His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5)

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Who are all these people?’ I asked them. The gathering of men in their good suits looked like an outdoor business convocation.

  ‘Why they are all those to whom Holt owes money or at least an explanation,’ said red whiskers.

  ‘I used to work for him’ said round hat. ‘He owes me a month’s wages. Not that I’ll ever get to squeeze it out of him.’

  ‘And see that fellow over there?’ said the nervous man, pointing out a young gentleman in dark grey. ‘He is Mr Stephen Westbury the accountant. There were all sorts of nasty allegations against his father when Holt disappeared. He lost business because of it. He was never the same man after.’

  ‘I still think old Westbury knew more than he was admitting,’ muttered red whiskers. ‘I wouldn’t trust him.’

  ‘See those two?’ said round hat, pointing to a mournful pair of shabby gentlemen, talking in close proximity and glancing over their shoulders. ‘Businesses collapsed when Holt’s cheques weren’t honoured. They’d punch him on the nose if they got close enough. Or worse.’

  ‘What about Livermore?’ said red whiskers. ‘Holt owes him thousands.’

  ‘And Cobbe, the banker,’ said round hat. ‘He won’t feel friendly towards him. I think they’re both here.’ He craned his neck, and seeing both the gentlemen in question, nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ he rubbed his hands together and chuckled, ‘this could get very interesting!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the nervous man. ‘I hope things don’t turn to violence.’

  The I saw a man in a plain suit begin to push importantly through the crowd, creating a trail of annoyed exclamations, and when he reached the top of the steps, he tried to march into the Town Hall, but his boldness didn’t help him. He was stopped by the constables before he could pass through the doors and interviewed very closely. It was a rapid conversation, with much energetic waving of hands by the man, and dignified tolerance from the constables, which I was too far away to hear. The result was that the man was very firmly motioned to leave. He protested, but the constables remained solid, like twin statues. Eventually he gave up and stamped away unwillingly, but he only went as far as the base of the steps. I saw him pull out a notebook and pencil and start writing.

  ‘Who is that fellow?’ I asked.

  ‘Gazette,’ said round hat with a snort of derision.

  Well I had been thinking about this, so I had to ask, ‘If Holt owes all these people money, does he have the means to pay them? Is that why there are all here?’

  ‘No. Bankrupt,’ said red whiskers, derisively. ‘Not a penny to his name. I think his creditors would just like to see him in prison.’

  ‘Or hanging from a nail,’ said round hat and he laughed, but I don’t think it was a joke.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said the nervous man again.

  ‘Perhaps his wife has money,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked red whiskers. ‘If she does, then it would be his in any case. And the receiver would have found it and paid it out. She doesn’t have anything.’

  ‘It could be in a trust, locked up so he couldn’t touch it,’ said the nervous man. ‘But I don’t believe she came from that sort of money.’

  ‘Oh, you know what ladies are like,’ I said. ‘Some of them when they get married, they don’t like to give up all their fortune to their husbands. They can be very clever about it, too. I knew a lady once who had a whole box of jewels hidden away. Worth thousands. She said her husband didn’t know about them and would never get his hands on them.’

  Round hat was very impressed by my story. ‘You might have something, there,’ he said. ‘What if Mrs Vardy has something put away that Holt didn’t know about?’

  ‘She might do at that,’ said red whiskers ‘a woman of that sort, they’ll stoop to anything. And if she does,’ he growled, clenching a fist as if grasping hold of what he was owed, or maybe he was thinking of Mr Holt’s throat, ‘I shall make a claim on it.’

  Well would you believe it, before I knew it, my comment had become the very latest news. It gained wings and flew about the crowd like a little bird, and as it twittered from mouth to mouth, it transformed in moments from idle speculation to a strong possibility and finally became an absolute fact. The man from the Gazette heard it and I could see him becoming very excited and scribbled even faster than before.

  So now, the crowd, seeing the prospect of actual money, began to surge forward with fresh determination. Men were shouting, demanding to be allowed in and see the man Holt, and a whole forest of rolled up newspapers, walking sticks and umbrellas were being waved aloft. People cried out angrily at being pushed by those behind them and turned around to protest; quarrels broke out and there was a serious threat of fisticuffs. It was far and away the most interesting thing that had happened to me for weeks and I thought that if I had only had a sketch pad with me and if I had still been employed by Edward, I might have thought of recording the scene for the Journal.

  And that,’ said Richard, cheerily oblivious to Mina’s expression of muted horror, ‘was when I had my most brilliant idea. A sketch is just a kind of picture, and I knew how to produce a picture of another kind, or at least I know a man who does. So quick as anything, I turned and hurried back to Ship Street and the photographic shop, where Mr Beckler was just saying an obsequious farewell to a lady who was wearing a monster of a ruffled skirt train that was taking longer to exit the premises than she did.

  ‘There’s a bit of a disturbance outside the Town Hall,’ I exclaimed. ‘All sorts of fellows, bankers and accountants and businessmen, all of them demanding to see a Mr Holt. He was supposed to be dead but he isn’t and now his creditors are all after him. It’s getting a bit heated.’

  Beckler’s eyes lit up. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve no-one for the next half hour and the light is —’ he looked out of the window ‘— hmm, it might just be adequate if the clouds move off. Let us go and see what we can do.’ It took only moments for us to gather a box of prepared dry coated glass plates, fold the camera into its carrying case with a spare lens, and close up the tripod. Beckler changed the sign on the shop door to ‘closed’ and burdened with the equipment we made our way as quickly as we could to Bartholomew Square.

  By then, the noise of the disturbance could be heard two streets away. My comment had really excited the crowds, and there was a restless sea of business suits in front of the Town Hall. The man from the Gazette had been knocked over in the crush, and was trying to crawl up the front steps to safety, the policemen were trying to look taller, wider and more determined, and the vegetable traders had stopped work and were looking on like spectators at a circus where the lions had just escaped and were mauling their trainer.

  Beckler stayed back and surveyed the scene from a safe distance. ‘All I can reasonably see from here is the entrance and the front steps,’ he said. ‘It’s like a battlefield. There is too much movement of the crowd to be sure of a good picture.’ From his position at the far side of the square he selected the best vantage point he could find, set up the tripod and camera on top of an overturned vegetable box, checked the focus, slotted a plate into position, and waited his chance.

  Then one of the gentlemen mounted the steps and instead of attempting to enter the building or speak to the constables, he turned and stood in front of the double doors to address the crowd, pleading for quiet. It had been a fairly dull day but as he stood there with arms outstretched, the sun, which was high in the sky, emerged from behind a cloud and he was suddenly illuminated in a bright golden light. I saw Beckler quickly remove the lens cap and replace it.

  A respectful hush fell over the crowd, and the surging movement calmed to a breathless ripple. ‘I think you all know me,’ said the man, a prosperous looking individual in his fifties, ‘but if you don’t, you’ll know my hotel.’ There was a murmur of assent. ‘Livermore’s the name. Eight years ago, Mr Jasper Holt offered me an investment in fine wines, and because of our long business association I trusted him. I trusted his knowledge, and
I thought him an honest man. But, as we all now know, it was a cheat, a calculated deception to take my money under false pretences. In fact, as I later found out, if he hadn’t practised on me in that way, he would have found himself bankrupt six months before he actually did.’ Livermore took a bundle of papers from his pocket and waved them at the crowd. ‘Here are my documents, proof if it be needed that Mr Holt is my debtor for a very large sum of money.’ He gestured towards the crowd with the papers. ‘And I can see Mr William Cobbe over there, who can stand witness to the fact. His bank lost money over Holt’s failure. And over there’ he gestured again ‘is Mr Stephen Westbury. The good name of his honourable father, Mr Henry Westbury, who has been a friend of mine for many years, has been dragged through the mud through no fault of his own. Now we all knew Mr Holt by sight, and unlike his relations, we have no wish to hide the truth.’ There was a laugh and a rumble of agreement from the massed voices.

  Livermore half turned towards the entrance of the Town Hall, pointing an accusing finger and moving it back and forth as if stabbing it repeatedly into the body of the despicable Mr Holt. ‘If that man in there is Jasper Holt, we will recognise him, and we will speak out without fear!’ He surveyed the throng once more. ‘Now I know you would all like to go in and take a look —’

  There were roars of ‘Yes!’ from the crowd.

  ‘But of course,’ Livermore went on, with a placatory voice and gesture, ’we can’t all go in at once. I have no wish to inconvenience the police; they are a fine body of men who are only doing their duty, and to whom we should be grateful for keeping the peace in Brighton and making it safe for our visitors and therefore good for our businesses. So what I propose is this. With the permission of these brave constables, the guardians of our town,’ he gestured towards the two constables who despite the warmth of the praise, succeeded in remaining as impassive as royal guardsmen, ‘I shall enter the station, peacefully, quietly and respectfully, and ask to speak to the Chief Constable. I shall entreat his agreement to receive a small delegation to represent us all. I propose that the delegation should consist of myself, Mr Westbury and Mr Cobbe. Are we all agreed?’

  Fresh debates broke out in the crowd, but no-one seemed inclined to oppose Mr Livermore’s wishes.

  ‘Are we all agreed?’ he repeated.

  There was a murmur of assent, and a few cries of ‘Yes!’

  ‘In the meantime, I would earnestly beg you all to keep calm. We don’t want to turn into a riotous assembly now, do we?’ he added with a playful smile.

  There was some laughter.

  ‘Is that agreed?’

  The crowd indicated its agreement and Mr Livermore bowed and after a few words with the constables he was permitted to enter the police station.

  ‘It sounds like Mr Livermore did the right thing,’ said Mina, thankful that Richard’s baseless speculation had not led to a murderous rampage.

  ‘Oh yes, because everyone was very determined to go in and see the man, and not for any beneficial purpose,’ said Richard. ‘We made some good photographs of the commotion. I must say not all of the gentlemen there wished to be photographed, I really don’t know why, but there is no reason why you have to ask them first.’

  ‘And did Mr Livermore get his deputation?’

  Richard grinned. ‘Oh, my dear girl, what came next was the very best part of all!’

  ‘Quickly, give out the cards!’ said Beckler, losing no opportunity to set me to work while everyone waited for Mr Livermore to return. ‘If they ask, say that I am photographer to the nobility.’

  Round hat came and stared at the apparatus. ‘You should go inside and picture the man in the cells. Then we can all see him and make our minds up.’

  ‘Is there enough light in the cells?’ I asked.

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ said Beckler, with a regretful shake of the head.

  I had another inspiration. I have so many good ideas, Mina, you can’t imagine! ‘I know, we could burn some of that metal ribbon! Have you got any about you? I mean it works in caves, why not cells?’

  To my surprise Mr Beckler did not think this was a good idea. ‘That could involve damaging municipal property. It is not the kind of advertisement I was seeking.’ He looked up at the Town Hall windows, and I could see he was thinking. ‘But if they brought him out of the cells and put him near to a window with the sun coming through as bright as it is now, and I adjust the exposure time, I might be able to secure a passable image.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s worth trying. Come with me!’ Beckler took up the camera and tripod and I picked up the case of glass plates, and we advanced on the Town Hall. Fortunately, Mr Livermore’s speech had quietened the crowds, so it wanted only some care and politeness to be allowed through the mass of waiting gentleman. ‘I hope they will admit us,’ said Beckler, ‘but all we can do is ask.’

  The constables stared at us laden as we were as we mounted the steps. I arrived first, and Mr Beckler, who was more heavily burdened, which was his fault as he insisted on carrying the camera, brought up the rear looking like the porter of a foreign expedition. So I suppose the police thought that I was the man in charge. Before Beckler could say anything, I greeted the policemen with an extravagant salute, announcing ‘Scotland Yard photographic department!’

  ‘Do you have a note, sir?’ asked one constable, staring at the camera.

  ‘No time, I’m afraid, we just rushed here as soon as we could!’

  The constables glanced at each other. ‘All right, you can go in and see the sergeant.’

  Inside, the tiled reception hall was quite handsome, but it smelt of old clothes and stale pastry. There was a small attendance of people sitting in rows on wooden benches looking very unhappy to be there. They must have been hoping to see the sergeant who was manning a desk, however it was obvious that Mr Livermore had already asserted his superior authority and had ignored the grumbling masses in order to take first place.

  He was discussing with the sergeant his proposal to take a delegation down to the cells, and the sergeant was scratching his chin and pondering the request.

  ‘Ah, my good man,’ I said, approaching the desk, ‘your troubles are over, we are here! I expect you are relieved to see us, eh?’ Mr Beckler put the camera down and stared at me, mouth gaping open like a large fish. He was obviously dismayed at my boldness, which must have come close to impertinence, but unsure whether or not to interrupt as it seemed to be doing the trick.

  ‘I don’t rightly know who you are,’ said the sergeant. ‘Why are you here and who sent for you?’

  ‘We are Beckler and Scarletti, photographers to nobility and royalty,’ I said before Becker could reply. I still had some of the advertising cards in my pocket, so I took one, made a bit of a flourish with it, and handed it to the sergeant. ‘Engaged by the special photographic department of Scotland Yard to make a portrait of your prisoner, Mr Holt. We received an emergency telegram, from someone very important, and we came here at once.’ I patted my pockets as if looking for the telegram. ‘I had it here somewhere. No matter. Do be a good chap and bring the fellow Holt or whoever he is up to the light so we can get a decent photograph.’

  The sergeant frowned, but the card and the presence of abundant photographic equipment was proof enough. ‘If I do, and I can’t promise it, he’ll be under close guard. Not that I think he’ll run off. Docile as a lamb. You’d think he wanted to be locked up.’

  Livermore had been watching us very keenly. ‘There are a hundred men outside who would very much like him to be freed for an interview,’ he said grimly.

  ‘That I don’t doubt,’ said the sergeant.

  I hardly dared look at Beckler, but when I did he was looking at me as if he couldn’t decide whether to compliment me or dismiss me on the spot. Then I saw the professional gentleman assert himself once more. ‘Is there a place near a window where we can have sufficient light for a photograph?’ he asked.

  The sergeant stared at him, then glanced at the card. ‘This is that new
shop in Ship Street?’

  ‘Under the patronage of Viscount Hope,’ said Mr Beckler.

  The policeman considered this, and nodded. ‘You sirs,’ he addressed us, ‘you can come this way. Mr Livermore, I will attend to you shortly.’ We were shown to a private office at the front of the building, which was uninhabited, and left to prepare the room.

  There was no time to talk about what had happened. I watched Beckler set up the camera on its tripod and then he threw back the curtains to admit the sunlight. When he did so, there was an excited roar from outside, which soon subsided as the crowds saw a very tall figure at the window, who was obviously not their quarry. I handed him a glass plate from the box, and he slotted it into place, then replaced the lens with the one he uses for portraits. I drew up a chair before the window and he positioned it where he judged that the light would best fall on the face of the subject.

  When the sergeant returned, he was accompanied by Mr Livermore, Mr Westbury and Mr Cobbe. ‘We are to be allowed to see the prisoner,’ said Livermore, triumphantly. The members of the delegation ranged themselves against the wall facing the chair, and everyone waited expectantly for the appearance of Mr Holt.

  The three gentlemen, Livermore, Westbury and Cobbe, stood in a row, fidgeting with anticipation, all of them eager and primed to see, hear and speak whatever evil they knew of Mr Jasper Holt, while the sergeant went to fetch the prisoner. Beckler’s attention was directed solely towards his camera, and he circled about it, adjusting for the available light like a costume-maker dancing about a bride being fitted for her wedding dress. Several times he dipped his head under the black hood at the back, emerging with a dispirited expression, and increasingly rumpled hair, then stared disconsolately out of the window as if in the hopes of heavenly intervention.

  He turned to me. ‘Mr Scarletti,’ he rapped, ‘assist me if you please by sitting in the subject’s chair.’

  It was really more of an order than a request. I had the feeling that Beckler was not at all pleased with me for speaking out, which I thought he ought to have been, however I sat where directed. And now I was obliged to endure repeated and probably unnecessary corrections of my posture before Beckler once again retreated to the camera and threw the dark cloth over his head and shoulders.