Broken Threads

by Tessa Barclay

  He tugged at his side whiskers. ‘Can hardly go to a lady and say, Excuse me, where’s your runaway husband gone to? No, in any case, he’s more likely to have pattered to his chums about it. I’ll have a discreet word with the servants ‒ if I can track down his valet it would help. A feller often says things to his valet he wouldn’t say to anyone else.’

  ‘When will you begin?’

  ‘Straight away, ma’am. I’ve got something on hand at the moment for Peabody and Grant, but I’ll give it to a colleague to finish. I’ll come back in a day or two to let you know if I’ve come across anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She rang for Graham. As Baxter turned to the door she said, ‘Do you think there’s any chance of finding Massiter?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said with optimism. ‘A mutcher like that probably leaves a trail of debts behind him.’

  On the Sunday he returned to say that he had found Massiter’s valet. Kitling felt hard done by, having been turned off without notice. But he could only say his master had spoken of Italy. One or two gentlemen, members of Massiter’s club, had agreed on that point.

  ‘That’s not so handy,’ Baxter mused, ‘what with all the unrest over unification and protests and stuff. But I’ll see if I can pick up his trail in Calais.’

  ‘When will you go?’

  ‘Tomorrow, ma’am. That means I shall need cash money to take with me, and letters of credit. Can you get all that ready by tomorrow midday?’

  ‘Certainly!’ she cried, on the sudden surge of hope that came with action. ‘I shall have everything ready if you call at noon.’

  ‘It would be better if you brought it to the station; I’m taking the train to catch the six o’clock steamer.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll meet you at the barrier. When shall I hear from you?’

  ‘I’ll write at the end of my first day in Calais, to let you know if I’ve found a trace. After that you’ll have to expect letters when you get them. Shall I write to you at this address, Mrs Armstrong?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But, excuse me, I understood your home was in the Scottish Borders.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for letters to be sent on at once. If you send any information that can be acted on, I’ll come back to London immediately.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am. I think if he really headed for Italy, it ought not to be impossible to track him down. There are only two or three routes through the Alps, after all.’

  ‘He may have taken ship ‒’

  ‘I’ll cover that possibility too.’

  She offered him her hand. ‘I believe in you, Mr Baxter.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  The promised letter came. No one by the name of Massiter had stayed in the likely hotels in Calais but a gentleman called Rollins sounded very like Massiter. Mr Rollins had gone to Paris. Baxter was off after him.

  Jenny groaned inwardly as she read it. Paris! The chance of tracking his movements in Paris was as slight as the chance of finding the missing chambermaid in London.

  Hope deserted her. The wild, vague anger welled up in her. She jumped up, seized a china shepherdess from her place on the lace-trimmed chiffonier, and threw it with all her might against the wall. Her simpering partner followed. She picked up the brass-headed poker and with its heavy knob she attacked the Landseer of spaniels and children on the opposite wall.

  The door flew open. Graham the butler hurried in. Astonishment froze him on the threshold.

  ‘I hate it! I hate it! I hate everything,’ Jenny screamed. ‘It’s all hideous ‒ it’s hers, hers, she put it all here!’

  ‘Mrs Armstrong!’

  She swung the heavy poker at the ornate mirror above the mantelpiece. Graham, shocked, caught her arm. The poker was carried by its momentum, the mirror cracked, pieces of silvered glass fell into the fireplace.

  ‘Madam,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’re beside yourself!’

  She let the poker fall, threw herself down on a sofa, and began to weep. She didn’t know what to do. Everything was all wrong, and nothing she could do would alter it. She hated this room, with all its echoes of Lucy. She hated the sentimental pictures, the decorative china, the lace and fringes and bows and flounces, the rows of silver-framed pictures, the knick-knacks, the heavy wallpaper, the carved furniture, the velvet upholstery.

  When she looked up again, Graham had tactfully withdrawn. Her personal maid, Baird, had appeared. ‘Bring me a cloak,’ she said. ‘I’m going out. I’m going to hire a man to take all this rubbish away. If there are any clothes belonging to Mrs Corvill in her room, I want them burned. While I’m out, pack our bags ‒ we’re going home to Galashiels. Next time I come back, this place won’t remind me of Lucy Corvill.’

  ‘I dinna wonder you hate the place, mistress,’ said Baird, glancing at the damage. ‘Would you no rather surrender the lease?’

  Jenny hesitated. Why should she ever set foot in this house again? It was taken only to please Lucy, to keep her out of mischief. How ironic …

  Nevertheless, if Baxter had any success in his inquiries, she might need a London base again.

  ‘No,’ she said curtly, ‘we’ll keep it. It may have its uses.’

  If Baird had any thoughts about useless expense, she kept them to herself. Mistress Armstrong was in no mood to be argued with these days.

  Her journey home next day was dogged by depression. She felt sure she had wasted time and money in hiring Baxter. Ronald didn’t say, ‘I told you so,’ but she felt it was in the air.

  Yet eight days later a letter was forwarded from London. Marvel of marvels, Baxter had found the hotel in Paris where Massiter had stayed. ‘Not much problem, I traced him back through the gaming house he had been frequenting,’ she read, amazed at how he could work his way into another man’s mind.

  Massiter had left by train for Italy. Baxter was on his way to the station to follow him as he put this present letter in the post. ‘All in all, madam, I am not unhopeful,’ he ended his report.

  And hope revived in Jenny, like a fountain nourished by spring rains. It was possible, after all. Baxter might find Harvil Massiter.

  Other letters came. From Venice: Massiter had stayed there for some days, enjoying the carnival. From Milan: here Massiter had sold his wife’s diamonds for a very handsome sum. Florence: some trouble here over a drunken brawl. Perugia: it appeared Massiter had friends here, at the University. He stayed some time, but then temporarily vanished.

  ‘I have reason to believe he went south again via Rome,’ Baxter wrote. ‘Though for the moment he eludes me, I beg you will not be too perturbed. An English “milor” is noticed by the Italians.’

  Harvil Massiter was sitting at ease outside a wineshop in Naples when Baxter caught up with him. Baxter was feeding the pigeons in the Piazza San Bernardo, an occupation that allowed him to watch without being too obvious.

  Nevertheless, Massiter sensed the gaze upon him. He turned in his wrought-iron chair. He saw an elderly man in a cloth suit much too heavy for the Neapolitan sunshine, for though it was early June the temperature in the piazza was like the finest August day in England.

  He himself was in a well-made suit of grey poplin. His wide-brimmed hat and his cane lay on the chair next to him. As their eyes met, the stranger seemed to take it as an invitation to join him. He strolled across the square, throwing the last of the hard Italian bread to the birds. After a moment’s hesitation, Massiter removed hat and cane so that the other could sit down. After all, he looked like a fellow-Englishman ‒ rare enough in Naples.

  ‘May I join you? The name’s Baxter.’

  ‘Rollins,’ Massiter said, nodding invitation.

  The waiter hurried out. Baxter looked at the empty wine glass in front of Massiter. ‘Another of the same? And one for me.’

  ‘Si, signore.’

  ‘A fine day,’ Baxter said to Massiter. ‘Hot.’

  ‘It will be cooler in an hour or so when the evening breeze comes in off the bay.’

  �
��A beautiful bay ‒ a beautiful city.’

  ‘The women are beautiful too,’ Massiter said with a wink.

  His new-found friend didn’t seem amused by the remark. Oh lord, thought Massiter, he’s one of those strait-laced Methodists or Baptists that have come over to convert the Italians away from Catholicism. To test the matter he said, ‘Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?’

  ‘Oh, business, business.’

  ‘Really? What line of business are you in?’

  ‘I travel on behalf of others. What do you do, Mr Rollins?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Massiter, leaning back to let the waiter put down the wine, ‘I travel to please myself.’

  They sat in silence a moment, sipping the dark, metallic-tasting wine from the slopes of Vesuvius. ‘You travel, I think you said,’ Baxter took it up. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘A couple of weeks. I may stay here. I like it here.’

  ‘A large English community?’

  ‘Oh, not large. A consul, one or two merchants, some artists and students of architecture … You know the kind of thing. But the Italians are convivial.’ He debated whether to add, ‘Especially the women’. But since the previous remark hadn’t gone down well, he decided against it. ‘Do you know anyone here?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a soul. But that doesn’t matter, I don’t expect to stay long.’

  ‘A pity. There are pleasures to enjoy in Naples.’

  ‘No doubt.’ The burly gentleman sipped his wine, and looked at the shadows lengthening towards the fountain. ‘And so, Massiter, what did you do with the baby?’

  Massiter gasped. He turned to ice.

  ‘You remember the baby?’ Baxter went on, leaning forward across the table. ‘A female, nineteen months old, fair hair, hazel eyes, baptised Heather. We need to know what happened to her, Massiter.’

  Massiter’s tongue seemed cloven to the roof of his mouth. He dragged it free to say, in a slurred fashion, ‘My name’s Rollins.’

  ‘Your name’s Massiter, and you’re wanted in England for the theft of your wife’s diamonds. However, I’m not here about that. Diamonds don’t interest me, missing children do. Where is Heather Armstrong?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Massiter panted, fear making his heart lurch about in his chest.

  ‘Don’t waste my time. Just tell me what I want to know before I lose my temper with you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who do you think you are, walking up to me out of nowhere with these mad accusations?’

  ‘Massiter, you’re cornered now, so just ‒’

  ‘Camariere, camariere!’ shouted Massiter. The waiter came running. In Italian Massiter said, ‘This man is annoying me, he must be a madman ‒ throw him out.’

  The waiter knew Massiter, who had been coming regularly to the wineshop for a week or two and tipped well. Baxter was a stranger to him. He seized him by the collar of his cloth jacket and pulled him sideways out of his chair.

  Taken by surprise, Baxter went over. At once Massiter threw money on the table and took to his heels. By the time the detective had righted himself, soothed the waiter in a mixture of French and English, tipped him lavishly and been allowed to leave, Massiter had made his escape in the lanes behind the piazza.

  In his hotel he fell on his bed and let his breathing go back to normal. My God, a hired man on his tracks! Well, he would find it hard going to find him in the maze of streets that made up Naples ‒ the more especially since he probably spoke no Italian.

  Shadows fell, and the world outside began to wake up as taverns and restaurants lighted their outdoor lanterns and the musicians began to tune up.

  Massiter was hungry. Time for dinner. He washed and changed and went out.

  On the pavement outside the hotel, a burly figure lounged. ‘Good evening, Mr Massiter.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Thought you’d got rid of me? Not at all, not at all. Easy to find you even if I can’t speak the lingo. Well, where are we going?’

  ‘I’m not going with you!’

  ‘Come now, why not? Time for a nice plate of fish and another glass of that red wine. You know the restaurants, I expect. Where do you recommend?’

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Listen, Massiter, you might as well talk to me now. I’ll be on your heels for ever if you don’t tell me what I want to know. So come on ‒ let’s sit down and be comfortable and then we can have a chat.’

  The muscular arm round his shoulders guided Massiter along the pavement. They came to a restaurant with tables in front under an awning hung with little coloured lamps. ‘Here?’ suggested Baxter, and without waiting for a reply pushed Massiter into a chair.

  It was a little too early for the Neapolitans to be eating their evening meal. They received the attention of a waiter at once. Massiter was stricken to silence, so Baxter ordered fish stew, bread, and table wine.

  ‘Now,’ he said, looking at Massiter with great composure, ‘tell me what you did with the baby.’

  Massiter said nothing, his eyes blank.

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘No!’ The response was immediate. Life came back into the blank stare. ‘What kind of a monster do you think I am?’

  ‘The kind of monster that takes a child away from its mother,’ Baxter said.

  ‘I didn’t! Lucy did that.’

  ‘Right. We agree on that. Lucy Corvill did the actual abduction. But you got rid of the baby.’

  The waiter came with a carafe of wine, and poured two full glasses. Massiter seized his and gulped some down.

  ‘Feel better?’ Baxter said, in a soothing tone. ‘Good, now tell me what happened.’

  There was a long hesitation during which Baxter could see his victim was trying to decide whether to speak or not. In the end he said, ‘I never meant to have that brat with us in the first place.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘I was utterly taken aback when I walked in and found Lucy with her. I mean to say, who wants to take a squalling kid along on a romantic escapade?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘So I told her she had to leave it. And she took on as if I’d insulted her. So in the end I said I’d make arrangements for her to go back to her family ‒ the baby, I mean.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And that’s what I did.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Massiter, I need a little more than that. This arrangement ‒ what did it consist of?’

  Massiter paused. He seemed to be looking back at a very distant past.

  ‘Well, I took the baby from Lucy and went downstairs. I gave her to a woman who was waiting to board the northbound coach.’

  ‘Indeed? What was her name?’

  ‘Mrs Dyer.’

  ‘Mrs Dyer. Her address?’

  ‘I … er … I didn’t get her actual address.’

  ‘Where was she travelling to on the coach?’

  ‘Er … Durham.’

  ‘Durham. And you asked her to take the baby.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she agreed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Although it meant travelling on much further than she intended?’

  ‘She … well, I paid her for her trouble, of course. I paid for her ticket on the stagecoach and gave her five pounds in gold.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been more considerate to have given her money for a rail ticket? The stage coach doesn’t go anywhere near Galashiels.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to think of all that. I’d left Lucy ‒ Mrs Corvill ‒ upstairs crying, and I was afraid she’d come down and make some kind of scene. And anyhow,’ Massiter added in morose tones, ‘she never stopped snivelling after that, and I can tell you it took the gilt off the gingerbread completely. There’s nothing so unattractive as a face all blotched with tears.’

  Baxter nodded. ‘Disappointing for you, sir. And so this woman ‒ Mrs Dickson ‒ she agreed to take the baby home. You were quite satisf
ied she would do so?’

  ‘Oh, of course. A very respectable woman.’

  ‘I see.’

  The food came. The waiter set a basket of bread between them, with several little dishes of saladings. The table became cluttered. Massiter, in trying to clear a space, jogged his glass so that wine slopped over on to his trouser leg.

  ‘Oh, damn! Now look! It’ll make a hell of a stain ‒ this red wine’s got iron in it. I’ll just go and rinse it out with cold water.’ He rose, nodding towards a sign that pointed to the cloakroom.

  Baxter sat back, sipping his wine. Time went by. Massiter didn’t reappear. After fifteen minutes Baxter went to the cloakroom. No sign of Massiter. Smiling to himself, Baxter went back, ate his food, paid the bill, and went to stand guard outside Massiter’s hotel.

  But his calculations weren’t quite good enough, for Massiter didn’t reappear up to the time that Baxter gave up and went to his own bed.

  Next morning, he went to the hotel to inquire for his quarry. The signor inglese had left that very morning at dawn.

  With no trouble at all, Baxter learnt that Massiter had taken passage on one of the regular ferries plying between Naples and Athens. He went back to the inn, packed his valise, boarded the next boat, and landed in Athens next morning.

  In Athens he had to call in some help. Here people spoke only Greek or Turkish, of which he had not a word. The British consul provided him with an interpreter. Before dusk that evening he had found Massiter again, in a hotel much patronised by British enthusiasts for Greek antiquities.

  He was shown up to Massiter’s room. The manservant knocked and called, ‘Effendi?’

  Massiter opened the door. At sight of Baxter he threw up an arm as if he expected to be hit. ‘You!’ he gasped.

  ‘Thank you, my boy,’ Baxter said to the servant, tossing him a coin. He walked into the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  ‘Now, my lad,’ he said, ‘let’s have the truth.’

  ‘How did you find me?’ Massiter groaned.

  ‘You’ve no idea how easy it is,’ said Baxter. ‘And I’ll find you wherever you go, so why don’t you just tell me the real story and be done with it.’

  ‘But I’ve told you ‒’