Harcourt decided to grasp the nettle. ‘You’re here about the Flask business, I expect.’
‘The Flask business?’
‘A well-known local . . .’ Harcourt hesitated. How to describe Eustace Flask, since he was reluctant for some reason to say ‘medium’? He settled lamely for ‘. . . a local character.’
Inspector Traynor looked even blanker and Harcourt relaxed even more.
‘Mr Flask had the misfortune to be murdered yesterday. The crime was perpetrated near the river.’
‘I know nothing about that.’
‘Well, that’s a – that’s not surprising. I mean, it would be surprising if the news had already reached the London papers.’
‘I dare say the news will eventually,’ said Traynor. ‘An interesting case? You have apprehended someone?’
‘Only a matter of time,’ said Harcourt. ‘So, if it isn’t to do with this murder, why are you here, Inspector?’
‘Just as I am unaware of your man Flask, Superintendent Harcourt, I don’t suppose you have heard of a recent accident in London. It occurred in the suburb of Norwood. A married couple died because one of them had carelessly left the gas jets open. It was fortunate there was no explosion. A neighbour caught a whiff of gas, and smashed a window. She alerted the constable on the beat and together they ensured that no one caused a spark in the vicinity, until the supply could be turned off at the mains and the house thoroughly ventilated. But it was far too late. The man and his wife were found upstairs, asphyxiated in their bed.’
Now it was Harcourt’s turn to put on a blank face. Had the Inspector travelled all the way from Great Scotland Yard to give him a first-hand account of an accident in a London suburb? He wondered how to respond.
‘A sad story. I hadn’t heard it. To be frank, Inspector, an accident such as this – a London accident – is unlikely to feature in The Durham Advertiser.’
Harcourt spoke not knowing of the article which Helen Ansell had mentioned to Tom.
‘I suppose not,’ said Traynor. ‘The name of the couple was Seldon. He was a policeman. And you are also a policeman, Superintendent, like me. Anything about the story strike you as odd?’
Now Frank Harcourt put on his thinking face. A dead policeman. That explained the Inspector’s interest. Mentally, he ran over what he’d just heard about the gas mains in the Norwood house but without result. Was this a Scotland Yard test? Why didn’t the fellow on the other side of his desk get to the point? Harcourt shrugged and Traynor said, ‘You see, you might be careless enough to go to bed leaving the gas lamps on but only after you had cut off the supply at the mains. Alternatively you might leave the mains supply on but only if you ensured that all the jets in the house were turned off.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Harcourt, glimpsing what Traynor might be on about.
‘This was a murder, a double murder. Someone had broken into the house via a back window to a privy. We know that because one of the window bars was prised away. The same someone went round turning on the gas taps and, after that, the supply from the mains. He was careless. He left his coat on the floor of the privy.’
‘And you’ve traced the owner of the coat, Inspector?’
‘No such luck. The burglar – the murderer, I should say – did not leave his name with the coat. It was an old, battered item, impossible to trace back to a shop or manufacturer, let alone an owner. Just the kind of thing you might be glad to discard. But a day or two later we received a note at the Yard. It was anonymous, scrawled.’
‘Ah,’ said Harcourt, thinking of the note, also an anonymous scrawl, which he had received with the knife in the box.
‘I have it here,’ said Traynor, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He passed it to Harcourt. The Superintendent read: ‘LOOK TO DOCTER TONY HE MURDERED THOSE 2 IN NORWOOD’. Harcourt returned the paper and looked enquiringly at Traynor.
‘Interesting, eh? Now usually such a note – and we get them from time to time at the Yard – would not take us much further. Who is to say that this is not simply a malicious or mischievous communication? But the writer of it knew something. He knew that this was a case of murder even though the deaths had initially been reported as a household accident. And then we had a stroke of luck. One of our detectives on the metropolitan force makes it his business to be familiar with the area of London round Rosemary Street. He knows its courts and alleys, he knows many of its disreputable inhabitants. He knows too of a gentleman called Tony, Doctor Tony, who lodges in the vicinity. No last name at that stage but it appears he might have been a genuine medical man once. Of him we could find no trace. But we did lay our hands on an individual called George Forester of the Old Mint, which is near Rosemary Street. It did not take long to break Forester. It turned out that he was the writer of the note. He confessed soon enough. He said he felt under some sort of obligation to this Tony, claimed that the doctor had saved the life of one of his children and that ever since he, George, had run the odd errand on the doctor’s behalf.’
‘I see.’
‘One of the things he had done recently was to spy on a couple of dwellings, one of which belonged to the Seldons. Doctor Tony had requested this and George did it without thinking very much about the reasons. When he heard about the death of the Seldons he put two and two together. George is not a bad fellow even if he has had the odd brush with the law in his younger days. He didn’t want to sing out direct to us so he wrote that note, hoping we’d nab Tony without involving him. Fact is, though, I think he was relieved when we hauled him in. Said it had been weighing on his conscience. He told us everything. We didn’t even have to threaten him with being an accessory.’
‘So this doctor – this Tony – turned on the gas taps in the policeman’s house. Do you know why, Inspector?’
‘We’ve been doing a bit of deep digging, which is our method at the Yard. We reviewed all the arrests which Seldon had been present at. We looked at cases where he had given testimony in court. And we discovered that Seldon had recently been involved in a case against a medium – what’s the matter?’
Traynor hesitated. At the mention of the word ‘medium’, Harcourt had given a start.
‘It’s nothing,’ said the Superintendent. ‘A coincidence perhaps. I’ll explain in a moment.’
‘Well, there was to be a prosecution against the medium under the Vagrancy Act. Seldon had attended a séance at which a man called Ernest Smight accepted money in exchange for his predictions. No great crime perhaps but it is still an offence. We don’t always concern ourselves with such matters but someone high-up had laid a complaint against Smight, and we were obliged to investigate. Ernest Smight was due to appear before the magistrates. It wasn’t the first offence either so he might have served a few months inside.’
‘But something happened?’
‘You might say so, Superintendent. Smight threw himself off Waterloo Bridge. Obviously he thought he was facing financial ruin and penury. He preferred the cold waters of the Thames to prison gruel. He has a sister who assisted him in his presentations and she as good as accused the police of bringing about his demise. He also has a brother who has gone much further than words. By a combination of close questioning of Miss Smight and keeping our ear to the ground, we have established that George’s friend Tony is Doctor Anthony Smight. He has assorted letters after his name and might once have enjoyed a respectable practice. But he allowed himself to sink in the world. He haunts an opium den near the London docks, having acquired a taste for it out in the East. He consorts with dubious men and loose women. He occasionally does a good turn, as he did when he attended that child of George’s, but in general his life is one of indolence and vice. However, he has never committed murder – until now!’
Inspector Traynor paused in his recital. In his quiet way he had been leading up to this climax. Only he wasn’t quite done.
‘We believe that Tony – Doctor Smight – with his brains addled by years of dope-smoking and moral turpitude h
as embarked on a reckless homicidal course. He may not even care if he is caught provided he has accomplished his grim task. He is determined to revenge himself on those he regards as responsible for his brother’s suicide. There were six people at the séance in Tullis Street. Two of them are believers and played no part in the unmasking of Ernest. Two more are already dead, Mr and Mrs Seldon, the policeman and his wife. And there is a third couple whose lives, we consider, are in real danger. And they are currently in Durham.’
Finally, thought Harcourt as he struggled to keep his head in this whirlwind of explanation, we have arrived at the reason for Traynor’s presence.
‘We have made discreet enquiries – which is also our method at the Yard – and have found that they are here on a visit. The lady has an aunt who lives in the city and they are staying with her.’
This time Harcourt didn’t give a start. But he was pretty certain he knew who the aunt was, and the couple too. Nevertheless he asked Traynor for their names.
‘The aunt is called Miss Julia Howlett,’ said the Inspector. ‘Helen Ansell is her niece. She and her husband Thomas were the others present at that fateful séance. Mr Ansell is a lawyer and it seems as though he may have helped to expose Smight. He and his wife would have been called as witnesses if the affair had gone before the bench. Miss Smight, the sister, gave these names to her doctor brother – she says now she had no idea of his murderous purpose, although I am not sure that I believe her. The danger to the Ansells is plain as day. We have reason to believe that Anthony Smight is also in the city. An individual of his description was seen boarding the northbound train from the London terminal at about the time the Ansells left the city.’
Frank Harcourt said, ‘I have met Mr and Mrs Ansell in somewhat unfortunate circumstances. It may be hard to believe but Mrs Ansell was briefly suspected of an involvement in our murder, I mean the murder of Eustace Flask.’
Now it was Traynor’s turn to look both baffled and curious, insofar as his bland face could register those reactions. Frank Harcourt gave a brief account of Flask’s death and the reason for the apprehending of Helen Ansell. He described the strange delivery of the cardboard box with the knife to the police station. He hinted at a plethora of suspects but also that an arrest could not be far off. Then he mentioned that Flask was a medium.
‘What! Why didn’t you say so at first, Superintendent?’
‘It did not seem relevant, Inspector. I was not aware that your own case was connected to a medium. Besides, yours took his own life while Flask had his taken from him.’
‘A coincidence, no doubt,’ said William Traynor, ‘but unsettling as coincidences may sometimes be.’
‘What are you going to do? Do you intend to alert the Ansells to their danger?’
‘Yes. I will require you to call on the resources of the Durham force to, ah, keep an eye on them. And we will need to be on the lookout for Dr Tony. I have a likeness of him.’
Traynor unfastened his portmanteau and drew out a sheaf of papers, one of which he passed to Harcourt. The Superintendent looked at a drawing of a thin-faced man in late middle-age. His face was creased with lines and the police artist had put a malicious glint in his eyes.
‘It was George Forester who provided most of the detail for that,’ said Traynor, ‘but we also called on Smight’s sister for confirmation. Her position is more serious than Forester’s and we may charge her as an accessory. Doctor Smight has a sallow complexion to the point of yellowness. He is about six feet tall and he is thin. Few of these addicts waste their time in eating, you know, Superintendent. You must distribute that picture and the other facts I’ve mentioned to all the men in the city force. How many constables have you?’
‘Sixty-five for the city and the surrounding area.’
‘Good. You should take personal charge of passing on these details, although I would like to be able to attend when you do. But every constable should know that this is a dangerous man, one we suspect is already responsible for two deaths and one who is on a quest for more victims in Durham.’
‘Of course,’ said Harcourt, slightly irritated that the Yard man was telling him how to do his job. He said, ‘Shouldn’t we be distributing this picture to the newspapers.’
‘No,’ said Traynor firmly. ‘I do not want Smight alerted to the fact that we are looking for him. He will only go to ground. Besides, in my experience, if you provide a picture of a wanted man for the public to pore over, you receive a hundred false sightings for anything genuine.’
‘Very well.’
‘Next we should call on Mr and Mrs Ansell and alert them to their, ah, predicament. And tonight I will take up your most kind offer of accommodation.’
Harcourt summoned Humphries to take Traynor’s portmanteau direct to his house in Hallgarth Street. He instructed the constable to inform his wife that they were expecting an important visitor from Great Scotland Yard. Then he and Traynor went to Julia Howlett’s house in the South Bailey, only to find that neither Tom nor Helen was there. They had apparently gone to the County Hotel.
The police officers did not want to cause alarm by mentioning the reason for their visit or even hinting at the existence of ‘Doctor Tony’, but Harcourt – prompted by the Inspector – did tell the housekeeper to check on the locks and bolts and shutters. He said that there was a particularly skilful housebreaker at large. This was the story the men had agreed on beforehand.
The Lucknow Dagger
Helen and Tom were having an early supper in Major Marmont’s room at the County Hotel. He said that he could not appear on stage unless he had eaten beforehand. He welcomed their company – the slight prickliness of their earlier discussion in the Assembly Rooms had disappeared – and he wanted to give them his personal account of the Lucknow Dagger.
‘You’ve got my notes, Mr Ansell, though as I said I don’t require an affidavit now. But I feel I owe it to you to tell you both how I came by the wretched thing.’
So over cold pork, chicken and hard-boiled eggs together with pickles and warm potatoes and a bottle of Sauternes, Major Marmont related how he had been a junior officer in the Native Infantry at the time of the Mutiny less than twenty years before. Efficiently, he sketched out the circumstances leading to the Lucknow siege. The attack on Meerut, the terrible massacre at Cawnpore which filled every true-born Englishman with horror and fury, and then nearer to Lucknow the rebellions at Sitapur and Faizabad. Fortunately the quick action of Sir Henry Lawrence, the Commissioner at Lucknow, resulted in the higher parts of the town around the Residency being fortified or at least made defendable.
‘But we must come to the immediate reason you are here, Mr and Mrs Ansell. It is to hear how I acquired the Dagger of Lucknow. We hung on by our fingertips, as I say, but we hung on. We had a great piece of good fortune when we discovered more stores hidden beneath the Residency. Good old Lawrence had had them put there but he had neglected to tell anyone – his death got in the way of imparting the information, you see. But what we found in the cellars was enough to provision us for a couple more months and the relief parties were starting to get through. One of them had secured a place called Alum Bagh about four miles south of the city. It wasn’t a town or settlement, more of what they sometimes call a pleasaunce in that part of the world, a kind of park. But it had walls and was capable of being defended. More importantly, messages could be got through from Alum Bagh to Cawnpore, which had been retaken by this stage. Of course someone first had to cover the ground between Lucknow and Alum Bagh. Later they worked out a system of signalling by semaphore but before that they depended on foolhardy volunteers to carry messages.’
As he was speaking, Major Marmont laid out a salt cellar and pepper pot close together and put a knife-rest on Tom and Helen’s side of the table to show the relative position of the three places. This was hardly necessary but Tom supposed it was a habit acquired from years in the army. Given his other trade, perhaps Marmont would shortly make the salt cellar disappear.
&
nbsp; ‘I was young and reckless enough to volunteer to deliver a message to Alum Bagh, information which had to be carried forward to Cawnpore. Also someone was required to guide the next relief column into Lucknow. We were surrounded by rebels and, poorly organized though they were, the sepoys were scattered at points around the city which were known only to the defenders. Having volunteered myself and received a pat on the back from Colonel Sir John Inglis, I decided that I would carry out my mission in native disguise as a sepoy. It was a foolish thing to volunteer, no doubt. I had every reason to live, even though all our lives were in peril. But I had found a girl, you see. An Indian girl. I suppose I wanted to show off.
‘You may not think it, but I was once a lithe young man, quick and nimble. Months in the sun had darkened my complexion but I darkened it further by the application of walnut dye, not forgetting arms and legs, and I clad myself in native garb. I must have had the desire to dress up even then. I was accompanied by a local man called Lal. He was a little younger than me, almost a boy in fact, and although a fairly recent arrival in Lucknow he was familiar with every inch of the ground.
‘The distance between the Residency and Alum Bagh was only a few miles as the crow flies but we decided not to go through the city which lies to the south of the Residency compound – it was too full of rebel sepoys and dark alleys where any peril or patrol might be lurking. For safety’s sake we would take the longer route through the open country in the east and past the entrenchments before we circled back to the west and so towards Alum Bagh. It was a night with a crescent moon and a few stars. Although the rains had started it was very hot and humid.
‘I remember sitting with Lal while we waited for it to grow dark enough for us to get started. I hadn’t eaten. I couldn’t have kept anything down. Concealed under my shirt was a pouch containing various letters from Inglis which were to be forwarded to Cawnpore. They were to do with the number of soldiers and civilians left in the Residency, our dwindling stock of ammunition and so on. I also carried hastily drawn maps showing the best routes into Lucknow, although these might change from day to day. The pouch was secured by a cord about my neck. In the event of danger I was to dispose of the maps and letters, although no one told me exactly how. Eat them perhaps.
The Durham Deception Page 19
