by Simon Clark
She thought: If I can see the folly, it means I haven’t been taken far from the house. I’m still in the grounds. What if I shout for help? What she saw next immediately crushed all hope of being heard. The man in the yellow coat approached. She saw him clearly through the knothole in the wall. The determined set of his jaw and his hard eyes told her that he would punish her if she shouted. A moment later she heard a bolt being drawn. The door swung open and her abductor strode into the room. He carried a clear glass bottle that appeared to contain water. He set it down on the timber floor beside the door.
‘Let me go, please, sir. I won’t tell anyone.’
He said nothing. Then he didn’t have to. His fierce expression spoke eloquently. This was a brigand who didn’t fear people. He would hurt her if she tried to rush past him, or scream in the hope of being heard by the gardeners. He pointed at the bottle.
She protested, ‘I’m not drinking from that dirty thing.’
His brown eyes glared into hers. She took a sudden step to the side. Perhaps he interpreted that as her intention to dash for freedom, because he, himself, took a step back toward the door. He pulled open his coat to reveal a pistol attached to the belt around his waist. A warning, clearly. Any attempt at fleeing would be met with a hail of bullets.
‘Look at my blouse,’ she said. ‘You ripped a button clean off. Miss Groom will yell at me for that.’
Saying nothing, he gazed at her with dark, grave eyes.
Suddenly, the words tumbled from Laura’s mouth. ‘Miss Groom has punished me enough. She locked me into one of the attic rooms. I tell you, sir, and you will listen to me. You will. It seems I have been a prisoner all my life. I am eighteen years of age and I’ve always been a captive of other people one way or another. My mother and father ordered me to do maid-work for the Denby family. I had no choice in the matter, sir. Throughout my life there have always been locked doors, and decisions made on my behalf. It’s always, “Laura, we know what’s best for you. Laura, do what we tell you to do. Laura, you have no choice in the matter: obey, obey, obey”. Let me tell you, sir, I am sick of it.’
He didn’t stop her speaking. Those dark eyes of his gazed at her from beneath the brim of his hat.
Laura felt hot, breathless, agitated, yet the words kept coming: ‘This week I’ve been held prisoner in that big house back there. It seems to me that this is my destiny now. I am always confined: my freedom is stolen away from me. The housekeeper locked me up, because I was granted visions of the future. The spirit comes to me and brings me images of what will happen. I foresaw the death of Captain Sefton. I’ve seen Thomas Lloyd, the newspaper man. And I’ve seen you! I’ve seen you, sir, in your yellow coat. You were fighting. You were in a struggle with what seemed like the God of Death himself.’
This time her abductor did react. He crossed himself.
‘Now you have locked me into this hut. How long will I be your prisoner, sir? What will you with me? Are you going to murder me? No … you won’t, otherwise the spirit would have shown me a vision of my own death.’
Abruptly, the man stepped out of the hut, closed the door, and drove the bolt across.
She ran to the door where she beat the timbers with her fists. ‘I’m not mad, sir. These aren’t the words of a lunatic. But I’ve seen the future. I’ve seen that men will die!’
CHAPTER 30
Thomas Lloyd followed Inspector Abberline out of the building where the doctor conducted the examination of Joshua Denby’s remains. The rising sun shone on Newydd Hall, causing its windows to sparkle so much that the mansion resembled a massive piece of jewellery embedded with dozens of gigantic diamonds. Nobody else was in sight. There was serenity at that early hour.
Abberline examined the photograph he’d found in the coffin. His sharp eyes scrutinized individual details of the image, rather than the picture as a whole.
He handed the photograph to Thomas. ‘Be so good as to tell me what you see.’
Mindful that the photograph had been tucked beneath the corpse, Thomas gingerly held it between a finger and thumb. ‘A tintype, measuring approximately four inches by six inches.’
‘Interesting choice of medium for the image, wouldn’t you say? A photograph printed on card would have quickly rotted, but one imprinted on tin will last for years.’
‘So, whoever left this in the coffin intended it to remain as a kind of memento for the deceased?’
‘Possibly. What else can you tell me about the photograph?’
‘It’s of a statue – one of the missing Gods of Rome.’
‘We can’t be certain of that yet.’
Thomas angled the metal sheet so that light fell on it fully. ‘A photographic portrait of the deity known as Faunus. The top half is human, or rather human-like, because a pair of ram’s horns grow from the forehead. The bottom half of the figure is pure goat – goat legs, goat hoofs, and covered with the fur.’ Thomas gazed at the extraordinary figure that the Romans believed was the god of wilderness places. The god’s face was that of a young man who wore an expression of delight – well … perhaps more than delight. This was a vivid expression of excitement, even lust, and the eyes looked downward, as if fixed on the object of his supernatural desire. A goddess, perhaps, or a mortal woman whom he’d bewitched and enticed into the forest. Thomas could almost read the thoughts behind that demonic face: I shall do what I please with her. She is mine. Nothing on earth can stop me now. I shall enjoy myself. I will immerse myself in pleasure …
For a moment, it seemed as if the image had taken control of his senses. Such was the artist’s skill that 2000 years ago they’d created something of incredible power. The face was mesmerizing. Thomas took a deep breath and continued, ‘The photograph is a black and white depiction, of course. The brick wall in the background is shades of grey. The image of the statue, however, has been hand-tinted with gold paint.’
‘It certainly conveys the idea that we are looking at a golden statue … possibly one of the Gods of Rome, which Sir Alfred Denby is rumoured to have acquired illegally.’
‘It’s peculiar though, isn’t it? The notion that someone hid a picture of a Roman god in Joshua’s coffin. Who in their right mind would do that?’
‘Perhaps you’ve hit the nail on the head, Thomas. Perhaps who ever slipped the picture under the corpse wasn’t entirely in their right mind.’
‘Sir Alfred might be responsible?’
Abberline nodded. ‘After all, we discovered the hidden shrine in the workshop. All of this suggests that Sir Alfred became incredibly superstitious and lived in dread of some ancient curse.’
Thomas thought for a moment. ‘Do you think Joshua Denby was involved with the statues, too?’
‘Possibly.’
Thomas handed the picture back to Abberline. ‘Smugglers could have unloaded the statues at Porthmadog harbour. It’s entirely feasible that Sir Alfred and Joshua brought them here.’ Thomas gazed up at the huge manor house. ‘The statues might be hidden somewhere inside.’
‘That’s something we’ll investigate. After all, the photograph’s presence in the coffin is almost akin to a message sent to Joshua’s ghost.’ Abberline gazed at the image of the statue – half man, half goat. ‘Picture Sir Alfred creeping into a room the night before Joshua’s funeral. The coffin is still open so mourners can pay their last respects. Sir Alfred slips this photograph into the coffin where none will see it. What, then, is Sir Alfred saying to his dead brother? Can we imagine him whispering, “See, Joshua, we succeeded. Here is a photograph of our treasure. Take this image with you to the grave. The gold Faunus is ours now”.’
“Do you think Sir Alfred wanted to appease Joshua’s ghost for some reason?’
‘We might not believe in ghosts, Thomas, but many do. We saw Sir Alfred’s shrine where he left offerings to the gods. He must have believed in all kinds of occult creatures, curses and pagan jack-in-a-box imps. He went to a great deal of trouble to ward off ghosts and curses.’
‘Wi
ll you tell William that the statues might be hidden here?’
‘Of course, and we will search the property, though it will be a vast undertaking. After all this time, there’s hardly likely to be any outward signs where they are.’
A sudden crunch of footsteps made Thomas glance back. Doctor Penrhyn emerged from the door way, carrying a small bowl. There was something about the man’s expression that sent a tingle down Thomas’s spine.
‘I have the result of the test, gentlemen,’ the doctor said. ‘You were right to be suspicious, Inspector. I’ve found poison in the body. Arsenic … and plenty of it.’
The doctor stood blinking in the sunlight. ‘If you’d care to step inside, gentlemen, I’ll show you what I’ve found.’
However, before they could return to the outbuilding, which served as a makeshift laboratory, men emerged from the house in a rush. Thomas could tell that something had happened. Figures gestured to one another, there were shouts, and many a face wore an expression of anxiety.
A footman hurried across the yard. ‘Sirs,’ panted the man, ‘you haven’t by chance seen a young woman pass by?’
Abberline shook his head. ‘Not a soul.’
‘Who is missing?’ Thomas asked.
‘One of the maids, sir.’
‘Laura Morgan, by any chance?’
‘You’ve heard of her, sir?’
Thomas nodded. ‘Wasn’t Laura confined to her room?’
‘Indeed she was, sir, but the creature picked the lock somehow.’ The footman seemed more annoyed at having his breakfast interrupted than showing any concern for the missing woman. ‘Now she’s gone. Likely as not, she’s scarpered into yonder woods again.’
Abberline said, ‘Then I hope you find her quickly.’
‘I hope so, too, sir. Truth is she’s lost her wits. It’ll be the death of her if she goes wandering out there. Sorry to have troubled you, sirs.’
‘Not at all,’ Abberline said. ‘If you need the help of the local police to find Laura, tell me.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure we’ll soon have her back – although I expect she’ll go to the madhouse after this.’
Moments later, Thomas stood at one side of the open coffin, Inspector Abberline and Doctor Penrhyn stood at the other. The ceiling lamp shone down into that long box with its macabre occupant. Thomas once heard an undertaker saying that he put his “clients into narrow houses”: narrow houses being his name for a coffin. The tenant of this “narrow house” gazed out with glassy, unblinking eyes.
Doctor Penrhyn spoke with a brisk air of authority. ‘The body has been underground for three years, yet note how well preserved it is; there is virtually no sign of decay. However, records state that the body wasn’t embalmed, because the December of 1887 was especially cold.’
Thomas ventured a thought of his own, ‘I’ve heard that victims of arsenic poisoning decay only very slowly after death.’
‘Indeed,’ said the doctor. ‘Arsenic is a preservative. Ironically, it is sometimes the prime ingredient of embalming fluid, and liberally injected into the deceased. Arsenic is also used by taxidermists.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Dr Penrhyn,’ Abberline began, ‘but a person killed by arsenic will only be preserved if the poison has been administered in small doses over a long period of time.’
‘That is correct. A single, large dose of arsenic that kills quickly won’t have time to be absorbed into every fibre and cell of the human body. Therefore, an individual killed by a single dose won’t be granted this wonderful state of preservation you see before you now.’ Doctor Penrhyn tucked his thumbs under the shoulder straps of his leather apron and started to talk if addressing his students. ‘Arsenic has been used as a poison for centuries. Newspapers often call it Inheritance Powder. There are plenty who tire of waiting for an elderly relative to die so they can inherit their property. Therefore, a spoonful of that lethal powder is added to a coffee here, or a soup there. Is that not so, Inspector?
Abberline nodded. ‘There are at least a dozen known arsenic murders a year.’
Doctor Penrhyn continued, ‘Of course, a well-preserved cadaver isn’t sufficient evidence of arsenic poisoning per se. A certain James Marsh, however, perfected a simple but effective method of establishing the presence of that malevolent Inheritance Powder. I extracted fluid from the body and conducted the Marsh Test with my apparatus.’ He nodded at the arrangement of glass tubes and flasks on the table. ‘And it reveals the presence of high levels of arsenic. Oh, and I noticed signs of a brick-red mucous in the nasal passages: an indicator of arsenic poisoning, too.’
Thomas said, ‘Arsenic can be easily bought in any town or village, so the poisoner wouldn’t have had to look far for a murder weapon.’
Abberline gazed at the marble-white face of Joshua Denby, as if the corpse whispered vital clues. ‘Doctor, this man fell ill in the summer and died in the winter. There seemed to be no specific cause of death, other than becoming increasingly weak and a general erosion of health. Would that be consistent with someone administering small amounts of arsenic over a period of weeks?’
‘Absolutely.’ Doctor Penryhn stroked his neatlytrimmed beard. ‘If someone wicked enough, and patient enough, decided to put tiny amounts of arsenic into Denby’s coffee, for example, it would appear at first that he’d contracted a gastric condition. He’d suffer stomach cramps, looseness of the bowel, then loss of appetite and headaches. Over the coming weeks, as arsenic levels built up inside his body incrementally, he’d begin to suffer drowsiness, convulsions, then, at last, he’d slip into a terminal coma.’
Abberline shook the man’s hand. ‘Thank you, Doctor Penrhyn. Your work has been invaluable.’
After the doctor had returned to the house to wash and change his clothes, before a well-earned breakfast, Abberline asked Thomas to help him replace the coffin lid and to seal Joshua Denby into his “narrow house” once more. That done, they stepped out into the fresh air. Thomas was grateful. The atmosphere in the outbuilding had become more pungent. He suspected that postponed decay of the flesh wouldn’t be postponed for a great deal longer.
Thomas said, ‘Joshua Denby is yet another of the Denby brothers to be murdered, isn’t he?’
‘I believe so, Thomas, and murdered in such a way as to resemble death by natural causes. Only the killer hadn’t anticipated that the body would be retrieved in order to conduct the Marsh Test.’
‘What I don’t understand is why you asked me to photograph the corpse the moment the coffin was opened?’
‘Firstly, I needed to preserve an image of the corpse, in case it decayed very quickly after being exposed to the air. Secondly, I wanted the killer to know, if they’re still hereabouts, that we’d exhumed the body. And a powerful flash of light from the graveyard that could be seen for miles around should do the trick.’
‘You think the killer was watching?’
‘The man we’re calling the God Thief had spied on us back at Fairfax Manor.’
‘Do you think he poisoned Joshua Denby?’
‘Extremely unlikely.’
‘Oh? But he’s our chief suspect.’
‘He is a suspect. But did he secretly add a few grains of arsenic to Joshua’s coffee on a daily basis? No.’ Abberline turned to face the warm sun as it rose over the Welsh hills. ‘Whoever administered the poison needed to have access to Joshua’s meals. In short, Joshua Denby was murdered by someone he knew. And almost certainly by someone who lived under the very same roof.’
Abberline returned to the house. He’d told Thomas that he needed to write to his superiors at Scotland Yard, and to the Home Secretary, informing them about what had been discovered this morning. Abberline also asked Thomas to find William Denby. The man must be told that his brother had been poisoned, and that his death was probably murder. All of which pointed to the inescapable fact that William’s life was in danger, as he was the only surviving brother left in Britain. Of the other surviving brothers, one had fled to Europe in
fear for his life. The eldest brother was undoubtedly safe from assassination, for he’d vanished into the heart of Africa decades ago to undertake missionary work.
Thomas asked a soldier on guard duty where William could be found. The man directed him to the largest of the work-sheds. Moments later, Thomas entered the vast building that housed the airships. William was busily checking the orange fabric of a balloon envelope. Colonel Brampton had evidently returned early from his visit to Liverpool, for he was here in the shed and glaring in fury at what was scattered on the floor. When he saw Thomas, he rounded on him.
‘Mr Lloyd! This area is prohibited to civilians. You must leave immediately.’
‘Good morning, Colonel. Inspector Abberline wishes to speak to Mr Denby.’
‘Then it can wait,’ barked the officer, sharply tapping the swagger stick against his own leg. Clearly, the man wanted to use the stick to give someone a thrashing. ‘Having intruders in here last night is bad enough without some scribbler for the Press galumphing about the place.’
William Denby looked up from his work. ‘Of course, I shall be glad to see the Inspector immediately.’
‘Confound it!’ Brampton’s chest rose and fell – the man actually panted with fury. ‘You know what is planned for next week. We must push on. There is a vast amount to be done before ... harrumph.’ He made a point of not completing the sentence.
‘I have no secrets from either the inspector or Thomas Lloyd,’ William said calmly. ‘Thomas, the Prince of Wales is to visit us next week. He will watch a demonstration of the balloons.’
‘Good heavens.’ Brampton’s eyes bulged. ‘That is confidential information. No one must know that royalty will be—’
‘Colonel. If Inspector Abberline is here, he’ll hardly fail to notice that Prince Edward himself is strolling around these grounds.’
Thomas approached the two men. ‘You say an intruder was here last night?’
‘Well, seeing as we are being so candid,’ Brampton growled, ‘yes, a saboteur intended to destroy the balloons. Undoubtedly an enemy of Great Britain.’
