Depths of Deceit

by Norman Russell

  Box brought his fist down angrily on to the table. Mrs Barnes’s flow of words ceased.

  ‘Do you understand, madam,’ he cried, ‘that your husband has been murdered? Your family arrangements are none of my concern, but you may be quite sure that I will track down and seize your husband’s killer without favour, and without fear.’

  Laura Barnes had turned pale, and for the first time since his arrival at Wellington House Box saw tears standing in the woman’s eyes. She suddenly sat down opposite him at the table.

  ‘I married him for his money,’ she whispered, ‘and when he was found dead yesterday, I was terrified in case poor James or myself were accused. I was only twenty-six when I married him. It was awful! But I’m sorry that he’s dead, and I hope you’ll catch the killer, and hang him. Do you want to question James – Mr Harper?’

  ‘I do. Please ask him to come here, now. Was your late husband interested in archaeology? Did he read any books about Roman religion?’

  Laura Barnes looked at Box as though he had lost his senses. For a brief moment, she forgot her seething resentments, and her frightened attempt to apologize for her heartlessness.

  ‘Roman religion? I told you he was a Methodist. He didn’t hold with Roman Catholics. And as for archaeology – well, the only thing my husband was interested in was cement!’

  When Mrs Barnes had gone, Box swiftly examined the murdered man’s desk. There were many receipts, all stamped as paid, and a number of carelessly arranged business letters, mainly requests for the supply of what seemed to Box to be enormous quantities of cement.

  In one pigeon-hole of the roll-top desk Box found four small brown manila envelopes, each of which was secured at the flap by a paper-clip. Each envelope contained what looked to Box like dark, coarse sand. Possibly, they were samples of mortar scraped from between bricks. Each envelope was numbered, and inscribed with a few words in a neat copperplate hand. Opening a fresh page in his notebook, Box copied the inscriptions.

  Definitely Ancient Roman. Lime, Sand, Water.

  Modern, i.e. this century. Bonner has trade analysis.

  Definitely Ancient Roman, Lime, Sand, Water.

  Not Roman. Probably 17th century.

  So, Mrs Laura Barnes, thought Box, you weren’t entirely right about your husband’s interests. He knew something about the ancient Romans, if it was only about what they put in their mortar.

  He carefully resealed the envelopes with the paperclips, and slipped them into the inside pocket of his coat. But what was this? Really, poor old Barnes had been very untidy! Two notes, pinned together, one evidently the projected answer to the other.

  Barnes (the first note ran), can I trouble you to get these four done? I’m nearly there, and these four, if they show what I think they’ll show, will be the final proof. – CW.

  The second note was written in the same neat copperplate hand as the inscriptions on the four envelopes.

  Bonner, in Garrick Flags, did these for me. He has the full analyses. Bonner charged me a guinea, which I paid. – Abraham Barnes.

  ‘Garrick Flags?’ said Box, aloud. ‘I know where that is: just off St Martin’s Lane. Perhaps a call on this person called Bonner would be in order. I’d better take those notes, as well as the samples. I’m beginning to think—’

  He stopped speaking as a discreet tap on the door announced the coming of Mr James Harper.

  ‘Inspector Box,’ said Harper smoothly, and without preamble, ‘I’m sure you’ll make allowances for poor Laura. She doesn’t mean half she says, you know. It’s her excitable nature. We neither of us had anything to do with poor Abraham’s death. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is.’

  Box looked at the handsome young man standing awkwardly in front of him. He was obviously nervous, and seemed to be making an effort not to lick his dry lips.

  ‘And how do you know what Mrs Barnes has been saying to me, Mr Harper? Did she tell you, just now? If so, it wasn’t a very wise thing for her to do.’

  ‘What? No, she said nothing. But I know how she reacts when she’s upset. I don’t want you thinking that either of us killed Abraham Barnes, that’s all. You’re an experienced man, Mr Box. It’s a madman you’re looking for, not a respectable widow and a hardworking manager.’

  Box closed his notebook and stood up. He looked at the handsome young man with unconcealed distaste. Those two, James and Laura, deserved each other. They were both ruthless and heartless. God help the wretched stepdaughter once Laura came into the property!

  ‘I am an experienced man, Mr Harper,’ said Box, ‘and so I don’t need you to tell me who to suspect. Mr Perrivale has called me in to help him, and I can assure you that between us we’ll apprehend the murderer – or murderers – of Mr Abraham Barnes. It’s only a matter of time.’

  It was quiet in Carshalton High Street, where the homely but attractive buildings seemed to be dozing in the strong August sun. The road was dry and dusty, reminding Box that he was getting very thirsty. His interviews concluded, he c at the front gate of Wellington House, before setting out on foot for the town centre.

  He had suggested to Perrivale that the murder of Abraham Barnes was part of a crime that had its origins in London. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea if he watched Mrs Barnes and the manager Harper closely. Neither of them would have batted an eyelid about committing murder if it had suited them.

  Nestling in the shadow of a fine church with a square tower Box found The Coach and Horses, a very comfortable and restful public house. He walked into the public bar, and asked the man behind the bar for a glass of India Pale Ale. Slipping on to a bar stool, he extracted his cigar case from an inside pocket. Soon, he was puffing away at a thin cheroot.

  The ale proved to be very cool and refreshing. Box recalled the countless occasions when he and his sergeant, Jack Knollys, had downed similar glasses in his favourite public house, the King Lud in Ludgate Circus. He wished that Jack was with him now: he’d got into the habit of testing out his sometimes wild theories on his thoughtful sergeant.

  Suddenly, a cheerily powerful voice broke in upon his thoughts.

  ‘Is that the great Inspector Box? Well, what brings you down here to Carshalton this fine morning? Bring your drink round here, into the snug, and talk to me.’

  The voice came from a little room leading off the public bar. Box knew that voice. It belonged to Billy Fiske, chief reporter of The Graphic, an old ally of his, with whom it was possible to strike discreet little bargains beneficial to them both. What on earth was Billy Fiske doing in Carshalton?

  Box picked up his glass, and walked into the snug. Yes, there he was, sitting at a corner table, upon which he had placed a couple of books, his spring-bound notebook, and a copy of the previous day’s Graphic. A pint glass of dark mild ale stood at his elbow, together with a plate containing the remains of a cold beef pie. As always, Fiske was flamboyantly dressed. For his visit to Carshalton he had chosen a capacious light blue overcoat, which he wore open to reveal his sage-green suit. A high-crowned hat lay on the table beside his notebook.

  ‘Sit down there, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, pointing to a chair opposite him at the table, ‘and tell me to what we owe this honour? It’s not like you to stray so far afield.’

  ‘You cheeky man!’ Box laughed, and accepted the indicated chair. ‘If Fiske of The Graphic’s in Carshalton today, then he must have been trailing Box of the Yard. What are you up to, Billy?’

  ‘Me? I’m just looking up a bit of local history for an article I’m writing.’ He picked up a slim book from the table, and turned over a few pages. ‘Did you know that, in ancient times, Carshalton stood on one of the lesser-known Roman roads? Apparently it was a staging-post for the legions on their way south. Or north. I can’t quite make out which.’

  ‘No, Billy, I didn’t know that. But I do know that you’ve followed me down here for nefarious purposes of your own. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’

  The famous reporter threw Box a shrewd gla
nce, swallowed a mouthful of mild, and carefully wiped his jet-black moustache with a handkerchief. He picked up another book from the table, and waved it vaguely in Box’s direction.

  ‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that there was a big Roman fort buried under the ground just south of Cripplegate? Did you know that there’s a first-century Roman bath within a stone’s-throw of St Paul’s? Did you know that there’s a Roman Mithraeum in Clerkenwell? Did you—?’

  ‘Strewth! What are you up to, you devious man? You’re up to something—’

  ‘Listen, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, throwing the book down. ‘You were called out to investigate a murder at the Roman ruins in Priory Gate Street yesterday. Well, I was out and about in Clerkenwell, because that’s how I work: hovering around places where things are likely to happen. So when you’d gone, I went and found my own sources of information, and got the whole story out of them.’

  ‘What sources?’

  Billy Fiske smiled, and laid an index finger on the side of his nose. He gave Box a knowing wink.

  ‘The toilers and labourers of this great nation, Mr Box, the workmen sweltering in those huts beside the excavation. Covered in dust, they were, and dried up with the heat. Well, I sent over the way to the Harvester, for a gallon of beer. The dry toilers were ever so grateful, Mr Box. They told me all about the poor young man with his head bashed in, and they told me about the honey – oh, yes, they told me about that. And they told me about the token, and what had been engraved on it. Very interesting, that was. Apparently a constable left on duty there had shared a can of tea with them earlier, and told them the whole story.’

  ‘And so—’

  ‘And so I came down here early this morning. Somebody in King James’s Rents told me that you were going to Carshalton – no, don’t ask me who it was, because I won’t tell you. I got here two hours before you did, Arnold, and made my way out to the Royal Albert Cement Works. Plenty of dry toilers there! I went equipped with a bag of half-crowns, and came away knowing everything about poor Mr Barnes, flighty Mrs Barnes, pathetic Miss Barnes, and ambitious Mr Harper.’

  Billy Fiske finished his beer, and set the glass down on the table.

  ‘And I learnt all about the mercury in the dead man’s mouth, and the little token with the word corax engraved on it. That’s Latin for raven. Intriguing, isn’t it?’

  Arnold Box retrieved the token from his waistcoat pocket, and laid it in front of the reporter.

  ‘There it is, Billy. It’s almost identical in shape and size to the one we found in the dead man’s pocket in Clerkenwell. What are you up to? I can’t quite fathom what you’re going to do.’

  ‘Well, you see, Arnold,’ said Fiske, ‘from a reporter’s point of view two dead men with their heads knocked in are not very newsworthy. Sad, yes, but not big news. But if I weave a sinister tale of slaughter-sites near Roman encampments, or scenes of murder lying on Roman roads, and then link those two murders to ancient rituals of the god Mithras, involving esoteric sacrifices, secret societies, and rumours of hidden vice – well, then I’ve got a really satisfactory story. The Graphic will love it. It’s sensation that sells our kind of paper.’

  ‘But it’s all tosh, Billy—’

  ‘Yes, I know it is, but you can see the use of it, can’t you? That’s why you let me see that token just now. Some account of the Clerkenwell murder has appeared in all today’s morning papers, as you’d expect, but to us gentlemen of the press it’s just another murder. But once someone like me turns these two murders into a press sensation, then people will want to come forward with stories of what they saw, or what they heard; and other parties will try to hide their connection with either of the dead men, and make their suspicious motives only too obvious in doing so.’

  ‘You’re a clever, man, Billy,’ said Box. ‘I’ve never thought otherwise. I’m inclined to give you a free rein on this matter. I’m catching the two-seventeen to Victoria, so I can’t stay to talk further. It’s a peculiar affair altogether. First honey, and now mercury – I’m going to need all the help I can get to make head or tail of this business.’

  In the ground-floor study of his house in Lowndes Square, Sir Charles Wayneflete waited for his chess opponent to make a move. Josh Baverstock always took his time, stroking his chin intelligently with his left hand, while his right hovered over the pieces on the board. Such gestures apparently compensated for his lack of skill. Poor Josh! He was as much an old crock as he was himself, but they’d both been dashing young fellows forty years ago. In this modern world of fair-weather friends and declining incomes, Josh was as true as steel.

  Josh’s evening clothes were decidedly rusty, and stained with snuff, and there was no doubt that his laundress had begun to neglect his linen. His own housekeeper, Mrs Craddock, had only last week remarked on the fact in her no-nonsense, practical way. ‘Major Baverstock’s being neglected, sir,’ she’d said. ‘You should tell him to do something about it. It’s not right for a gentleman to be treated like that.’

  Old Josh scowled at the board, and ventured a remark.

  ‘You shan’t get the better of me tonight, Charles,’ said Baverstock. ‘I’m going to checkmate you for once, no matter how long it takes.’

  Wayneflete recalled the occasion when he had bought that set of chess men. It had been in Vienna, in 1856. They were carved from malachite, and had belonged to a seventeenth-century bishop of Cologne. A pity that the original board had been lost. That’s why he’d got the whole set cheap.

  Major Baverstock made his move, and sat back in his chair, squinting defiantly at his friend from bright old eyes hooded by white bushy brows. Sir Charles leaned forward in his chair, and conducted a series of moves which first removed his opponent’s queen from the board, and then imprisoned his king in a gaol from which there was no hope of escape.

  ‘Check,’ said Sir Charles Wayneflete, ‘and also mate!’

  He listened to his friend’s rueful laughter as he rose stiffly to pour them both a glass of port. Poor old Josh! He was hopeless at chess, but insisted on playing once or twice a week. He lived in a suite of rented rooms in a street off Cadogan Square, and came over by cab.

  ‘I read in the paper today that they’d found the murdered corpse of a young man in that Mithraeum place of Ainsworth’s,’ said Josh, gratefully accepting his glass of port. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘You can’t have a murdered corpse, Josh: it’s a contradiction in terms. I did read something about it in the Morning Post. I expect it was some poor fellow who ran down into the place to escape an assailant, and was cornered there. Still, it’s Ainsworth’s affair, not mine. Much good may it do him!’

  ‘A man who lives next door to me in Cadogan Square says that the dead man was an analytical chemist.’

  ‘Really? Well, that’s very interesting. I expect his death was some private affair. Nothing to do with Ainsworth, obviously. In any case, he’s up in Edinburgh at the moment, making a public spectacle of himself with one of his never-ending lectures on the “Clerkenwell Mithraeum”, as he likes to call that crypt of his in Priory Gate Street.’

  ‘Why, what would you call it?’ asked Major Baverstock. There was a sudden shrewd light in his eyes that Wayneflete didn’t much care for. Josh had always been a bit of a mind-reader.

  He smiled and shook his head, at the same time retrieving his friend’s empty glass, and going over to the decanters which reposed on top of a bookcase beneath an old faded mirror. He was not a vain man, but he could not help comparing his own smart appearance with that of his old friend. Mrs Craddock bullied him – he admitted that – but she was an excellent housekeeper. Times were not as affluent as they had been, and a stroke two years earlier had made him a virtual recluse, more or less confined to the house; but they managed very well.

  He looked at his own frail, narrow face, with its fringe of white whiskers. His eyes looked steadily back at him, as much as to say, ‘Well done, Charles, you’re telling lies very convincingly tonight!’ He didn�
��t know that young man personally – what was his name? Gregory Walsh – but he knew where he’d come from, and who must have sent him. And now he was dead. He also knew why that had been inevitable – poor young Walsh was no match for his elders and betters….

  How much did Ainsworth know about Walsh and his mission? Best not to enquire. Best to pretend ignorance of the whole frightening business, because in ignorance lay safety. Say nothing. Still, the haunting question would remain to torment him: How much does Ainsworth know?

  The door opened, and Mrs Craddock entered. Thin and grim, she looked at the two men, baronet and retired army officer, as though they were two little boys.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘it’s a quarter past eleven. The major’s cab is at the door, and your chamber candlestick’s lit, and standing in the hall.’

  Time to do as he was told, and go to bed. He accompanied his guest to the door, and watched as the driver settled him into the cab. Then he returned to the hall, and picked up the candlestick that would light him up to his bedchamber. As he mounted the stairs, the flickering light threw unsettling shadows on to the staircase wall.

  Yes, it was a question to which he would love to know the answer.

  How much did Ainsworth know?

  Professor Roderick Ainsworth, having exchanged some civilities with the guard, settled himself in his compartment on the night sleeper from Edinburgh’s Waverley Station to far-off Euston. It was nearly ten minutes past eleven.

  His brief visit to Scotland’s capital had been a brilliant success. He would certainly repeat his lecture on the following Monday in London, as planned. He had brought late editions of several Scottish newspapers, and scanned them for information about the murder in his Mithraeum, having listened to a garbled account of it from one of his Scottish friends. Yes, here it was. The sensationalists were already building it up into a vulgar mystery, but that was to be expected.