The Case of The Toxic Tonic (Bow Street Society Book 4)

  BOW STREET SOCIETY:

  The Case of The Toxic Tonic

  by

  T.G. Campbell

  All characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 Tahnee Georgina Campbell

  Cover central artwork by Peter Spells

  Cover artwork of Bow Street Society Logo by Heather Curtis

  Copyright of these two images retained by Tahnee Georgina Campbell 2019

  Edited by Susan Soares

  All Rights Reserved

  Available on Kindle and other devices

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  The Case of The Curious Client

  The Case of The Lonesome Lushington

  The Case of The Spectral Shot

  The Case of The Shrinking Shopkeeper & Other Stories

  The Case of The Peculiar Portrait & Other Stories

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Notes From The Author

  More Bow Street Society

  Gaslight Gazette

  Sources Of Reference

  PROLOGUE

  Scratched, slender hands pulled at the leather-bound books upon the shelves. Some toppled to the floor, while others were tossed over a shoulder. Once it was cleared, palms struck the back of the bookcase several times and caused numerous panels to spring open. Both hands then delved into the revealed nooks, only to discover they were bare. Undeterred, Mr Percy Locke stepped onto a footstool and swept his arm across the bookcase’s dust-laden top. For the second time, though, his search yielded no results. With a sigh, he dropped down from the footstool and went to his desk. Within moments, he’d removed and overturned each of its drawers to create a pile of documents, letters, and notebooks in the middle of his study.

  The top of the desk held a collection of egg-cup-and-ball magic tricks alongside sketches and handwritten notes for possible illusions. Standing upon the desk’s corner was a kerosene lamp that burnt at half strength. The curtains were drawn as a ferocious gale beat against the windowpanes and howled within the chimney breast. A fire wasn’t lit in the iron hearth despite the chill of the November night air, yet a fine sheen of sweat covered Mr Locke’s forehead regardless.

  He’d watched the drawers’ contents as they’d fallen but had nonetheless failed to notice the long, narrow, two-inch-deep case. The instant he glimpsed it, though, he dropped to his knees, plucked it from the rug with a cluster of papers, and fumbled to get it opened. All at once Percy felt relieved, excited, ashamed, and giddy. His aching muscles, pounding head, and tumultuous stomach became fiercer in their impatience for the case’s promised contents. It was no surprise, then, that he felt as if a horse and cart had travelled over him when he saw the case was empty. Lightheaded and unbalanced, Percy dropped the case to hold his head and sit on his heels. He also sought out a static focal point to still his fevered vision.

  Choosing the ornate mantel clock—with its gold-inlay detailing and hand-painted, ceramic face—Percy stared at the haze of dots and lines until they formed into Roman numerals. After a few moments, his focus shifted to the clock’s rotund, glass cover. In it, he saw his reflection and felt his chest tighten at the sight. The illusionist’s once delicate, high cheekbones were now gaunt and severe, while dark rings had formed beneath his green eyes. His golden-blond curls were soaked with sweat and, like his sideburns, were extensive and unkempt. Such was the extent of his metamorphosis that Percy couldn’t tolerate even the thought of it. Thus, after only a moment of looking, he snatched the case from the floor and threw it against the offensive vision. The glass cover was cracked upon impact and the case tumbled into hearth with a clatter.

  * * *

  “I’m afraid I require more information than that,” stated a woman in her late fifties as she peered over her brass-rimmed pince-nez. She was attired in a high-necked, white cotton blouse, black skirts, and scuffed, heeled boots. Crow’s feet were visible in the corners of her dark-blue eyes while her cheeks sagged. A slender neck laden down by folds of thin skin was hidden by the blouse’s frilled collar. The pince-nez were attached to a matching chain.

  The gentleman she’d addressed was of average stature, but of slender form, with broad shoulders. Aged twenty-one, Mr Joseph Maxwell had freckle-covered sunken cheeks, and high cheekbones. His highly distinctive red hair was neatly combed and in a slight parting on the left. A hint of lavender and carbolic soap lingered about him. Long, ink-stained fingers absently rubbed his pale chin as he contemplated his reply. “Art…” Mr Maxwell cleared his throat and wiped his palms upon the skirt of the black frock coat. This was worn over a dark-green waistcoat, high-collared white shirt, and dark-green, silk cravat. The last had its tiny bow tied over his Adam’s apple. “…I-I’m unfamiliar with the subject and want to know more…”

  The two stood on opposite sides of a waist-high, oak-panelled counter surrounded by rows of multiple bookcases. Bright gaslight housed in wall-mounted, frosted glass sconces illuminated the occasional group of tables amidst the shelves. Each table had wooden writing slopes—whose centres were covered with green leather—around their edges, and double sconce kerosene lamps positioned in their middle. The dark-stained, exposed wooden floorboards were protected by rugs laid out beneath the tables. These rugs had elaborate, Turkish-inspired floral designs in a mixture of earthen shades. Barring an intermittent cough from one of the reading room’s few early evening visitors, the only sounds were the tick of a clock and the occasional howl of the wind.

  The woman stifled her sneer as—irritated—she enquired, “Do you wish to read about artists from the Renaissance period…? The Baroque…? Rococo, perhaps…?”

  “Um…”

  “Mr Maxwell?” a familiar monotone enquired from his left.

  “Mr Elliott?” Mr Maxwell enquired as he tilted his head back a little to look into the solicitor’s green-brown eyes. Elder than Mr Maxwell by seven years, Mr Gregory Elliott was beautiful rather than handsome—fair, almost translucent, skin graced a slender face. Very dark—almost black—hair was kept short whilst his cheeks, chin, and upper lip were unfashionably clean shaven. His stoic gaze and emotionless expression gave him a distinct air of gravitas even when he was silent. A midnight-blue frock coat covered a waistcoat of the same colour with cobalt-blue floral embroidery. His midnight-blue cravat was decorated with a silver pin that complemented the chain of his pocket watch. Tucked beneath one arm was a pile of books while his other hand gripped a black leather briefcase.

  “What are you doing here?” Mr Maxwell enquired.

  “Expanding my knowledge.” Mr Elliott glanced at the librarian. “Did I overhear you request some books on art?”

  “Oh, yes…” Mr Maxwell gave a weak smile. “…It wasn’t my intended topic of research but…” He toyed with his cravat’s bow. “…Miss Dexter, she’s an artist and… I thought, perhaps, if I read about art, I could discuss it
with her.”

  “I see.” Mr Elliott thanked the librarian and, with Mr Maxwell’s accompaniment, sat at a nearby table. “Forgive me, but I thought you were engaged to be married to a Miss Poppy Lillithwaite? I read of your impending nuptials in the newspaper.”

  “Y-Yes, that’s correct.” Mr Maxwell frowned. “I had, um, intended to marry Miss Dexter. I’d asked her father’s permission—much to her horror, I might add —but, well, circumstances conspired against us, and I was compelled to withdraw my proposal.”

  If Mr Elliott was shocked by the revelations of his fellow Bow Street Society member, he didn’t react to them. Instead, he put down his briefcase and books as he enquired, “Then why are you keen to discuss matters of art with her?” Mr Maxwell’s frown deepened. When he then shifted in his seat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, Mr Elliott challenged, “Are you unconvinced by the apparent merits of your impending nuptials?”

  “How did you…?” Mr Maxwell retorted, stunned.

  “It is plain to see for anyone with eyes.”

  Mr Maxwell swallowed hard and toyed with his cravat once more. “Yes… that is, I have my doubts, yes.”

  “To abandon Miss Lillithwaite would expose you to criminal proceedings.” Mr Elliott opened his briefcase and retrieved his notebook. “Did Miss Dexter’s father threaten you with court for breaching your promise to his daughter?”

  “Yes, but my father made arrangements to avoid it.”

  A hint of disapproval appeared in Mr Elliott’s eyes. “I would’ve expected you to have more respect for Miss Dexter than that.”

  “Pardon?” Mr Maxwell stared at him. “I have ample respect for her. I love her.”

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t be marrying another. Another whom would be within her legal right to demand punitive damages should you withdraw your proposal so close to the wedding day.”

  “W-Would she…?”

  “But of course. Furthermore, your conduct and correspondence during your courtship with her would be exposed to the jury’s—and the public gallery’s—scrutiny in the course of such proceedings. Why, if you love Miss Dexter, did you propose to Miss Lillithwaite? Is Miss Lillithwaite with child?”

  Mr Maxwell blinked. “No!” At Mr Elliott’s expectant eyes he cleared his throat and wiped his palms upon his frock coat. “It’s complicated… My father has certain expectations… he mustn’t be defied.”

  Mr Elliott recalled an occasion when Mr Maxwell had attended a Bow Street Society meeting with a blackened eye. Though he made an assumed connection between it and Mr Maxwell senior he didn’t say it aloud. “I begin to understand the difficult position you’ve placed yourself in. Nonetheless there are several questions you must consider the answers to before you take any action. First, does Miss Dexter share your affections? Second, if she does, will she accept another proposal of marriage from you? Third, has Miss Lillithwaite other suitors she could marry instead? Fourth, should you withdraw your proposal to Miss Lillithwaite, and Miss Dexter refuses marriage, is your reputation sufficient enough to convince a third lady to accept a proposal from you?”

  Mr Maxwell’s stomach lurched as the weight of his predicament pressed against his heart and mind. “I-I would like to hope Miss Dexter is still fond of me, but… I have treated her cruelly, and she deserves a finer gentleman than me. As for Miss Lillithwaite, she has no other suitors and has become a burden to her family.” He swallowed hard and cast his eyes downward. “I couldn’t imagine marrying anyone other than Miss Dexter.”

  Mr Elliott took the first book in his pile and, opening it, began to make notes. “Then you must take responsibility for your past mistakes and decide upon the best course of action. I can’t give you the answer, Mr Maxwell. Only you can do that.”

  Mr Maxwell swallowed hard but gave a brief nod. “Yes, y-you’re right… Thank you, Mr Elliott.” He rose from his seat. “I’ll leave you to your studies… goodnight.” He then rubbed his sweat-covered hands together as, with a deep frown, he wandered from the library.

  * * *

  Six o’clock. Inspector Caleb Woolfe closed his pocket watch and put it away while he wiped the underside of his red nose with a large finger. A subsequent attempt to sniff was thwarted by excessive mucus that then threatened to slip down his throat. He coughed, tried a harder sniff, and coughed again. In his late forties, Woolfe was six foot tall, broad chested, and solidly built. These characteristics—alongside his unkempt black hair, bushy eyebrows, and leather-like skin—had earnt him the nickname ‘Big Bad Woolfe,’ among policeman and criminal alike.

  He picked up the evening edition of the Gaslight Gazette and squinted at it with bloodshot brown eyes. Sitting behind an immense desk, with a sash window overlooking Bow Street to his right, Woolfe had turned down the gaslight in anticipation of leaving his office. Housed on the second floor of the police station, its space was restricted. In addition to the desk was a coat stand by the back wall and a squat chair opposite Woolfe’s. The last of which complained as he shifted his weight. It was a snug fit for him regardless on account of his broad frame. An ubiquitous odour of mustiness had been a part of his office for as long as Woolfe could remember. He then noticed the sudden scent of lavender in the air when the door was opened.

  “You’re bloody late,” he growled.

  “A good evening to you, too,” the rich, yet smooth, voice of Inspector Lee replied. It was followed by the door closing and Lee’s footfall against the wooden floor as he crossed the office to sit. Woolfe dropped the newspaper and met his gaze when he heard the creak of Lee’s chair.

  Inspector Gideon Lee of the Metropolitan Police’s T, or Kensington, Division was a gentleman in his late fifties with striking, dark-blue eyes, a flawless, fair complexion, and short salt-and-pepper hair. Though identical to Woolfe in height, he wasn’t as broad. A further difference was the cut and quality of their attire. Whilst Woolfe’s dark-grey suit, white shirt, and black tie were made for general consumption, Lee’s forest-green suit—with a waistcoat and tie to match—was tailored for him.

  “Is there any news of our mutual enemy?” Lee enquired.

  “Nah, and there’s not going to be. I’ve heard nothing about them—not from Conway or elsewhere—since you let the press know you solved the Cosgrove case a month ago.”

  “Are you suggesting I shouldn’t have done so, Inspector?”

  “It would’ve given people cause to hire the Society. As it is, the last major case the Bow Street Society solved was mine; the Oxford Street one.” Woolfe prodded his chest as he spoke. Retrieving a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk, he poured a couple of fingers’ worth and tossed it down his throat. “Is that why you wanted me to put off my dinner, Lee?”

  Lee smirked. “I would not tolerate your company otherwise.” He leaned back into the chair’s corner and rested one hand atop the other upon his thigh. “Miss Rebecca Trent, the clerk of the Bow Street Society, what do you know about her?”

  Woolfe shrugged. “Not much. Before the Society had their house on Bow Street it had an office on Endell Street.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you thinking we should investigate her?”

  “Why not?” Lee enquired in a nonchalant tone. “She’s the driving force behind the Society and yet we know next to nothing about her: where she was born, who her friends and family are, and where she was employed prior to becoming the Society’s clerk. These are all key pieces of information we must uncover if we’re to damage the Society’s reputation.”

  Woolfe’s smile was filled with stained, yellow teeth. “Disgrace her, disgrace the group.” His smile broadened. “I like it. I like it a lot.” He took another glass from his desk and placed it before Lee. While he poured them some whiskey, he continued, “As we have the Endell Street lead—and only that—to go on, we should start there. Maybe it’s the same landlord, and he can tell us how she came to rent the office.”

  Inspector Lee lifted his glass with a self-satisfied smirk. “But of course.”


  The two tapped their glasses and while Woolfe tossed back his whiskey Lee drank his in two mouthfuls.

  ONE

  “Please, remind me why I’m holding this,” Miss Rebecca Trent said. She stood, half-turned toward the window, with a bright-red apple held to her lips. That arm—her right, to be precise—was bent, its elbow held aloft, while her other hand rested upon her hip. Her attire consisted of an ankle-length, brown bustle skirt with several, ruffled layers and a russet-coloured, cream-spotted long-sleeved blouse with dark-brown lace on its cuffs. The natural curve of her slender waist was accentuated by her tight-corset and the blouse’s close-fit. Roses—also of dark-brown lace—lined the blouse’s round neckline. Aged 28, her fair complexion was flawless whilst the natural red of her lips complemented the apple. Her shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair rested in part between her shoulder blades and in part atop her head in an elaborate mass of tight, pinned curls. Though she was a natural five foot seven inches in height her hairstyle and elevation on an upturned soapbox made her appear much taller.

  “Its vibrant colour, against the background of browns and greens, should leap from the canvas to catch the eye,” Miss Georgina Dexter replied from behind an easel. Her petite, delicate face then peered around it. “Tilt your head a little, please.” Once Miss Trent had done as she’d asked, she smiled and returned to her painting. “Thank you.”

  At eighteen, Miss Dexter was one of the Bow Street Society’s youngest members. Yet her petite, five-foot stature was in perfect proportion in spite of her age. Attired in rich plum, high-waist, straight-line skirts and a loose-fitting cream blouse with mutton-leg sleeves, Miss Dexter had foregone her habit of pinning up her red hair. Instead it was formed into two plaits which were hung behind her ears and tied with plum ribbon. Though it was midmorning, dense cloud cover had blotted out the sun to create a gloom within the room. As a result, Miss Dexter’s hair appeared dark brown while her fair complexion was rendered almost pallid.