by M. J. Trow
Batchelor leaned across and whispered in the policeman’s ear.
‘Yes, and the death of her maid, Molly.’
Byng was in the middle of a glug of brandy and almost choked. After going a very alarming purple, he recovered himself and looked at the men with bulging eyes. ‘Are you all mad?’ he said at last. ‘Whyever … well, I hardly want to give credibility to such an insane idea. Me and Emilia? Never in a million years. I like women, not chits like her. And as for … what was that other thing?’
‘Demanding money with menaces,’ Bliss repeated.
‘What do I want with money got in such a way? Can you not see the way I live?’
‘Living like this doesn’t necessarily mean you can afford it,’ Grand pointed out. His family had grown rich in the early days from defaulted mortgages.
‘True,’ Byng conceded. ‘But I can. And what’s that about a maid? I didn’t even know she had a maid. No, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I could call my legal representatives, I suppose, or send around a note to Edmund Henderson – presumably you know he is Commissioner of Police – who happens to be a member of my club. I could send for a footman or two to give you all a sound drubbing and throw you out into the street. But I think what I will do, and this will cause less trouble all around, is to tell you that you are wrong on every count and leave it at that. My word as a gentleman should suffice.’
‘It certainly should,’ Grand said, ‘but you can surely see we need more proof than that. Someone to swear to your every movement since Emilia disappeared would be helpful. And I don’t expect you can produce that.’ He sounded confident enough, but actually could feel the ground shifting under their feet. What had seemed so certain was now far from that.
‘I can’t supply just one person, of course I can’t. Could you?’
The others shook their heads.
‘But two or three people … I think I can do that. For my day at the office, of course you have any number of people to choose from, including Selwyn, if I am allowed to use someone so inextricably linked with this whole sorry business. For my journey to and fro – well, I have a groom of course, who drives me and brings me home. For my evenings and nights,’ he got up and went to a door they hadn’t noticed, concealed by book shelves, ‘you’ll have to excuse me a moment.’ He put his head around the door and they heard him say softly, ‘Could you just step this way, my dear? Some gentlemen need to see you for a moment.’
In a slither of silk and a flash of diamonds at her throat, a woman entered the room and stood at Byng’s side, holding onto his arm and looking up into his face. ‘Of course, dearest,’ she said. ‘How can I assist?’ She turned her beaming face to the three men, all now on their feet. ‘Whatever I can … oh!’ Her face lit up. ‘James! Matthew! How lovely to see you again! Are you feeling better?’ She looked up at Byng again and said, ‘Mr Batchelor and Mr Grand felt rather unwell at the theatre last night, my darling. Caroline and I had to take them home.’
Byng bent and kissed the top of her head. ‘So kind,’ he murmured. ‘So, gentlemen, will that be all?’
Bliss looked at Grand and Batchelor and if looks could kill he would have had two more bodies on his hands.
Grand spoke for them all. ‘Yes, that will be all,’ he murmured. ‘Good night, Lady Hester.’
She sketched him a small curtsy.
‘Goodnight, Matthew,’ she said. ‘Goodnight, James. Sleep tight.’
The last the men saw of them was Byng standing like a conqueror, his arm around his prize, lit from behind by the firelight.
‘Well,’ Bliss began.
‘Don’t,’ Batchelor said. ‘Just … don’t. I’ll walk home, thank you.’
‘But it’s miles,’ Bliss pointed out, but he was already gone.
Mr Micah and Mr Teddy both liked a bit of Doric. Both had a niggling respect for Ionic as well. Kensal Green cemetery offered both those architectural styles and more, so they approved Selwyn Byng’s choice for the laying to rest of Emilia even before they had sorrowfully accepted the black-edged invitation to her funeral.
They were less happy about the catacombs but as the rain drove down in torrents that sad Friday, it was probably just as well. Messrs Jay had pulled out all the stops, the grim black stallions under their nodding plumes shaking rainwater all over the devout few who had lined the road, taking off their caps as the cortege passed. Inside the hearse with its black struts and ostrich-rich canopy, the curved glass revealed the coffin of Emilia Byng, resplendent in the finest black tupelo straight from the warehouse of Sillitoe, Byng and Son at wholesale rates; Byng senior was, after all, not completely without finer feelings. The dark wood was finished off with brass fittings and festooned with flowers, the lilies of death.
Alongside, the mutes walked silently, their tall wands black against the grey of the sky, their faces a tragic white thanks to generous application of greasepaint, the real tears of the rain mixing with the glycerine ones they had painted on.
In the first carriage behind the hearse, Selwyn Byng rode alone, his face an immobile mask, his shining black topper cradled in his lap. Behind him came Micah and Teddy Westmoreland in their carriage, dabbing their eyes at the sorrow of the day. Next came Mr Byng senior, again alone, his eyes hollow, his mouth set into a tight, disapproving line. The others Grand and Batchelor didn’t know, until they recognized Miss Moriarty’s coach. The old girl looked terrifying behind her veil, like death itself sunk deep into the plush velveteen. As befitted someone of her age and so that she didn’t miss a word that might be said, either to her or about her, she carried a Vulcanite ear-trumpet swathed in black silk. Enid carried the necessary medicaments in her clutch bag. They probably had a holiday in the Yorkshire town of Whitby for all the jet jewellery that the ladies wore that day and the monogram of Sillitoe, Byng and Son shone everywhere from each mourning coach and the harness of the horses.
As non-family members, Grand and Batchelor were not given the honour or the luxury of a coach of their own. A cab had brought them to the great mausoleum gate of Kensal Green and they waited there to watch the sad procession pass. It came to rest outside the Anglican chapel that Messrs Griffith and Chadwick had designed forty years before. It was beginning to show its age, with green water-marks dripping down the corners of the once immaculate stone portico but most people drawing up in front of it were not in the mood to notice its shortcomings. A lawn-sleeved vicar with an umbrella waited to welcome them. Selwyn Byng had put his hat on now and had to be supported by various people as the coffin was lowered gently out of the hearse and onto the broad shoulders of the pall-bearers. The horses shifted as the weight lessened on their hames and Grand and Batchelor followed the dripping procession inside.
Like the pied piper, the vicar led them down a tight spiral staircase that curved away to the left. The pall-bearers were past masters at this but all of them secretly cursed Selwyn Byng for his instructions. Most people held the service on the ground floor and their nearest and dearest were lowered to the catacombs by the clever hydraulic gadget installed for just that purpose. Neither Grand nor Batchelor had been here before but the place looked like something from Varney the Vampire or The Castle of Otranto. The stanchions were brick clad, turning to stone at the ceiling as copies of a Medieval vault. In rows on each side lay coffins, the wood draped in greenish, once black and purple, velvet, the brass studs glowing eerily in the light of the lanterns and candles carried by the vicar’s people and the mutes. It had been chilly enough in the rainswept entrance, but here below ground-level the cold was augmented by a different kind of damp, one that seeped through the bones of the living from the bones of the dead.
Here and there stood monuments, granite columns snapped off as cruel death snaps a life. Angels sat weeping, their heads in their hands and little cherubs stood solemnly over the graves of children. The bell that clanged above tolled for them all.
The enquiry agents watched everyone from their positions at the back. The mourners were few in number but all seem
ed heartfelt and as one in their loss. Selwyn Byng sat alone in the front pew, his back straight but it was clear that he stood there at all only by a superhuman effort of the will. Teddy and Micah, as always, were towers of strength to each other, leaning one to the other and wielding identical black-bordered handkerchiefs when it all got too much. Miss Moriarty had chosen a seat where she couldn’t see Teddy; some things still couldn’t be borne, especially at a funeral. Enid passed her a discreet flask from time to time, spirits to keep her spirits up.
The coffin, carefully manoeuvred down the treacherous stairs, was installed on trestles in front of the altar and the vicar cleared his throat. He was pretty sure he was getting a cold and joined the pall-bearers in silently cursing Selwyn Byng for dragging him down to this inhospitable place. ‘Dearly beloved,’ he began and Emilia Byng began her journey to a better place.
The vicar moved to the lectern for the last reading – he did so wish these people wouldn’t leave all the talking to him, his throat really was quite sore now – and, flicking over the damp pages of the Bible, began the familiar words, ‘For everything, there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven …’
While he spoke, a man still wearing his top hat, moved among the congregation. As he passed Grand, he whispered in his ear, ‘The corpse’s brother would take wine with you.’ Grand looked startled. He hadn’t known that Emilia Byng had a brother.
‘It’s just an old custom, Matthew,’ Batchelor murmured in Grand’s other ear. ‘We’re invited to the baked meats afterwards, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s a surprise. Selwyn hasn’t caught my eye once today.’
‘He’s probably trying to put all this behind him,’ Batchelor said, trying to be generous, though how he could just forget the past weeks and their terrible denouement, he couldn’t imagine. Most people would wake up screaming every night for the rest of their lives.
The small company tackled the stairs as the strains of the final hymn still hung in the air. Already, the carping was beginning, now that the serious work of grieving could be put aside. The mourning clothes might be worn for a year, but the mood didn’t have to be sombre. Miss Moriarty poked Enid in the ribs and hissed, ‘Do you always have to sing an octave above everyone else? It was like standing next to a canary.’
As always, the patient Enid took no offence. ‘That hymn is a tricky one,’ she said. ‘I wish they didn’t always have it at funerals. “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling” – clearly the choice of someone who never goes to church. Such a peculiar key, it’s in.’
‘Musical, are we, now?’ Miss Moriarty grumbled. ‘Is there any medicine left?’
Teddy and Micah seemed to have aged a decade. It crossed Grand’s mind that perhaps they were the only two to honestly mourn Emilia. They toiled up the steps as if going to the gallows. Selwyn Byng was waiting for them at the top and bent his head immediately in earnest conversation, from which Teddy recoiled in horror. Micah, slightly deafer, took longer to realize the subject but also reacted with distress, pushing the widower away with a frantic flapping of his hand. He and his brother veered away before they reached the small anteroom where the funeral feast waited.
With a glance at each other, Grand and Batchelor followed them and caught them up just as they were getting into their carriage.
‘Mr Westmoreland, Mr Westmoreland,’ Grand said, nodding to each twin. ‘Are you quite well? We noticed …’
Micah blinked away his tears. ‘Oh, Mr Grand,’ he said. ‘It’s you. Thank you so much for coming to say goodbye to our dear Emilia. It is such a pity you never knew her, such a lovely girl.’ He looked under damp lashes at Teddy, who had slumped back on his seat. ‘We’ve taken it hard, as you see.’
‘We couldn’t help but see Mr Selwyn Byng speak to you just now,’ Grand said, gently. ‘It seemed to upset you even more.’
‘We wouldn’t ask, if it weren’t important,’ Batchelor chimed in, ‘but everything anyone has to say must be followed up if we are to find who killed Emilia and Molly. Even things that people say without thinking, literally anything could lead us to the killer.’
Micah was stricken. ‘Poor Molly!’ he cried. ‘We haven’t given her a thought!’
‘I understand that Dr Kempster has arranged a decent burial for her,’ Grand reassured them. ‘He is a kind man, if sometimes made a little brusque by his calling. And his wife would have made sure it was all done with respect. Molly had no family to speak of, so I guess she’s just another orphan of the storm.’
‘That’s something off my mind at least.’ Teddy had opened his eyes and was looking rather less like a corpse. ‘But I will never forgive Selwyn, never.’
Micah nodded. ‘It was the grief talking, I am sure, but he asked us, at the top of the steps just now, with his wife lying cold and alone below us, whether …’ He pressed his lips together and dabbed his eyes.
‘He asked us,’ Teddy said, leaning forward, ‘he asked us when he would get the trust money. Apparently,’ the word came out like a bark, ‘apparently, it’s expensive, burying a wife.’
There seemed little more to add and it was only decent to let the old men go back to the security of their tea-scented rooms, where they could mourn their Emilia and the dead, dusty days in peace. The enquiry agents stepped back from the carriage and, with a click of the tongue and a flick of the whip, the driver took them away.
‘The four o’clock post, boss.’
Hamish handed over the letters on a silver salver, etched with the arms of Buccleugh. Richard Knowes took the first, sniffed the envelope and ignored the rest; until, that is, his eyes alighted on a letter with a WC postmark. He tore it open.
‘Well, well, well,’ he chuckled. ‘Here’s a turn-up for the books. It’ll cost, of course, but … we’ve had a request for help, Hamish.’
‘What, a begging letter?’ Hamish was horrified. Charity never moved further than home in his world.
‘Of a sort.’ Knowes sat back in his captain’s chair and gave the orders. ‘Got a pair of scissors?’
Hamish had. Not the ones he kept down his trousers to threaten people with, but a rather genteel pair Mrs Knowes also used for her crewel work.
‘Is there a newspaper to hand? Or, failing that, the Telegraph?’
There was. Hamish had a sure thing going at Newmarket tomorrow and the runners were all listed there.
‘I want you to find the words and letters that make up this short piece of prose, Hamish.’ Knowes handed him the enclosure from his letter. ‘Then I want you to cut them out and glue them onto a backing sheet. Plain stationery, of course, and pop it in the post for me.’
‘Right, guv. You don’t want it hand delivered?’ Hamish fingered the knuckleduster in his pocket – he did so love a spot of hand delivery.
‘No, in the post. Follow the spelling to the letter, but the gist is that we know all about a certain someone from what his wife told us before we strangled her and tossed her in the river. There’s mention of a certain amount of cash …’
Hamish looked at his bit of paper and shrugged.
‘… but that hardly seems worth our while. Make it ten, don’t you think? Anyway, it’s all written down there. Want me to read it out, make it simpler?’
Hamish grinned. ‘Don’t you worry about this bit of prose, guv,’ he said. ‘That sounds like poetry to me.’
‘It’s that lunatic.’ Mrs Rackstraw had thought she had seen the last of him, what with his wife having turned up dead and all. The papers had been full of it and there wasn’t a soul in London didn’t know about the grisly end of young bride Emilia Byng and the plight of her grieving husband. She had adjusted her corsets meaningfully at the breakfast table in the kitchen and said darkly that grieving he might be, but he was still a lunatic; and here he was again.
Grand and Batchelor looked up. ‘Mr Byng,’ Grand said, pleasantly. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure? You could have paid our bill by post, you know. You didn’t have to call round.’
&nb
sp; ‘Bill?’ Byng looked blank. ‘Bill? Why should I pay your bill? Emilia is dead. However, that’s not why I’m here. I got this this morning, in the first post. Look!’ He held out a crumpled piece of paper and shook it under Batchelor’s nose.
Backing away slightly, he took the paper and spread it smooth on the cloth. ‘Telegraph again, I see. Let’s see what it says … hmm. It appears to be from our friend the kidnapper.’ He pushed it across so Grand could read it too. It certainly did seem depressingly familiar.
‘“While we had yur wif wiv us she spild a lot of beens about you bring ten fousand in cash to Durand’s Wharf Thursday midnight com alone or we nark to the esclops.”’
Byng was bouncing from foot to foot in his frustration. ‘What can it mean?’ he said.
‘Esclops is underworld slang for the police,’ Batchelor said, but the widower was clearly in no mood for a literal translation.
‘Sit down, Selwyn, do,’ Grand suggested, pulling out a chair. ‘Well, this all depends on you, really, doesn’t it? Does this man, or men, perhaps I should say as he says “us”, have anything he can use against you? What might Emilia have told him?’
‘Nothing,’ Byng snapped, dropping into the chair. ‘My life is an open book. I have never even been spoken to by a policeman before all this. I’ve never even scrumped an apple.’
Grand could believe that. Scrumping apples called for a certain amount of personality and spunk and Byng didn’t appear too well off for either.
‘So, in that case,’ Batchelor said, ‘don’t go. Why pay money – ten thousand, Matthew, that sounds a lot, doesn’t it? – why pay someone to keep quiet about nothing at all?’
‘On the other hand,’ Grand said, ‘if you are ready to go into danger, Selwyn, we could apprehend Emilia’s murderers. That would be something, surely?’
‘But …’ Byng looked unsure. ‘How do we know it is her murderer who has written this?’
