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Authors: Alan Bradley
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nodded in obvious misery, and we were right back where we had started. Murder is not an easy subject to broach, and I realized that I needed to take it easy on this boy. He was, after all, not much older than me. “Where’s the corpse?” I asked.
He flinched, then brushed past me into the hall. The WC on this landing had a hand-printed note pinned to the door: OUT OF ORDER! NO ENTRY! which seemed excessive for a busted loo.
Standing well back, Plaxton mimed that I was to open the door. I held my breath and turned the knob.
The room was dim, lighted only by a small stained-glass window, whose diamond-shaped panes of violet and yellow gave to the scene a curious carnival air. Directly under the window was a bathtub, and in it was what I took at first to be a statue. “Is this a joke?” I asked. But the look on Plaxton’s face, and the way he covered his mouth with his hand—not to hide a mischievous grin, but to keep from vomiting—gave me my answer.
The thing in the tub was not a statue, but a man—a
dead
man, and a naked one at that. Save for his face, he seemed to have been carved out of copper.
“I’m sorry,” Plaxton whispered, averting his eyes. “This is probably no place for a girl.”
“Girl be blowed!” I snapped. “I’m here as a brain, not as a female.”
Plaxton actually took a step backward.
“Who is this?” I asked, still scarcely able to believe my eyes.
“Mr. Denning,” he replied. “The housemaster.”
I opened my mental notebook and began recording the scene.
The deceased reclined in the tub, as if—except for one remarkable detail—he had dozed off during a long, comfortable soak. Several inches from the top of the tub was a regular ring of blue scum, and at the foot, a cracked rubber stopper was still jammed into the drain hole. Whatever liquid had filled the tub had leaked out, and the porcelain was now completely dry.
I touched a finger to the residue and sniffed it.
Copper sulfate: CuSO
4 .
Unmistakable.
A look round the back of the tub showed me what I was already half expecting to see: an automobile battery. One of its lugs (the positive) was connected to a black rubber wire, its farther end bared and coiled in the bottom of the tub like a sleeping snake. The other lug (the negative) was connected to a similar length of wire, terminating in a large crocodile clip, which was clamped firmly to the corpse’s nose.
The chemical and electrical action had electroplated the man. Electrodeposition, to be precise.
Although I knew it was useless, I felt with two fingers for a carotid pulse, but there was none. Mr. Denning was decidedly defunct.
“Give me a hand,” I said, seizing the shoulder and pulling the body away from the back of the porcelain. It crackled, and a few chips fell into the bottom of the dry tub. A glance at the expanse of flesh, plated as it was with copper, told me that there were no bullet holes or knife wounds.
Plaxton hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Is he dead?” he asked, almost blubbering, his lower lip trembling terribly. I could have made any number of witty retorts, but something told me to control myself.
“Yes,” I said, and left it at that.
“I thought so,” Plaxton said. “That’s why I wrote you.” Which seemed an odd thing to say until you considered that the boy was still in some degree of shock.
“But why me?” I asked. “Why write instead of telephoning? For that matter, why didn’t you call the police?”
Plaxton went even pastier, if possible. “They’d think I killed him. I needed someone who could prove I didn’t. That’s why I wrote to you.”
“And did you? Kill him, I mean?”
“Of course I didn’t!” Plaxton hissed, getting a bit of color in his cheeks at last.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I sent for you.”
Plaxton was beginning to sound like a broken phonograph record. I took one long, last, lingering look at the body in the bathtub.
“Can we talk in your room?” I asked.
He flinched, then brushed past me into the hall. The WC on this landing had a hand-printed note pinned to the door: OUT OF ORDER! NO ENTRY! which seemed excessive for a busted loo.
Standing well back, Plaxton mimed that I was to open the door. I held my breath and turned the knob.
The room was dim, lighted only by a small stained-glass window, whose diamond-shaped panes of violet and yellow gave to the scene a curious carnival air. Directly under the window was a bathtub, and in it was what I took at first to be a statue. “Is this a joke?” I asked. But the look on Plaxton’s face, and the way he covered his mouth with his hand—not to hide a mischievous grin, but to keep from vomiting—gave me my answer.
The thing in the tub was not a statue, but a man—a
dead
man, and a naked one at that. Save for his face, he seemed to have been carved out of copper.
“I’m sorry,” Plaxton whispered, averting his eyes. “This is probably no place for a girl.”
“Girl be blowed!” I snapped. “I’m here as a brain, not as a female.”
Plaxton actually took a step backward.
“Who is this?” I asked, still scarcely able to believe my eyes.
“Mr. Denning,” he replied. “The housemaster.”
I opened my mental notebook and began recording the scene.
The deceased reclined in the tub, as if—except for one remarkable detail—he had dozed off during a long, comfortable soak. Several inches from the top of the tub was a regular ring of blue scum, and at the foot, a cracked rubber stopper was still jammed into the drain hole. Whatever liquid had filled the tub had leaked out, and the porcelain was now completely dry.
I touched a finger to the residue and sniffed it.
Copper sulfate: CuSO
4 .
Unmistakable.
A look round the back of the tub showed me what I was already half expecting to see: an automobile battery. One of its lugs (the positive) was connected to a black rubber wire, its farther end bared and coiled in the bottom of the tub like a sleeping snake. The other lug (the negative) was connected to a similar length of wire, terminating in a large crocodile clip, which was clamped firmly to the corpse’s nose.
The chemical and electrical action had electroplated the man. Electrodeposition, to be precise.
Although I knew it was useless, I felt with two fingers for a carotid pulse, but there was none. Mr. Denning was decidedly defunct.
“Give me a hand,” I said, seizing the shoulder and pulling the body away from the back of the porcelain. It crackled, and a few chips fell into the bottom of the dry tub. A glance at the expanse of flesh, plated as it was with copper, told me that there were no bullet holes or knife wounds.
Plaxton hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Is he dead?” he asked, almost blubbering, his lower lip trembling terribly. I could have made any number of witty retorts, but something told me to control myself.
“Yes,” I said, and left it at that.
“I thought so,” Plaxton said. “That’s why I wrote you.” Which seemed an odd thing to say until you considered that the boy was still in some degree of shock.
“But why me?” I asked. “Why write instead of telephoning? For that matter, why didn’t you call the police?”
Plaxton went even pastier, if possible. “They’d think I killed him. I needed someone who could prove I didn’t. That’s why I wrote to you.”
“And did you? Kill him, I mean?”
“Of course I didn’t!” Plaxton hissed, getting a bit of color in his cheeks at last.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I sent for you.”
Plaxton was beginning to sound like a broken phonograph record. I took one long, last, lingering look at the body in the bathtub.
“Can we talk in your room?” I asked.
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