. . .

THE DISPATCH INQUIRY
Chapter Fifteen

"That Frenchie is the last one. What's his name?" As usual, Kripke was starting the day with an insult.

"Monsieur Kibbler," Amy snapped. She had awoken in a foul mood. After difficulty falling asleep, she realized at dawn that she'd never asked for her copy of Leonard's interview back from Sheldon. She couldn't decide which bothered her more: that she'd allowed herself to forget or that he never offered to return the pages. But at least she took some solace in the fact that Leonard had said almost nothing of interest that Amy had not already told Sheldon herself.

She took a deep breath, calming herself. She would have to worry about the transcript later. "He's a geologist. And he's very eager to return home to his family. Just yesterday, he asked how much longer I thought he'd have to stay here."

"He'll stay as long as I need him to. Let him sweat. But it shouldn't take me long to tie everything together."

Amy raised her eyebrows. "You think you've solved the case?"

"It's Cooper, I'm sure of it. I just working on a few details."

Feeling uneasy, Amy didn't reply. She had planned to be honest with him this morning, to tell him that she'd discovered that he went to Oxford with Ramona, Sheldon, and Leonard. She certainly knew she should tell him. But she could not reconcile what Sheldon had told her with Kripke's vindictiveness. Perhaps it was best to wait for word from Dave.

Unless, of course, Sheldon had been playing her for a fool all along.

". . . should wrap up around ten, at the latest. I can't believe he'll have much to tell us."

She'd lost track of Kripke's rambling. "Who? Mr. Bloom?"

"Mr. Bloom? The butler?"

"Yes, I presume we're interviewing him after M. Kibbler."

"Why would we?"

Her brow wrinkled. "Why wouldn't we? He's been around here, everywhere, all the time. He was there right after Dr. Koothrappali found the body."

"Are you saying you think the butler did it?"

"No, because I'm reserving judgment until I have all the facts," Amy grumbled. "I just thought we would."

"Next lesson, Fowler: the butler never does it. These things always come down to money or love and butlers have neither. Trust me."

"I thought you thought the motive here is political."

Kripke grunted. "Fine, that too."

Pursing her lips, Amy smothered a smile. Now that she thought about it, not a single one of Agatha Christie's to-date novels involved a murdering butler. It felt like classism, as though a butler was no more likely to have passions than a pair of asparagus tongs. Is that why Kripke had so quickly discounted her potential role in the crime? Because those in a position to work didn't have the time or intelligence to commit murder? Or, rather, in Kripke's view, the funds or necessary love life? Amy's stomach sank a little. She didn't want him to be correct, but, in truth, she had neither.

But she could not dwell on the topic long, as Bert walked in, his large frame filling the doorway. Amy smiled at him and gave a small nod, hoping to convey that she had passed his question and hope along to the Inspector.

"Kibbler," Kripke started once he had sat down, "geologist at the Sorbonne, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know Cooper hates geology?"

Amy shot Kripke a sharp look.

"But he invited me. And I won the Penrose Medal last year."

"Sure. Great. Anyway. Did you ever meet Cooper before this weekend?"

"No. I have heard of him. He is a genius, like me, now that I have the Penrose Medal. I had only met Dr. Koothrappali; we have collaborated on some details of ancient stone."

"What about Nowitzki?"

"Not that I recall."

"What did you think of her?"

Amy added, "M. Kibbler, we heard that you argued in the laboratory."

Bert looked down. "We did. Something fell out of my pocket during a break and she picked it up. She laughed at it and refused to give it back."

"What was it?" Kripke asked.

"A photograph of my family."

That seemed cruel, even for Ramona, Amy thought. Her impression had been that the deceased woman was always pushing to advance either her career or her social standing, never mind who stood in her way. But mocking a family who had no bearing on either? That was especially low.

"What happened after that?"

"Dr. Rostenkowski said something to her, and the argument shifted between them. Then Dr. Cooper returned from - from stepping out and he yelled for the conversation to stop. He said we should not be discussing politics. I tried to tell him about the photograph, but he was angry and did not wish to hear it."

"I guess you don't like him much, anymore, then?"

"Oh, I like him. And I an accustomed to it. I am large and I prefer rocks to cigarettes, so most of my fellow Frenchman distrust me. But Dr. Cooper, he said I was sad so I could stay."

Amy didn't have the heart to tell him she thought that was an insult. Although Sheldon was correct; perhaps it was his generally slow manner, but M. Kibbler always seemed sad.

Kripke had slipped his hand into his jacket, and Amy braced for the reveal of the swastika pin.

"She was a Nazi, yes?" Bert suddenly asked and Kripke quickly lowered his hand.

Instead, the Inspector asked, "How do you know that?"

"You find her pin. Everyone says so."

The Inspector made a rumbling sound of disappointment. Amy suppressed another smile. She did feel for him that his favorite surprise was thwarted, but she supposed it was too much to ask for such a detail to remain secret and undiscussed. No one was discussing it with her, of course, but surely it was only human nature to gossip and speculate.

"Did that surprise you?" Kripke asked instead.

Bert shrugged. "No. She spoke of her feelings."

"Tell me about the night of the murder."

"English people are loud. I am surprised you did not cause Rayleigh waves." Bert chuckled, the first time Amy had seen him laugh, but even his chuckle was subdued, like everything else he did. "That's a geology joke. Rayleigh waves with an earthquake -"

"We get it," Kripke cut him off.

Previously, Amy had always considered the Inspector's interruptions as pure rudeness. And they were. But now that she knew of his education, she wondered if he just didn't want to be told about something he already knew. Or reminded of what he almost was.

But the remainder of Bert's account of the evening did not vary from almost anyone else's. He heard the argument in the hallway and the gramophone and he, too, ran down the stairs when he heard Rajesh's screams.

"Earlier in the evening," Kripke asked, "you made a phone call in the library, correct?"

"Yes. Dr. Cooper has allowed me to call home every evening, to say good night."

"Bloody hell," Kripke murmured. Then, louder, "Did you see Cooper and Hofstadter while you were there?"

"Yes. They left when I entered."

"Did you happen to notice if Hofstadter - really, either of them - were carrying a small dagger? The one that was used to murder Nowitzki. Or was it still on the desk?"

Bert sat with his face blank, no different than his face always looked. Amy found it curious that he did not have an expression when thinking as many others did. Is this why Sheldon thought he was dull? That and he was a geologist?

"No, I do not recall," he finally said.

A few more questions were asked, but Bert's answers were uninteresting and unhelpful. He seemed a man who was singularly focused on rocks and his family. The interview ended with him asking how much longer he would have to stay in England, which Kripke did not take well, but Amy managed to shoo the geologist out of the room before an argument broke out.

Since Kripke didn't feel the need to entertain the idea that Stuart might know something other than how to carry a tea tray, they were indeed finished earlier than previous days. Kripke gave her a few quotations for her article and left.

As she had time before lunch, Amy decided to tour the house. Sheldon had given her permission, Mrs. Sparks had told her how beautiful it was, and, more importantly, she was curious. Would have she have snooped around without Sheldon's permission? Probably. Not that she would ever tell him that.

She proceeded down the chilly hallway, beyond the morning room and the billiards room, opening door after door to see what was inside. Each room was cold and hazy with the light diffused through drawn drapes. If it had not been such a sunny day, they would have been dark. The furniture was covered in dust cloths, although Amy did pull up corners to see intricately carved table legs or panels of needlework upholstery from various eras. Some walls were papered but most were paneled and the fanciest of all had gilded designs. Heavy-framed paintings and mirrors hung upon the walls, beautifully complex parquet floors creaked beneath her feet, and large fireplaces stood stately but empty.

Some rooms were dark and masculine, like a room lined with what she suspected were gun and cigar cabinets. She opened a drawer to the stench of stable tobacco. Other rooms were light and feminine, with pastel floral paper and botanical prints in frames. Room after room unfolded beneath her gaze, so many she was at loss to determine what they all must be.

The most ornate was a bright room that seemed to be a music room. In the center of each cream-colored wall panel was a fat, golden cherub playing a different musical instrument. There was a large open expanse near the window, and she suspected that was where the grand piano had previously resided. Under a cloth, she found a table with a musical case and she pulled out a beautiful cherry-stained violin. In the corner, under another cloth, was a harp and a chair, and she sat down, plucking at the strings. Even out of tune as it was, it released a buoyant sound. She'd always wanted to learn the harp, but the instrument and lessons were far too expensive. It pained her that here sat a beautiful instrument, untouched. She closed the door behind her with a sad sigh.

However, all thoughts of harps were forgotten when she opened the next door. This room was different, radically so. It was a corner room, and both sets of drapes were open and sunshine flooded the room. Nothing was covered in a cloth, including the surprising presence of a four-poster bed here, on the ground floor. There were ashes in the hearth and books and personal items scattered about. There were a couple of lamps but also a few candelabras with half-burnt candles. This room was in use.

By one window were an old-fashioned fainting couch with a chair and an easel across from it. On a table nearby was a collection of pastels and charcoals. In another corner, by the other window, sat a larger easel with various painting supplies scattered about. Sheldon must allow Stuart to use this room for his art. But did he sleep here as well? She thought his bedroom was downstairs, as described by Mrs. Sparks. Although, of course, the housekeeper had not been explicit about who slept where.

There was a large drawing tablet on the smaller easel by the fainting couch, and Amy picked it up and started to turn the heavy pages. There were some scenery and little drawings of scenes about the house. She smiled and continued. The next several pages were anatomy studies, a faceless form in various poses. In some, he was clothed and in some he was nude, but he was always positioned in such a way that he did not reveal too much. The man was not muscular, but the drawings were beautifully rendered, every detail very lifelike, including his wooly chest hair. With another turn of the page, Amy almost dropped the tablet. These anatomy drawings, although still faceless, were far more . . . precise. Suggestive. Proud. Some even seemed defiant. Most notable, nothing was hidden behind a cleverly placed leg or turn of the waist. Everything about this man, at least from his neck down, was drawn in the same fearless manner.

Amy did not blush but she did stare. Perhaps it made her a voyeur, but she felt no shame from this man's body. She ran her fingers over it, careful not to smudge the charcoal. How had Stuart achieved this? A human body, like so many others, accurate but also conveying such feeling. The man he had drawn radiated emotions, even without a face. Amy saw - and felt - passion. Freedom. Love, even. And sadness.

For a second, she wondered if it were Sheldon. But, no, she quickly discounted that. Not just because this body did not seem like what shaped his clothes - and here she did blush, just a little, imagining the long, lean nakedness of him - but because she could not imagine him ever posing for such a thing. And, although it was clear he relied upon Stuart, she had seen nothing like this level of . . . attachment in their relationship. Pulling her fingertips away, her eyes followed their trace. And there, along the neck of one of the drawings, just before it faded away into nothingness, was a faint but very clear scar.

"What are you doing in here?"

Amy yelped and almost dropped the large notebook. Rajesh stood just inside the door, in his usual colorful jumper vest and jaunty cravat, but his face, for once, was not smiling. Rather, his posture matched the defiance she'd seen on the page. As did, she knew, his hidden scar.

"Lord Cooper - he said I could look around, see all the rooms," Amy explained, her mouth dry. "I wasn't snooping."

Rajesh closed the door and came close to her, reaching out for the tablet, and Amy let him slide it out of her hands. The act felt intimate, the closeness of their bodies, the secret they were exchanging even without words. He closed the book with care, gently setting back the easel.

"He's a wonderful artist," Amy said softly. She did not see the need to pretend they both did not know what these images represented.

"Is he?" Rajesh said. "I wouldn't know. I've never seen his art."

Amy wrinkled her brow at his obvious lie. She hadn't even mentioned the name of the artist. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I was just passing by. You can get straight to the garden through this hallway. The door was open."

"A flimsy excuse," Amy pointed out. "And the scar -" she pointed to the closed drawing pad "- it's yours. I know you sat for those drawings. Some are upon this very fainting couch." Then, soft again, to coax him into the truth, "Mr. Bloom has rendered you beautifully."

Rajesh gave a sharp, barking laugh. "Although I suppose it would serve us both better if he were not so talented."

"How long?" She should have seen this earlier; the way he accidentally called him Stuart, something usually not done for the butler in a fine house like this. How he knew that he played bridge and how he leaned upon the slender man the night of the murder.

"A couple of years now. I always knew I was . . . different. I tried to date women, of course, but it never ended well. Sometimes I could hardly bring myself to speak to them. Then he started here and . . . we fought it for a while, but in the end . . ." He wouldn't look at her. Instead, he was toying with the pastels on the table.

"Does Lord Cooper -"

"No." This sharp word brought his face up, and Amy saw his brown eyes were hard. "He mustn't. Please don't tell him. If anyone knew, it would ruin us, it would ruin our careers."

"Do you think Lord Cooper would . . .?"

"Turn Stuart out without a reference? Or turn us into the police?" Rajesh asked for her. He sat in the chair with a wary sound, turning his head to look at the bed. "I don't know. He is my closest friend, and I think he is a reasonable man. But he is also . . . His mother was very religious. He mentions it. And he always follows the rules. He won't even jaywalk in the village, and the shopping street is only four blocks long. Oh, God!" His face turned back to her, a newer, brighter fear in his eyes. "Will you tell the Inspector?"

Amy took the time to find another small chair and bring it close to Rajesh, her knees practically touching his, before replying. "I will not tell Inspector Kripke for the sake of telling him." Rajesh exhaled. "But I need to know about that night. What happened? The tea . . . there were only two teacups . . . they were for you and Stuart?" She spoke between pauses, as her mind jumped and connected clues. "It's why it was ready so quickly . . . it was for you."

Rajesh nodded. "We were here - we're here almost every night I visit. I sneak away once it seems everyone has gone to bed. Stuart came after he wound the clocks."

"It's why you never heard the gramophone," Amy murmured.

"The what?"

"Never mind, go on."

"Stuart often makes us tea, in the middle of the night. It's the only chance what have to talk, privately and openly, we stay up late, talking and . . ." He blushed and Amy looked down, to let him gather himself. "Right after he left, I remembered that I wanted him to bring herbal tea, not Earl Gray. I knew I couldn't sleep in, because of the conference. I went after him, hoping to catch him before he went downstairs, but I stopped when I heard voices in the front hall. One was hers."

Amy looked up sharply. "Dr. Nowitzki? And . . . Mr. Bloom?"

"Dr. Nowitzki, yes, but I couldn't hear who she was talking to, they were whispering. But angry whispering, I think, because it sounded like hissing." He paused and Amy gave him an encouraging look. "I hid in the shadows; it was easy to do, only one light is left on, normally, for safety."

"Could you see anything?"

He shook his head. "An occasional movement in the shadow, but I couldn't make anything out."

"What did you hear?"

"She said she had no regrets, that she'd do it again. Something about getting what she wanted. That no one would believe the other person - 'No one will believe you, you're nobody here.' That was it."

"The end of the conversion?"

"I don't think so, but I left, to come back here. I blew out the candles - we aren't using the electric lamps while Kripke is here - shut the door, made sure the curtains were tightly drawn. I was scared we'd been seen."

"Do you think she was talking to Mr. Bloom?"

"I don't know. But he's a nobody here, right? Just a butler? Maybe she was blackmailing him, to get something she wanted? Maybe she'd already told the Inspector? She said she'd do it again, whatever it was."

"Perhaps," Amy conceded softly. Then, to reassure Rajesh, who looked on the verge of a full sobbing jag again, she said, "But the Inspector hasn't said or done anything to imply he knows. As for Lord Cooper, I truly don't think he considers Mr. Bloom a nobody. He gave him this job after his gallery burned down, and, as I understand it, Mr. Bloom isn't just a butler, he does the majority of tasks Lord Cooper needs." She took a deep breath. "But I have to ask: do you think Mr. Bloom murdered Dr. Nowitzki?"

"I can't imagine it. You've seen him, he would hardly harm a fly. But then I think about if it were me, if I had been in the hall and she was trying to blackmail me, would I hurt her to save Stuart? And my job? Maybe I would. So maybe he did." Raj did start to cry at that. It was not the piercing, terrified cries of the night of the murder; instead, his sobs were a sound of such deep, inner despair that Amy's heart broke for him.

Getting up and searching the room for something suitable, Amy discovered a clean-looking cravat by the bed and brought it over for Rajesh to dry his eyes upon. She considered his bright smiles and outgoing personality, his jovial eyes and the way he made every new person feel welcome. The popularity of his magic lantern shows, his fame, his oversized personality. She had thought he was compensating for his mutism as a child, and maybe that was part of it, but he was also compensating for the secret that brought him sorrow. And, she supposed, great joy, here within this room.

"Do you think Mr. Bloom knew Dr. Nowitzki before this weekend?"

"I don't think so. It was the first time she's visited that I know of. But he could have driven Cooper somewhere that she was; they knew each other before."

Amy noted the innocent phrase, a vagary of time she would have missed if it were two days ago. "So I suppose it's possible." She paused. "Mr. Bloom studied art in Europe before coming here?" Rajesh nodded. "In Germany?"

"Mostly France, I think, but he traveled to lots of places. Yes, I think Germany, too."

Now that Rajesh had calmed, Amy led him back to the three nights prior. "You said you came back here and waited for Mr. Bloom. What happened next?"

"He didn't come for what seemed forever, although maybe it wasn't longer than usual. I was so worried about him, about what I'd heard, I was pacing in the dark. So finally I went to find him. I turned on extra lights on the way, to announce myself, just in case she was still there. At first, I thought she wasn't, that the hall was empty, but then I rounded the corner and - and I saw her. You know the rest."

"When did Mr. Bloom arrive?"

"I wasn't lying when I told you I was so shocked and frightened I lost all track of time, so I'm not sure. But not long after."

"Did he come from the servant's staircase? Or elsewhere?"

Rajesh shook his head, and Amy feared his lower lip was quivering again. "I don't know. But where else would he come from? All I know is I was so frightened and suddenly he was there. It was only a moment before everyone else came, but he was there when I needed him."

"You love him."

"Yes." He smiled amid his tears, and it was a sad but beautiful thing.

"Alright." Amy stood. "Thank you for telling me. I know it wasn't easy for you."

Rajesh grabbed her hand, looking up at her with pleading eyes. "You promise you won't tell the Inspector?"

"I'm sorry, I can't." Rajesh groaned. "I don't know yet. I need to think about it. I can't circumvent the law when it comes to murder, Dr. Koothrappali. But I will try to circumvent the issue of . . . this, if I can. But I do not know if it's possible."

"Thank you. For your honesty, at least."

Amy bowed her head, the plaintive nature of his thanks hurting her chest. Then she turned and left the beautiful room, walking slowly through the cold, empty corridor, back to the warmth.

To be continued . . .

The Penrose Medal for geology was created in 1925. It's given by Geological Society of America, and, honestly, I can't determine if Bert, as a Frenchman, would qualify or not. However, there were no international geological prizes in the 1930s that I could find. Today, the Vetlesen Prize is the highest honor in geology, but it wasn't established until 1959.

The British Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 made any "gross indecency" between men illegal and punishable by two years imprisonment and hard labor (prior to that it carried the death penalty). Hard labor for any crime was abolished in 1945, but the law itself was not overturned until 1967.

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