Inspector Abberline and the Gods of Rome

by Simon Clark

  What happened next amazed and shocked her. Abruptly, the white hands vanished from her shoulders. Without warning, there came a terrific crash as a large object tumbled through the branches. This was followed by a terrific thud as it struck the earth just in front of her.

  There on the ground, lying stretched out, and utterly motionless, was a man of perhaps twenty years of age. He was dressed in the clothes of a gentleman. He lay flat on his back, his face turned toward hers. The stranger’s red hair gleamed as bright as copper wire. The mouth remained open, clearly revealing a gap in the front teeth. Most noticeable of all, his eyes – they were a vivid, emerald green. Those green eyes stared from the gloom, even though she knew he lay dead. The stranger’s chest gave a single heave and a gush of blood spurted from his mouth – a furious river of crimson, surging and bubbling from lifeless jaws.

  The maid found she could move again: she began to run, crashing through bushes, searching for a way out. She expected to come face-to-face with the terrifying white phantom at any moment.

  At last, she burst into a sunlit clearing to find three men walking there. Without hesitation, she stumbled toward them, while gasping for breath. A young man caught hold of her before she could fall.

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss, we have you safe,’ said the man.

  She looked up into the young gentleman’s face. He had bright, copper-red hair; his striking eyes were an emerald green. When he smiled at her, he revealed a distinct gap in the top row of his teeth.

  The maid let out a yell of terror. ‘I’ve just seen you back there! You fell from the sky … I saw you lying dead, and you were all broken!’

  Something inside her head tore free. The maid screamed again … after that: nothing …

  Nothing but darkness.

  CHAPTER 5

  They alighted from the train at East Carlton. The small, rural station stood at the edge of a village that consisted of cottages with thatched roofs, and in extreme contrast to London these streets were empty, with the exception of an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow full of potatoes.

  Abberline said, ‘We’re due to be collected by coach at half past eight.’ He glanced across at the church clock. ‘And it’s now twenty-five past the hour. According to Mr Denby’s letter we have a fifteen minute drive to Fairfax Manor.’

  Thomas Lloyd shielded his eyes against the sun as he scanned what appeared to be the only main road in and out of the village. He could see nothing resembling a coach. Then no doubt life still ambled along at a much slower pace in this rural backwater.

  For the past ten minutes or so, Thomas had been mulling over the documents that Abberline had given him to read on the train. What’s more, he found it hard to erase the memory of the photograph of Sir Alfred Denby in death. The man’s face had been savagely torn by the explosion – his eyes were open, and they appeared to express a mixture of shock and disbelief that his life had reached such a brutal end. The body itself lay partly buried in the debris of the workshop.

  Thomas said, ‘Nothing in the report suggests that the gunpowder explosion was anything other than an accident. Every morning at six-thirty Sir Alfred collected a small quantity of powder for the cannon, which he then fired at seven sharp as a signal to his employees on the estate to start work in the fields. On the morning of his death, the workshop door remained locked until Sir Alfred unlocked it, just as he’d always done. However, on this occasion he appears to have inadvertently brought the naked flame of a candle too close to the gunpowder.’

  Abberline didn’t appear convinced by the report’s conclusions. ‘Perhaps the gentleman’s rigid observance of his timetable was his undoing? Might not someone have attached a clock to a detonator? That way the explosion could have been precisely timed to occur within a moment of the ever-punctual Sir Alfred stepping through the door.’

  ‘Was there any sign of such a timing device?’

  Abberline shook his head. ‘Both the police and the coroner were satisfied that Sir Alfred was a victim of fatal mishap and nothing more.’

  ‘However, the brother disagrees.’

  ‘Mr Victor Denby lists a few clues in his letter that suggest foul play. He describes the butler seeing a lurking figure, as he puts it, near the workshop several days previous to the explosion. He also cites the fact that the lock of the workshop had been sprained.’

  ‘So, someone might have forced the lock in order to gain access to the workshop? That would allow them to see how much gunpowder was stored there, and decide that would be an ideal way to dispose of Sir Alfred.’

  ‘And disposed of he was. Nobody could survive a blast of that force.’

  ‘But Mr Denby doesn’t mention who would wish to kill his brother.’

  ‘So? The gentleman was an upstanding member of society? An innocent Englishman murdered for no apparent reason – perhaps slain by men who wish to destroy in a completely random fashion?’

  ‘Ah, now you’re toying with me. You know something I don’t.’

  Abberline’s eyes twinkled. ‘Detectives and journalists approach their work in much the same way. Yes, we look, we listen, we string together facts in order to construct our case, or our newspaper story. But aren’t we also like archaeologists? We dig down into the history of our subject. We uncover what has lain hidden for a long time.’

  ‘So you’ve been digging into Sir Alfred’s past?’

  ‘Indeed, I have. His innocence is questionable. Twenty years ago the man may have been involved with the theft of valuable artefacts from Italy. The Scandal of the Gods of Rome – you’ve heard of it?’

  ‘I can’t have failed to. The story was in the newspapers. The Royal Family were embarrassed by accusations made by the King of Italy.’

  Abberline nodded. ‘Gold statues from the time of the Roman Empire were discovered in a cave in Italy – they’d been hidden there fifteen hundred years ago when the country was being over-run by barbarians. Whoever stumbled upon the treasure never reported the find to the authorities. It was only much later that the Italian police learnt that a notorious criminal family, based in Naples, had smuggled out of the country, at least one of the gold statues out of the country, which they sold to a wealthy Englishman.’

  ‘Ah … Sir Alfred?’

  ‘So we believe.’

  ‘But there’s no evidence?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Why was the Royal Family implicated?’

  ‘Rumours reached the Italian king that Sir Alfred had wanted to give to Her Majesty a statue of a gold Faunus – a horned god that resembles the devil.’

  ‘A very generous gift.’

  ‘Generosity be damned. Sir Alfred gambled that he’d be promoted to the peerage after giving Her Majesty such a priceless artefact.’ In fact, rumour has it that he achieved his knighthood in a questionable manner.

  ‘Being Lord Denby would have enabled him to become even richer.’

  ‘So we have a greedy man. And one who apparently broke the law by illegally purchasing what amounted to an Italian national treasure.’

  ‘But there is no hard evidence that his involvement with a theft twenty years ago led to his death two months ago?’

  ‘And that’s what brings us here: two men in search of that hard evidence. Now if I’m not mistaken here is our carriage.’

  A cart of decidedly rustic appearance, pulled by a black horse, rumbled along the street. Thomas was surprised to see that the coachman wore the rough smock of a farm worker.

  ‘Mister Abby Line?’ sang out the cart’s driver.

  ‘Inspector Abberline,’ corrected the detective.

  The driver scratched his jaw, which was covered with thick, bristly stubble. ‘I’ve been told to get ya’. Hop on, gents. I’ll get ya’ there quick.’

  Abberline raised his eyebrows before climbing onto a bench in the back of the cart. The driver immediately shook the reins and the horse started off before Thomas was on board. He had to run behind and leap on. Abberline caught hold of his arm and helped him to th
e seat.

  ‘Is this as it should be?’ Thomas called out to the driver. ‘We were waiting for Mr Denby’s coachman.’

  ‘Ha! The coachman left on account of his terrors. I’m the gardener. They told me to pick you two gents up from puffin’ Billy.’

  ‘Terrors?’ repeated Abberline. ‘You say the coachman left on account of his terrors?’

  ‘Aye, sir. The coachman couldn’t abide living at the manor house. He’d convinced himself he’d be kill’t, too.’

  Thomas surmised that their driver meant ‘killed’ by his use of the word ‘kill’t’.

  ‘We’re here to investigate the death of your former master.’

  ‘Investigate, sir? There’s no need to trouble your good selves with that. Everyone hereabouts knows exactly what killed Sir Alfred.’

  ‘He died in the explosion, surely?’ said Thomas.

  ‘No, gents. It was the curse that killed Sir Alfred. Just like the curse did for his brothers, too.’

  ‘What curse?’

  ‘You must’ve heard of the curse? Everyone in these parts has.’

  ‘Perhaps you will tell us,’ Abberline said.

  ‘The curse that’s killed Sir Alfred and his brothers, sir, is the curse of the Gods of Rome.’

  CHAPTER 6

  The maid sat in the room that led off from the main kitchen. This was known as the butler’s pantry and it’s where the butler, housekeeper and senior domestic staff dined. The rest of the staff normally ate in the kitchen. This was the first time the maid had been into the room. She knew she’d only been allowed in because it’s where the gentlemen had brought her after she’d fainted in the wood.

  The housekeeper peered at the maid through her silver-rimmed glasses with their peculiar little half-moon lenses. ‘Laura.’ The woman spoke sternly. ‘You must not repeat to anyone what you’ve just told me. Do you hear, girl?’

  ‘But I’ve already told the gent with red hair, Miss Groom. I said that I’d seen him fall out of the sky, and I saw him lying all dead and broken on the ground.’

  ‘Laura, that’s such nonsense. The very man you’re speaking about lying dead carried you into the house.’

  ‘I know that, Miss Groom.’

  ‘Then how can you have seen a living, breathing man lying dead on the ground?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss Groom. I just did. It must have been a vision.’

  ‘Domestic servants don’t have visions, Laura, only saints have visions. What you’re saying is blasphemy.’

  ‘A figure chased me through the forest. I was terrified … so terrified my wits were scattered. I heard music and had a vision … or a-a clairvoyance.’

  ‘Laura’ – the housekeeper’s tone took on a note of warning – ‘this foolery of yours must stop.”

  Laura felt herself getting hot and panicky. She was telling the truth, and she wanted to warn the young man with red hair again. ‘I saw a vision of the man’s death. He’d fallen out of the sky.’

  Miss Groom leaned across the table. She gripped Laura’s forearm so fiercely that the girl cried out. ‘You will have seen something of the master’s work here. You know what it involves. The gentleman with red hair is here to help the master.’

  ‘Which means he is in danger: I must tell him to leave.’

  ‘Good gracious, girl, you’ll do no such thing.’

  A boy of fourteen thrust his head through a gap in the door. He could barely keep from laughing. ‘Seen your phantom again, Laura?’

  The housekeeper rounded on the lad. ‘Hold your tongue, Daniel.’

  ‘That’s what everyone below stairs is saying. Laura got herself chased by a ghost, and it was as pale as morning mist. I reckon we should call it the White Phantom. Ouch!’

  Miss Groom caught hold of the boy’s ear and dragged him to within six inches of her face. ‘If I hear you spreading malicious tales about ghosts, I’ll thrash the skin off your backside myself, Daniel Jenner. Now, who said you could come in here?’

  ‘Ouch. Cook told me. She wants to know if you want more tea.’

  ‘Thank Cook, but tell her we have sufficient.’ Miss Groom released the boy’s ear and rubbed her fingers together as if they’d become dirty. ‘You can go now, Daniel. And remember – no tittle-tattle about ghosts.’

  The boy vanished through the door, rubbing his ear as he did so.

  The housekeeper gazed thoughtfully out of the window at the Welsh mountains. In the distance, taller than the rest, stood Mount Snowdon. It still wore a coat of frost. And while the other mountains were dull greys and greens, Snowdon was a brilliant white in the sunshine. A ghost mountain – at least that’s what it looked like to Laura. She remembered the white figure which had pursued her through the forest that morning and she shivered to the roots of her heart.

  ‘I’ve a mind to dismiss you, Laura, and send you back to your parents. The master is more forgiving, however. He believes you suffered a nervous shock, and he’s told me that you should be allowed to rest for a few days.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Groom.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about visions and ghosts.’

  ‘I really did see the gentlemen with red hair lying dead on the ground. I remember his green eyes … the way they were cold and staring and—‘

  ‘Listen to me, girl. Don’t mention this nonsense again, or I will see to it that you are sent home without references, and you’ll never find honest work again. Now, go up to your room. You are to remain in bed until I tell you otherwise. Go on then, child. I’ll have broth sent up to you later.’

  Laura Morgan climbed the back stairs to the room she shared with two other maids. From there, she looked out of the window and caught sight of the master walking in the company of the red-haired gentleman who’d picked her up from the ground after she’d fallen in a faint.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I know that you will die here, but I’m not allowed to warn you again.’

  For a moment, she thought she saw a strange face that was white as death. It peered out from the trees at the master and the red-haired gentleman; a second later, it vanished. Icy shivers cascaded through her body and she quickly climbed into bed without getting undressed.

  The maid knew that terrible events would happen here soon. Powers beyond her understanding had granted her a glimpse of the future. That’s what she believed with all her heart. Yet what could she do to help the doomed gentleman? How could she save him? With savage clarity she remembered the words she’d uttered: ‘I’ve just seen you back there. You fell from the sky … I saw you lying dead, and you were all broken!’

  CHAPTER 7

  Thomas Lloyd made notes about the case that Inspector Abberline was investigating. Or, rather, he attempted to. The cart that he and the detective were riding in had neither springs nor cushioned upholstery to protect them from the violent jolting on the country lane, which seemed to consist of ruts, holes and boulders. More than once, the two men had to grip the sides of the rustic cart to prevent them from being thrown out.

  Abberline smiled at Thomas. ‘This reminds me of a pleasure steamer I once took from Brighton. The cruise was no pleasure I can tell you. There was very near a hurricane blowing.’

  A wheel bounced over a house-brick lying in the road. Their driver swore mightily about inconsiderate people who leave debris on the Queen’s highway. After that, a dog raced out of a farmyard in order to bark furiously at them. The startled horse lurched forward, almost tipping Thomas out of the back. The driver cursed again.

  ‘Damn ye, blasted brute!’ The man used his whip to lash out in the direction of the dog. The whip didn’t frighten the dog in the least and it furiously snapped at the wheels.

  ‘Driver,’ Thomas called out, ‘we’d very much like to arrive at Fairfax Manor in one piece.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ The driver took this as encouragement to deploy his whip again. He lashed wildly in the direction of the snarling brute. The leather whipcord came perilously close to strik
ing Thomas rather than the intended target.

  A boy whistled from the farmyard. The dog immediately bounded away, wagging its tail, pleased that it had discharged its canine duty. After that, the journey became quieter, even if the cart jolted so much that Thomas’s teeth repeatedly clacked together.

  ‘Just a little while, gents,’ sang out their driver. ‘Soon be there.’

  Thomas rolled his eyes. ‘Thank heaven. My bones can’t stand much more of this bouncing.’

  Abberline’s eyes twinkled. ‘Perhaps, when time comes to leave, we might enjoy walking back to the station.’

  ‘Indeed so,’ Thomas chuckled.

  The road became a little smoother and the jolting less violent. Thomas seized the opportunity to jot some notes. Investigation into death of Sir Alfred Denby. Coroner decided explosion was an accident. My impression is that Abberline doubts this. Abberline mentioned Gods of Rome scandal and Sir Alfred’s possible connection thereto. Gold statues were illegally taken from Italy over twenty years ago. So: a connection between theft of statues and death of Sir Alfred? Did someone—

  The cart bumped so violently that the point of his pencil snapped. Thomas sighed. He decided to leave the note-making until this turbulent journey had reached its end, and sat back to admire the view. All around him were meadows, while softly rounded trees, after the harsh, straight lines of London’s buildings, were pleasantly easy on the eye. An old man guided a cow down the road.

  As the cart passed the herdsman, the driver jerked his thumb back at his passengers. ‘Bert, look at these fellers.’

  The man stared at Abberline and Thomas as if they were exhibits in a show.

  The driver added, ‘They’re detectives from Scotland Yard. They want to find out what did for poor Sir Alfred, and how he got hisself blown to bits. I told these ‘ere detectives what killed the poor old bugger.’

  ‘The curse went and killed him,’ grunted the cowman. ‘Everyone knows that.’