“Millichip? But why?”
“To deprive the Cremation League of its legacy. He’s a very embittered young man, sir.”
I wasn’t persuaded. However, we had much to do. I proceeded to examine the building with Flanagan and Locke. The ash was thick on the ground, but so are shoeblacks at Charing Cross, so I didn’t hesitate. It’s fascinating to look at a gutted building with a man of Flanagan’s experience. He had no difficulty in finding the seat of the fire, which was in the basement, close to the street, and he rapidly concluded that arson was the most likely cause. By picking at fragments of ash and sniffing his finger and thumb he was able to inform us that a paraffin-soaked rag had been used as tinder, probably set alight and pushed through a broken window by the arsonist.
“So simple, if a person is really bent on destroying a house,” he said. “We had a similar case two weeks ago, didn’t we, Henry?”
“That is correct, sir,” Locke confirmed without much animation, for it presently emerged that the Friday in question had been his day off duty and he had missed a spectacular blaze. As he’d also missed the Villiers Street fire for the same reason, Henry Locke had every right to feel deprived. Most of the calls the fire service deal with are chimney fires, which can be very tedious.
“An empty house in Tavistock Street went up like a beacon,” Flanagan explained for my benefit. “We fought it for three and a half hours. It belonged to the eminent zoologist, Professor Carson. He left on a trip to the Amazon a couple of days before. The police are investigating.”
“How could I have missed it?” I mused aloud, then remembered that a supper engagement had taken me to Gatti’s restaurant on the night in question and to a private address thereafter. I was bending my efforts to raise a fire that night, so to speak, not to dowse one. “Well, the police have a straightforward task in this case. I shall instruct them to detain Rudkin, the servant.”
I spoke confidently, showing my contempt for Flanagan’s theory that Millichip was the arsonist and incidentally omitting to mention my reservations about the efficiency of the Metropolitan Police. Straightforward their task may have been, but in the event the raw lobsters required five days to find Rudkin, in cheap lodgings in the shabby district of Notting Hill. I had him brought to Chandos Street Fire Station for questioning on the following Thursday.
James Rudkin may have looked the worse for wear from his new way of life, but in deportment and speech he was still the gentleman’s gentleman, with airs of refinement. I suppose he was forty-five years of age, dark-haired, with mutton-chop whiskers going grey. He claimed to know nothing whatsoever about the fire. “This is calamitous. When did you say it occurred, Your Royal Highness? Last Friday? Was there serious damage?”
“Never mind that,” I told him, eager to catch him out, for Flanagan and Shaw were sitting beside me, and I wanted to prove a point or two.
“Where were you last Friday evening?”
“Me?” He piped the word as if to imply that anything connected with himself was unworthy of consideration. “You wish to know where I was, Your Royal Highness?”
Indifferent to the wretched fellow’s play-acting, I tapped the ash from my cigar and waited.
Rudkin hesitated, apparently collecting his thoughts. “Last Friday evening. Let me see. Oh, yes. I was at South Kensington, at the Art Training School.”
“The Art School?” I said in total disbelief. “You’re an artist? I can’t believe that. How could you afford the fees?”
“Oh, I wasn’t required to pay a fee, sir. They paid me. I was, em, sitting.”
“Sitting?”
“Well, reclining, in point of fact, sir. The School advertised for models and I applied. It was force of necessity. I needed the money to pay for a night’s lodging.”
“I follow you now. What time was this?”
“The class lasted from 7 to 9 p.m., sir, but I had to report early to remove my clothes.”
“Good Lord! You were posing in the buff?”
“It was the life class, sir.”
I turned to Eyre Shaw. “At what hour did the fire break out?”
He coughed nervously. “Approximately 8.30, sir. Certainly no later.”
That evening, I told the Princess of Wales that her theory about the servant had been confounded and in a manner acutely embarrassing to me personally. “Rashly I asked the fellow if he could prove this extraordinary alibi of his and he said there must be twenty drawings of his anatomy from every possible angle. He couldn’t swear that every one would be a good likeness, but I was welcome to enquire at the school. Imagine me — asking to examine drawings of a naked man.”
“It wouldn’t be advisable, Bertie.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. I may have been a trouble to you on occasions, but I’ll not be caught looking at drawings of a butler in his birthday suit. I’m just relating the facts so that you can see how mistaken you were. Rudkin cannot possibly be the arsonist. It was such a persuasive theory when you mentioned it.”
“I’m not infallible, Bertie.”
I sniffed. “Regrettably, it seems that Flanagan — that bombastic Irishman from Chandos Street — is the one who is infallible. Young Millichip put a match to the house to prevent it from passing to the London Cremation League. I shall suggest to the police that they arrest him in the morning. Frankly, I’m not interested in questioning him a second time.”
Alix continued with her sewing.
“It’s a great pity,” I maundered on, more to myself than Alix. “I should have liked to have solved a case of arson. I shall have to bide my time, I suppose. My chance will come. It’s becoming a common crime — every other Friday, in fact.”
“Speak up, Bertie.”
Alix is somewhat deaf.
“I said arson happens every other Friday. A slight exaggeration. A house in Tavistock Street three weeks ago, and the Villiers Street fire last week.”
She stopped her sewing and gave me a penetrating look. “You didn’t mention two cases of arson when we discussed the case.”
“At that time, my dear, I hadn’t heard about the Tavistock Street fire. I missed it. I was, em, otherwise engaged that evening... putting the world to rights with the Dean of St Paul’s, if I remember correctly.”
“Two houses set alight?” said Alix.
“Two.”
“On Fridays?”
“Yes.”
“Both started maliciously?”
“Apparently, yes.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No, no. Both houses were uninhabited.”
“Then let us suppose both fires were started by one individual. How would he — or she — have known that no one was inside?”
I said, “I’m damned if I know. One individual? What makes you say that?”
She ignored my question. “Presumably, the late Mr Millichip’s death was reported in the newspapers.”
“That is true,” said I. “His son read it in The Times.”
“And do you know the identity of the owner of the Tavistock Street house?”
“That was Carson, the explorer. He left for the Amazon three weeks ago.”
“Was his expedition reported in The Times?”
“It may well have been. He’s a famous man. I’ll speak to the editor and find out, if you think it’s important.”
She gave a slight shrug and lowered her eyes to the needlework. Poor Alix. She never knows whether to encourage me in my investigations. But she’d said enough to stoke up my analytical processes again. I asked myself whether it was conceivable that some wicked arsonist was lighting fires at random. No, not at random, but by reference to The Times. If so, it would be devilish difficult to identify him. What facts did we have? He was a reader of The Times, presumably a Londoner. He selected houses that were empty and he favoured Friday evenings for his fire-raising. Would there be another fire this week, or next? If so, where?