As if by Magic

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Table of Contents

  The Jack Haldean Mystery Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Author’s Note

  The Jack Haldean Mystery Series

  A FÊTE WORSE THAN DEATH

  MAD ABOUT THE BOY

  AS IF BY MAGIC

  A HUNDRED THOUSAND DRAGONS

  OFF THE RECORD

  TROUBLE BREWING

  AS IF BY MAGIC

  A Jack Haldean Murder Mystery

  Dolores Gordon-Smith

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in the UK by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2009

  First US edition published by SohoConstable,

  an imprint of Soho Press, 2009

  eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © Dolores Gordon-Smith 2009

  The right of Dolores Gordon-Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0064-8 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For my sister, Barbara,

  with love

  Chapter One

  London, October 1923

  George Lassiter huddled against the entrance of Hyde Park Corner tube station, sheltering from the icy sting of the sleet-filled rain. Yesterday he had been well dressed in a top hat, evening clothes and thin patent leather shoes but now, although he still wore the same clothes, his hat was shapeless with rain, his shoes were like sodden cardboard and his white waistcoat and tail coat defenceless against the biting cold.

  He looked to where taxis, cars and buses clogged Knightsbridge in a dark, noisy river. Their headlights caught the sleet-flecked crowds, secure in winter overcoats, gloves and hats. Umbrellas sprang up like black mushrooms, cocooning their owners in impenetrable, urgent circles. People: hundreds and hundreds of people. In such numbers they weren’t really people any more. He wanted to reach out, to say, ‘Stop!’ He wanted someone in this barricaded, jostling mass of inhumanity to pause, to look, to speak, but no one spared him a glance.

  His hands were numb and raw. He shielded them under his arms and leaned his head against the cold wet tiles of the tube station. He closed his eyes, hoping, like a gambler about to make a final, desperate throw, for a miracle. Perhaps when he opened his eyes there would be someone – anyone – who could help. The traffic ground on, the newspaper seller shouted, the rain lanced down. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Nothing.

  He turned up his collar and trudged away from the crowds pouring down the steps to the underground. They were heading for Acton and Ealing, Holland Park and home. They would have firesides and food, and perhaps a welcoming smile and the thump of a sleepy dog’s tail. And as for him? Nothing. He loathed the rain and the bricks and the stones and the soot and the careless, unconscious cruelty of all who hurried through this man-made desert of London. His head ached and he had to lean against a shop window before he could walk on. His legs felt like rubber and the pavement swam dizzily in front of him. He stumbled across the road to the great dark emptiness of Hyde Park. Here at least were grass and trees and space, but the wind-whipped rain was even fiercer than it had been in the streets.

  He walked on. George didn’t know where he was and didn’t care. He seemed to have been wandering for hours. He had spent last night in Euston station where, although uncomfortable, he’d been under cover. He’d been a fool to leave the entrance to the underground. He’d felt imprisoned by the crowds but at least the station had given some sort of shelter.

  His head was really hurting now and he suspected an attack of malaria was in the offing. He left the park behind him and crossed a wide, traffic-choked road into a maze of quiet streets where flat-chested, elegant and forbidding houses ran in endless lines, caged in by iron railings. If they weren’t caged in, thought George, all the houses might escape. He held on to the railings and laughed. The sound of his laugh shocked him. Dear God, if he really did go down with malaria now there would be no hope at all. He fought down the sick taste of panic. Sheer willpower made him take a deep breath, let go of the railings and straighten up. He needed to think of something else other than how he felt. He forced himself to look at his surroundings properly.

  For some reason his spirits lifted. Although he was drenched to the skin and bitterly cold, the rain had subsided into ill-natured squalls and the empty streets glistening under the lamplight were oddly appealing. Sort of . . . cosy, he thought. It was like a play-town on a nursery carpet. He looked at his hand and his hand seemed large enough to cover these toy-town houses and pick them up, one by one. He’d had a toy zoo and a gleaming ribbon of brass that encircled the nursery with an exciting noisy little train that chugged along with real steam. He could move the houses so they –

  He stopped himself abruptly, alarmed. What the devil was happening to him? His mind was wandering and everything was too small, as if he had stepped into a shrunken world. His legs and neck were sore. Malaria, thought George again, with a touch of panic. He had to find somewhere to rest soon. Even a shop doorway or a park bench would have done but there were no shops and the park was far behind.

  With clumsy, hesitant steps he walked on. His legs were stiff and it hurt to move. He half leaned, half fell against a set of railings and looked through them down to where light streamed from a window into the area of the house. He must be looking into someone’s kitchen. There was a pair of hands – he could only see the hands – washing up, making the water dance in the bowl. The hands shook themselves and withdrew from sight. It was such a domestic scene that his eyes pricked with tears and he drew the back of his hand across them. These spear-railed houses were homes and people could be happy in them. He’d never thought of anyone actually having a home in London before. London was a dirty, complicated, alien sprawl, not a collection of homes. It must be strange to know one of these endlessly duplicated Portland stone boxes as home and yet, clinging to the railings and gazing down on to that wedge of light on the wet stone flags below, he thought he could find his way about inside one of these boxes. Everything had seemed too small and now everything seemed too big. It would be like a fairy story or a folk tale. There would be giant rooms populated by giants . . . His head swam and he tightened his grip on the railings.

&n
bsp; The sound of voices and a basement door being shut in the yard of the next house made him look up. Three women, servants at a guess, came up the steps and on to the pavement. One, a plump, comfortable-looking sort, turned to her companion and made a face. ‘I hope this is worth it, Elsie. I’d just as soon stay in my nice warm kitchen on a night like this.’ Elsie laughed and replied, her words lost in a gust of wind. To his relief they went down the street, away from where he was holding on to the railings. He could hardly feel his hands any more. He waited until the echoes of their feet had died away before moving.

  George walked slowly to the steps where the women had come from. A soft light flickered through the window. There would be a fire in there. Warmth. The rain slashed down again and he shivered. He wanted to be inside that house. A huge desire rose in him. It wasn’t any house, it was this house which drew him. There was something about it which touched a shy, lost place deep inside. He was so very cold and the light looked so inviting . . . but it was someone else’s house and that, to George, was a mountainous barrier.

  If the cook had banked up the fire properly or made sure the damper was close down, he would have walked on. As it was, he stood gazing at the light as if it were a glimpse of Paradise. There was something about the very bricks and mortar of this place which called to him. The street was totally deserted. Opening the iron gate, he went down the steps as quietly as he could, listening for any noise. From far away he could hear the measured tread of a policeman’s feet and the sound made him panic. A policeman would stop him. He tried the handle but it was locked, of course. Minutes before, George would have been shocked at the thought of breaking into a stranger’s house. Now it was unthinkable that he couldn’t get in. As the steps grew closer he even considered smashing the window, then suddenly smiled – his first smile for many hours – and felt under the mat. Seconds later he was turning the key in the door.

  Inside the kitchen and with his back to the door he heard the steps pass by on the street above. Nerves on edge he approached the fire warily, then slumped to his knees on the hearthrug, wincing as the heat stung his frozen body. He sat in front of the black-leaded range, blissfully content. It must have been over five minutes later before he could think of anything but the fire, and with time came caution. He could almost imagine his ears had pricked like a dog’s as he strained to hear any sound from the rest of the house. None came. Unconsciously he relaxed and, greatly daring, took the poker, stirred up the coals and raised the damper.

  The fire blazed, sending light around the room. On the kitchen table was a plate of sandwiches, covered by a glass bowl. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday . . . As he finished the last of the sandwiches, he guiltily realized he had probably stolen the servants’ supper. He felt bad about that, remembering that plump, agreeable woman and her companions, but now the taste of food had reminded him how thirsty he was. A latched plank door stood to one side of the room. The ladder? He opened the catch of the door and pulled it back as quietly as he could. On a marble slab, surrounded by the packets and boxes that lined the shelves, were two tin jugs full of milk. He couldn’t see a cup so drank straight from the jug – another thing that until half an hour or so ago would have been unthinkable.

  George slipped back into the kitchen. His clothes had started to steam in the heat, he could feel his hands and feet properly once more, and the savage desire for food and drink had been quelled. What he now wanted more than anything in the world was a cigarette. After the necessities, luxury, he thought, and realized, with a certain amount of irony, that the craving for the one was quite as great as the craving for the other. He walked round the kitchen with a boldness which would have horrified him earlier and turned up a packet of Players, a box of matches and a tin ashtray beside the tea caddy. If anything he was now too warm, so he retreated into a corner chair behind the kitchen table and lit the cigarette, sucking in the smoke gratefully. He would have his cigarette and go. Of course he must go. The rain pattered against the window and he shuddered. He couldn’t go yet. The servants were out. Surely he was safe for another hour at least? It had been many hours since he’d slept and he’d been walking all day and the kitchen was so blissfully warm. He’d just finish this cigarette . . .

  He awoke with an alarmed start but was instantly still. There were other people in the room. The fire had died down and he shrank back against the dark wall. They’d switch on the lights, see him and it would all be over. He sat tensely in the darkness waiting to be discovered. What could he say? Why didn’t they speak? Surprise tinged his fear: the people in the room were being very, very quiet. Why?

  He narrowed his eyes, peering into firelit shadows. There were two men and a woman. What were they doing? Had they broken in too?

  ‘Why here?’ The whisper sounded clearly. He thought it was the woman who’d spoken.

  ‘Are you sure we’re safe?’ It was one of the men.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ said the other man in a low voice. ‘All the servants are out, he’s having a bath and she’s listening to the wireless. We’ll be fine.’

  The woman gave a dismissive laugh. ‘In that case, let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  There was a pause. The shapes moved in front of the fire. One of the men stood back, then, without further ado, the other man took the woman in his arms and kissed her passionately. George watched in disbelief. Was he dreaming? The two shapes clung together, the woman’s hair golden where the firelight caught it.

  The shapes separated. ‘Say you love me,’ whispered the woman. ‘Go on. You must say it. I want you to say it.’

  The man held the woman at arm’s length. ‘I love you,’ he said softly. With a little cry, she collapsed in his arms.

  The man gave a stifled cry and then, still holding her, laid her down on the rug in front of the fire. He knelt down beside her and held her hand. He put his hand on her chest and breathed out in a long hissing gasp. He moved, black against the light, to look up at the man standing beside the hearth. ‘I . . . I don’t like this. She’s not breathing. Really. She’s not breathing.’

  The other man laughed. ‘Are you surprised? It’s what you wanted. It’s what both of you wanted. A perfect death. You’ve got it.’

  The man on the rug stooped over the woman and touched her hair. ‘I didn’t know it’d be like this.’

  ‘What did you expect? Stop worrying.’

  A bell jangled from the next room, followed by the distant sound of three knocks. Both men froze, then the man kneeling by the hearth stood up. ‘Damn! There’s someone at the door. We’ll have to go. We can’t be found in here. What . . . what shall we do about her?’

  ‘Leave her for the moment. It’ll be all right.’

  The two men walked to the door leading into the house and, going through it, shut it quietly behind them.

  George swallowed and cautiously got up from his corner. It had to be a dream. He held on to the kitchen table and could feel the real, solid wood beneath his hand. But the girl was still there, stretched in front of the fire, and she couldn’t be real. He must have dreamt it. Hardly liking to move, he forced himself to walk across the room to the fire. The girl’s face was turned towards the softly flickering light. Half expecting to feel empty air, he reached out and started when his fingers touched her arm. She was real. George swallowed once more and delicately touched her chest where her heart should be. Nothing. No movement. She was real and she was dead.

  He backed away, hand to his mouth, then stumbled to the kitchen door. He took a last look at the girl, flung open the door and fled in sheer panic, totally heedless of noise, wanting nothing but to get out of that room and away from the body on the rug. He crashed up the steps and raced through the open iron gate on to the street.

  A few feet away were the steps up to the front door of the house. It stood open, sending light streaming into the road. George had a brief glimpse of a woman framed in the doorway, talking to the solid figure of a policeman in a glistening cape, then he ran for it. The policem
an turned.

  ‘Here! You! Stop!’

  George heard the blast of a police whistle as he ran down the empty street, the sound deadened under the rasp of his breath and the thumping of his heart. Feet pounded after him, then another policeman loomed up, arms outstretched to stop him. George tried to dodge, wriggling helplessly in the man’s grasp, but his arm was held fast. He tried to throw the man off but his strength deserted him. Another hand gripped his shoulder tightly. His legs gave way and he sank to the pavement.

  A lantern was shone in his face and George twisted away from the blinding light.

  ‘Now you come quietly, my lad,’ said the policeman holding the lantern. ‘No funny business.’

  The second policeman looked down at him. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘I caught him legging out of number 19.’ A hand descended on him. ‘Breaking and entering, I’d say.’ George felt his shoulder being shaken. ‘Come on, you. Up you get.’

  George tried to get up but his legs were like cotton wool. He reached out his hand for help and two puzzled faces looked down at him, swimming in and out of focus. He tried to speak but the words came out as a little gulp of a cry.

  The two policemen stepped back in alarm. ‘Strewth, I don’t like the sound of that,’ said one. He hauled George to his feet. George leaned heavily against him and vainly tried to speak once more.

  The policeman shook him. ‘Here, you! Stop that.’

  George buried his face in his hands and waited, gasping for breath. ‘You . . . you don’t understand,’ he managed to say. ‘She’s dead, I tell you, dead.’

  The two policemen exchanged looks. ‘I think he’s off his rocker,’ said one quietly. ‘Who’s dead?’

  Panic welled up inside him once more. ‘The girl,’ he managed to say. ‘The girl in the kitchen!’

  There were footsteps behind him and a woman approached. She looked at him curiously. ‘What’s the problem, officer?’ she asked. Her voice was clear but gentle and George felt instantly soothed. He could explain things to her. She’d understand. He could tell her what had happened.