I had once been allowed to look under the camera hood so I knew that Beckler was examining the screen to judge if the picture was sharp enough. I couldn’t help wondering how a fellow was expected to keep his hair in good order with such a tiresome demand. Ladies much prefer gentlemen to have tidy hair and I am always careful with his grooming when going out, although now I think about it, Mina, you often take me severely to task for my appearance when I return. That is hardly reasonable; one can’t expect a fellow to be perfectly coiffed with a clean collar after a night out. But perhaps,’ Richard mused, ‘some ladies like a little wildness about the locks. It hints at adventure, like the dreadful Mr Hope who so I have heard is very successful with ladies. I wonder if it would help my chances if I went to Africa, but it does seem like a lot of trouble.’
‘Was it possible to take a photograph?’ asked Mina, making an effort to be patient.
‘Oh, yes, well, as I was saying, Mr Beckler emerged from the camera hood looking thoroughly dissatisfied, and started searching about the room, peering closely at things like wall plaques and a framed certificate. Eventually he found a battered tea tray on top of a cabinet, which he snatched up triumphantly as if it was a great prize. Then he handed it to me together with a polishing cloth from the camera case. ‘Take this and rub it till it shines,’ he said. The three gentlemen were all looking very surprised by this. ‘It will serve to reflect the light’ Beckler explained.
It was no occupation for man of my ability, but what could I do but obey, and think of what complaint I might make later. When I had completed this task as well as I could, Beckler examined the tray, then gave it an extra rub with the cloth before handing it back. ‘Now, hold this, stand up and face the window. No — not there — there. Now turn. Turn more. Stop. Good, stay there. And hold the tray just so. Higher. Yes. And don’t move unless I say so.’ I felt less like a photographer’s assistant than a performing animal.
At last, the door of the office opened, and the Chief Constable entered, followed by a constable and the sergeant, bringing with them the unexpected guest. The Chief Constable greeted the three delegates, shaking hands with them, and nodded to me and Mr Beckler, then stood beside the fireplace to keep a wary eye on the proceedings, taking particular care to place his body between the fire irons and the prisoner. The constable had stepped to one side so as to guard the door, and then came the sergeant, with one hand firmly on the prisoner’s arm. The sergeant’s hand was large with thick gnarled fingers. It went almost entirely around the upper arm of the prisoner, not tightly but admitting of no resistance, although the man offered none, and hardly looked capable of it. I realised that beneath his clothing the prisoner was thin almost to the point of emaciation.
At the first sight of the arrival, Mr Westbury impulsively tried to take a step forward for a closer look, but the sergeant thrust out his free arm, palm first, to dissuade him. ‘Get back, Sir,’ he said, but his words were hardly necessary. It was a strong arm and a firm palm and Mr Westbury stepped back. I admit I was lost in admiration. What would it be like to command men in that way, with a simple word and gesture? I thought if I became a policeman, then ladies would surely be impressed by my air of authority. Admittedly the uniform is not so good as a military one, but I think I might look rather handsome in it. Did you know, Mina, that I had once considered soldiering as profession? The uniform is so splendid, and all that marching about on parade looks like fun, but when I mentioned it to Mother, she had an attack of hysterics, and the idea had to be given up. Do you know how much policemen earn? Is it hard work?’
‘Richard, did you pay any attention at all to the man claiming to be Mr Holt?’ Mina demanded.
‘Yes, I did, a great deal in fact, because I knew you would ask me about him and would be very cross if I had nothing to say. It’s a pity you weren’t there, Mina, because everyone has been trying to solve the question of who he is, and no one can but if you had seen him you would have had the answer in a trice. So I stared very hard at him, and tried to remember as much as I could, as if I was a sort of camera, only one that recorded colours and sounds and smells too, which someone really ought to invent one day. Well, perhaps not the smells.
The supposed Mr Holt is neither tall nor short, but he seemed shorter than the average size because he did not stand straight. His shoulders were held very rounded as if he was pressed down by the weight of misery. He was not old, nor very young, in fact it was hard to guess his age with any exactness, not that I could remember how old Mr Holt was supposed to be. His hair was thick and very untidy, more grey than brown, and rather dirty. It hung over his ears almost to his collar. He was heavily bearded, but not in the fashionable manly style; bearded as a result of long neglect. His clothes were worn; thinning at the elbows, baggy at the knees, with a ragged stained collar. I rather thought that the poor fellow must possess only the one suit of clothes which he wore every day and was never cleaned. But I could see that the garments had been good once, perhaps they had been given to him out of charity. The shoes were in a similar state, worn at the toes, unpolished, the upper starting to lift from the soles, but made from good leather.’
‘Do you think he was a beggar, a man without a home?’ asked Mina. ‘Such a man might admit to anything just to have some sheltered place to stay.’
‘He could have been a beggar, but there was no deeply ingrained grime that might have been expected if he had lived long on the streets. His hands were not clean, although there was some smeary evidence that they and his face had recently, probably that morning, been allowed to make simple ablutions, and there was a very determined blackening about the fingertips, as if he had rubbed the pads of his fingers in coal or something similar. He smelt unbathed, and as he moved further into the room, the air became pungent with it.
‘No-one must approach the prisoner,’ said the sergeant, firmly to all three witnesses. ‘Now then sir,’ he said to his charge, ‘I see there is a chair set ready for you so please make yourself comfortable.’
The door was closed, and the constable stepped in front of it. No-one was about to try and make their way through either.
The prisoner shuffled forward but whether this odd gait was due to bodily weakness or the restrictions of his broken footwear was unclear. He eased himself carefully into the chair by the window, and sat very still with bent head, taking very little notice of those around him. The movement, seen from outside brought a fresh set of exclamations from the assembled onlookers in the square, and the voices of the constables who guarded the front door could be heard persuading them not to mount the steps.
‘You couldn’t close the curtains, could you, sir?’ asked the sergeant. ‘The crowds are getting very restive.’
‘I’m sorry, but I need as much light as I can get for the photograph,’ said Beckler. ‘It will only take a few moments.’
‘Be quick, then,’ said the sergeant reluctantly.
I then studied the three witnesses. You see, Mina I do think of you! Mr Stephen Westbury was a rather young man who would have been better advised to wait another year or two before making another attempt to grow whiskers. His pale speckled chin was cupped in one hand, and he craned his neck forward and stared at the prisoner intently. Mr Livermore, his eyes bulging with intense concentration, was also leaning forward as much as possible to get a good view. Mr Cobbe, however, his jaw slackening, his eyes opened wide, looked like a man who had seen a ghost, and it was not the ghost of someone he wished to see. ‘Oh!’ gasped Cobbe, and he rocked back on his heels. The constable was obliged to take him by the elbow to steady him.
The other witnesses turned to stare at Mr Cobbe.
The prisoner raised his head and looked around, and something that might have been mistaken for a smile spread slowly across his face, parting the grey thatch around his mouth and revealing the tips of yellowed teeth. ‘Cobbe,’ he said, and the voice was weak as if rarely used. ‘Have they got you, too? I suppose it was about time.’
Cobbe made a noise de
ep in his throat like a man who had swallowed too big a piece of steak and was about to choke on it.
‘Well, he certainly knows you!’ said Mr Westbury.
‘What do you say, gentleman?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Is this Holt?’
Mr Westbury, who had seemed so determined earlier was now less certain. ‘I’m afraid I only saw Mr Holt in passing when he came to the office to see my father,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘Unfortunately, my father is not in the best of health and I doubt that he would be able to identify him now. And of course, this man has clearly endured much and cannot be the same as he once was. But,’ he took a deep breath, ‘I see no reason why he cannot be Holt, especially as he seems to know Mr Cobbe.’
Mr Livermore nodded. ‘He’s older and greyer than I remember, but that’s to be expected. The same in height and general proportions, allowing for the passage of time, of course. I would say he is Holt. What about you, Cobbe?’
Mr Cobbe was red in the face but gulped and nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, that man is undoubtedly Mr Jasper Holt. I recognise him perfectly!’
’Well, well,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘So Mr Holt is alive after all.’
Unexpectedly, the man in the chair leaned back and gave a cackle. ‘Oh indeed. Yes. Mr Jasper Holt is very much alive, and he sits before you now.’
‘What about the wife, then?’ said Westbury to Livermore. ‘And the brother in law? Did they lie?’
‘I wouldn’t say they lied,’ said Livermore, generously. ’They simply saw what they wanted to see. He’s changed, of course, and that was enough of a reason for their mistake.’
‘Just turn your head a little and look directly at the camera, sir,’ said Beckler to the prisoner. ‘Hold still please. Just until I say you can move.’ The man, after his short bout of hilarity allowed his features to sink into the same impassive expression as when he had entered the room. He turned towards the camera but showed no further inclination to move.
Beckler took the lens cap off and replaced it but shook his head. ‘There is really far too little light.’ He removed the glass plate from the camera and slid it carefully into the carrying case, then replaced it with a new one. ‘Just one more, sir. There will be a longer exposure this time. Scarletti, tilt the tray a little to your left.’
The sergeant looked at the proceedings with keen interest and not a little curiosity. ‘Is that done?’ he asked at last.
‘It is. But I would like some more pictures if you please, to record this important event. Gentlemen, if you could come forward just a little more. Just to where the sunlight comes through the window.’
The three witnesses looked somewhat surprised, but obeyed, and with some repositioning of the tea tray they were immortalised on glass.
‘And sir, if you would so kind?’ he asked the Chief Constable, who happily adopted a dignified pose for his portrait.
The sergeant coughed. ‘I’d like a picture to show the missus, sir, if that’s alright,’ he said.
‘If you please sir, might I have one to show mother?’ asked the constable.
The Chief Constable cheerfully gave his assent, and both the sergeant and the constable made the most of the remaining light.
‘Thank you for your assistance,’ said Mr Beckler, to the policemen. ‘Mr Scarletti, we are done here.’
‘In that case,’ said the Chief Constable, turning to the prisoner, ‘Mr Jasper Holt it is my duty to place you under arrest on a charge of attempting to defraud an insurance company. I advise you not to make any statement that might tend to criminate you. Now please accompany the constable back to the cells.’
The man’s eyes glazed over, but after a pause, he made an effort and rose from the chair. ‘It’s no more than I deserve,’ he said.
‘And you gentlemen,’ added the sergeant to the witnesses ‘will oblige us by leaving the station now.’
‘Shouldn’t his wife be told?’ demanded Livermore.
‘You leave that to us, sir.’
So we packed away the equipment for transport back to the shop. As we left, Beckler turned to me and said, ‘that was good work, alerting me to the circumstances. If the pictures come out well, they will be as good as an advertisement. Now let us see what we have!’
It was all done not a moment too soon, as dark clouds had drifted to cover the sun, and there was even a threat of rain.
‘So Mr Livermore was the hero of the hour, and he came out with a big smile on his face and stood at the top of the steps and made a speech,’ said Richard.
‘What did he say?’ asked Mina.
‘Oh, you’ll read all about in the Gazette.’
Mina gritted her teeth. ‘The Gazette is a weekly publication,’ she reminded him.
‘I know. Oh, I see what you mean. Well as far as I could make out, he said that they had all recognised the man as Mr Holt who was now under arrest for fraud, and he would see his solicitor at once about claiming compensation and advised everyone else to do the same. And everyone cheered him, and people clapped him on the back. Then it started to rain, and they went away, and we ran back to the shop.’
‘And the pictures,’ said Mina. ‘Were they good?’
‘Oh yes, say what you will about Beckler, and I still don’t understand why you won’t entertain him, he knows his business. The likenesses are very good indeed and once they are properly mounted they will take pride of place in the shop window. The Chief Constable and his men look very smart in their uniforms. I wouldn’t be surprised if all the police in town came to have their pictures taken, now.’
‘I hope I will get to see this picture of the prisoner,’ said Mina.
‘Oh, I am sure you will one day, my dear!’
‘What I meant was, I would like you to bring me a copy.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, why not?’
Mina had a sudden thought. ‘You told me you have been cataloguing a collection of old pictures?’
Richard grimaced. ‘Oh, yes that is a beast of job, but it is almost done.’
‘And the names of the people in the pictures are written on the back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pass me a sheet of writing paper and pen and ink.’
Richard complied, and Mina wrote down a list of names, all the men who had been mentioned to her as possible associates of Mr Jasper Holt. She handed him the paper. ‘Take this, and please don’t lose it. When you are next at work on the list of pictures, I want you to look and see if any of the names are on this list. I want to see any pictures of the people named on this paper.’
‘But that will take a long time! ‘Richard protested, ‘there are lots of them.’
‘You have listed them in alphabetical order?’
He looked blank. ‘Was I supposed to?’
Mina took the deepest breath of which she was capable. ‘I’d like to say it would make sense, but obviously only to me. You’ll do this for me, Richard, won’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Anything for you, my dear! Are they all friends of yours?’
‘No, but I might like to know them.’
When Richard had gone to dinner Rose brought Mina a tray, the contents of which were more nearly like the meal her family was enjoying, although the meat and vegetables were cut very small as if for a child, either because they deemed her to be too weak to cut them herself or in danger of choking on anything not diced. She would have liked to write to Mrs Vardy asking how she had been so certain that the man in the police cells was not Mr Holt, but given Mr Vardy’s manner on their one meeting she felt sure that if she did, the letter would not reach its intended recipient. Regrettably, she did not expect to hear from Mrs Vardy again by way of letter. Once she was well, however, a meeting might be carefully arranged, perhaps through the good offices of Mr Merridew.
Mina remained hopeful that if she was patient the mysteries that engaged her mind would eventually be resolved, but she was obliged to admit that the cultivation of patience was not amongst her most successful accomplishments.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
When Dr Hamid called on Mina next day she was settled in her armchair deeply engrossed in the pages of that morning’s Times.
MISSING BRIGHTON MAN BACK FROM THE DEAD
From our special correspondent in Brighton
Yesterday morning a man walked into Brighton police office at the Town Hall, Bartholomew Square, and announced that he was Mr Jasper Holt, the wine merchant, who was declared missing and presumed to have been drowned after a yachting accident in 1864. Our readers should be reminded that just prior to this event Mr Holt had taken out a heavy insurance on his life but due to some unusual circumstances which concerned both his finances and the supposed accident, the company, suspecting fraud, declined to honour the policy. Nothing has been seen or heard of Mr Holt for more than seven years. His reappearance has caused considerable consternation in the town, as he was declared legally dead at the end of last year, and his widow has recently married Mr Silas Vardy, a manager of Saltmire and Vardy of Hove, a firm manufacturing fine porcelain.
Several persons were in the police station at the time of Mr Holt’s arrival, and a lady who happened to be there in order to complain of a nuisance from one of the town’s beer shops, witnessed the entire transaction. She has described the man to our correspondent as middle aged, with a grey beard and hair, somewhat slovenly, not very clean about his person, and shabbily dressed. As far as it has been possible to ascertain there is nothing in that description which precludes him from being Mr Holt. He was in a state of nervousness and at first she thought he had come there to report a crime, but instead he advanced to the sergeant’s desk and announced in a quiet voice that he was Mr Jasper Holt and he had determined to surrender himself to the authorities. He was taken aside for questioning, but the lady was able to hear him say that he was sorry for all he had done and wished to suffer the consequences of his actions.
His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5) Page 18
