At this moment, the doorbell sounded again, and a small plump lady with a feathered hat entered accompanied by her maid and hurried directly to the counter like a hunting dog that had scented its quarry. ‘Oh, Mr Scarletti!’ was her shrill cry. ‘I am so pleased to find you here!’
Richard winced. ‘Miss Hartop. What a — a pleasure to see you again. Have you come to make an appointment?’
Miss Hartop laughed in which she must have imagined was a charmingly girlish manner. The sound was like a series of rapid hammer blows on a badly tuned carillon. ‘No, today I have come to see the exhibition of cave photographs. I have one of your pretty little advertisement cards. It promises a most remarkable demonstration. Do you know, I simply cannot stay away from this establishment? Now I wonder why that can be?’ she added in a manner which left no-one in any doubt as to the answer.
‘I cannot imagine,’ said Richard, politely.
She leaned on the counter and gazed up into his eyes. She was wearing rather too much of a particularly strident cologne. ‘But perhaps I will make another appointment, after all. A new photograph. A lady can never have too many, I think. My only question is which of my gowns I should wear for the sitting? I have such a darling peach silk with flounces, and a light blue with lace. Which do you advise, Mr Scarletti?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Richard. ‘They’ll both look grey in the picture.’
Miss Hartop squealed. ‘Oh, Mr Scarletti, you are so very amusing!’
Richard glanced at me helplessly and I decided to come to his assistance. ‘The question to be determined, dear lady,’ I said, ‘is whether you wish the portrait to emphasise your complexion, in which case I would advise the peach, or the brilliance of your eyes, in which case the blue would be best. Either would be very flattering.’
‘Oh sir!’ she exclaimed, ‘how very kind. And now I think about it, perhaps the peach would be my preference. But I must confess, although perhaps I ought not to say it, it is a little bit — just a little, you know -— it exposes the shoulders for all to see.’ She gave a little squeak. ‘Do you think I dare?’
‘Oh, dare away, dare away!’ I exclaimed heartily.
She laughed again. ‘Oh, you are a naughty man to be sure! But don’t I recognise you?’ She stared at me, and I of course, obliged by striking a pose and offering my profile for her examination. ‘Why yes, you are the great man of the theatre, Mr Merridew!’
‘At your service,’ I acknowledged with a bow.
‘How very exciting to meet you! My poor late mother was a great admirer of yours and spoke of you so often. You were playing Romeo, I believe, and I am sure she saw you a dozen times over. She died with your carte de visite clutched to her bosom.’
‘I — hope it brought her comfort,’ I said, after a pause in which I was obliged to grope for the right words.
‘It did, it did!’ she said with a passionate gasp.
At this moment, Mr Beckler appeared from the rear of the shop. He wore a long plain linen apron over his suit, and a set of goggles was pushed back over his brow, making his hair stand up in tangled spikes. In one heavily gloved hand was a pair of long metal tongs. ‘If you please, ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘I am about to perform my demonstration of the new miracle, magnesium ribbon. There is no need to be afraid, I will light just one small piece and it will be done in the open air, nevertheless, I can promise you that the brilliance of the light will be apparent and it would be best not to stare at it directly. If you would all like to follow me.’
He turned and proceeded down a corridor leading to the back of the premises. I offered Miss Hartop my arm which she accepted with alacrity, and she and her maid joined the crowd of visitors to the demonstration. Your brother remained at the desk, sighing, and I felt sure that he was thinking not of Miss Hartop, but quite another lady, and how she might have looked as peach silk cascaded from her shoulders.
The demonstration was brief but somewhat startling. A bench had been set out in the small open yard behind the shop, and there Mr Beckler clasped a piece of metal ribbon some three or four inches long in the tongs, put on the goggles, instructed the audience to stand well back, and applied the end of the ribbon to the hottest part of the flame of a spirit burner. The effect was rapid, the result a searing intense white light, followed by a plume of pale smoke which descended to the bench where it formed a heap of ash. There were loud exclamations from the onlookers and shrieks from Miss Hartop. Mr Beckler, obviously pleased with the result, assured the crowd that with a hotter flame the burn would start even more rapidly.
We returned to the shop, filing down the corridor, everyone chattering about what they had witnessed, with Miss Hartop dabbing her eyes, and laughing. ‘Oh, what a wonder!’
Mr Beckler, having divested himself of his apron and goggles, joined us there and distributed business cards. Most of the crowd headed back to Ship Street, but Miss Hartop and I remained. I had, you see, taken the opportunity of making a small purchase, and approached the counter. ‘I think I am due to make a payment,’ I said, but Mr Beckler waved that aside. ‘It is gratis, sir, as you are one of my best customers.’
Mr Beckler made a subservient bow to Miss Hartop and murmured something about how pleasant it was to see her again, but it was all politeness and no pleasure.
‘I will come again soon, I promise,’ she assured him. ‘This is quite the most interesting emporium in all Brighton. There are such wonders to behold every day!’ She looked significantly at Richard, who quickly fell to studying the appointments book.
‘And what is your opinion of the hirsute fellow portrayed in the window?’ I asked. ‘What be he? Butcher or baker or candlestick-maker? Opinions vary.’
‘Oh, I believe him to be an artist,’ said Miss Hartop. ‘I am sure I have seen him, or someone very like him, walking about Brighton with paper and pencils.’
Richard looked up. ‘Pencils?’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Scarletti. Why, you have such a strange look. What can you be staring at?’ She gazed at him through lowered lashes, and pursed her lips, but he tried not to notice.
‘Because — yes, I remember something now, when we took the photograph,’ said Richard. ‘The man’s fingertips were dark. I thought at the time it might have been dirt or coal, but it could have been from an artist’s pencil.’
‘But he would not draw with his fingers, would he?’ said Miss Hartop with a laugh.
‘He might do. He might have used a soft pencil and then rubbed the paper with his fingertips to smooth out the marks. I am an artist myself, you know.’
‘There may be something in that,’ said Mr Beckler, thoughtfully. ‘We should notify the police. They can make enquiries at the stationery shops.’
‘Or go to his lodgings,’ said Miss Hartop.
‘Yes, that would be better, of course,’ said Richard. ‘But they can’t go to every lodging house in Brighton. Or can they?’
‘Oh but I know where he lodges,’ said Miss Hartop.
‘You do?’ exclaimed Beckler.
‘Well — not exactly.’ She giggled. ‘I am such a silly goose! I don’t know the address. But my maid was paying a visit recently and saw him — I think she called him ‘that smelly artist man’ going into a common type of lodging house. Not one of my father’s, of course,’ she added quickly. ‘Tilly!’ she called to the maid.
The girl, who had been examining the array of portraits, hurried to her side. ‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Do you remember when you saw that artist going into a house?’
‘Oh, yes, Miss.’
‘Would you be able to point out the place?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir. I didn’t see the address, but I was on North Road and I saw him go down Foundry Street. It was a house by a beer shop.’
‘Then we must act at once,’ said Beckler. ‘Scarletti, mind the premises. I shall conduct Miss Hartop and her maid to the Town Hall. And after that,’ he gave a smirk of satisfaction, ‘I shall alert the Gazette.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the following days, the newspapers proclaimed the solution of the Brighton mystery and Mina eagerly studied their accounts. The Gazette was a fount of local information, and the Illustrated Police News carried an abundance of sketches, but The Times seemed to find the whole affair disappointingly unoriginal.
THE HISTORY OF THE WEEK
From the Gazette’s own correspondent at the scene: The mystery of the man being held in the cells at the Town Hall police office has finally been solved thanks to the sharp eyes of Miss Hannah Hartop daughter of Mr Henry Hartop a Brighton property owner. Miss Hartop was paying a visit to the Ship Street business of photographic artist Mr Beckler to view the new exhibition of magnesium photography when she saw displayed in the window the photograph that he had made of the unknown man who is currently at the Town Hall under arrest for attempted fraud in the name of Jasper Holt. She at once saw the resemblance between this picture and a man she had seen on the promenade, armed with pencils and sketchpad, drawing pictures of the sea. She also recalled that her maid had once seen him entering a low grade of lodging house and alerted Mr Beckler to her observation.
Mr Beckler at once conducted Miss Hartop and her maid to the Town Hall to tell their story to the Chief Constable.
We are sorry to mention that our correspondent was not permitted to enter the police office to be present at the interview, but he next saw a constable leave the Town Hall accompanied by Miss Hartop and her maid. They proceeded to Foundry Street, and there the maid was seen to point to a common lodging house situated next to a beer shop, saying that she felt sure it was the one the man had entered. Miss Hartop was most especially insistent that this lodging house was not one of her father’s establishments, which are of a far superior order, and we will not disagree. Miss Hartop and her maid were then allowed to return home, and the constable knocked at the door and was admitted to the house. Some minutes later the constable emerged, this time in the company of an elderly lady whom he conducted to the Town Hall.
Our correspondent quickly ascertained from the general servant of the house that this lady was Mrs Ellison the landlady of the lodging house. He also learned that an artist lodged there under the name of John Chantry, and he had lived alone for several years. He was a very quiet individual, who often kept to his room, and it was therefore not at all unusual not to see him for a week together, which must have been why his landlady had not been aware that he was missing.
Our energetic correspondent then hurried to the Town Hall, and after a short while, Mrs Ellison emerged, and he was able to obtain an interview. He was advised that she had viewed the man in the cells and was certain beyond any doubt that he was her lodger Mr John Chantry, whom she had last set eyes upon on the same morning that he had decided to approach the police. She stated that he was a very quiet man and had never given any trouble either to her or the other residents. He only went out in order to sit by the sea and make his drawings, and as far as she knew, he had never received any visitors. She also expressed the belief that it was all the recent gossip about Mr Holt following the news of his widow’s remarriage that had disturbed her lodger’s mind and led to his strange imaginings. Asked if Mr Chantry was to return to his lodgings, she said that she understood that for the time being he was not to be permitted to return home as it was felt that a doctor ought to examine him and see what should be done with him next.
Next, Mina read a piece in The Illustrated Police News.
PORTRAIT OF THE BRIGHTON MYSTERY MAN
We publish on our front page an engraving which has been most faithfully carried out by our artist, taken from a photograph of the man being held at Brighton Police Station whose identity has until now been a mystery. (The photograph was provided by kind permission of Mr Beckler, photographer of Ship Street, Brighton) The prisoner had claimed to be Mr Jasper Holt, who vanished and was presumed drowned in 1864, but who had either been alive all that time, or had risen from the dead, but it now seems that he was in reality an artist of unsound mind, a Mr John Chantry.
Our sketch artist was kindly granted permission by Mrs Ellison the landlady of the lodging house where Mr Chantry resided, to enter the private abode of Mr Chantry, and he has depicted for our pages the humble lodgings complete with all the paraphernalia of his calling. It was Mrs Ellison who formally identified the prisoner and she is also portrayed in our newspaper together with a picture of her lodging house about which a small crowd of interested persons has collected. Mr Chantry rarely sells his drawings which are all scenes of the sea, and are of moderate skill, but he has never failed to pay for his rent and provisions, since he is in receipt of a monthly postal order from an unknown benefactor.
We also provide portraits of Miss Hannah Hartop, whose keen eyes noticed the resemblance between the portrait in the window of the photographer’s shop and the mystery man, of the shop front crowded by visitors, and its proprietor, Mr Beckler.
On making further enquiries it appears however that many of the residents of Brighton remain unconvinced that the identification of Mr Chantry solves the mystery, since they feel that it is possible that he might be Mr Holt after all, who has been living under a false name in humble circumstances to avoid arrest. His recent actions are considered by some not to be the result of sudden mania, but an attack of conscience, his crimes having weighed on his mind to the extent that he felt a sudden desire to confess. All that is known about the postal orders is that they come from a London address.
And finally, The Times.
THE BRIGHTON MYSTERY: A SAD DELUSION
So it seems that the Brighton mystery is over, and a pathetic and commonplace answer it has turned out to be. The man in the cells of the Brighton police office is not the walking corpse of Mr Jasper Holt, or even the living Mr Holt, but a Mr John Chantry, a man whose state of mind can only arouse our sympathy. We must hope that he has relatives who are able to take care of him.
We must also observe with some sorrow that many of the residents of Brighton, and those being not the idle or curious but men of the business class, who surely ought to know better how to behave themselves, have been gathering in the street outside the home of Mr and Mrs Vardy, demanding an interview. It appears that they are labouring under the delusion that there is money to come to the creditors from the Holt bankruptcy. All our enquiries on the matter suggest that this is not the case, and these gentlemen should cease their baseless demands and return to their proper business. The editor must inform his readers that all further correspondence on this case is now closed.
Mina also received a letter from Mr Phipps.
Dear Miss Scarletti
How extraordinary that you discovered a photograph of the members of the Brighton Yacht Club, and a hitherto unsuspected connection with the Maritime Queen fraud! I would be very interested to borrow the portrait and show it to the senior partners.
I have made some enquiries and have established that the club is no longer in existence, however there are some papers in the possession of the widow of a former member which I have examined. The papers include a list of members of the Brighton Yacht Club, as of December 1862. This is of course before the creation of the Maritime Queen Insurance Company, which took place in the following year. Those members who were resident in Brighton were the founder, Captain Bulstrode, Mr William Cobbe, Mr John Taylor, Mr Walter Randall, and Mr Henry Westbury. I believe Mr Westbury was originally approached to see if he would act for the company, but he declined to be involved, a decision for which he was no doubt profoundly grateful later on. Since he does not appear in the photograph dated 1863, perhaps he left the club in that year.
There were three other gentlemen members who were resident in London, Mr Sutherland, whom we know about, and also a Mr Bertram Briggs and a Mr Frederick Chantry, all three of whom owned and sailed yachts. I have made enquiries and Mr Briggs who is now sixty years of age, was a partner in a manufacturing company who has retired and currently lives in Worthing. Mr Chantry, who was an inve
stment broker passed away three years ago aged sixty-five, so he cannot be the gentleman in the police cells, although he might possibly be a relative. In view of their ages, neither Mr Briggs nor Mr Chantry can be in the photograph.
You will have noticed the names Taylor and Randall whom I mentioned in my earlier correspondence, and as far as I have been able to discover these are the same gentlemen who were almost certainly the prime movers in the Maritime Queen Insurance Company fraud. It would appear that while the Club did have members who were genuinely interested in yachting, like Captain Bulstrode and the three London gentlemen I have named, there were others who used its meetings to conceal their fraudulent activities and make the acquaintance of men of the profession and class they sought to inveigle into their schemes. The address of the Club rooms and the Maritime Queen Insurance company are the same.
Yours faithfully,
R Phipps
Mina immediately had the photograph sent to Mr Phipps and received a note by return of post.
Dear Miss Scarletti,
I have shown the photograph of the yacht club members to the partners, in the hopes that they might be able to identify the gentlemen, but apart from Mr Bulstrode and Mr Cobbe they could not be certain. I will however retain it for the time being.
Yours faithfully,
R Phipps
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dr Hamid packed away his stethoscope in his medical bag and poured glasses of his herbal aerated water for Mina and himself. ‘As you may know,’ he said, ‘I am often consulted by the police regarding the state of health of a prisoner. I am called to the Town Hall to examine both men and women held in the cells there; those injured in affrays, some who have fainted from lack of sustenance, others who were suffering the effects either of too much alcohol or the withdrawal of the same, and those who found it convenient to feign illness in order to find somewhere other than the streets to spend the night. This morning, however, was different, since when I went to the Town Hall I had not been summoned by the police. I had decided to volunteer my services.’
His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5) Page 22
