Page 50 - WTP Vol. XIII #3

Murderous Wood (continued from preceding page) ing about Lieutenant Alfred Moore, one of the indi-
viduals under suspicion for murder.”
“He’s Billy Moore’s brother, a fellow Captain from the Fusiliers,” Graves said. “Bill asked me to look him up when I was on leave and see how he was doing. Alfred was with Alleneby’s Expeditionary Force in Palestine fighting the Ottoman Turks this last year so Bill hasn’t seen him in a while.”
“Did Lieutenant Moore know the deceased?” Frazer asked.
“Lieutenant Moore is of the same Regiment as the victim,” Horwitz answered. “Moore claims they didn’t know each other personally but that they fought together in a number of engagements.”
“Who was the victim?” asked Eliot.
“We have confirmed that the deceased is one Colonel Howard Rodgers who arrived here in Cambridge two months ago to convalesce from wounds received at the Second Battle of Gaza. He stayed pretty much to Hospital until recently and then resided at a boarding house on Beacon Street from which he was scheduled to return to Palestine next week.”
“And how did Moore and Rodgers meet in Cambridge?” Frazer asked.
“Seems the Lieutenant and an Indian non-commis- sioned officer who fights with our Native Forces in Palestine both arrived in Cambridge on furlough. The Lieutenant and the NCO both rented rooms at the same Boarding House occupied by Colonel Rodgers.”
“Peculiar coincidences,” Frazer said. “Indeed,” Horwitz said.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean Moore killed Rodgers,” Graves said, slamming his fist on the Inspector’s desk for emphasis. “Perhaps the Indian did it.”
“More likely the two of them planned it together,” Horwitz replied calmly. “For Moore, Rodgers, and the Indian were all seen in a Public House the night of the murder, and according to witnesses an argument ensued from which all three left in consternation, the Colonel first, followed quickly by the other two.”
“What was the cause of this argument?” Frazer asked
“Neither will say outright so we locked them up downstairs until we could get to the bottom of it.”
“And where was the body found?” Frazer asked.
“In a Military Cemetery not far from the Pub.”
“And the details from the murder scene which you haven’t conveyed to us?” Frazer asked with gentle insistence.
Horwitz scowled with a peculiar tightening of his facial muscles that pulled his bushy eyebrows together and sent his waxed mustache into a para- bolic frown. He stood there for a moment, his face frozen into a Gorgon mask of affected insouciance— possibly unsure of how to take this request—then with a huff as if he’d been deflated by his own decision, he dropped suddenly into a leather chair behind his desk.
“All right, Sir James,” he said. “Now that you’re here perhaps it’s a bit of luck. Someone of your esoteric training might help unravel the hoary details be- hind this peculiar butchery. The victim, as Captain Graves probably alluded to in his note, was found disemboweled; a form of murder not unknown in my line of work, what with every second story man, pickpocket, and rapist carrying knives large enough to gut a pig. Yet, it’s in the details and the manner of the cutting that I am most perplexed. Colonel Rodgers was found with his hands bound behind his back, his blouse and tunic off and folded neatly nearby, his back covered with welts from a flogging he’d received from this twitch,” Horwich said, pick- ing up a long whip-like branch from his desktop, its spiked surface covered with thistles, blood, and the remnants of some white berries.
43