The Baker Street Jurors (20 page)

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Well. That's all right then.”

“Unfortunately, it's missing its little tab key at the bottom. Which is probably why it got tossed into the corner and has been sitting around for the past decade or two.”

“That's too bad.” She sighed. “I suppose even Spam expires someday.”

“I think I read once that it's supposed to last virtually forever, like a very deep attraction. Or maybe that was Marmite.”

There was a pause, and Nigel worried that an opportunity might be about to slip away. “So,” he said, with the awkwardness of someone stating the obvious, “you were looking for food as well?”

“Actually, no,” she said. “I heard the stairs squeak, and I came out hoping it was you. There's something I want to show you.”

She was wearing a thin cotton shirt, slightly damp, her nipples were alert, either from the cold or not, and she was wearing spandex pants—Nigel wasn't sure whether they were properly regarded as pajamas, or yoga gear, or what—that adhered tightly to her skin. Nigel—still standing precariously on the counter—watched her slide one hand inside the waistband on her right hip.

Nigel slipped from the counter, dropping the can of Spam, and banging his knee on the way down.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“Yes, of course,” said Nigel, resisting the impulse to rub his knee. “Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt,” he said. “You were about to show me—I mean, you were saying?”

“Oh, right,” she said. “But let me help you…”

Nigel was on the floor with the can of Spam, and she knelt to help him, which was excellent, he thought, because clearly he required no actual assistance with anything—but now they heard something—a new squeak on the stairs—and they both looked up.

“What are you two up to?”

It was Mrs. Peabody. She was wearing a flannel nightdress and carrying a keychain-size LED flashlight, even smaller than the one she had provided earlier, and she aimed it at the can of Spam.

“Spam,” said Nigel. “Although from a previous decade. I've been looking for an opener, but no success.”

“Oh, I don't know. From the look of things, I think you're doing all right so far. My late husband used to say, there's no such thing as gratuitous assistance.”

“Quite the cynic, your late husband,” said Lucy, standing.

“Yes, he was. It came from his line of work, I suppose,” said Mrs. Peabody, still shining a light on the can of Spam. “Have you checked all the cupboards thoroughly for something we might use to open it?”

“Open what?” said a new voice.

They all turned. It was Bankstone.

“We have Spam,” said Nigel. “But nothing to open it with.”

“I'm starving,” said Bankstone. “Perhaps someone should check the woodpile outside for an axe or a sharp rock or something?”

“Any Boy Scout who left an axe outside to rust should lose one of his badges,” said Nigel.

“Well, that's no reason not to check,” said Mrs. Peabody. “As my late husband used to say, desperate times, desperate—”

“I'll go check,” said Lucy quickly, interrupting. “It will only take a moment.”

“I'll go with you,” said Nigel, stepping forward—but she put her hands lightly on his chest and pushed him back.

“No, no, you did your part, you hunted up the Spam, and practically broke your knee doing it,” she said. “I'll be right back.” Lucy opened the door and quickly stepped out into the gale, slamming the door behind her.

“Brave girl,” said Mrs. Peabody.

“Yes,” said Nigel.

“Or an unusually hungry one, to go into that just for a little Spam,” said Mrs. Peabody.

Yes, thought Nigel, to risk a soaking and pneumonia just for that little can of processed pork, she must be either very hungry—or quite selfless. And it was rather ungallant to let her do it alone.

He waited perhaps three seconds, and then said, “Something might be wrong. I'm going after her.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” said Mrs. Peabody. “As my late husband used to—”

Nigel strode forward and opened the door, and then immediately stopped. There was Lucy, standing right in front of him, holding an axe, limply, in one hand. She said nothing. She seemed dazed, more than just a little confused—and quite fragile, with her shirt soaked and her brown hair in wet string-lets.

“Oh good,” said Mrs. Peabody, standing behind Nigel. “You found a can opener.”

“What?” said Lucy. Then she looked at the axe in her hand. “Oh. Yes.” She stepped inside.

Nigel took off his coat and wrapped it over her back and shoulders; he guided her over to the wooden bench. She sat, dropping the axe to the floor. It made a wet impression there, which was mostly water, but not entirely.

Mrs. Peabody got down on the floor and looked closely at the joint between the axe handle and its blade. “There's blood on this axe,” she said.

“Yes,” said Lucy, in a numb voice. “It was in his head. The axe, I mean. Well, the blood, too, of course. At an earlier time.”

Mrs. Peabody, Bankstone, and Nigel were all speechless for a short moment. Then—

“Whose … head?” said Nigel.

“Mr. Armstrong's.”

Nigel ran outside to look. The gale was still blowing. Laying amidst a scattering of fallen fire logs, unmoving, the blood from his head beginning to dissipate in the pelting rain, was the body of Mr. Armstrong.

Nigel knelt by the man's head. The pupils were fixed. Nigel looked up—Mrs. Peabody had now come outside, and stood in the rain, staring down.

And now Lucy came out again as well.

“Where is Bankstone?” said Nigel.

“He went upstairs to get Mr. Siger to help,” said Lucy.

“Let's not wait,” said Nigel. “If you can each get one leg?” Nigel put his hands under the man's shoulders. “On three.”

Nigel counted to three and then, with some difficulty, they managed to lift the body off the ground. They staggered to the doorway, which opened just in time, with Bankstone on the other side. They brought Armstrong's body in and laid him out on the long wooden dining table.

“Where's Siger?” said Nigel.

“I couldn't find him,” said Bankstone. “He's not in his room.”

Mrs. Peabody checked Armstrong's body for a pulse. “He's gone,” she said. “There's nothing to be done.” Then she added, “I hope we didn't do the wrong thing bringing him in. You're not supposed to move a body from a crime scene.”

Nigel looked at her.

“I mean, assuming a crime is what it was,” she added. “And not an accident.”

“How else does one get an axe in one's head?” said Bankstone.

“It's odd, isn't it?” said Mrs. Peabody. “We presume he was killed before we all came downstairs, which would have meant he was out in the rain for at least twenty minutes. So how could it be that blood was still on the axe? Shouldn't it have all washed away?”

“Not necessarily,” said Nigel. “The blood we saw was just from the narrow joint between the axe blade and the handle. The rain has been intermittent. If he was struck, say, half an hour ago, the blood could have congealed in that narrow space, and it would take some time for the rain to wash it all away.”

“You have steely nerves for a woman,” said Bankstone to Lucy. “You discovered the body of a man recently killed, but you did not scream.”

“Didn't I?” said Lucy. “Odd. I felt that I did. But if none of you heard it, I suppose the storm must have drowned it out.” Then she added, “I'll be glad to scream now, if you like.”

“She was in shock, the poor dear,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Anyway, what in the world are you suggesting?”

“I'm not suggesting anything,” said Bankstone. “I just want to know what happened.”

“Perhaps it was an accident after all?” said Mrs. Peabody, though without much conviction. “There were many logs scattered about, freshly I think, given that some were soaked only on one side but not the other. Perhaps the axe was on the top of the pile, and poor Mr. Armstrong was pulling a log out of the bottom of the pile, and the axe fell on the back of his head, and then one of the logs fell on the axe, driving it in farther, and—well, it's not impossible, you needn't all look at me that way. Stranger things have happened. Anyway, perhaps it was no one's fault.”

“I think we've had too many accidents,” said Bankstone. “Let's count through them. First there was the woman who fell down the stairs and broke her hip.”

“She was using her phone on slippery stairs in a crowd that was in a hurry,” said Lucy. “Not all that surprising she would fall.”

“Yes, but then there were the two jurors who got food poisoning in the cafeteria. And then the insurance salesman fell to his death from the cliff.”

“He was more than a little tipsy,” said Nigel. “I think he had several pints at the pub.”

“So did I,” said Bankstone, “but I didn't fall off the cliff. The point is, this is too many accidents. Too many coincidences.”

“My late husband didn't believe in coincidences,” said Mrs. Peabody.

“Was there anything your late husband did believe in?” said Lucy.

Mrs. Peabody thought about it. “Yes. Two pints at the end of the day. Sometimes three.”

“We're ignoring the obvious,” said Bankstone.

“Which is?” said Nigel.

“Jury selection by attrition. Someone is trying to get the juror of their choice onto the jury—to control the verdict or at a minimum hang the jury—and they're killing people to make it happen.”

“But except for Mr. Siger—wherever he is—all of the original alternates for this trial are right here, in this room,” said Lucy. “They are us. Or were. Mrs. Peabody and I are primaries now.”

“Yes,” said Bankstone, “But I've been a primary from the beginning. And right now, that's making me nervous.”

“So you think,” said Lucy, “that one of us is the person that someone wants on the jury?”

“Yes,” said Bankstone. “One or more.”

“And you think the unfortunate accidents won't stop until that person or persons is next in line to be on the jury?”

“Yes.”

“So,” said Mrs. Peabody, “I suppose the question is, how many of the rest of us have to be eliminated to get the right one or ones onto the jury? And who are the right ones?”

Nigel said nothing. He didn't like where this was heading. Also, there was another important question, and it was not a happy thought—but no point in suggesting it just yet.

And then it got suggested anyway.

“Wait a moment,” said Bankstone. He began to pace back and forth. “Wait a moment. There's something else. Think about it. There was no one around the first juror when she fell down the stairs but other jurors. There was no one around when the insurance salesman fell from the cliffs except other jurors—specifically, all of us. And there's no one here at the cabin now except the four of us.”

“You mean the five of us,” said Mrs. Peabody.

“Right,” said Lucy, looking at Bankstone. “You didn't include Mr. Siger.”

They all looked at each other in new and unnerving ways.

“Right then,” said Mrs. Peabody. “So it's one of us that is killing the others in order to get onto the regular panel. Is that what we think?”

“It's the only explanation,” said Bankstone. “One of us is guilty—and if we're all going to make it through the night—we need to figure out which one.”

For a moment they all stood in the center of the room and regarded each other warily. Then Mrs. Peabody spoke again, and very much as though she knew what she was talking about.

“Historically, there are a number of ways to go about this,” she said. “Though I'm not sure I would recommend any of them.”

“What ways?” said Lucy.

“Well, if you go back far enough, there's trial by force of arms. Two individuals have a grievance, they both pick up their broadswords—or the biggest sticks they can find, depending on which century you were in—and go at it. Winner is in the right; loser, if he survives, was in the wrong.”

“But this is not a one-to-one dispute,” said Bankstone.

“You're right, it isn't,” said Mrs. Peabody. “And I don't suggest that method anyway, since I'm not physically the biggest and strongest among us. But there have been other approaches. There was trial by magical ordeal. You throw someone in a well; if he or she floats, then he or she has the devil inside, and so needs to be burned or hanged from a special kind of tree. Of course, if the accused is innocent, then they sink. Problem solved, either way.”

“No,” said Lucy. “We're not doing that, either.”

“Well then,” said Mrs. Peabody, “there's the continental approach—trial by inquisitorial prosecution. One of us would be the judge, and there'd be a prosecutor, and a defense, of a sort, and after they've both made their cases, the judge decides, all by himself. Now personally, I would like that one, but only if I get to be the judge. I'm qualified, you know, because my late husband was one.”

“No disrespect,” said Nigel, “but let's not do that one, either.”

“All right. We're narrowing it down. Of course there's also the approach of conviction by popular acclaim,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Like the trial-by-drowning approach, it has the advantage of being easy and quick. We all just point accusingly and yell at each other for a bit, and then we have a vote, and whoever gets the most negative votes is kicked off the island. So to speak. Personally, I think that approach is garbage.”

“So do I,” said Nigel.

“Me, too,” said Lucy.

“All right then. Our only remaining alternative is quite obvious, as I suppose our friend Mr. Siger would say—assuming he's not lying somewhere with an axe in his head—”