by Jack Murray
One is always warned not to judge a book by the cover. Agatha had never subscribed to this rule and never would. Much like books, one’s appearance was a window to the content therein. It could be exciting, inventive and intelligent or it could be dull, derivative and superficial. Dorothy Bell had already made a poor impression with her taste in interior décor. Her sense of dress, as far as the two ladies were concerned, merely added to the impression that Mrs Bell was of the second category.
The medium was dressed in a long black smock with a gold headband embellished with a feather of such exuberant dimensions, that it was entirely possible an ostrich was wandering around London Zoo, at that very moment, shivering in the late September chill.
She smoked, not without some flourish, it must be said, a cigarette joined to a cigarette holder of remarkable length. Dark makeup had been applied around the eyes with such demonic intensity it would have had Theda Bara calling for soap and water.
Agatha glanced towards Betty. Her friend was either a psychic herself or of a like mind. A few minutes later, supplied with brandy, the party sat down. With a nod from the host, the butler turned off the lights.
The séance was to begin.
The group put their hands on the table. Except for the sound of breathing there was silence for fully two minutes. Then Dorothy Bell spoke. If her appearance had done little to inspire confidence in the credibility of the gathering, her next words all but shattered any remaining hopes.
In a kind of quivery shamanic intoning as if she were summoning the dead which, to be fair to her, she was, the medium said, ‘I have the consciousness of some presence here.’
Of chumps, thought Agatha. Complete chumps.
-
‘I don’t know what your friend Doyle was thinking of in sending us there,’ said Betty, afterwards, as they walked back towards the car.
‘Complete waste of time,’ agreed Agatha, stopping in the middle of the street. ‘I’ll tell Doyle. Admittedly he hasn’t seen the Bells personally, and it was all he could arrange in the time available. We have another séance tomorrow in Chiswick.’
A car turned onto the street and drove towards her. It tooted its horn which was just as well. The noise woke Agatha up and she hurried forward again.
‘What are you looking at, dear?’ asked Betty, aware of Agatha’s gaze which was set to disapproval.
‘Do you want me to drive?’
‘Of course not.’
‘That third brandy was rather large.’
Betty looked in no mood to debate the subject further and they both climbed into the car. It was dark now; the evenings were beginning to draw in.
‘What is Kit doing today?’
‘He’s gone down to question Gresham in Bournemouth with Mary.’
Betty glanced at Agatha and smiled.
‘Yes?’ asked Agatha, noticing her friend’s reaction.
‘Was that wise?’
19
Wessex Mansions was home to the 6th Earl of Gresham. The country house was built in the Jacobethan style of the 18th century. The gardens, unlike at Cavendish House, were designed by Capability Brown, rather than a distant relative. Set in four thousand acres of countryside, the house was surrounded by forest and it was only after a few minutes of entering the estate that the imposing house came into view.
‘So, this is the home of Bobby Andrews,’ said Mary, looking up at Kit with a wry grin.
‘Not bad if you like that sort of thing.’
Mary did not reply. The couple looked at one another and grinned conspiratorially. The cab deposited them at the front entrance where they were greeted by the Earl and his wife, Countess Gresham.
Both the Earl and the Countess were in their fifties. While he was unexceptional but kindly looking, his wife was a beauty. Granddaughter of a Spanish nobleman, her skin retained a hint of olive while the eyes were night black. The ladies exchanged kisses while the men gave one another a brief handshake.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Aston. Lady Mary,’ said Gresham, nobly kissing her hand.
They went inside and Mary had something of a shock when she reached the drawing room.
‘Hello, Mary,’ said Bobby Andrews. His dark eyes seemed even darker than Mary remembered. She wondered if he was angry with her. He had every right to be. He bent down, for he was as tall as Kit, to kiss her on the cheek. Mary accepted this with an embarrassed smile. She wondered if he’d said anything to his parents.
‘Hello, Aston,’ said Andrews. There was little warmth in the greeting, which worried Kit not a jot. More troubling, however, was the incontestable fact that Andrews was a good looking man. He held eye contact with Kit as they greeted one another. The two men were standing by the fireplace. On the mantlepiece, Kit spied a photograph of an army battalion. He glanced at it and then back to Andrews.
‘That was taken just before Amiens in eighteen,’ explained Andrews.
The men in the photograph looked worn down. The face of Andrews was drawn, and he seemed a shadow of the man before him. Kit nodded to Andrews but said nothing. They joined the others for pre-dinner cocktails. The conversation was light and inconsequential. No mention of druids, no mention of the War, although the progress of the Suffrage movement was given an airing.
The key business of the evening would be for later.
Dinner was fully five courses. Fully in the sense that Mary was full up by the second. Kit, meanwhile, had built up quite an appetite following his afternoon and enjoyed each course immensely. Wisely, he declined drinking too much wine. He wanted to keep his mind clear for later.
It was an enjoyable two hours. Gresham was a humble man and happy to leave the floor to his wife and son. This gave Kit time to assess the Honourable Mr Andrews. What he saw, much to his disappointment, he found himself liking. His expectation had been of a ladies man. In this he was not disappointed. However, it was clear there was more to the young man than mere good looks and charm. It was more difficult to read Mary now. She seemed uncomfortable. Kit suspected a guilty conscience.
Dinner came to an end before ten. The Countess signalled its end by rising from the table and suggesting that Bobby and Mary join her in the drawing room. This would allow Kit and Gresham time to chat over a brandy. Kit smiled towards the Countess and nodded his gratitude.
Inside the drawing room, the Countess, sensing that her son desired to be alone with Mary, made an excuse to go and speak to the staff. She smiled and left the room to Mary and Bobby Andrews.
‘Bobby,’ started Mary.
‘You don’t have to say anything, Mary,’ replied Andrews.
‘I do and we both know it. I behaved disgracefully and I’m sorry.’
‘You didn’t behave disgracefully, Mary. I knew your situation and I pursued you anyway.’
‘Even so, Bobby,’ said Mary shamefully. She felt wretched. The evening had been pleasant, and Andrews had proved to be both an amiable host and now a true gentleman. Perhaps in another time this would have been enough. Was it always the case that we hurt those who least deserve to suffer? It seemed so to Mary at that moment. Both Kit and Bobby Andrews, in different ways, had been wounded by her actions. Once again, it occurred to her that investigating crime had emotional consequences she had not realised would affect her so much.
‘Even so, Mary, nothing. Let’s speak of this no more. Yes, I was a little hurt. I’m certainly quite jealous but I’m also relieved. If Kit had been anything other than the man you deserve then I should have been angry. I know from others because, believe me, I’ve asked, that Kit is the finest of men. I hope he realises how lucky he is.’
Mary’s attempts at preventing tears from falling were in vain. She felt Andrews hug her and gently kiss the top of her head. After a few moments he released her, and they regarded one another for a moment. The darkness in his eyes could not hide some of the pain he was feeling. She felt some of that pain too.
The door to the drawing room opened signalling the return of the Countess. The three sat dow
n and waited for Kit’s interview with the Earl to finish. It was not a long wait. Mary was grateful for this. She felt ill at ease now. Guilt and curiosity make for uncomfortable bedfellows. She was impatient to return to the hotel. Very impatient.
The door opened and Kit entered followed by Gresham. Kit looked angry. He hid it well, but Mary knew the signs. As they left a few minutes later to take the taxi back to the hotel, Mary turned to Kit and said, ‘So go on. What happened?’
-
‘Winston called me a couple of days ago to warn me you’d be coming down,’ said Gresham, as he sat alone with Kit.
This was the first thing Gresham said after the others had left.
‘Did he say anything else?’ asked Kit
This seemed to confuse the older man and he shook his head.
‘He didn’t tell me to lie if that’s what you’re driving at,’ said Gresham. There was a smile on his face which lessened any barb contained within his comment.
Kit laughed and said, ‘I’m relieved to hear it, sir.’ Following this he removed from his pocket two photographs. One showing Churchill amongst the druids. Then he showed the other where the young woman was standing to the side of the group.
‘Do you remember seeing this woman?’
Gresham took a few moments to look at the photographs. Then he looked up at Kit and shook his head.
‘I’m afraid I have no recollection of this woman. In fact, I have no recollection of any women in the group. I must confess I was a little bit drunk.’
Kit studied the face of Gresham as he said this. He seemed a trifle embarrassed by the whole thing. Or, perhaps, that he had been a little the worse for wear.
Further probing by Kit on this subject proved fruitless. It confirmed his worry that many of the people at the ceremony were unknown to one another. More worryingly still, the druid priests never revealed themselves at any point. They remained a mystery.
Gresham confirmed the presence of Kit’s father and the Earl of Hertwood. None had stayed after the ceremony concluded. All had joined Churchill back at Blenheim Palace for more refreshment. Gresham raised his eyebrows at the word refreshment to indicate they were, in all likelihood, getting even more intoxicated.
‘The druid ceremony was a bit of a damp squib. I think Winston thought it would be more fun. Instead, it was all a bit ridiculous. The chaps in the costumes seemed to take it all a bit seriously. In the end we were glad to get back to the main business of the evening.’
‘Which was?’
‘Celebrating Winston’s impending engagement.’
‘I gather he proposed the next day.’
‘Yes, damn lucky too. Sonny Masterson got him out of bed in time otherwise Clemmie would have been on her way home. I’d say he was suffering a bit of a hangover when he popped the question. Still, if she did notice, she obviously didn’t mind.’
Sadly, Gresham could not add to the names on the list. He studied the photographs once more and shook his head in frustration. He pointed out the people he did know.
‘Did Hertwood come back to the palace with you?’
Gresham thought for a moment about the evening twelve years ago. It was obvious he was having difficulty remembering and admitted as much.
‘I don’t believe so. In fact, I’m not so sure he really knew Winston that well. I have no recollection of them speaking to one another.’ He looked again at the group photograph before adding, ‘He’s not in the main group as far as I can see although he appears in this one. Isn’t that him standing near the woman you mentioned.’
Kit looked again at the picture and realised that it was. He was looking away from the group which meant it would have been difficult to identify him.
‘So, aside from those people you’ve identified, you’re sure there’s no one else in the photograph that you recognise?’
‘Well, of course there’s the photographer chappie, let’s not forget him.’
Kit’s eyes widened for a moment. He had forgotten him. Churchill had claimed that he did not know the chap.
‘What is his name?’
‘Hanley. Philip Hanley. I wouldn’t have remembered his name had it not been for the ghastly murder.’
‘Which murder?’ asked Kit, genuinely confused.
‘The one in Yorkshire. You know. The first medium murder. D’you remember? During the summer.’
The first medium murder. It had been a man. Kit realised he’d discounted it for this reason. Now there was a possible connection with the murders of the young women. Kit felt a wave of anger rise up inside his stomach. Anger with himself but also with someone else. Wheels within wheels. The next question came through gritted teeth.
‘Have you told anyone else about this chap Hanley?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. The other chap who came.’
20
Harry blinked and tried to focus his eyes on the man in the doorway. Lying on the ground, his clothes had become damp, and he shivered involuntarily. He rubbed his eyes. Then, with no little alarm, he realised there was a blackbird beside him. It had wandered silently into the hut.
‘Harry Miller?’ said the stranger. He was about Harry’s height, maybe slightly taller. He was probably over fifty, well-maintained and spoke in a voice that suggested he was not from Miller’s class. He let go of the long branch he was using as a walking stick and stepped forward into the hut. The twigs cracked underneath his feet.
Miller leapt to his feet and grinned. This caused the blackbird to fly out of the hut in a blur of feathers.
‘Raven Hadleigh?’
The man nodded. Harry extended his hand which was firmly grasped by the other man.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Harry.’
‘Mr Hadleigh, this is an honour.’
-
Miller and Hadleigh sat on the edge of the forest and watched evening descend on the Hertwood House. They were eating sandwiches prepared by Miller.
‘Very good,’ said Hadleigh, nodding down to the sandwiches.
‘I used to sit with my dad like this when we were about to pull a job. He always insisted on having a full stomach,’ replied Miller by way of explanation.
‘Can’t have a rumbling tummy giving the game away.’
‘Exactly.’
The lights were on in several of the rooms but, overall, the mansion seemed quiet. There were three floors according to the plan Kit had made. Hadleigh and Miller looked down at the large piece of paper that Kit had drawn on.
‘I wish I’d had this when I was working,’ said Miller.
‘Yes, I always found it a great help to know the interior well. When you’ve only seconds between jewels or jail, it can be all the difference in the world.’
Miller smiled at the man known as ‘The Phantom’. Miller had not had the opportunity to meet him earlier in the year. Back then, Kit had been working on a case where Hadleigh’s daughter was a suspect in a series of jewel robberies in London.
‘If it’s just the old man and his wife, I suspect they’ll be in bed soon. If we give the staff an hour to clear up, we should be ready to go around midnight. Do you know if there are many dogs?’
‘I gather,’ said Miller, ‘there is an old sheepdog but apparently he’s half deaf. Kit hasn’t seen the old boy since his son was exposed as an anarchist.’
‘Can’t say I blame him. Would be a devilishly awkward conversation, I imagine.’
‘That was his lordship’s view,’ agreed Miller.
-
They waited until just after one in the morning. The time passed quickly as they chatted about their ‘profession’. It helped take their minds off the chill that had descended like a curtain from an overcast sky. It seemed to infect both men. Or perhaps it was something else. Both felt nervous. Neither mentioned it.
‘I much prefer when it’s some rich woman’s diamonds. Hunting for Satanic temples never held much attraction.’
Miller’s taut laughter betrayed how he felt.
‘On the pl
us side,’ continued Raven Hadleigh, ‘We know there’s only the Earl and the Countess there tonight, aside from the staff. We won’t be stumbling into any Black Mass with any luck.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Miller, ‘I don’t fancy becoming some sacrifice to Lucifer.’
Hadleigh gave Miller a long look up and down.
‘Unless you’re a young virgin in disguise, Harry, I think your chances of avoiding this fate are pretty good.’
With these words of encouragement, the two men stood up and circled around towards the back of the house. Their reconnaissance confirmed that the household had retired for the night. There was no sign of any potential canine presence either.
They studied the map once more using Hadleigh’s flashlight.
‘The safe is a Mosler,’ said Miller. ‘Hertwood had it imported from America, apparently. It’s behind the Munnings in the library. There’s only one. His lordship said you’d know which one.’
Hadleigh nodded confirmation.
‘I will go to the odd looking turret to the side. His lordship never went there in all the time he visited. If anything’s untoward then it’s likely to be up there.’
Both men were startled by a sound above them.
Hadleigh shone his torch upwards. An owl looked down from the branches. The light caused it to fly off. The bird’s journey was accompanied by a stick thrown by Hadleigh and a few whispered words of farewell from Miller that were unlikely to be used at a social gathering in Mayfair.
‘Let’s go,’ said Hadleigh, laughing nervously. ‘This place is giving me the colly wobbles.’
‘You and me both, sir.’
‘Shall we synchronise our wristwatches. I have seven minutes past one.’
Miller nodded.
‘Right then,’ said Hadleigh. ‘I’ll go directly to the library. It’s around to the right.’
‘I’ll enter via the cloakroom,’ said Miller.
