by Jack Murray
The Suffragist burst out into a fit of giggles at Agatha’s stern rebuke to her nephew.
‘You haven’t changed, Agatha.’
-
When ‘Haymaker’ arrived at Wootton Street, his heart sank. Outside the house was a police car. Then he noticed a familiar Rolls Royce. Relief flooded through his body like a tidal wave on a canal. He settled down and waited. Thankfully, he did not have to wait too long as the sounds coming from his stomach reminded him, he’d had nothing to eat all morning.
Kit Aston emerged from the house accompanied by Lady Mary and that cranky old aunt of his. Mary was smiling, walking hand in hand with Kit. Lucky, lucky man thought ‘Haymaker’. There was no envy. He liked his lordship. And he was paying exceptionally good money for ‘Haymaker’s’ services. A real gent. Of course, Wag got his cut, but why not? He looked after him, did Wag. Another gent.
The two ladies stepped into the Rolls. Meanwhile Kit paused for a moment and looked around. Then he spied ‘Haymaker’. He tipped his hat to the former boxer causing ‘Haymaker’ there and then to commit his life or, at least, his fists to the protection of the young lady.
-
‘Who were you tipping your hat to?’ asked Mary.
Kit slipped into the car and raised his eyebrows in what he took to be a show of innocence. Mary was having none of it. Her eyes narrowed and she pressed him again.
‘Out with it.’
Kit reddened slightly, temporarily lost for words or even a decent defence. They drove past ‘Haymaker’. Mary caught the former boxer’s eye and smiled to him. The boxer waved back before realising he was meant to be incognito.
‘Ahh,’ said Mary turning back to Kit with laughing eyes. ‘Your pugilist friend.’
Kit shrugged and had the decency to look ashamed. Mary wasn’t exactly angry, especially as it was a gilt-edged opportunity to practice putting her future husband onto the back foot. She was enough of a woman to clasp the opportunity to her bosom; she was lovestruck enough to feel a pang of guilt in doing so. It was difficult to go against the nature of her gender. The womb decides all.
‘My guardian angel?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Kit. ‘We live in a dangerous world.’
‘We do.’
‘Are you angry?’
Mary gave a sharp kick to his leg.
‘Wrong leg,’ said Kit smiling at the wooden thud made by her foot.
‘I know,’ said Mary with a smile. ‘It was a shot across the bows.’
Agatha, if she heard any of this, made no comment. She was once more lost in another world, her gaze fixed outside the car window. This was noted by both Kit and Mary as their skirmish petered out. Mary shot Kit a look and then one towards Agatha. Kit shrugged. He’d noticed it too but had no more idea than Mary as to its cause. Perhaps they could speak to her when the case was finished. If it ever finished. Kit shut this thought down as quickly as it entered his head.
They would find the killer.
33
Supper in the Grosvenor Square mansion was a muted affair. Agatha’s mind was elsewhere; Mary and Esther were talking weddings. Kit and Bright had nothing to offer on this topic. Their job was to be there on the day, ideally sober, ready to commit the rest of their lives to the Cavendish girls. Not the worst prospect, acknowledged Bright.
They were all worried about Agatha but something else was now becoming an issue.
‘Did Natalie say where she was going?’ asked Esther.
‘No, I didn’t ask her,’ admitted Agatha. ‘I just gave her the day off and, well, off she must have gone.’
‘Fish or Bernard have no idea where she went?’ pressed Mary.
‘Naturally I inquired,’ responded Agatha, a hint of her spirit returning signalled by the dismissiveness in her tone. ‘And before you ask, I did speak to Hemmings in the kitchen before she left. Natalie said nothing about her plans for the day. So, there’s no point in asking me anything more on the subject.’
‘Has she done this before?’ asked Kit, quite literally taking his life in his hands. Agatha was holding a butter knife; it must be added. Who knows what thoughts crossed her mind? They may have been not too dissimilar to Kit’s, as he glanced down at the silver cutlery glinting dangerously in the light.
‘No. She has not.’
Kit was clearly troubled. If he was troubled, it was less than a second or two before his mood spread throughout the room.
‘What should we do, Kit?’ asked Mary.
Kit wiped the side of his mouth. I don’t like this. We’ll go to Scotland Yard. I think they should know. Just to be safe.’
‘I’ll come with you, Kit,’ said Bright. ‘If something’s wrong, I’d feel better doing something about it.’
‘Will there be anyone there at this time, Kit? It’s quite late.’ asked Esther.
-
‘Sergeant Wellbeloved’, said Kit, ‘I was hoping I’d find you still here. Detective Inspector Bulstrode, a pleasure.’
Wellbeloved and Bulstrode were sitting together outside Jellicoe’s office. Both were eating sandwiches and drinking beer. They looked somewhat embarrassed to be caught drinking on duty.
‘Can I introduce my friend Dr Richard Bright?’
There was a round of handshakes and then the visitors pulled over two nearby seats.
‘Please don’t let us interrupt you,’ said Kit, although it was plain that each man had lost something of his appetite and thirst. ‘Did you make any further progress on establishing Miss Tunstall’s last movements?’
‘It’s incomplete, sir, but we now have a few additional lines of inquiry which will be followed up tomorrow.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Kit. He looked at Bulstrode. ‘Will you be re-joining the case at any point?’
This was greeted with a snort, or at least it would have been, had Bulstrode not stopped himself in time.
‘No, sir. We’re down several men who’ve been diverted onto this case. I’m picking up what’s left.’
‘I see,’ said Kit, and he did. Oddly, he was reassured to see the two men working so late. Thuggish they may be, but there was no faulting their commitment to the cause.
‘May I ask what brings you here at this time of night, sir?’ asked Bulstrode. The four men glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was after half past eight.
‘It may not be a problem, and we certainly hope it isn’t, but Natalie, my aunt’s young maid, has not returned from her day off. It’s not happened before, and we can think of no reason why she should not have returned. Given the events surrounding the death of Bentham…’
Kit left the next thought hanging in the air. It was clear, looking into the eyes of both men, that they knew what he meant. The two policemen exchanged glances.
‘Best not to take any chances,’ said Bulstrode.
‘I agree,’ replied Kit.
-
If Rufus Watts was dismayed at seeing the arrival of Wellbeloved into his office, he was damn sure he was going to let the detective know it. Then he saw the arrival of Kit. This was a surprise and not an unpleasant one. He recognised Kit. He was becoming a regular fixture at Scotland Yard. As well as this, he’d seen the nobleman at the Royal Opera House and the National Gallery. He was a man of culture, like himself.
‘Evening, Mr Watts,’ said Wellbeloved, ‘you remember his lordship.’
‘Lord Aston, it’s a pleasure to meet you again. Is this a social call or business?’
Kit smiled ruefully.
‘Business, alas. I hope I’m not keeping you back from an engagement. It’s terribly urgent.’
The little artist smiled and held his arms out expansively.
‘I keep strange hours. What would you like me to do?’ Watts turned to Wellbeloved and said, ‘And you’d better check if Shepherd is still here or telephone him to come in. Half an hour to an hour should do it.’
‘Will do, sir.’
-
The portrait emerged over the next forty minutes like a ship ap
pearing through fog. The shape became distinct first, then the features, then the shadow and finally, much to Kit’s astonishment, a hint of the person.
‘You’ve missed your calling, Mr Watts.’
Watts did not contradict him, which amused Kit greatly. He nodded in approval at the finished image of Natalie.
Rufus Watts smiled. It was always this way. For someone of his talent, this was a mere trifle, yet critical acclaim was always forthcoming, and he enjoyed every second of it. Normally his audience comprised people without discernment or taste. However, the reaction of someone of Kit’s rank was especially gratifying.
Despite Kit’s effusiveness, the artist could sense the anxiety. And he was right. Kit was worried. His senses were tingling again. If something happened to Natalie, he doubted he could forgive himself for even indirectly endangering her. He didn’t want to think about what could happen, but images of the young, murdered women entered his mind.
‘We need to get this down to Shepherd,’ said Watts.
‘Lead on,’ replied Kit.
As he said this, he spied Watts’ walking stick lying propped against the wall. The handle was made of silver and depicted a serpent. Watts noticed the direction of Kit’s gaze. He stood up and took the walking stick over, removing the sword contained within.
Kit smiled and said, ‘D’you know I was wondering about that. I have an associate who has something similar.’ Thoughts of Smith-Cumming sprang into his mind.
The tip of the blade was a foot away from Kit’s face. Then Watts lowered it and handed the sword, hilt first to Kit. Rising from his seat Kit made some swipes and thrusts with the sword.
‘You fence, I see, your lordship.’
‘Used to.’
‘Why did you stop?’
Kit laughed, ‘My fiancée was beating me too handily for my liking.’ He handed the foil back to Watts who began to make some fencing moves himself. It was clear that he knew what he was about.
‘What did you make of what happened to poor Bentham?’ asked Kit, looking at the artist lunge, feint, beat and riposte an imaginary opponent.
‘I was shocked, of course. How could anyone know he was working with us?’
‘How do you think?’ pressed Kit.
Watts stopped for a moment and looked at Kit. His eyebrow was raised, and he said after a few moments, ‘The answer to that would be concerning.’
Kit rose from his seat and adopted a fencing stance. His walking stick became his sword.
‘On guard.’
The two men were stood thus when Wellbeloved entered the office. They stopped immediately like two naughty schoolboys caught smoking in the lavatory.
‘I will take it from this that the drawing is ready, Mr Watts.’
‘It is Sergeant dear. Let’s go down to Shepherd and get him to make the photostats. Did you mention to him we were coming?’
‘It’s not necessary for you to come down, Mr Watts,’ pointed out Wellbeloved.
‘It is. He still has the original five drawings I made with Bentham.’ Turning to Kit he explained, ‘I like to keep the originals.’
Kit looked at the little artist oddly. Five drawings? The three men walked to the office of Shepherd who, like Watts, tended to work late into the night. He was still there and was expecting them. The photographer was in his sixties, guessed Kit. He’d probably been using a camera all his life if some of the pictures on his walls were anything to go by.
‘Are they yours?’ asked Kit looking at the gallery. They showed, for the most part, a woman at various stages of her life.
‘Yes,’ replied Shepherd. ‘I started this thirty years ago. Never thought it would be my job.’
‘When can we have the photostats?’ asked Wellbeloved. He was not a man for small talk. For once Kit didn’t mind a sense of urgency and he was glad the sergeant’s tone conveyed this.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ replied Shepherd. Then he picked up the new drawing and looked at Natalie.
‘Beautiful girl. Another victim?’ There was more than a trace of sadness in his voice. Kit felt his heart lurch.
‘We hope not,’ said Wellbeloved, quickly. ‘First thing?’
‘First thing,’ confirmed Shepherd. He turned to Watts, ‘You want the originals back, Rufus?’
Watts nodded, ‘Yes. You know me, darling.’
Shepherd smiled and reached into a drawer and took out an envelope. He lifted a letter opener and, with a swift cut, opened an envelope from which he extracted the drawings.
‘There you are Rufus.’
Kit looked at the letter opener in surprise. It looked like none he’d ever seen before. In fact, it looked more like a…
‘Scalpel,’ said Shepherd, smiling at Kit. Dr French gave it to me when I complained about losing my letter opener. Or maybe it was stolen. You can’t trust anyone in this building.’
The three men left the photographer’s office and returned upstairs from the bowels of the building to the main entrance.
‘I must hand it to you chaps,’ said Kit. ‘You work long hours.’
‘It helps not being married,’ said Watts gaily.
Kit looked at the artist but did not press further on the subject, but a thought struck him about the photographer.
‘I noticed a lot of photographs of a woman in Mr Shepherd’s office. The same lady.’
‘His wife, sir,’ said Wellbeloved. ‘Spanish flu got her. He’s a widower.’
Watts’ next comment stopped Kit in his tracks.
‘Yes, poor chap,’ said Watts. ‘I gather he’s taken to attending séances. Very strange if you ask me.’
‘Do many policemen attend séances to your knowledge?’ asked Kit. They were standing at the entrance lobby to the Scotland Yard building.
Watts laughed at this.
‘I really have no idea. He just mentioned it to me in passing. I was tempted to tell him it’s a lot of nonsense, but it seemed to be a comfort. Who am I to criticise? In fact,’ said Watts, looking through the drawings, ‘If you take a look at this one you might think I attended these ridiculous things as well.’
He handed Kit the face that Bentham had described. There was definitely a resemblance to Watts.
Kit smiled and said, ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
Watts took the drawing back, but he seemed puzzled.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Kit.
‘One of the drawings is missing,’ said Watts. ‘Never mind. I’ll see him tomorrow, I’m sure.’
Kit looked as Watts turned and headed in the direction of the stairs. The missing drawing seemed too much of a coincidence. He would mention it to Jellicoe the next day.
34
The ticking of the clock was the loudest noise at breakfast the next morning in Grosvenor Square. There was no question on anyone’s mind that Natalie was missing and, most likely, for reasons to do with the case. When Kit arrived to join them, they agreed that a search of Natalie’s room was unavoidable. Until this point, they’d held out hope that she might return. Now time was of the essence.
‘You and Mary search the room, Christopher,’ suggested Agatha. ‘I’ll join you in a moment.’ She headed down the corridor to Fish’s room. After giving the door a quick knock, she entered the room.
Kit and Mary looked at one another.
‘Are you going to ask what’s going on?’ asked Mary, entering Natalie’s.
Kit shrugged away any responsibility for asking such a question.
‘Coward,’ said Mary accurately of the war hero.
The first thing that confronted them was a large bouquet of flowers.
‘Good lord,’ said Kit.
‘Don’t be too excited,’ said Mary. ‘These flowers were meant for Esther. We diverted them away to avoid any unpleasantness.’
‘Booby Andrews?’
Mary shot Kit and look then grinned.
‘You mean Bobby, I think. No, Xander Lewis. I think Aunt Agatha would describe him as a fathead. Accurately, it must be said.’
They gave up after half an hour and re-joined Agatha and Esther upstairs. The mood was decidedly downbeat.
‘Where’s Richard by the way?’ asked Kit to Esther. ‘He wasn’t around this morning.’
Mary answered, ‘I asked him to visit the refuge. He’d said he was somewhat unoccupied at the moment.’
Esther smiled proudly. She was worried, however. They would begin married life soon and things would be better if her husband had a job. Money was not the issue. His pride required that he work but he wanted to earn an income whilst doing something socially beneficial. Finding a role that combined these objectives was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated.
The arrival of Betty Simpson an hour later lifted everyone’s mood. She whooshed into the room like a runaway train racing down a steep hill.
‘I’m here.’
‘We’d noticed. How did you get in?’
‘Front door was open.’
Agatha gave Kit a stern look which caused a wide smile to appear on Mary’s face. Then she remembered what day it was.
‘I’d forgotten,’ said Mary to Aunt Agatha, ‘You have your séances today.’
‘Indeed. I hope Doyle has come up with something better than the last ones.’
‘Are you going like that?’ asked Betty which caused the second stern look in as many seconds from Agatha.
-
By late afternoon, the only thing sinking faster than the sun were the spirits of Agatha and Betty. Two separate séances had demonstrated what the two ladies firmly believed: misfortune favours the fool. Betty was particularly angry as she climbed into the car.
‘Utter waste of time. I doubt any of those people could dress themselves without assistance. We should set up shop as mediums, Agatha. We’d clean up.’
‘Dispiriting.’
‘Very good, dear,’ replied Betty.
It occurred to Agatha a few moments later that she’d made an unintended pun. She was too anxious to laugh. The car took off and they were on the road towards the last address of the day. Near Sloane Square.
