by Jack Murray
‘What in tarnation is going on here? Grantham called the Archbishop’s palace. He said there’s been a robbery.’
Kit glanced at Jellicoe and his heart sank even further. The Chief Inspector’s evening was just about to go from bad to worse.
-
Your boss is for it, and no mistake,’ said Wellbeloved, by way of conversation. Ryan turned and looked at Wellbeloved but said nothing. He was in no mood to listen to anything from this man but, rather frustratingly, he was somewhat of a captive audience. Wellbeloved was sitting with him in the back of the police car being driven by a constable. They reached Scotland Yard in a manner of minutes.
Sensing that Ryan was already on edge, Wellbeloved decided to press ahead. This was too good an opportunity to pass on. From an early age, Wellbeloved had realised that real power over people came not through physical dominance, although that had its place. No, if you wanted to grind someone into the dust it required a more nuanced approach. It would also be a chance to check out if Bulstrode’s suspicions were correct.
‘Who’d have thought the girl was the thief? You interviewed her, didn’t you?’
‘We don’t know if she’s the thief,’ replied Ryan sourly, as they climbed from the car.
‘Is she pretty?’ asked Wellbeloved. The look on his face suggested that any response would be greeted with a significantly cruder follow up inquiry. Ryan ignored him and fixed his eyes straight ahead. This served only to make Wellbeloved’s smile grow wider. ‘She won’t stay free long and then when we have her back at the nick. I’ll set to work on her. Should be fun.’
Ryan clenched his fists. His chest tightened as the rage grew within him. The thought of Caroline being interrogated by this animal was almost unendurable. Fear and frustration created a pressure inside his forehead that made him want to scream.
Inside the building, Wellbeloved, as the senior man ordered Ryan to go and see the police artist immediately so that they could get a description of the Caroline Hadleigh and circulate it to the police officers in town as well as the newspapers. Reading Ryan’s mind, he said, ‘Make sure you give a good description. You and your boss are in enough hot water. I’m going to make some calls and set up the search.’
Ryan did not attempt to hide his dislike of his fellow officer. However, he had no choice but to do as he was told. He made his way up the stairs to the office of the police artist, hoping he was not there, or busy. Unfortunately, he was there and clearly at a loose end.
‘Come in, Ryan,’ said Rufus Watts, happy to have some company, ‘How can I help you?’
Ryan slumped on the seat and looked at Watts.
‘You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found a sixpence,’ said Watts sympathetically. He was a smallish man nearer forty than thirty and dressed very neatly. By London police standards he was somewhat unusual.
He wore his hair slightly longer than was either fashionable for men or, indeed, acceptable for a member of His Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary. From time to time when talking, he might brush an imaginary out-of-place lock back behind his ear. This wasn’t the only thing that might have been considered a quirk of character for the bachelor Watts.
However, his brilliance as a police artist was recognised by all and a blind eye cast by those around him to the hours he worked, his disregard for rank or authority and his generally artistic manner. Most of the detective-level members of the force had gladly called upon his services at one time or another. It was in no one’s interest to get on the wrong side of the little man. In fact, it was a well-established fact that he nourished a quarrel like plants in a garden, watering them daily with sharp words and, surprisingly, his fists.
‘Long day,’ explained Ryan.
Watts looked at him shrewdly and said, ‘Looks like more than a long day to me.’
‘With Bulstrode and Wellbeloved?’ Ryan responded with a question that was its own answer.
Watts nodded slowly. He understood now. He smiled sympathetically again and said, ‘What can I do for you?’
Ryan told him. For the next half hour, Watts magically reconstructed the face of someone who might pass for Caroline Hadleigh or might not. Ryan felt there was just enough of Caroline in the drawing to protect him from any accusation of misleading his colleagues while ensuring it was far from being a perfect match. Just as Watts finished the drawing, the door burst open. Wellbeloved entered, grinning malevolently.
‘No need to knock, old chap,’ said Watts sardonically. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Ryan looked up at Wellbeloved. The sergeant made straight for the drawing and took it from Watts.
‘Is this finished?’
But Ryan didn’t answer, he was looking at the woman who followed Wellbeloved into the artist’s office. Wellbeloved noted the surprise on Ryan’s face with amusement.
‘Another customer for you, Watts. This is Miss Carlisle. She can help improve the drawing’s likeness. After all, it’s been a while since Ryan saw the young lady, isn’t it?’
Chapter 25
‘I’ve heard of blind leading the blind, but this is ridiculous,’ commented Mary as she looked at Kit, limping and holding a stick while his other arm was around Harry Miller, helping him down the hospital steps. Alfred manned the other side.
Miller, who had been diagnosed with a broken ankle from his fall, took Mary’s jest in good spirit.
‘His lordship will have to look after me now,’ said Miller.
‘Quite right too,’ agreed Mary, ‘Will do him good.’
They placed Miller gingerly into the back of the car and returned to Kit’s apartment. It was around ten in the evening. Having settled the injured Miller down, Alfred drove Kit and Mary to Grosvenor Square where Aunt Agatha was expecting them, having been tipped off by Mary in a phone call a little earlier.
Fish led the couple through to the drawing room to find Agatha waiting. She looked up eagerly.
‘How is your man, Christopher?’
‘A broken ankle and possibly shin bone. Serious enough, and more than a little painful. The poor fellow’s fine otherwise.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Agatha. ‘Now tell me what happened.’
So, they told her.
Each took turns to provide the elderly lady with a fairly comprehensive summary of the night’s events. Agatha listened intently but said little. Kit looked at his aunt as he and Mary related their story. Her eyes glistened with intelligence, widening from time to time as the details of the rooftop chase were relayed; her skin had the colour and vitality of youth; her hands had a knuckle-white grip of the table as Kit contemplated the likely consequences facing Jellicoe and Ryan. The mention of Ryan’s name brought a gasp from Agatha.
‘Aunt Agatha is something wrong?’ asked Kit when he saw his aunt’s reaction.
Agatha glanced at Mary and then at Kit. If anything, and to Kit’s wonderment, Agatha’s previously alert gaze had transformed into a look that didn’t so much suggest guilt as broadcast it. Kit glanced at Mary, who was trying to suppress a grin.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Kit, not sure whether to laugh or to explode. He decided to keep his options open.
‘Well, Christopher,’ replied Agatha, regaining some of her hauteur, ‘I’m not sure I like that tone of voice.’
‘I don’t care, Aunt Agatha. A good man is about to be pulled from a case and publicly humiliated which might have been avoided if you two and Betty bloody Simpson hadn’t decided to play at being detectives.’
Both Mary and Agatha looked at one another. There. It was out now. The cold, naked truth of their folly. Kit was quite right to feel upset. Both knew this, but the knowledge offered little comfort.
‘Of course, Christopher, you’re quite right,’ acknowledged Agatha humbly. She held her hand up as Mary was about to speak. ‘I take full responsibility for what has happened. We should have gone straight to the police with what we found. Mary…,’
‘Should have known better,’ interjected Mar
y, remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry, Kit. Really. I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?’
‘We all have,’ said Kit grimly. ‘Now what’s this other thing you want to tell me?’
Agatha told him.
When she’d finished, Kit sat back in his chair, head swimming with images of a drunken Betty Simpson attempting to drive. That this was only marginally less astonishing than the fact that Ryan and Caroline Hadleigh were sweethearts was a tribute to just how far this case had spun wildly off its axis.
The two women were sheepishly silent while Kit pondered on what he had heard. Almost to himself he said, ‘That does explain some things which were troubling me.’
‘Really’ said both ladies in unison.
‘Yes, Ryan was definitely taken aback when I told him that Caroline Hadleigh was working in the house and could be implicated in the recent robberies.’
‘What do you mean implicated, Kit? She’s the Phantom. It all fits,’ said Mary somewhat exasperatedly. There was absolutely no reason that the feted Phantom couldn’t be a woman. She was just about to give Kit a piece of her mind when Kit spoke again.
‘Of course, Caroline Hadleigh may be the Phantom. I’m not ruling anything out. I just don’t want to rule it in and ignore any other possibilities.’
‘Such as?’ asked Agatha, equally unhappy at the implication of Kit’s words on the gentler sex.
Kit shot her a look. Both Mary and Agatha were watching him intently. A part of him wanted to reveal his thoughts but the anger was still too recent.
‘You can be as angry as you wish. I’ll sleep on this and we can discuss it tomorrow morning. I want to see if this reaches the morning papers, and how it is portrayed. I also want to know what happens to Jellicoe. We’re playing a bigger game here. And fundamentally, whatever I may be thinking, I do not have a scintilla of evidence to back it up.’
Mary frowned a little but decided to let it rest. She had hardly covered herself in glory these last few days, and it was not the time to pitch up and make battle. Agatha looked no more pleased than Mary but said nothing. However, she had long since mastered the dark arts that can make a chap feel completely in the wrong even when he is utterly blameless. And an art form it surely is. Mary observed Agatha like an apprentice observes a master.
Such advanced techniques can, in the hands of an amateur of course, resemble mere petulance or worse, a huff. A chap, if he has anything to him, will immediately discern such trifling behaviour for what it is, and disregard it as peremptorily as good manners allow. Beware, though, the expert female practitioner. The manner of Agatha had, historically, suggested little form on this course. Any handicapper would have been taken in and been forgiven for believing this to be a weak nag rather than an uncommon thoroughbred.
All this left Kit surprised by the meek acceptance of his aunt that she had behaved badly: the sorrowful tilt of the head; the mournful glance up, suggestive of, but not quite achieving tears and the silence that spoke volumes, and rather loudly, too.
Kit felt wretched. He trooped out of the room accompanied by Mary. A swift glance by Mary as she went through the drawing door, unseen by the guilt-ridden Kit, confirmed that the recovery in Agatha’s spirit was as swift as it was complete. She was already pouring a generous amount of sherry into two glasses.
When they reached the front door in the hallway, Kit looked down at Mary, with an overwhelming feeling of regret. Had he been too harsh? Would she think him heartless and cruel? Thankfully, one look from Mary established that he had been forgiven and he left the house, feeling once more happy and relieved and utterly oblivious to the way the two women had so artfully manipulated his good nature.
-
It was just nearing midnight when Detective Sergeant Ryan made it back to his flat near Vauxhall station. The air was dagger-cold and the streets empty yet full of life, hidden, lurking around corners and in doorways. Ryan hated the area, but a sergeant’s wage was not enough to afford much more. He would move at the first opportunity.
His apartment building would have been nondescript had it not been so noticeably ugly. There were boarded up windows, tiles missing and damaged brick work, the rest of the features were just plain unsightly.
The brightness and beauty of the building captured Ryan’s mood perfectly as he walked like a pensioner towards the steps leading up to the entrance. He opened the front door and virtually staggered up the staircase to the second floor where he had a one bed, one room flat.
At the top of the stairs, he paused. He held back and looked through the railings. There was someone outside his flat, sitting on the floor of the corridor. With a shock he realised who it was.
Caroline.
He leapt up the stairs and called out, ‘Caroline. What are you doing here?’
‘Ben,’ cried Caroline leaping up immediately and running into his arms. For the next few minutes Ryan comforted her, or was it himself? He held her tightly and they went inside his flat. It was only when he released her that he realised she was dressed in the clothes of the workman who had earlier passed them outside Rosling’s.
Ryan was relieved the flat had been cleaned that day. His one luxury was to have a lady in twice a week. The long hours and a natural male disinclination towards housework, even in such a small space, made the investment more than worthwhile.
They sat down, and Ryan went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Wisely he decided against asking the three dozen questions he wanted to ask her. Instead, he gave her time to recover her composure. Whatever she told him, he knew he would believe, because against all the training he was receiving, this is what he wanted to believe. The idea of Caroline as a kleptomaniac was more than he could bear.
They sat for a few moments drinking tea, looking at one another. Finally, Caroline spoke, ‘You were outside the Rosling’s, Ben. Why were you watching that house?’ Her composure had returned, and there was a coolness in her voice that seemed at odds with her earlier reaction upon seeing him.
A voice screamed inside Ben’s head, why were you inside it? He gripped the cup so tightly he realised it might break.
‘We were given a tip off that the Phantom would target this house next.’
Caroline looked shocked. She leaned forward, ‘Ben, I know you have a lot of questions. I’m sorry, I’ve not been completely honest with you. But you’ll have to trust me. Please, I must know how you knew.’
Ben looked at Caroline. Frustration fought hand to hand with love. He wanted her to tell him everything and more, yet he was the one having to explain.
‘It was pure luck, Caroline. The fiancée of Lord Kit Aston somehow connected you to the other houses that were robbed. She followed you and saw that you were now employed in disguise, as a lady’s maid to Mrs Rosling. Then she somehow managed to find a job in the house under an assumed name.’
‘Mary?’ exclaimed Caroline.
‘Yes, or Lady Mary Cavendish. She’s engaged to Lord Aston. He helped the old man in that chess case last month. He’s bright. The old man listens to him. He told us about you and that’s why we were outside. And then there was the robbery. Caroline, you must hand over the diamonds. The police are looking for you. They have your description and Miss Carlisle has given a description of you in your disguise as Charlotte.’
Caroline nodded but, oddly, seemed less than perturbed by the latest development. In fact, the more Ryan had related about the night’s events, the more at ease she became.
Finally, she looked at Ben and said, ‘You must believe me, Ben. I didn’t steal any diamonds, not now not ever. But I can’t explain more than this.’
‘Of course, I believe you, my love, but the evidence is…’
‘Misleading,’ interjected Caroline. ‘Look Ben, I need a place to stay. Can I stay here?’
Ryan thought for a moment. Then he had an idea.
‘It’s not a good idea, Caroline. It would create too many questions that I could never answer. I have somewhere. You’ll have to come with me.’
‘I’m sorry, Ben. Sorry for bringing you into this.’
‘Don’t worry. Let’s take you to a safe place until we can figure out a solution.’
Ryan helped Caroline on with her coat. His mind was torn, however. If he was helping a criminal escape, his career would be over. This much was certain. He couldn’t live with the secret. But he truly believed she was innocent. He believed there was an explanation. However improbable this explanation turned out to be, his faith in her wouldn’t waver.
They moved towards the door when Caroline stopped him. She looked up into his eyes, put her arms around his neck and spent the next minute ensuring that Ryan would forever be on her side.
They moved quickly down the stairs, out of the door and into the wet night. Rain had begun falling in sheets. Puddles formed on the pavement, forcing them to run in a weaving fashion towards a taxi rank nearby Ryan’s apartment. A sole taxi was waiting. They climbed in and drove off.
Across the road from Ryan’s apartment building, in a side street, a car sat in the shadows. Inside, a man lit a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He smiled as he thought of the money he was going to receive for his hour’s work. Tidy. Very tidy. He started up his car and drove off in the same direction as the taxi. However, just ahead of him, another car had also pulled off the kerb, evidently following the taxi. As the first car made pursuit, it splashed an old tramp, leaning drunkenly against a lamppost.
‘Bloody hell,’ shouted the tramp, staring down at his wet clothes.
Moments later the second car roared past the tramp, right through the same puddle providing the poor man with an even more impressive dousing than the first car.
The tramp stared at the car flying off in the pursuit of the first. He regarded his soaked clothes once more.
