The Count of Samerand and the Ghost of Belgravia

by Bryan Porter

The Count of Samerand and the Ghost of Belgravia

  By Bryan M. Porter

  Copyright © 2012 Bryan Porter

  I publish these stories to commemorate the great soul that I had the pleasure of knowing.

  Excerpt by Detective Inspector James Wright

  Now sitting in the twilight of my life, I feel the need to leave some record of the man so ostracized by the papers now that he is no longer able to defend himself. It is often the case that people forget a service but never a slight, and as such I feel that I, myself must leave some record of the man who was the standard for justice when it was such a murky matter. I could begin with the first time we had the occasion of meeting and through a matter of course working together, but as the matter is muddled itself I find myself choosing from one of our later adventures.

  As I glance through my papers marking our deeds between the years 1863 to 1872 I find it is hard to choose from the many adventures. Here I find the adventure of the Italian mason, and here the case of the broken window, but I feel that the case of the Belgravine Ghost best demonstrates his unique skill as well as the sense of compassion that my friend was known for.

  It was the evening of April the 5th, 1864 when I called upon my friend, the Count of Samerand, at 337 Dover St. His home was of the recently revived Gothic peaks that caught the eye in such a way that one had to admire the artistry of the free masons. Stepping down from the hansom I placed three shillings into the grizzled cabbie's hand on his word that he would remain until I returned. I smiled as I spied the good house woman Mrs. Clarke, who as I understood it had been in the Counts employ since his return to Great Britain after spending four years in France, was still up so late attending to her masters needs. Generally the main window was to be covered over with a thick curtain at night giving way to candles and lamps, while in the day they would be opened to allow natural sunlight to illuminate the room, though through a lack of decorum or an ignorance of it, my companion's window remained uncovered at all hours. Though because of his strange manner, a visitor was never left waiting for long, as was this time when upon seeing me Mrs. Clarke had opened the door as soon as I approached.

  "You are fortunate Sir, his lordship is still up." Mrs. Clarke was a stocky woman of fifty years, her brow creased with age and kind brown eyes being outline by crow's feet, as her thin lips were by laugh lines. Her hair was already the salt and pepper shade that so marks the passage of time, and on this night it was falling loosely from her bun after a hard day’s work.

  "Not another of his experiments I hope."

  "I am afraid so, Sir." She said wringing her hands "He would have the whole house down if it were possible."

  "Don't worry Mrs. Clarke." I said brushing past her. "I will make sure he doesn't blow himself up."

  "Please do." She called after. "It’s deathly hard to find work at my age."

  I took the stairs to the second floor landing where my friend maintained as his salle d'étudie.

  “Come in, come in, but do be quick about it." Said a voice a in a low pleasing tone.

  Pushing my way in, I spied my friend bent over the remains of one of his many experiments. The Count of Samerand was a rail thin man standing about five foot eleven, and though he lacked the inches to make him a six footer his grand manner made him seem a giant among men. His fingers were long, tapered, and usually very clean, where as now they were smeared with the oil stains which had transferred to his white shirt and forearms as he had at some point in his investigation rolled up the sleeves. His narrow face was obscured by what he had taken to call his telespectacles, which were horn rimmed spectacles with a curious attachment on the left hand side, which when pressed would shutter down lenses of increasing magnification. The effects shifted his intelligent deep set green eyes into a mischief violet, though it could not disguise his deep pallor that was said to note his noble personage.

  "A moment if you please." He said while bent over the contraption, which seem to sputter and whir as he coaxed it to life.

  "Really Count, must you spew such wretched filth?" I said taking my hat to clear the air in front of me of the thick black stench.

  My friend looked up at me with a bemused expression. "Stench? Really, Wright you must learn to enjoy the smell, for I am certain that in coming years it will become a staple of this great city." Taking off the spectacles he glanced out the window. "It is quite late. Might I assume that you have come on some urgent business?”  As he said this he went to his wash basin cleaning his limbs with due care.

  “Quite so, I was hoping I could borrow your intellect."

  “Of course you were the only question is in what fashion.”

  Having exchanged his shirt for a fresh one, and retrieving the oddly crimson waistcoat that I had come to associate with him, he seated himself in the saddle bag chair across from me. "You know how I rely on you for excitement. All I receive from my clientele is a series of tediousness.”

  “Then I feel that I can furnish you this time, as my case this time is singular. It seems like it could involve the supernatural.”

  My friend raised an eyebrow at that. "Really? How fascinating."

  “This evening at half past twelve we received reports of a nefarious act of murder at 223 Upper Belgravia St. The victim being one Robert Melbourne, by all accounts a respectable gentleman."

  “That is hardly singular my friend.”

  “Just a second, I am getting to the part. The first on sight was a constable MacDonald, he's a bit new to the job but he has a good head on his shoulders. Well, he says when he arrived he found the valet, and maid, one Miss Louise Pendleton. The Miss had fainted upon seeing her employer’s body, and she would not awaken until the two men had carried her down stairs and had her drink a bit of brandy. From the two the constable was able to discern the coming and going of Mr. Melbourne. According to the maid, Mr. Melbourne returned at a quarter after nine after spending several hours at The Americas, a gentleman's club that caters to Americans staying in London...”

  “Then am I to surmise that he was an American?”

  “Yes, he was a land owner in Oklahoma, and seems to have some trade in tobacco before the American civil war. Anyway, Miss Pendleton remarked that Mr. Melbourne was in a foul mood when he returned. She took it to mean that he had lost a great deal at the tables, as Melbourne was a gambler, but he then ordered that all the doors be locked for the night before retiring to his study. As the hour was late, the staff then retired to bed. At eleven the maid rose from her bed as she thought she heard the door open, but when she checked, it was still locked. It was then that she heard voices coming from the second floor study, one voice spoke heatedly though the only thing she could make out was the name Russell, while the other voice she recognized as her employer spoke in low tones. She would have returned to bed if she hadn't heard the sounds of struggling climaxed with a deep mournful cry. Gathering her nerves, she climbed the stairs, trying the door only to find it had been locked from the inside. Raising the alarm she had the valet retrieve his second set of keys and opening the door. Well upon opening the door they found Mr. Melbourne dead in his arm chair.”

  The Count had sat quietly through the account, his fingers steeped. “It is a story, but what makes it so unique? Surely the criminal has escaped through a window or door.”

  “No, that is just it. All the windows of the estate were barred after Mr. Melbourne took ownership, and there is only a single door into the study.”

  “That is interesting.” My friend commented.

  “That it is.” I said. “Though because of it, I find myself in an awkward position.”

  “How do you m
ean?”

  “As Mr. Melbourne is a wealthy member of our city, and on first name terms with many of the influential, I am being instructed to take in the maid as a suspect for the murder of Mr. Melbourne. I don't believe she is guilty of the crime.”

  “I would tend to agree.” The Count said absently. “You certainly have brought me something to puzzle over. If you are of the mind, I would very much like to set out.”

  “Excellent, I have the hansom waiting for us, but then do you believe you can help me?”

  “Oh yes, in fact I begin to have some understanding of it.” Taking several pieces of paper he scribbled down a telegram. “Let me send these out and then we shall be on our way.”

  We arrived at 223 Upper Belgravia St. ten minutes later as the traffic was light this late into the evening. Constable MacDonald having remained was now awaiting our arrival