Web of Discord

by Norman Russell

  ‘You know, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, and there was a glint of excitement in his eyes, ‘you’ve set me thinking straight again. You say that no one in England’s ever heard of Dr Karenin. But there is something that the general public knows about him. They know that he’s a Russian. It’s not who he is but what he is that he’s advertising. It’s a Russian who murders decent Englishmen with hatpins; a Russian who arranges the death of one of England’s greatest idols. It’s a Russian who publicly insults the popular and respected Sir Charles Napier. And then, lo and behold! it’s the Russians who sink an innocent German ship, the Berlin Star. You’ve hinted at a conjuror’s misdirection, and perhaps that’s what it is. When we’ve done with this Cornwall business, Sergeant, we must pay a call on Colonel Kershaw, and tell him what we think.’

  ‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Box,’ said Inspector Tregennis of the Cornwall Constabulary, ‘I saw no call for Scotland Yard to be involved in this case, but the chief constable thought otherwise. One of the directors of the Eastern Telegraph Company was very fond of poor William Pascoe, and started to talk to various high-up folk in London. That’s why you’re here, I expect. However, you’re very welcome, and so are you, Sergeant Knollys.’

  Box and Knollys had entered Cornwall in the dark hours of the previous night, crossing the Royal Albert Bridge at Saltash in a savage downpour of rain. They had spent the night in a lodging-house at St German’s, and early that morning had caught a slow train which had carried them down the peninsula, and through St Austell to Truro.

  Inspector Tregennis, a tall, clean-shaven man with alert blue eyes, had been waiting at the station to greet them. He had taken them on foot to the police station, and into a cramped rear office, where a fire burnt in an old-fashioned blackleaded grate.

  ‘It’s just a week today, Mr Box, since poor William Pascoe was killed, and there’s been an interesting development since then. It was thought originally that the young man had lost his footing on the cliff path, and plunged to his death, but I’ve found a witness who swears that Pascoe was deliberately killed. Murdered. I have him here.’

  Tregennis left the room briefly, and returned with a hale, weather-beaten old man in the well-worn garments of a gamekeeper. Or perhaps, thought Box, noticing the capacious pockets in the man’s coat, a poacher.

  ‘Caleb Strange,’ said Tregennis, ‘this gentleman is Inspector Box of Scotland Yard. The hefty man standing beside him is Sergeant Knollys. Tell them your story.’

  ‘Well, mister,’ said Caleb Strange, ‘I reckon Inspector Tregennis there knows me well enough. I’m the man who tends the grounds of Mr Hardesty’s place, Penhellion Court, but I’ve also got permission to lay traps for rabbits and such over the land of Squire Trevannion down at St Columb’s. I was out that way last Tuesday, the fourteenth. I was crouching down behind the rocks just above the main road from St Columb’s to Penzance, seeing to a trap. I looks up, and see Mr William Pascoe climbing up the steep path from Spanish Beach.’

  Caleb Strange seemed disinclined to continue. He sat silently shaking his head, apparently at the wickedness of the world.

  ‘And what happened?’ asked Tregennis, sharply.

  ‘Well, I’m telling you, aren’t I? Poor young William! For all his fancy machinery at Porthcurno, he was a local lad. Very good family, the Pascoes. His father was a mining engineer, you know. That’s where William got his cleverness from. Anyway, he was coming up from Spanish Beach, which is so called because some galleons from the Armada were wrecked there in 1588.’

  ‘Yes, yes, never mind that. You saw Pascoe coming up the cliff path?’

  ‘I did. When he got to the top, he stood on the cliff edge, looking down the slope towards the beach. It’s a good climb, that – two hundred feet, I reckon. Then he turned round and looked across at St Columb’s Manor, where his friend Mr Trevannion lives – mortal peculiar he’s been, too, these last few days.

  ‘Anyway, I’m still crouched there, watching – I’m about a hundred yards further up, towards the main road – and suddenly, I see a man walking slowly across the cliff edge towards young Pascoe. I don’t know where the man came from, he just seemed to appear from nowhere. He was a tall man, thin, and clad in black. He wore no hat, but I could see that he had dark hair, and a pale cast of feature. I watched as young Pascoe turned to look at the man, who continued to walk towards him. He may have been smiling, but I’m not sure. It was a long way off, you see.’

  ‘And what happened then?’ asked Box.

  ‘In the end, sir, the man came up to William Pascoe, and spoke to him. He laid his left hand on William’s arm, and pointed to something down the slope. William turned to follow his gaze – and the man suddenly used both hands to push poor William over the edge.’

  ‘I expect you hid then, didn’t you, Caleb?’ asked Inspector Tregennis gently. ‘No point in joining poor Pascoe down the slope and into the sea.’

  ‘You’re right, sir. I was so shocked my legs locked under me, and I stayed there bent to the ground for more than half an hour. I don’t know who that man was, sir, but he killed poor William Pascoe. Murdered him. It wasn’t an accident. I went home in the end, and thought about it, and then I went and told Mr Hardesty, because he’s a magistrate, and knows what’s right. And he sent me to you. And there’s an end of it.’

  Box had extracted from his notecase a copy of the photograph of Hatpin Man that Mr Palmer of Falcon Street had taken from his upstairs front window.

  ‘Could that be the man, Caleb?’ he asked.

  Caleb Strange looked closely at the picture for a while, and then handed it back.

  ‘It could be, sir. The man in the picture’s got a general likeness to my killer. But I can’t be sure, and it’s no good me saying that I can, just to please you. But yes, it could be him, a murderer, and a foreigner among us.’

  ‘A foreigner?’

  ‘He means a stranger, Mr Box.’

  ‘Yes, sir, a stranger in our midst. But we’ve had real foreigners down here, Inspector, as you well know. Reckon you should tell Mr Box here about them. Tell him to go down to the beach and talk to that cantankerous devil Sedden, and poor old David Truscott. They’ll tell him all about the foreigners what came here.’

  When Tregennis had seen the old man out of the police station, he returned and sat down by the fire. He looked speculatively at Box.

  ‘Do you reckon you know who this killer is? You had a photograph—’

  ‘It was just a forlorn hope, Mr Tregennis. There’s someone on the loose in London who may be tied up with this business down here. It’s early days. What did Caleb mean by saying that this local squire, this Mr Trevannion, was “mortal peculiar”?’

  ‘Mr Hugh Trevannion’s lived alone at St Columb’s Manor since his sister died, and the solitary life doesn’t suit him. He’s become very nervy – very jumpy. The Trevannions are a very old Cornish family, and Squire Hugh’s very much respected round these parts.’

  ‘It might be an idea if Sergeant Knollys and I paid him a little visit,’ said Box. ‘It’s just possible that he may be able to throw some light on what William Pascoe’s motive was in going down to this Spanish Beach place.’

  Inspector Tregennis shifted uneasily. He looked suddenly ill at ease.

  ‘Squire Trevannion’s away from the St Columb’s Manor at the moment,’ he said. ‘He’s staying with Dr Manders of Penzance as a resident patient for a week or two.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him? Is he ill?’

  ‘He’s— Oh, what’s the use of beating about the bush? He’s undergoing a mental crisis. He’s seeing things, Mr Box, and hearing things. Ghosts, and suchlike. He fancies that his late sister, Miss Margaret Trevannion, is walking the house, and talking to him. So he’s living with Dr Manders for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Is he going to get over this mental crisis?’

  ‘Yes, he is, according to Dr Manders. He just needs rest, encouraging conversation, and the administration of certain medicines. He knows
me well, Inspector, and I’ve already called upon him. Will you leave Squire Trevannion to me? I can get him to talk, whereas he’d be alarmed at a couple of Scotland Yarders asking him questions.’

  Inspector Tregennis smiled. He was relieved to see that his visitors took the remark in good part.

  ‘Let me come over with you to St Columb’s, and show you the way down to Spanish Beach. It’s a little fishing place, no more than a hamlet. I won’t come down with you. It would be as well if you appeared out of the blue as a nice surprise for Andrew Sedden and his cronies.’

  The two detectives carefully negotiated the plunging pathway down through the stunted shrubs, giant ferns and treacherous boulders, emerging after fifteen minutes or so on to a little stone quay where a few fishing boats were moored. Box pointed to a two-storey building rising above a huddle of single-storey stone cottages.

  ‘That’ll be the ale-house, I expect. We’ll need to interview the landlord. Sedden, that old man called him. And someone called David Truscott. That was the other name old Caleb Strange mentioned.’

  It was gloomy inside the ale-house, which carried a weather-worn sign informing them that it was The Cormorant. The name ‘Andrew Sedden’ was written over the lintel of the door. There were five or six rough-looking men sitting at a single trestle table, pewter tankards in front of them. The close air smelt of pipe smoke and stale beer.

  Andrew Sedden proved to be a sullen, oppressive sort of man, heavily built but running to fat. He was half-shaven, and slovenly dressed in a nondescript moleskin suit. He stood behind a small bar, his arms folded, his eyes hostile.

  ‘William Pascoe?’ he said. ‘Yes, I knew him. A clever young fellow he was – too clever by half. He nosed around down here, mister, asking silly questions. Well, he’ll ask no more questions now.’

  ‘No, he won’t ask any more questions, Mr Sedden,’ said Box, ‘so I’m here to ask them on his behalf. It’s my job to ask questions when someone’s been murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? Who says so? Pascoe came down that slope from St Columb’s once too often, lost his footing, and plunged down on to the rocks. He wouldn’t be the first to have departed this life by that route, and I don’t suppose he’ll be the last.’

  It had gone very quiet in the dim room, and all eyes were turned on Box and the surly landlord.

  ‘Inspector Tregennis thinks it’s murder, Mr Sedden, and whether you like it or not, he and I are going to get at the truth.’

  ‘Tregennis!’ The landlord spat on the floor in disgust. ‘Arthur Tregennis has grown too big for his boots. He’s never got over having a crooked constable in his force, a man who committed murder right enough. He was caught by another of your kind, a policeman who came down here from Warwick to solve Tregennis’s case for him—’

  ‘There’s a witness, Sedden.’ Sergeant Knollys’ powerful voice cut across the landlord’s reminiscence. ‘A man called Caleb Strange. He saw the killer push William Pascoe over the edge of the cliff. What do you say to that, my friend?’

  ‘Caleb Strange? Why do you listen to that old reprobate? Gamekeeper, he calls himself. He’s no true Cornishman. Gipsy trash, more like. Maybe he’s looking for someone to cross his palm with silver, mister. I’m telling you, Pascoe met his death by accident. Didn’t he, mates?’

  There came a mumble of agreement from the assembled drinkers.

  ‘And what about these Russians that Pascoe said were lurking around these parts in January?’ asked Box. ‘I suppose he imagined those as well, did he?’

  ‘No, of course he didn’t imagine them. What’s that got to do with it? There was a Russian ship anchored off Porthcurno, which is on the other side of the headland. Some of the crew landed here in their skiff, and laid in provisions. They had a few drinks, too. We often get ships lying off this coast, mister, and we’re not given to asking questions about landing-permits and such to a bunch of tars who just want to feel dry land under their feet for an hour or two, and then row back to their ship. Russians, they were. Where’s the harm in that?’

  A voice came out of the darkness, an old, obstinate voice, quavering, but clearly the voice of a man who was not afraid of the morose landlord’s bullying ways.

  ‘I keep telling you, Andrew Sedden, they weren’t Russians. And they didn’t all go back to their ship.’

  ‘What are you talking about, you old fool?’ bellowed the landlord. ‘Of course they were Russians. It was a Russian ship, wasn’t it? You keep your mouth shut, or find somewhere else to sup your ale.’

  Box looked at the man who had spoken out of the darkness. He was old, probably over eighty, and by the looks of things very poor. His abundant hair was white, and his old eyes very keen.

  ‘Are you Mr Truscott?’ asked Box. ‘I’ve heard about you. So they weren’t Russians, you say?’

  ‘You hold your noise, Truscott—’ the landlord began. He was quelled by a sudden move from Sergeant Knollys, who seized the front of his greasy shirt in a single great fist, and twisted it round into a kind of knot. Sedden’s loud voice died away to a squeak.

  ‘You hold your noise, too, Sedden,’ said Knollys in a pleasant, friendly tone. ‘My governor there wants to ask Mr Truscott a question.’

  ‘If they weren’t Russians, Mr Truscott,’ asked Box, ‘what were they? These men who came off the ship.’

  ‘I don’t rightly know what they were, sir,’ said the old man, ‘but they weren’t Russians. I served in the Crimea, all through that war, and got to know the sound of Russian well. And the sound of Turkish, too. Those men from the ship sat round in here, mumbling away in their own language, and I sat where you see me now. It wasn’t Russian, I tell you. And when they went back down to the quay, there was one of them missing. I saw him slip away, as sure as I see you now.’

  There was a deathly hush as Box produced his photograph of Hatpin Man, and put it into Truscott’s hand.

  ‘Was that the man?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s him. But he never spoke while he was in this room. Pale as death, he was, and silent as the grave.’

  8

  Home is the Sailor

  Superintendent Mackharness sat with his big square hands folded on the table in front of him, listening to Arnold Box’s account of his investigations in Falcon Street and Cornwall. The fire in the dim mildewed office was burning smokily, and a sickly daylight filtered its way through the sooty windows facing across the cobbles to Whitehall Place.

  Mackharness thought: I was too short-tempered with him the other day. Mildred says I’m becoming ‘testy’. Maybe she’s right. I must stop snarling at him the way I do. It’s not his fault that he gets me on edge.

  Box finished his account of his investigation in Cornwall, and waited for his superior to comment. His eyes strayed, as always, to the cluttered mantelpiece, with its moth-eaten fringe of bobbled green velvet The picture, the sea-shell, the glass paper weight, the medal…. One day, he’d find out about that medal. He saw Mackharness watching him, and dropped his eyes.

  ‘Now, Box,’ said Mackharness, ‘let me make a few comments about these recent cases. You’ve clearly established that there’s a common factor in these murders – the Courteline murder, in which I include the silencing of Joseph Kitely, the murder of Gabriel Oldfield, and the killing of this young man William Pascoe. That common factor is the man N.I. Karenin, a Russian national. His activities have contributed directly to the present unrest in London and elsewhere. Do you agree with me?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I’m convinced that Karenin is not a lone wolf, bent only on some kind of private vengeance—’

  ‘Clearly not, Box. Quite right. Well done. This is a conspiracy, and Karenin is only the visible element of that conspiracy. We need to delve, and we need assistance from other quarters to do that. Nevertheless, this Karenin must not be left at large. So I’ll procure warrants for his arrest during the course of today. Mark my words, Box, this business is all tied up with the sinking of that unarmed German merchant ship, and with the ugly incident i
nvolving Sir Charles Napier.’

  Box saw Mackharness flush with anger. Mention of Russians to the superintendent was like waving a red rag before a bull. Mackharness suddenly changed the subject.

  ‘What about Inspector Tregennis, at Truro, Box? Can he be left alone with his part of the business, or does he need further help from us?’

  ‘I had a long talk with Inspector Tregennis, sir, before Sergeant Knollys and I caught the train back to London. I think he can manage very well by himself, at least for the moment. He agrees that this Squire Trevannion needs to be investigated, particularly as he’s had a guest staying with him since February, a mysterious character who nobody ever meets.’

  ‘Could it be Karenin?’

  ‘It could be, sir. Inspector Tregennis means to keep a close eye on him, and on his little estate of St Columb’s.’

  ‘Good, good. Well, Tregennis knows where to find us if he wants further help. Meanwhile, we need to keep our eyes peeled for further Russian antics. I’d put nothing past them, Box. Devious. That’s what they are.’

  Superintendent Mackharness suddenly rose from his chair, picked up the medal from his mantelpiece, and put it down in front of Box. He resumed his seat, and leaned back on the cushion, observing his subordinate with a rare glint of mischief in his eyes.

  ‘There you are, Box,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you squinting at that thing over my shoulder for long enough! Well, there it is for you to see properly. That’s my Crimea Medal. It was presented to me by Her Majesty at a great ceremony at the Horse Guards, on 18 May, 1855. I was only a young subaltern then – twenty-two or twenty-three. The Prince Consort was there, too.’

  Box handled the medal reverently, noting the clasp, with the word ‘Sebastopol’ snaking across it. The medal showed a warrior, with sword and shield, receiving a laurel crown from some kind of angelic being. Beside the warrior was engraved the single word ‘Crimea’.