It is terribly inconvenient when one’s dinner host dies right in the middle of the meal, not even allowing the guests to digest their food before being completely unsettled by the dreadfulness of an eminent scientist face down in the pork roast. I had been invited to the home of Sir William Claudius, along with a handful of other well-respected citizens of London, to witness the unveiling of his most recent astonishing feat, that of creating a steam-powered machine that could add, subtract, multiply, and divide. In short, those of us fortunate enough to have been present were going to be the first to witness a machine that had the capabilities of a mathematician. Naturally, the skill of this small machine would not have the same intelligence as a human being. However it was extremely remarkable that even this first step had been taken towards making a way for steam, oil, and gears to mimic a sentient being. It was the crowning achievement of Sir Claudius’s career, and a giant step forward on the part of the Royal Society of Scientists.
Therefore, the untimely death of Sir Claudius, in the midst of dinner and before he was even able to introduce the gathered company to his stunning new invention, was rather upsetting. One moment the dining room was filled with the chatter and good-natured competition of a gathering of some of London’s finest intellectuals, and the next moment it was bedlam and chaos as men in debonair suits and women in elegant gowns jumped to their feet, exclaiming in horror at the sudden collapse of Sir Claudius into the main dish. Several of the ladies in corsets fastened much too tightly, as is the current fashion, fainted gracefully to the floor. A handful of men rushed to find them smelling salts, while others ran in quite an undignified manner towards the kitchen, intent on finding servants who could summon a constable. Meanwhile, the late Sir William Claudius continued his intimate and unfortunate soiree with the pork roast.
Realizing to my dismay that no one seemed to be taking any initiative to actually attempt to save the scientist, I reluctantly got to my feet and started towards the grey-haired gentleman. He had always seemed like a decent fellow, the few times we had crossed paths, and I was rather sorry to see him meet such a dour end. As I neared what I quickly realized was a corpse most definitely beyond saving, a silky voiced spoke near my elbow.
“Why, my dear Mr. Roderick,” murmured a petite woman with jet black hair and a misleadingly innocent, heart-shaped face, “we really must stop meeting over corpses.” I turned my head and found myself gazing into the devastating eyes of Miss Evelyn Joyce, a woman of my acquaintance who was both terrifying and beguiling.
“It is rather an inconvenience,” I replied with what I hoped was a charming smile, perhaps a tad irreverent for the circumstances, but decorum has never been my strength. “Perhaps if you would agree to accompany me to the theater or a musical performance, this dilemma could be avoided.” I had first met the lovely Miss Joyce at a winter extravaganza hosted by one of London’s most elite families, only to discover a murdered body in the pantry and a crazed lunatic on the loose among the guests. In that situation, much like this one, I had been forced to take charge due to the complete lack of intelligence of those around me. Evelyn Joyce had proved to have a keen eye for detail and a quick mind, both of which were of great assistance in discovering the murderer. Unfortunately, she wanted very little to do with me despite our impressive teamwork during the solving of that mystery, and I had been attempting, with an utter lack of success, to cajole her into joining me for an evening out ever since.
“How could the theater be half as entertaining as this?” was all she responded to my comment, smiling prettily and gesturing to the mayhem of panicked guests surrounding us. They had managed to revive most of the fashionably trussed women, and it appeared that one of the servant boys had been sent running to fetch a police constable. Not exactly the high art of theater, yet I could not bring myself to argue about the element of entertainment. Sighing, I simply shook my head in exasperation and approached the body, endeavoring to find the cause of Sir Claudius’s death. He had appeared in the peak of health throughout all of dinner until he suddenly became quite pale and then slumped over into his food.
“I do not see anything that could have caused his sudden collapse,” mused Evelyn from where she now stood on the other side of the scientist. She had pulled a pair of ornate laboratory goggles from the depths of her handbag and was peering down at the dead man, fiddling with the gears and dials on her goggles as she did so. I was curious as to the purpose of the various widgets and gadgets on her goggles, but from past experience knew better than to ask while she was immersed in an examination.
“That is strange,” I said instead, “and it would hardly seem that the food is to blame, for everyone else has been imbibing it with gusto, and as yet I see no particularly horrid side effects.” I gazed about the room as I said this, doing a quick survey to ensure I had spoken truthfully.
The dinner mayhem had continued nicely, and everyone was still too preoccupied with being panicked to notice Miss Joyce and me examining the recently deceased host. Apart from indecently enjoying the bedlam, it seemed that the guests were no worse for wear; dinner had obviously not been the culprit. Beside me, Miss Joyce had finished peering at Sir Claudius and was currently using an oddly shaped instrument that looked rather like a cross between a pliers and retractable telescope to probe through the remainder of his food. Having carefully moved his face out of the pork roast and placed it on the table, she was methodically picking up a sampling of each portion from his plate, examining it carefully, and then depositing them into a tiny collection of metal containers. I stared at her in bemusement for a moment before hazarding a query.
“Might I inquire as to the nature of your work?” I asked hesitantly, having had several unpleasant acquaintances with Miss Joyce’s sharp wit on previous occasions of querying. For a moment I thought she was not going to respond, but then she paused and glanced up at me.
“Your assumption that it was not dinner that killed Sir Claudius would seem to be accurate, if one begins from the premise that Sir Claudius was eating the same food as the other guests. Seeing, however, as there is always the possibility that somebody tampered with his food and only his food, I would like to investigate further.”
She smiled demurely and returned to her task. Miss Joyce herself was not as fond of scientific pursuits as many of the fashionable ladies of London society; her main occupation tends to be towards that of writer. Like most individuals with a proclivity for the written word, however, she was unashamedly nosy and possessed a dilettante’s interest in nearly everything. Miss Joyce also possessed a wide circle of curiously minded friends who had various abilities and skills which could further any intellectual inquiries she had.
“I suppose you have a friend who will be able to test the nutritional quality…or lack there-of…in the food?”
Miss Joyce inclined her head slightly in what I took for agreement. With a satisfied smile, she closed the last of the small containers, having accomplished her task, and slipped everything back into her handbag. “Stand to attention, Mr. Roderick,” she murmured slyly, “we are about to have company.”
Turning my head, I caught a glimpse of a pudgy gentlemen making a beeline towards us. I grimaced at Miss Joyce before facing the oncoming terror.
“Mr. Roderick! Mr. Roderick! How fortunate that you should be here,” huffed George Wilson as he approached us. He was a short, older gentleman of considerable girth and inconsiderable intelligence who had a nasty habit of attaching himself to me at various London social events. I stifled a groan, plastering a smile on my face as I shook his hand.
“Mr. Wilson,” I nodded, “how pleasant to see you, despite the unpleasant circumstances.” Glancing towards the corpse, I noticed to my amusement that Miss Joyce had somehow managed to discreetly place Sir Claudius’s face back in the pork roast. It had been my good fortune not to realize Mr. Wilson had also been invited to Sir Claudius’s dinner, for the man was an interminable bore, yet seemed convinced that he and I were the best of friends. He was under the illusion that he had assisted Miss Joyce and me in solving the pantry murder, and had since decided that we were the perfect team. He was, however, quite justifiably, rather terrified of Miss Evelyn Joyce, and so he had developed the habit of pretending she was not present when, indeed, she was, in order to deal with this fear.
Miss Joyce, never one to be ignored unless she wanted to be, had taken this habit of Mr. Wilson’s rather personally. She had since made it her unrelenting mission to ensure that Mr. George Wilson was always vividly aware of her presence.
“Why, my dear Mr. Wilson,” she said suddenly, pretending not to notice him jump at the sound of her voice, “it is a delight to see you as well.” She extended her hand, and smiled coyly as he bent over it.
“Charmed,” muttered Mr. Wilson, sounding as though he were being strangled. Miss Joyce’s smile flitted to a grin momentarily, though she regained her composure before the pitiable gentleman stood back up.
George Wilson turned quickly back to me. “Have you found anything regarding the unfortunate demise of Sir Claudius?” He asked eagerly, intent on extricating himself from the awkward situation with which Miss Joyce was intent upon torturing him.
I shook my head, realizing as I did so just how little I had managed to accomplish regarding my self-initiated investigation. At least Miss Joyce had taken samples of the scientist’s food; I had simply stood by and watched. “It has been unfortunately hectic this past half hour,” I replied, “and as such I have been able to glean very little. Of course,” I added after a moment’s thought, “I should think a properly trained constable would be more appropriate, given the situation.”
Mr. Wilson appeared somewhat crestfallen at this comment, although he nodded his head in disappointed agreement. “I suppose so,” he acquiesced, “especially considering the eminence of the victim.” He looked down at Sir Claudius, shivered, and returned his gaze to me. “What a pity that we were unable to see his marvelous invention. It sounded like a device that would be quite superb.”
“What makes you think that we shall not get to see it?” interjected Miss Joyce. Mr. Wilson had seemingly managed to briefly forget she was there. The reminder of her presence unsettled him enough that he was not immediately able to answer.
After a moment of stuttering, he finally managed, “Well, I should think it rather indecent to go showing off the poor man’s inventions, at least until the cause of his death is ascertained.”
“Perhaps,” was all Evelyn Joyce said in response, sounding completely unconvinced.
It was at that moment that several constables finally arrived, much to my relief. They quickly went about the business of clearing the room of flustered and curious guests, including myself, Miss Joyce, and Mr. Wilson, although Mr. Wilson did attempt to inform them that we would be most happy to assist them in any way possible. One of the constables had gruffly responded that the biggest help we could give would be to promptly vacate the premises, and for once in his life Mr. Wilson made a wise decision and left.
Once the renewed chaos of the police constable’s arrival and the dismissal of the various dinner guests had quieted, I found myself standing outside the late Sir Claudius’s impressive London home, waiting for my carriage. Miss Joyce had somehow managed to remain by my side in the hubbub, and now she turned to me with a slight curtsy.
“As always, it was lovely to see you, Mr. Roderick,” she smiled. “Mayhap we will be cross paths again soon, though hopefully not in the vicinity of any corpses.” I tipped my hat and smiled as she turned towards her own carriage. Suddenly a thought occurred to me, causing me to hurriedly call out to Miss Joyce before she closed the carriage door.
“Miss Joyce!”
She turned, eyebrows raised.
“Would you be so kind as to inform me what the results are after you have that food tested?”
Miss Evelyn Joyce simply smiled and nodded, before closing the carriage door and disappearing into the night.
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