The Durham Deception

by Philip Gooden

  The witnesses crowded to the edge of the pit. Doctor Anthony Smight was dead, no question. He had died as silently as he had lived his last weeks in the condemned cell.

  By half past eight the black flag had been raised above the gaol and a notice testifying to Smight’s lawful execution posted on the main gate. A crowd of people quickly gathered to read it to each other and to conclude that justice had been done.

  What About the Others?

  And what about the other participants in this story – or some of them at any rate? None met so grisly a fate as Doctor Smight, who after being hanged was buried by the wall of the hospital prison, to join the rest of the executed men and women. If you go to search, you will find no name to mark his grave, only the date of his execution (27th July, 1874) inscribed over a downward-pointing arrow.

  Eustace Flask fared rather better, one might say. After the arrest of Smight but before his trial, the medium was interred at a quiet ceremony in a quiet church on the fringe of the city. There were several mourners, including Julia Howlett and Septimus Sheridan, with Tom and Helen Ansell to keep them company. In addition there was a small turnout of constables and Inspector Traynor. Also present was Frank Harcourt’s widow, Rhoda, who had prevailed on Traynor to escort her. She had fond memories of the deceased – all those little gifts! – and was willing to overlook the normal conventions of being in mourning for her husband to pay her respects to Flask. Then there were a few curious passers-by and droppers-in. Someone quietly but irreverently enquired, as the coffin was being borne in, whether Eustace was flinging around handfuls of flour and tambourines on the inside.

  Aunt Julia had to use her influence to find a clergyman to officiate at the funeral and a cemetery willing to take Eustace’s remains. His spiritualism was not approved of by the ecclesiastical authorities in Durham and the first three clergy Julia approached had, politely, declined. But Julia was persistent, even relentless, and she eventually found a broad-minded cleric who would send Eustace packing in plain, low-church style. The oddest feature of the ceremony was the presence of a batch of paid mourners, with their professional long faces and black crêpe accessories. Aunt Julia denied that she had paid for them but no one else owned up.

  Kitty Partout and Ambrose Barker did not attend Eustace’s funeral. They were afraid of provoking more interest from the police. They did not stay in Durham to read about the execution of Anthony Smight in the Advertiser. They did not even wait for the outcome of the trial. Some instinct warned them to put a distance between themselves and this city. Besides, the rent on their house in Old Elvet had run out and so they decided to try their luck elsewhere. Not in the desperate business of enticement and robbery but by using the skills which they had acquired from Eustace Flask. Kitty had enjoyed playing the part of the Indian maid, Running Brook, and believed it would be no great step to turn herself into a fully-fledged medium. She had, almost unawares, absorbed plenty of Uncle Eustace’s patter and knew the workings of the props such as the writing slate. Ambrose, glad to be reconciled with Kitty, was willing to take the more menial role of protector, carpenter and general handyman.

  So Kitty and Ambrose took the train across the Pennines with their spirit cabinet and other gear stowed in the guard’s van. They arrived in Carlisle. There Kitty developed her French strain. She became Mademoiselle Kitty Partout (always pronounced Partoo) and, once she had done a little research and felt confident enough, she claimed to be in touch with the spirit of Mary Queen of Scots who was Carlisle’s most famous prisoner as well as being a French speaker. There are not many mediums who can claim to be inspired by a dead queen and she has met with some success.

  Julia Howlett did not spend long in regret for the violent death of Eustace Flask but swiftly turned her attention to another object of interest. She and Septimus Sheridan were sitting quietly in the drawing-room of Colt House. Septimus was reading The Durham Advertiser while Julia Howlett was turning the pages of a quarterly called The Spiritualist Adviser.

  ‘Septimus, I have been thinking.’

  Septimus put down his paper and looked benignly at his landlady.

  ‘Yes, Miss Howlett?’

  ‘We have known each other these many years now.’

  ‘Indeed we have.’

  ‘There was a time when our friendship – I hope I may call it a friendship – threatened to turn into something different.’

  Septimus noted her use of ‘threatened’. But this was the first time she had raised the subject of their engagement since his arrival in Colt House as her lodger. His heart beating fast, he wondered whether he had the nerve to say what he wanted to say.

  ‘Miss Howlett, all that is so long ago I can scarcely remember the reasons why it did not, in your apt expression, “turn into something different”. But I do know that, whatever happened, it was my own fault.’

  And I have regretted it ever since, he might have added.

  ‘Let us not talk of faults or blame, Septimus,’ she said. ‘I think the time has come to turn over a new leaf.’

  Septimus Sheridan’s mouth was suddenly dry. His hands tightened on the newspaper. He could say no more than, ‘It has?’

  ‘Yes. I think it absurd that we should go on as we have been going on.’

  Septimus made no reply. He was half afraid of what she might say next.

  Was she about to ask him to leave Colt House? Was she about to make some roundabout suggestion of marriage? He could not decide which would be worse.

  ‘Absurd, as I say. I have been calling you Septimus for years now while you, most politely, have always referred to me as Miss Howlett. But the time has surely come when you must – when you should – call me Julia.’

  Septimus realized that he had been holding his breath. He let out a slow sigh. He rubbed at his straggly white hair. He almost smiled.

  ‘Of course . . . Julia.’

  ‘You see how easy it is. Do not let me interrupt your reading.’

  ‘You are not interrupting anything. But I have just noticed an item about Major Marmont and his troupe. He is booked for a season in the Egyptian Hall.’

  ‘Good Heavens, he is more intrepid than I thought if he is performing in Cairo.’

  ‘The Egyptian Hall is in Piccadilly, Miss – Julia. It is a small theatre and it has a reputation for staging new magic tricks. At least that is what it says here in the paper. It also says: Our Durham readers will no doubt be interested to hear of the progress of Major Sebastian Marmont and his Hindoo troupe after their recent and highly successful run at the Assembly Rooms. The magical Major has now repaired to the capital and two nights ago he unveiled one of his most extraordinary feats at Piccadilly’s Egyptian Hall, a fashionable though not capacious venue for the latest acts from the conjuring world. We have heard of but never yet seen the famous rope trick, supposedly deriving from those fabulous lands in the Far East, and this is a deficiency that Major Marmont is determined to remedy, at least for the fortunate denizens of the metropolis. A correspondent tells us that any of our readers visiting London should be warned that the show is not for the faint-hearted but they may be assured, if they venture among the papyrus-leaf columns of the Egyptian Hall, of suspense and thrills a-plenty. It is to be hoped that if the miracle-working Major chooses to grace the north-east with his presence again he will deign to demonstrate the rope trick.’

  ‘Not for the faint-hearted. It sounds rather alarming to me, Septimus. I think we have had enough excitement here in Durham to last us for a year or two.’

  ‘I agree with you, Julia.’

  Septimus had recovered from the business of Eustace Flask’s death. He had told no one apart from Julia and Superintendent Harcourt that he had been near the scene of the murder and, in any case, nothing had come of that since, with the arrest of Smight, the investigation came to an end. Septimus returned to his work in the cathedral library, the slow-developing study of the patristic fathers, and did his best to forget about the last few weeks. He was pleased that she was encoura
ging him to call her Julia. Now he had no other ambition than to be allowed to remain in Colt House as Miss Howlett’s – Julia’s – lodger or, perhaps more accurately, her companion.

  ‘I’m sorry, Julia, were you saying something?’

  ‘I too have been reading,’ said Julia, indicating her copy of The Spiritualist Adviser. ‘Although poor Eustace Flask has crossed over to the other side, the cause continues. It grows, it strengthens.’

  ‘Of course it does, Miss – Julia.’

  ‘I know that I am talking to a sceptic, Septimus. But even sceptics may be won round. I read in The Adviser of a new movement which is beginning in America, in New York. A woman called Madame Blavatsky has established a ‘miracle club’ there. It will provide clear proof that miracles can happen. The article says too that Madame Blavatsky is a Russian. She is investigating the secret lore of the Hindus, the Buddhists and the ancient Greeks, and will shortly announce the formation of a new religion.’

  ‘A new religion? But I cannot see what is wrong with the old one.’

  ‘Oh Septimus, you are such a stick-in-the-mud.’

  Inspector William Traynor remained in Durham until a couple of days after the conclusion of Smight’s trial. He did not wait for the execution. His presence wasn’t necessary and he was no ghoul. He had moved out of Inspector Harcourt’s house in Hallgarth Street since it would have been improper to continue to lodge with a fresh – and not unattractive – widow. Rhoda Harcourt was adequately distressed by her husband’s death and, for months afterwards, she pored over the album of newspaper cuttings which she had compiled, cuttings describing the true-life drama in the Palace of Varieties. Rhoda became both tearful and proud at the references to her late husband as ‘selfless’ and ‘heroic’. But she was not, potentially, inconsolable. For example, she was drawn, quite drawn, by the detective from Great Scotland Yard. She was aware of his bachelor status. She had even ventured to ask, in a slightly flirtatious way over the supper table, whether he was a bachelor by – how could she put this? – by conviction, or a bachelor by circumstance. Frank looked sharply at her but the Inspector did not seem put out by the question. In fact he hinted that, yes, although he might once have been disappointed in love he was now perfectly happy with his single existence.

  Then the dreadful thing happened and Rhoda donned her widow’s weeds, and Inspector Traynor moved into a hotel. But the Inspector uttered many kind and appropriate words after Harcourt’s death. She prevailed on him to escort her to the funeral of Eustace Flask since, she said, the medium had been a good friend to both of them (Traynor was surprised to hear this).

  At some point Rhoda mentioned having a sister in London, one to whom a visit was long overdue. As soon as a decent period of mourning had elapsed she might consider such a visit. William Traynor, quick to take a hint, said that if she did come to London, he could offer her a most satisfying afternoon. He explained that there was an area where prisoners’ confiscated property was stored near the Yard in Whitehall Place. These were notorious prisoners, convicted of the worst or most curious crimes, and in this museum – he might go so far as to call it a museum – was a display of poisoners’ phials, the spades and picks belonging to various resurrection men, the death masks of the more famous customers of the hangman, and so on. As a policeman’s widow, she would surely be interested in a private tour of these criminal effects. This might not have been Rhoda Harcourt’s idea of an enjoyable excursion but she put a good face on it. She promised to write to William Traynor as soon as she was free to visit London. Perhaps she was thinking of her promotion too, from a Durham Superintendent to a Great Scotland Yard Inspector.

  Act Five

  It is stifling in the theatre. The audience is tired but expectant. They have sat through some indifferent acts. Now they are waiting for the appearance of Major Sebastian Marmont and his travelling Hindoos. They want to see something remarkable, or at least something which will keep them in a state of happy bemusement as they make their way home. Why are the curtains staying closed for so long?

  A quiet suddenly falls over the audience although it does not seem that any signal has been given. The house lights begin to dim and the stage foot-lamps too lose something of their demonic glow. There comes a queer fluting noise from the pit and the curtains part to reveal a set piece. A backdrop depicts a sandy plain with a river running through it – in India perhaps? – the whole scene surmounted by distant, snow-capped peaks. There are rocks, rocks which are artful fakery, in the foreground but they are interspersed with trees which look real, if unfamiliar, even foreign. Their thick drooping foliage quivers in the draughts of air from the wings. Now the light takes on a reddish tinge and through some effect, or perhaps because the audience wishes to believe it, it seems that the sun is beginning to set over an arid plain.

  The silence which falls as the audience strains their eyes to take in this new setting through the thick air lasts perhaps half a minute. Then, when nothing occurs and nobody appears to break the tension, the whispers and rustlings become audible once again. Eventually, just when their patience is at breaking point, there wanders on to the stage a slight, dark-coloured individual, nonchalant as you please. Scarcely more than a boy, and a servant to judge by his simple white clothing and headgear. He is staggering under the weight of a large basket chair which he places centre-stage before thinking better of it and shoving it into the shade of one of the drooping trees. The chair is a handsome object, almost a throne, with its padded arms and high back. The boy stands for a moment to admire the chair. Then there is a thunk as some object lands on the ground next to him and he jumps and looks up at the tree. Another thunk. The second object rolls across the stage. What is it? A coconut? Some other exotic fruit? Hard to see because although the light is bright it is also curiously opaque.

  A kind of gibbering sound emerges from the depths of the tree and a hairy arm protrudes from the foliage. The boy shakes his fist in the direction of the arm. The members of the audience have gasped at seeing the arm. Now they laugh at the boy’s anger and wonder when they will see the monkey. A sudden bark, a human bark, from the side of the stage causes the servant to jump again.

  This time a man strides on in a solar topi and a white suit. He is short and spruce and has a military manner. He has a complexion the colour of teak and a fine pair of moustaches which he tugs and twirls. The boy becomes all deference, smiling and bowing him to his chair. The Major settles himself down. Another boy, as slight as the first one, enters, carrying a great palmyra leaf with which he proceeds to fan the seated white man to keep him cool under the heat of what, to judge by the glare of light on stage, is the sun as it begins its decline. A few of the people in the audience who know a bit about India nod to themselves. They’ve heard of these servant fellows they call ‘punkah-wallahs’.

  The first boy, the one who brought in the basket chair, reappears with a tray on which is a glass of amber liquid that seems to gather to itself the rays of the setting sun. The same heads in the audience nod again. The famous chota peg, to be taken in liberal quantities at the end of the day, and a very necessary help to the British in India as they bear the burden of rule.

  But things go wrong before the boy even reaches the seated Major. Another coconut (or whatever it is!) falls (or is thrown!) from the tree, causing the hapless boy to stumble. The glass spills from the tray, almost sending its contents over the Major’s suit. The Major rises in fury, his complexion turning even darker, the colour of the spilled whisky. The punkah-wallah backs away in alarm.

  The first servant indicates the overhanging tree and makes monkey gestures as if to explain the accident but Major Marmont is having none of it, thank you very much. In fact, he seems to think he is being mocked. He shakes his head. He stamps his foot. He tugs his moustaches. He signals to the punkah-wallah, who scampers off stage with his great leaf and returns a few seconds later tugging a circular wicker basket. It is large enough to contain a small human being as is demonstrated almost straightawa
y when the Major lifts the lid and invites – no, orders – the first boy to climb inside. The boy does so, folding himself up like a discarded piece of clothing.

  The audience is uneasy but curious. Presumably this is some kind of punishment but what is to follow? The punkah-wallah has again been sent on an errand and reappears bearing – a sword in its scabbard. It is Major Marmont’s, a thing reserved for ceremonial purposes surely. But no, because now the Major impatiently takes the scabbard from the boy and withdraws the sword. He examines the thin blade, which gleams in the light. Then, without warning, he turns and plunges it into the wicker basket. From within there comes a shriek which echoes round the audience. Again and again, like a man possessed, he plunges the sword into the basket, darting round to jab the point in from every side. All this while, the noises from inside diminish, turning from shrieks to cries to whimpers . . . to silence. Even worse than this, perhaps, blood starts to seep from the basket, dripping from between the wickerwork and gathering in a pool about the base. At last the Major’s fury is sated. He stops. His bloody sword droops in his hand.

  It is too much for several of the women in the audience who shriek themselves hoarse and too much for at least one man, who gets up from his seat in the stalls and starts to clamber over his neighbours although whether he means to leave the theatre and summon help or to intervene himself, who knows?

  But Major Marmont turns a stern eye on the audience and shakes his head. He waves the sword in the air once more. He gestures to the punkah-wallah who has been standing by all this time, horror-struck. The second boy walks warily towards the basket which stands centre stage. He lifts the lid. He peers into the interior. He looks up, horror turning to puzzlement. The Major himself peers inside. Together they tilt and angle the basket so that its interior is visible to all points of the house.