There were three other photos, however, that were more troubling: unfortunately convincing frauds. One was of five women in filmy, transparent garments cavorting in a forest glade in the moonlight. Three of the women had their heads turned away, but two were looking forward. One had Alice’s features and the other Mother Laswell’s, although the woman with Mother Laswell’s face wasn’t quite stout enough to be convincing, nor was the Alice figure tall enough. Another photograph depicted what might be the same five women flying on brooms with long staffs through the night sky, dressed in black robes. Clara was among them, wearing her dark spectacles, and both Alice and Mother Laswell were clearly identifiable. Beneath it was the caption, ‘Fly-by-nights.’ A third showed the same five—or so it clearly implied—but Alice and Mother Laswell were the only two whose faces were clear. They were gathered in the moonlight that shone on the standing stones at Kit’s Coty House. The Mother Laswell figure held a curved knife in her hand, her robes partly hiding a rickety altar made of sticks.
“What does he hope to accomplish with this outrage?” Alice asked, breaking the silence. “It’s evidently false.”
“They hope to compel you to deny it,” St. Ives said, “merely to tarnish your good name.”
“They?” Alice asked. “Surely this is the work of the small man at the soirée, the photographer who was so anxious to have our likenesses. Why would he have any interest in our denying something?”
“He has no interest in it at all,” Mother Laswell said, collapsing backward into her chair. “He was paid to do this work, Alice.”
“By whom? Who on earth would pay him to…? Do you mean this man Townover?”
“Surely not,” Frobisher said. “It flies in the face of reason.”
“It seems entirely reasonable to me, Mr. Frobisher,” Mother Laswell said. “You’ve backed the wrong horse, I’m afraid, or come close to backing it.”
“There must be a way of discovering who actually put the photographer up to it,” Alice said. “Langdon, you told me that you had learned something of his whereabouts. I had no interest in the subject an hour ago, but I do now. I intend to confront the man.”
“We both will,” Mother Laswell said evenly. “We’ll get some of the truth out of him. See if we don’t.”
“We’ll go together,” St. Ives said. “The railway porter informed me that he came up from Tunbridge Wells on the train, that he had a shop or a studio very near Dockett’s Trunks and Cases—two doors down, he said. We can find him right enough.”
“Look at this,” Mother Laswell said, holding out the Gazette now. There was another photograph on the front page, this one of the soirée, showing the pasteboard paper mill going up in flames, with Mother Laswell and Bill Kraken standing alongside. Anarchist gathering in Aylesford! the headline shrieked. “It’s all here,” she said, reading the piece. “Not just the soirée, that’s plain enough, but the past along with it, dug up like a skeleton out of the grave.” She read further in silence, her eyes sweeping back and forth. “Here’s the death of my first husband, retold—the fire that burnt him up, and the children’s bodies they found buried beneath his laboratory. The murder of Sarah Wright follows. It names Harriet Laswell in each, which is fair enough when it comes to my husband, since he died by my hand. But that I was involved in Sarah’s beheading…”
She dropped the paper and began to weep, putting her open hand to her forehead.
“But you were exonerated,” Alice said to her. “You were never charged for the death of your husband. This hasn’t been current for twenty-five years. Can they do this, Langdon?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s intentionally ruinous, but there’s nothing libelous or criminal in it. They’ve left that for the broadsheet, which they’ll give away on the street and distribute to every public house in the area, with no one taking credit for producing it.”
“I must admit that I’m puzzled,” Frobisher said. “When you spoke to Charles Townover, Professor, did he know who you were?”
“I’m not certain. I’d met him some months back, but he made nothing of it. I told him, of course, that you and I are friends.”
“I see. This…this scheme…,” Frobisher said, “was clearly put into motion prior to this morning when you visited the mill. The ink is scarcely dry on the broadsheet, but it’s dry enough for the thing to have been distributed. This photographer worked through the night to accomplish it, and with the aid of a newspaper to print copies—perhaps someone at the Gazette or at the newspaper office in Tunbridge Wells.” It seemed almost as if Gilbert were talking to himself now, trying to regenerate the enthusiasm he’d mustered only minutes ago. He stared at the floor for a time and then said, “Who is the perpetrator? That’s the mystery. Not Charles Townover. No, sir. The man still believes I might invest. It makes no sense at all that he would go to these lengths to undermine…”
There was the sound of horse’s hooves now, and through the window St. Ives saw the children standing with painted faces alongside the mule Ned Ludd, the lot of them watching as Bill Kraken galloped away down the lane in a cloud of dust.
Chapter 13
Murder in
Tunbridge Wells
DOCKETT’S TRUNKS AND Cases was known to Kraken. He had been to Tunbridge Wells a dozen times, had purchased sheep there, and had purchased the very horse he rode now, Old Bluenose, from a farmer another mile up the way toward Green Hill. He stood on Camden Road, across the street from Dockett’s. The photographer’s studio—Manfred Pink’s—sat two buildings down. Its door was locked, and there were shutters over the windows.
Manfred Pink, Kraken thought. That was no sort of a name for a man. A man with such a name, who would do these things, wanted badly to be knocked on the head, and Kraken had half a mind to climb in through a window and…
That wouldn’t be wise, though. Mother was always recommending wisdom. He wondered whether she had known where he was bound, him leaving like that, without a word, but if he’d said a word, he’d have said ten, and then what? Had they followed him? Three women passed along the pavement, and he nodded to them. They sidled into the street at the sight of him, however, and hastened away, looking back with obvious suspicion—something that was simply his lot in life, and he took no offense in it.
Now that the question of his being followed was hovering in his mind, it came to him that there was no time for idleness, and he crossed the road and went up between the buildings, where he found himself in a weedy yard with a wooden hovel beyond. There was a broad meadow behind the hovel and a woods in the distance. The door to the hovel was just then opening, and a small boy stepped out. He saw Kraken, a look of surprise crossed his face, and immediately he stepped back inside and shut the door. It was the boy who had been with Pink at the soirée. Kraken had no quarrel with him, but it was a rum thing, since the boy had known him.
He heard noise from within Pink’s—a clattering and the sound of a cabinet door banging shut. So the villain was within, perhaps in a hurry, and yet the front door of his shop was locked at midday. Kraken glanced back at the hovel, but the boy had gone to ground. So be it.
He climbed the three wooden stairs to the porch and stood listening at the door, hearing the creak of the sign that read “Pink’s” shifting overhead on its iron rings. He had the sudden urge to rip the sign from its moorings and smash it through the window, but he clapped a stopper over the compulsion, thinking of Mother Laswell again, how she had suffered, and how he mustn’t be the cause for more. Steadier now, he put his hand on the metal knob, turning it silently. When it swung open he stepped through and shut the door behind him. There stood the small man, Manfred Pink, wearing his audacious hat and looking down at a photograph. Pink swung toward him, shouting out loud in surprise, his eyes widening, as if he saw his doom.
“You’re a-going out, are you?” asked Kraken, noting that the man was wearing his coat and that there was a valise sitting on the floorboards several feet from the door. Kraken stepped to the valise, snatche
d it up, unlatched it and dumped it out onto the floor—shirts and smallclothes and a pair of shoes, followed by the thump of rolled banknotes, which Kraken stooped to pick up, saying, “Well, now! Where might you be…”
Instantly Pink leapt forward and dealt him a savage blow on the head, knocking him over a chair, a heavy glass paperweight flying out of his hand and banging down onto the floorboards. Kraken found himself entangled in chair-legs, blind from the blood pouring down out of his scalp. He heard Pink go out, slamming the door behind him as Kraken pushed himself to his feet. He stood reeling, bewildered by the blow. The contents of the valise still lay on the ground, although the banknotes were gone.
He saw now that there was a photograph, however, fallen half out of a pasteboard envelope and lying atop a nightshirt. He picked up both and used the shirt to wipe his bloody face. The photograph depicted a wooden table with a dead baby lying atop it, a long, bloody gash in its chest. Kraken dropped it in horror and then snatched it up again, thinking of what had been pictured in the broadsheet—the altar-like table that sat before the old standing stones. He slid the photograph into his shirt. What it meant, he couldn’t say—filthy trash, that was clear—but it wouldn’t do to leave it lying about.
Pink had got away without any comeuppance—certainly not far, however. He mopped his scalp again and stepped toward the door. As he reached for the knob the door smashed inward, knocking him backward. Pink staggered through it, making sounds in his throat. He turned, his eyes wide, and Kraken saw that both his hands clutched the handle of a heavy clasp knife, imbedded to the hilt in his chest. Pink lurched toward Kraken, apparently trying to speak through a bloody froth, and Kraken picked up the broken chair and fended him off, Pink falling onto his own scattered clothing and lying still.
It was past time to get out. Kraken looked hastily out the door, and, seeing no murderers lurking, he slipped through it and closed it behind him, realizing then that he still carried the bloody shirt that he’d mopped his face with. He pitched it into the weeds and hastened away, his mind working out how to get around to where he had tied up old Bluenose without making a spectacle of himself, as Mother would say. He meant simply ride Bluenose into the wood and find his way back to Hereafter roundaboutly.
He hoped to God that Mother was safe at home, and he wondered whether a lie would suffice to explain his head. But he saw quickly that it would not suffice, that he must tell her the truth and hope that she saw it was the truth, and not something else. She wouldn’t argue with the photograph. He had been in luck to find it. It might serve to do the proving—Pink’s having it—or it might mean damnation, in which case he would burn it in the garden.
Chapter 14
Father and Son
HENLEY WATCHED HIS father’s face. The old man could not dissemble; he wasn’t built for it. His face made plain what he thought, and he was evidently perplexed about something and angry into the bargain, although surely he could have no suspicion that the idiot Bill Henry was an innocent man.
“I’ve been contemplating on something, Henley,” Townover said, leaning back in his chair and looking down his nose. “I asked you quite clearly to write out a draft for the Dumpel girl’s money on the mill’s account in Threadneedle Street. That would have compelled her to return to London. It would also make her relatively safe from thieves. Why did you not do as I asked? You knew as well as I that this man Henry was lurking about and that the girl hadn’t the sense to see him for what he was.”
“I was pressed for time, father. It’s as simple as that. The banknotes were handy and they amounted to the same thing. Davis was set to put her on the train, London bound. I couldn’t have known the idiot girl would go off with Henry. And in any event, the money has come back to us.”
Townover stared at him unhappily. “The money is immaterial to me. The girl’s death is not. I believe that she was murdered for the money. Mere greed. A man of Henry’s type wants motivation, and the banknotes supplied him with motivation aplenty. In our way we were responsible for Daisy’s death. I was irritated with the girl, certainly, but this…” He shook his head and stared hard into his Henley’s eyes. “I mean to say that to my mind, your impatience murdered the girl.”
Henley mastered his feelings and then said, “Looking back now, I see my error. I admit it, and certainly I take full responsibility. But there’s nothing to see if one looks back before anything untoward has happened.”
“Perhaps. But consider that one day this mill might very well belong to you. It is easy for a man to say that he accepts full responsibility for his actions, but it’s a phrase that comes easily into the mind when there are no real consequences. I adjure you to consider things more carefully before you act. Do this for the sake of the mill’s good name if not for your own.”
“I quite understand,” Henley said, bowing. “I regret this very much, father.” Might very well belong to you. Henley considered the implication of the phrasing. It was clearly a threat.
“Your apology, such as it is, will have to suffice, given that the girl is dead. I’m late for the meeting with Frobisher. He’s supping at Windhover tonight. Will you join us?”
“Alas, I cannot, father. I wish I had known yesterday, before I made promises.”
“If I had known yesterday, I would have informed you yesterday.”
“Exactly.” He looked steadily at his father, although he knew it was rash.
“Frobisher seems to be anxious to part with some of his money,” Townover said after a heavy silence. “At least the man knows something about paper. Godfrey Pallinger had no notion of it, nor did the other prospect. Their only interest was in profit, which to my mind makes them tiresome objects. I’m keen to hear what Frobisher has to say.”
“As am I,” Henley said, as he watched his father don his coat and top-hat before the old man went out through the office door and descended the stairs. Alone now, Henley stood up and walked to the window where he looked out at the darkening river, the evening sunlight dwindling as night fell. Had the old man seen something in the very fact of the banknotes that had raised his suspicions? That scarcely seemed possible. Certainly his father must see the banknotes as a blunder and nothing more. He thought of what Davis had told him of his father’s meeting with the meddlesome St. Ives earlier in the day, however, and of St. Ives’s visit to the Malden Arms. Thank God Davis had kept that fact a secret. Henley could discredit the rest of his enemies—had already done so—but his father was a different matter entirely. Perhaps the old man would choke to death on a chicken bone this evening and simplify everything a hundredfold.
He returned to the desk, where he sat in his father’s chair, his mind working until Davis entered the room. “Clover’s hoping to come up,” Davis said. “She was waiting for Mr. Townover to leave before she showed herself.”
Henley nodded. “What about Pink? Is it done?”
“Jenks saw to him.”
“You’re certain?”
“Dead certain. There was a man in Pink’s office—the husband of the Laswell woman, Bill Kraken.”
“You astonish me. In Pink’s office?”
“Pink was running from him, scared like, and carrying a bag, like he was leaving for good and all. Jenks put a knife into Pink after he come out and then pushed him back into the office, which is how he knew Kraken was there. Pink had bashed Kraken on the head, and he was running blood. Jenks left quick, thinking that Kraken could take the blame.”
“Jenks is sure that Kraken didn’t see him?”
“Jenks says no. Any gait, Jenks was wearing a balaclava, so it makes no difference.”
Henley considered it, then laughed out loud. “Kraken! The stupid fool. I wonder what put him onto Pink. That was fast work.”
“It could be Clover knows. Will I send her up?”
“Yes, but what about the 500 pounds that was paid to Pink for the photographs? Did Jenks recover it? If Pink was running, surely he had the money on his person.”
Davis shook his hea
d. “Not yet, sir.”
“Not yet?”
“Jenks looked into Pink’s bag, which he’d dropped outside, but the money weren’t in it, and he couldn’t search Pink’s office with Kraken still inside. There was no time. Jenks had to scarper. No doubt Pink has it hid. Jenks says he’ll go back to look when it’s safe.”
“Does he indeed? Why would Pink have hidden such a large sum if he intended to flee at the first opportunity?”
Davis shrugged. “There’s something in that, sure.”
“Would Jenks keep the money for himself, do you suppose, if he found it?”
“If he saw his main chance and thought he’d get away with it. Lots of men would keep it and call it a bit of luck.”
“Indeed they would,” Henley said. He sat looking out the window at the evening sky for a moment while Davis waited. “I want you to find out the truth. Let us assume that Jenks found it and kept it. Tell Jenks what you just said to me—that it was a bit of luck. Tell him that you’d like to share in the luck. One hundred pounds should do it. You don’t need a full share, given it was Jenks who did the work. Tell him that you convinced me that the money was lost. Any sort of lie that will serve. If Jenks gives you the hundred pounds, show it to me. It behooves both of us to know whether we can trust the man.”
“There’s truth in that. I’ll see him tonight, and put it to him like you said.”
“Good. You have another thing or two to accomplish tonight, I believe. I don’t have to tell you that if you’re seen at Hereafter Farm, it could mean ruin.”
Davis nodded.
“Then send Clover up, if you will, and leave us alone. We’re not to be disturbed.
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