But the death of Flask or Smight’s hostility towards Marmont were less significant than his campaign of revenge against all those who had a share in the suicide of Ernest Smight. Anthony was the younger brother to Ernest. He had revered his brother. Ernest had looked after him and their sister Ethel, who was between them in age. Many years before as children, at the beginning of Victoria’s reign, they had played in the grounds of the large family house in Mortlake. Once, Ernest had saved Anthony’s life by wading into a pond and freeing the drowning six-year-old from the weeds in which he was entangled. Anthony remembered lying on the grass beside the pond with Ernest kneeling beside him, love and distress etched into his face.
They enjoyed an idyllic childhood, the three of them, untroubled by their mother and father, unrebuked by the servants. Then something had gone wrong. The family’s money had vanished, almost overnight. Anthony – Tony to his brother and sister – was too young to understand, too young even to be told anything. But he overheard incomprehensible talk of investments on the other side of the world, of minerals in South America, of returns which had not materialized, of more investments and bigger losses. He remembered his father talking about throwing good money after bad, and young Tony visualized a pit in which banknotes fell like leaves to join piles of others which were slowly decaying.
They lost the house at Mortlake and moved to Orpington. Somewhere around that time, they lost their father too. He did not die, he simply disappeared. And, whenever their mother mentioned him again, it was through pursed lips. A few years later their mother died too, and the two brothers and the sister were thrown upon each other even more.
They did go their separate ways eventually, or rather Anthony did by training as a physician and travelling thousands of miles to India. During that time he was caught up in the Lucknow siege, and the rivalry with Lieutenant Marmont over the Indian girl. It was almost a quarter of a century before he returned to England and, when he did see his siblings again, they thought him the shell of the man he had once been. Ernest and Ethel kept house together. They had not exactly prospered either, although the medium enjoyed a brief period of popularity after being taken up by a peer of the realm.
Doctor Tony settled himself in Rosemary Street. He found himself a comfortable niche among the opium-smokers in Penharbour Lane. He did a good deed occasionally, as when he attended to the sick child in George Forester’s family. He did no great harm otherwise. Or no more than the odd spot of criminality. But everything changed when he heard the news of brother Ernest’s death. The thought of Ernest sliding beneath the cold, dark waters of the Thames – as he, Tony, had once almost slid beneath the weed-infested waters of the Mortlake pond – roused in the doctor a raging pity.
The more he turned over his brother’s fate, the more passionate Anthony Smight became in his determination to extract every last drop of vengeance. There were four people he considered guilty. He had set George Forester to spy on the Seldons and the Ansells, and to find out details of their households. He had dealt with the Seldons, not crudely by bludgeoning them over the head or shooting them through the heart with the gun which he kept about his person. Instead he had performed the task in a subtle, almost tortuous style, choking them to death by opening the gas valves in the house in Norwood. There was satisfaction in knowing that the Seldons had perished by drawing poisonous fumes into their lungs just as Ernest had died through absorbing water into his.
Doctor Tony was satisfied to read the account in the papers of the accident although later reports hinted at further police investigations. Smight did not care what they found. He did not even care if they found him eventually, as long as he fulfilled his mission. By now, he had travelled north in pursuit of Mr and Mrs Ansell, the other couple who were going to pay for what they had done to Ernest. As Inspector Traynor correctly surmised, Smight decided to base himself in Newcastle rather than Durham. He preferred the anonymity of a larger city and he felt at home in the area by the docks. But he spent lengthy periods in Durham, tracking his next victims. They were not so accessible as the Seldons and action against them required more thought. Besides, Smight took pleasure in concocting an elaborate plan. As he was doing now.
He was not aware of all the police activity. If he had been, he would still have believed himself capable of outwitting the whole pack of them. Although years of opium-taking might have sapped his moral sense, as Traynor claimed, it had not undermined his sense of superiority. Indeed, at times, he felt invulnerable. He suffered from bad dreams, though.
The Palace of Varieties
Tom and Helen Ansell were chafing under their near confinement in Colt House. Inspector Traynor had suggested that they would be safer if they spent most of their time at Miss Howlett’s. A policeman, equipped with truncheon and rattle, was stationed inside the house and occupied himself bantering with the servants in the back quarters. Another constable was keeping a watch over the front by making regular patrols along the South Bailey. Aunt Julia was strangely excited by all the police activity but Septimus Sheridan seemed terrified, whether of the police or the threat of a murderer at large. He had stopped going to the cathedral library and spent most of the time shut up in his room.
If Tom and Helen went out it was with a uniform for company, which was irritating. They both took the threat from Smight seriously but having a policeman over your shoulder whenever you wanted to go out was like a form of open arrest. Tom wondered how long the Durham force could sustain the search for Doctor Anthony Smight. There were police detailed to cover the railway station as well as the ones concentrating on Colt House.
He had told Inspector Traynor that he and Helen would soon be returning to London, and the Great Scotland Yard man looked unhappy, saying something about the need for material witnesses in the murder of Eustace Flask. But Tom had the uneasy feeling that what he really required was for the two of them to remain in Durham as a lure for Smight. The image of a tethered goat or lamb left out for a lion flashed through Tom’s normally unimaginative mind. And when he suggested that it might be a good idea to publicize the search for Smight in the local newspaper, Traynor said with great authority that that would merely drive their quarry underground.
Then everything changed. Traynor came by the house a couple of mornings later.
‘We’ve got him,’ he said without preliminary. His voice was curiously flat.
‘Doctor Smight?’ said Helen, shutting the book she was reading.
‘Yes, we have the doctor. When I say we, I mean that the police in Newcastle have apprehended him. We sent them the picture and other facts. I believe that they caught up with Smight in some low dive by the docks. It all fits.’
Tom, who’d been gazing out of the window, heard the hint of disappointment in Traynor’s voice. Of course, the London man wanted to be the one to make the arrest. He’d been beaten to it.
‘But my original hunch was correct,’ continued the Inspector. ‘Smight must have been staying in Newcastle and coming down by train to Durham to do his nefarious work. We had a possible sighting of him at the station yesterday morning but it was a case of mistaken identity, it seems.’
‘Could the Newcastle police be wrong?’ said Tom.
‘Not a chance. I have it here in black and white, just received at the police-house,’ said Traynor, producing a white telegraphic form. He walked over to where Tom was standing and showed the message to him, as if to prove his words. ‘They have laid hands on Smight. His name is established. I am catching the next train to Newcastle. I have already telegraphed ahead. They are expecting us. Superintendent Harcourt will accompany me. Smight will be closely questioned and then brought back here under heavy escort.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Helen. She stood up. ‘We can get back to leading a normal life.’
‘I will ask Superintendent Harcourt to withdraw his men from inside the house and outside,’ said Traynor. ‘You will not be surprised to hear that this manhunt has stretched the Durham force to the limit.
And, yes, Mrs Ansell, you may rest easy.’
When they were alone, Helen said, ‘I am tired of being cooped up here. I am going for a walk.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘You don’t need to, Tom. As the Inspector said, there is no danger now.’
There was something in Helen’s manner that made Tom uneasy. Helen seemed uncomfortable too. After a moment she said, ‘Oh very well. If you must know, Major Marmont has requested my assistance in rehearsing a trick that he wishes to put on stage soon.’
‘Helen, surely you are not going to appear in public?’
The trouble was that Tom could see his wife stepping out on the stage, in a reckless moment. Helen was quick to reassure him.
‘No, no, don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you. But I did receive a note this morning from the Major.’
‘A note?’
‘Yes, a note, Tom, on County Hotel paper. There are some pieces of apparatus which he needs to refine, and he says I can help. I enjoyed being made to disappear in the Perseus Cabinet.’
‘All right,’ said Tom. He knew that Major Marmont had taken a shine to Helen so the request was not so surprising. ‘But I’ll accompany you to the theatre.’
They set off through the older part of town, without a police escort. All the time there was something nagging at Tom, something about the telegram which Harcourt had shown him, briefly. Tom struggled to recall the wording. What was it now? Something along the lines of ‘Newcastle force in port arrest Smight. Have your man verify and collect.’
It sounded odd. He mentioned it to Helen, repeating the words as far as he remembered them. She said, ‘Telegrams have a special, contorted language all their own.’
‘There has been a mistake, I think,’ said Tom suddenly, stopping in the street. Helen looked at him. He was gazing fixedly at a shop window, a ladies’ dress shop.
‘Are you all right, Tom?’
‘I must see Traynor or Harcourt.’
‘They will surely have left for Newcastle by now.’
‘I might be able to catch them at the police-house.’
But Tom was undecided. He didn’t want to leave Helen. She saw this and said, ‘I’ll be safe, Tom. No harm can come to me with Major Marmont.’
‘No, it can’t, can it? I will join you at the theatre. I will only be a moment.’
He almost ran down the street towards the marketplace. It would take him only a few minutes to reach the police station in New Elvet. He would find Traynor or Harcourt and tell them that they were, almost certainly, on the wrong scent. He was excited by his discovery and wanted to pass it on.
For what Tom had suddenly understood was that the telegraphic message had been wrongly transcribed at the police station. He’d realized it when staring at the window sign. WOMENSWEAR, the dress-shop said in close-packed gilt letters. The apostrophe had been lost and so the two words read as one. ‘Women’s Wear’, of course. But also, and more mischievously, it might be read as ‘Women Swear’.
So it was with the telegram from the Newcastle police. It did not read ‘Newcastle force in port arrest Smight. Have your man verify and collect.’ but ‘Newcastle force in port arrests. Might have your man. Verify and collect.’
From his work, Tom was familiar with the way in which telegraphic messages could get mangled, not so much in transmission but in transcription when the clerk at the receiving end wrote down the wrong letter or misplaced a full stop. If the message had come direct to the police-house, where everybody knew they were searching for an individual called Smight, then it was very natural that ‘might’ could be transformed into ‘Smight’. Natural but careless. And enough to send Traynor and Harcourt off to Newcastle on a potential wild-goose chase.
Did it matter? thought Tom, as he walked rapidly across the river and towards the police-house in New Elvet. The policemen would discover soon enough that they were on a false errand and come back, tails between their legs. He slowed down. He considered going back to rejoin Helen. It was more the fear of looking a fool in her eyes than anything else that made him go on.
So he arrived at the police-house, identified himself and told the sergeant on duty he wanted to speak to Frank Harcourt or the detective from Scotland Yard. Too late. As Helen had predicted, they were already on their way to Newcastle. The sergeant said there were other superintendents in the building. Did he wish to speak with one of them? Tom said no. He was starting to regret his eagerness to share his discovery about the telegram. Was he doing anything except proving his own cleverness? Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the Newcastle police had detained Smight after all. He hoped so.
Tom retraced his steps to the Assembly Rooms by a route which was now thoroughly familiar. Entering the ornate auditorium, he was relieved to hear from the stage the voice of Major Sebastian Marmont who was, indeed, presiding over arrangements for that evening’s performance, his last in Durham. With him were his three sons and Dilip Gopal. But there was no sign of Helen. Tom felt a chill which turned to deep unease when Marmont said he had not seen her.
‘But you wrote her a note asking for help in some trick.’
‘I haven’t written any note. Are you sure, Mr Ansell?’
Tom realized that Helen had not shown him the letter from the County Hotel. If he had seen it he might have recognized the writing, or at least recognized that it wasn’t from the magician. He cursed himself for his carelessness. He cursed himself for leaving her and racing to the police station to share his discovery about the telegram. So where was Helen? What in God’s name had happened to her?
When Tom set off at a brisk pace for the police-house, Helen Ansell had debated for a moment whether to follow him. But she was rather irritated that he had insisted on accompanying her in the first place and she was baffled by his talk of telegrams. He’d got some hold of some silly notion which he had not troubled to explain to her. She hardly listened to his promise to join her later.
Of course it was safe for her to call on Major Marmont. She did not have to be escorted everywhere by her husband, especially now they had Inspector Traynor’s assurance that the danger from Anthony Smight was over. Helen had the magician’s letter with her. She retrieved it from her purse and read it again, standing in the street. Marmont was requesting her assistance. In a letter on notepaper headed with the name of the County Hotel, he asked her to come not to the Assembly Rooms but to the Palace of Varieties behind the Court Inn. She knew this was where he stored his conjuring apparatus and where he prepared some of his acts.
The Palace of Varieties did not live up to its palatial name. It was a simple wooden building not far from the court house and the gaol, and a venue for acts such as trick cyclists or hypnotists, judging by the faded and torn bills displayed outside. Its audience would be drawn from the less prosperous areas of the city or the mining communities roundabout.
The outer doors were locked. Helen walked down the alley to one side of the building. There was another entrance here on which was painted ‘Performers Only’. This door was ajar. She pushed at it and then hesitated, suddenly not so sure of herself. It opened on to a narrow passage. Helen walked a few feet inside. There was a single gas-jet burning in the passage. She turned a corner and came to a short flight of wooden stairs. It was dim at the top but a draught of cooler air suggested she was somewhere backstage.
She listened hard but heard nothing except the hiss of the gas-jet. She trod softly up the steps. She would just make sure that Major Marmont was not here, and then she would go back. She came to a high-ceilinged but cramped area at the top of the stairs. She picked her way between wicker hampers and wooden crates and mounds of fabric, and pushed at some heavy drapes. At once Helen found herself standing on the stage of the Palace of Varieties. The light here was subdued but better than in the off-stage area. The footlights burned low, giving an effect of an autumn evening.
Near the front of the stage was a queer piece of apparatus. It was a quilted platform, with the dimensions of a very narrow sing
le bed, and it seemed to be floating unsupported about four feet off the ground. As Helen moved towards it the light above the floating platform grew hazier and broke up, almost dissolving into splinters before her eyes. She reached out an experimental hand to touch the object. Her fingers struck against something as taut and metallic as a piano wire. She started back. Then she realized that there was a cluster of wires, very thin strands which held up the platform. The hazy effect was caused by the wires blocking and diffusing the light from the front of the stage.
She stretched out her hand again. The wires were coated in some substance which made them dull, almost invisible. Close to, though, she could see that they converged and ran through multiple points on the ‘floating’ board. Underneath they were attached to blocks on the stage floor. Overhead the wires fanned out and ran upwards into the dark space within the proscenium arch. Helen saw in the dimness above a device like a great roller suspended out of sight of the audience together with some sort of crank or winch which gleamed faintly in the light. So this was how the floating man trick was achieved!
She passed to one side of the hanging board and, holding her arm below her eyes to reduce the glare from the footlights, she looked out into the auditorium. This was a plainer space than the Assembly Rooms and the seating had a makeshift appearance. But where was Major Marmont? The levitation trick was set up and the footlights were burning low but there was no magician to perform it.
The Durham Deception Page 23
