s company. Now and then they ate at the stall in Euston Station, but more often at the Holborn.

Sir Bernard asked endless questions about Max’s archaeological digs, and seemed far more impressed with Agatha’s role as expedition photographer, complete with darkroom tent, than her status as an author of best-selling mystery novels.

“It’s wonderful to be married to an archaeologist,” she told Sir Bernard. “The older you get, the more interested he is in you.”

People who knew them both as painfully shy individuals probably wondered if the pair of them had lost their minds, these two reticent types sitting chattering like magpies. But they had much in common, including a love of music; she revealed to Sir Bernard her failed ambition to be an opera singer (her voice had proved too thin, and incipient stage fright had been no help, either) and he told her almost misty-eyed of his days as a medical student attending Henry Wood’s promenade concerts.

They had become good enough friends to allow the other silence—there were days when she was troubled by difficulties with her writing (she had plenty of time for that in the evenings—one didn’t want to go out in the Blitz!). And she would sit and quietly think and their conversation would be politely minimal.

When he was preoccupied with a case, Sir Bernard could lapse into intense silence, often checking a small black spiral notebook filled with file-size note cards, as if life were an exam for which he was studying.

As she (and James on his leash) entered the little lab down the hall at the hospital, Sir Bernard sat at a counter in his white lab coat, his brow furrowed as he went over those ubiquitous file cards in his little black notebook.

“Good afternoon, Bernard,” she said, as was her habit.

He looked up, his smile a barely noticeable crease under the intense gray eyes and finely carved nose. “Is it afternoon already?” he replied, as was his wont.

And soon they had walked, quietly, to nearby Holborn Empire, once known as the Royal Theater of Varieties (and badly damaged by a bomb in 1941). At the west corner of Kingsway, the Holborn restaurant welcomed them; in the last century it was the largest dance hall in London. Now it was a largely male bastion of dark luxuriant wood and waiters who spoiled Sir Bernard with special dishes despite wartime rationing. Agatha doubted Sir Bernard—whose egalitarian treatment of these waiters over the years had no doubt inspired this uninvited loyalty—was at all aware of this favoritism.

The steak-and-kidney pie luncheon was as wordless as it was delicious, and—as they both took coffee afterward—Agatha said, “You must be on a case. You seem terribly preoccupied.”

“Yes. Nasty bit of business.”

“We’ve never discussed any of your cases.”

“No. I suppose we haven’t.”

“Some people might find that… odd.”

“Really, Agatha. And why is that?”

She cocked her head, raised an eyebrow. “You are, after all, the foremost forensics expert in Great Britain.”

He just looked at her; no false modesty prompted any need to comment.

“And I,” she said, and trailed off.

But he said nothing.

She sighed. “And I am the foremost author of crime novels in Great Britain.”

“I should say the world,” he said casually.

This caught her off-guard. “You would? You really would?”

“I believe,” he said, sipping his coffee through the parted lips of the faintest smile, “I just did.”

A warm glow coursed through her, though she was a little ashamed that it had.

“At any rate,” she said, “we have never discussed crime, have we? Or murder, or mystery.”

“We have not. What did you call it? Busman’s holiday?”

“Are you aware that I frequently use poison for my murders?”

His eyes opened wide. “Fictional murders, I trust.”

“Fictional murders, yes. And you are one of the world’s most renowned experts on poison as used in murder cases.”

“One of… ?”

She laughed gently. “The most renowned…. There’s a wonderful story about you. I wonder if it’s true.”

“You might ask.”

“I have heard,” she said, “that at the time of the Croydon poisonings, you arrived at the graveside dressed in your typically immaculate manner—right down to a top hat.”

“That does sound like me.”

“And when the coffin was raised, you leaned in, ran your nose along the side of the box, stood up straight, and said, ‘Arsenic, gentlemen.’ ”

She had hoped for a smile or another light remark, but instead a melancholy cast came over his features.

“Bernard—is something wrong?”

His voice was soft; almost faint—she had to work to hear it, over the clatter of dishes and table chatter.

“When was it… twenty years ago? I was working on a particularly unpleasant exhumation case…. Is this bothering you? We did just eat, after all, and I—”

“I have never been prone to squeamishness, Bernard.”

“… Well, there he was, all laid out, ready for examination. And the young C.I.D. officer on the case, standing beside me, possibly nervous at his first autopsy, fired up a cigarette! I turned to him sharply and said, ‘Young man, you mustn’t smoke. I won’t be able to smell the smells I want to smell.’ ”

“And then,” Agatha said gaily, “you bent down over the corpse and sniffed away… as if the deceased were a rose garden…. I’ve heard that story, too.”

His face was blank and yet the distress was evident. “My sense of smell… it’s almost gone.”

She sat forward. “Oh, Bernard… how simply dreadful.”

He shrugged, slightly. “And what I insist upon calling lumbago… but which we all know is severe arthritis… has settled in the low of my back, most cozily.”

Her response was a flinch of a smile, followed by: “That’s the penalty of age—but these things happen, Bernard, and must be endured. As I get older, the gift of life seems stronger, more vital….”

“Even in time of war?”

She chose her words carefully; she knew he had lost a son in the Blitz—Peter, as she had surmised at their first meeting. “In such times, in a world of broken windows and bombs and land mines, it’s natural to expect that you yourself might be killed soon… that you will hear of the death of friends… that those you love best might be lost….”

A humorless smirk twitched on one cheek. “But one must not despair, I suppose.”

She shook her head. “One carries on. Not that one does not take… precautions.”

Something like amusement glimmered in the gray eyes. “Whatever precautions might a renowned mystery writer take?”

She sat up straight and announced, “I have just completed my last two books.”

“Your last… ?”

“I have written one final novel about my vile little Belgian, and have taken the utmost pleasure in killing him off, too! And I’ve just completed one last Jane Marple mystery, as well.”

He sat forward. “You don’t intend to stop writing, my dear….”

She chuckled. “No. By my ‘last’ novels, I mean I’ve produced willfully posthumous novels—copies are in bank vaults here and in New York. These are a legacy of a sort, an insurance policy if you will, for my husband and daughter.”

He sat back, smiling a relieved smile. “I must admit, the thought of you giving up writing seems unlikely to say the least.”

She leaned an elbow on the table and rested her chin in a palm. “But the question is… what sort of writing will I pursue?”

“I don’t follow. Won’t you continue with mysteries and things?”

“There is a part of me that thinks those two novels should indeed be the last to feature that tired pair of out-of-date sleuths.”

“Out of date… how so?”

“They are of another time. Poirot’s world of upper-class Manor House shenanigans and Marple’s world of country-cottage village treachery. Postcards from a more innocent era.”

Sir Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “As opposed to missives from a world of broken windows and bombs and land mines?”

“Precisely.” She heaved a world-weary sigh. “I have moved more and more into espionage novels of late, and… am I boring you?”

“Do I seem bored?”

“Not at all… but I really would not like to—”

“Please, Agatha. I am privileged to be your father confessor.”

She chuckled again. “Bernard, I wonder if in the postwar world… should this war ever end, and should we find ourselves living in a country where writers can publish something other than variations upon Mein Kampf… I wonder if my style of murder will still be in vogue?”

Now he was openly amused. “What other style of murder were you considering?”

“If you laugh at me, I’ll throw a napkin at you. I swear I will.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I believe you. The question was serious.”

She sighed. “So is the answer…. Are you aware of this new style of supposedly ‘realistic’ crime novel that’s come out of the States?”

“No.”

“Well, suffice to say there’s a school known as the ‘hardboiled’—”

“What a wretchedly unpleasant term.”

“Isn’t it? And the books themselves are rather wretchedly unpleasant, as well. One of them does write well—perhaps you’ve heard of him… Dashiell Hammett?”

“No.”

“Former Pinkerton detective. He writes nicely compact prose. But his followers are for the most part blood-and-thunder practitioners—bloody violence, blatant sex. There’s a fellow named Chandler who writes vividly, but his plots are incomprehensible rubbish… please don’t quote me.”

“You have my word.”

“But, still and all, these writers may be onto something….”

“Something unpleasant, I should say.”

“Indeed. They sense that the public… as the world around us grows ever more horrific… itself is growing numb, needing ever-increasing stimuli. Whatever I might think of their writing, they point toward the modern world. An unpleasant world.” She shuddered. “Can you imagine what the first big American crime writer, post-war, is likely to be like? What sort of unwashed brute will he be?”

Wisely, Sir Bernard left this rhetorical question unanswered. “I take it you are contemplating writing more realistically about crime and murder.”

She nodded, narrowing her eyes. “Bernard, you’ve stated it far more simply and eloquently than has the paid professional writer.”

“Thank you.”

“The question is—will you help me?”

“How?”

She leaned close and held his eyes with hers. “I want to accompany you to crime scenes. I want to see how you work, and how the police work, and achieve a firmer grasp on the reality behind the fantasy I serve up.”

He reared back. “Oh, Agatha, I don’t know that that’s a good idea.”

“It’s a splendid idea. Will you help?”

“I’m not so sure it can even be arranged.”

“Bernard, if the most renowned mystery writer on the planet joins forces with the foremost forensics detective in the universe… how could it not?”

He just sat there, stunned for a moment, then smiled and laughed. “You are truly a one of a kind, Mrs. Mallowan.”

“Thank you, Sir Bernard. Now, what is this case that’s got you studying in your little black notebook so diligently?”

The smile dissolved into a frown. “I wouldn’t advise starting there. It’s a most unpleasant matter.”

“Most murders are.”

“We may have… I must ask your discretion.”

“Certainly.”

He whispered: “We may have a modern-day Jack the Ripper on our hands.”

Agatha gasped. “Oh… that’s wonderful.”

Sir Bernard’s eyes tightened; he looked frankly horrified.

Her heart sank. “Please, please don’t think badly of me…. It’s just that this is exactly the kind of case I’m craving. Something big… a multiple murderer…. It’s just what the doctor ordered.”

His eyes were very wide. “My dear… this is not your… ‘fantasy’ world. Now, sit back and I will tell you about the crime scene I visited this morning.”

And he did. He even referred to his little black notebook, to make sure no details were omitted.

Agatha, feeling ashamed of herself, said, “I behaved wretchedly… selfishly. Poor woman. Her death is a tragedy, not just… research for some silly writer. Do forgive me.”

“Then you’ll give up this foolish idea?”

“Certainly not. It’s perfect. And I would say that your assumption is correct, Bernard. This fiend will strike again.”

He shook his head. “We’re not even sure the two murders are in fact the work of one assailant.”

“If it is the same man, you have to find him… and stop him. Because he isn’t finished, you know.”

A waiter stopped by to fill their coffee cups.

“I wish,” Sir Bernard said, “I could say I disagree with you…. So what would you have me do, then? Call you if our Ripper strikes again? Take you along to the scene of the crime?”

She sipped her coffee; it was bitter, but there was no cream.

“Yes,” Agatha said.

Ten minutes later, Agatha was leading James down the pavement with an obedient Sir Bernard at her side.

“You’re certain you want to do this?” the pathologist asked.

“Quite.”

“Aren’t you busy working on this play of yours—Ten Little Something-or-Others?”

“Just finishing touches, darling,” she said, the latter word an archly theatrical touch. “But you’re right, I am busy. In fact, I’m not working at the hospital this afternoon—I’ll be at the theater. The St. James? You can call me there, should anything arise.”

They were clipping along, the terrier setting a quick pace, despite the crowded pavement (which ran past an all-but-deserted street).

Sir Bernard asked, “Doesn’t the play open soon?”

“Yes. Friday. I’ve offered you tickets, several times. I could use the company—first nights are such agony for me.”

“Perhaps we should wait until after Friday, for you to accompany me to any crime scene….”

She smiled innocently at him. “Do you think the Ripper will wait?”

He frowned. “Agatha, I have grave misgivings.”

“Is that a pun?”

“How often do you have an opening night, my dear?”

“Bernard,” she said with mild exasperation. “Every time you perform an autopsy, it’s opening night.”

And after that, apparently, Sir Bernard Spilsbury could think of nothing else to say on the subject.