by Jack Murray
‘Now you sit there, my dear,’ suggested Betty to Mary, pointing to a seat at the head of the table. The two ladies sat either side of Mary. Betty took a large scrapbook out of a carrier bag and placed it on the table.
‘The Phantom is back you say?’ asked Betty.
‘Looks like it, Mary can you tell Betty what took place last night at Lord Wolf’s? Listen to this Betty.’
Mary looked at the two ladies and, suppressing a smile, began her report. Like Kit she had the ability to provide sufficient detail without it slowing the overarching narrative. Neither of the ladies said a word, listening intently. Both took notes in large, well-worn notebooks.
When Mary had finished, Betty asked, ‘And you say you saw the card?’ Mary nodded in response. Betty pushed her notebook in front of her and said, ‘Can you draw it my dear?’
‘I have to say Essie is the better artist,’ admitted Mary, ‘But, as you know, she’s in Sussex with Richard’s family, I’ll do my best.’ Mary proceeded to draw the outline of the figure, roughly colouring in the black features but leaving the eyes white. ‘Something like this,’ said Mary. When she’d finished the two ladies looked at one another.
‘There can be no doubt,’ said Agatha.
‘None,’ confirmed Betty.
Mary looked them both for an explanation. Betty nodded to Mary and opened her scrapbook. A card was clipped to the inside. She handed the card to Mary.
‘Is this what you saw?’
The small business card was blank save for a black silhouette wearing a fedora. The eyes were white.
‘My goodness,’ said Mary, fixing her gaze on the card before turning to the others. “Where on earth did you get this?’
‘We weren’t robbed if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Betty, ‘Let’s just say we have contacts.’
Betty took the card back, holding it with something approaching reverence before carefully replacing it inside the cover.
There was a knock on the library door and in walked Fish with a trolley containing the tea and some biscuits. Spying the scrapbook and the presence of Betty he said, ‘A new case milady?’
‘We live in hope,’ replied Aunt Agatha.
Once the tea had been served, Betty got down to business.
‘What do you know about the Phantom, my dear?’
‘It was a little before my time. I was aware of him obviously, who wasn’t? It was all over the papers. But I didn’t really follow the case. War was in the air and with my papa and Uncle Robert, well, our minds were elsewhere.’
‘Perfectly understandable,’ acknowledged Agatha, ‘Perhaps Betty, you should do the honours.’
‘Good plan. Before I start, where is Christopher?’ asked Betty.
Mary smiled, Kit hated his Christian name. ‘Kit is with the police. He went to Scotland Yard this morning to see Chief Inspector Jellicoe.’
‘Jellicoe, you say. Makes sense,’ said Betty, looking knowingly at Agatha, ‘Still, bit of a bad show that you weren’t invited. Typical men.’
‘Indeed, typical men,’ agreed Mary, she had been rather put out by Kit going alone. ‘If he thinks this is the way it’ll be in the future, he’s in for a rude awakening, I can tell you.’
‘Quite right, Mary,’ nodded Agatha. ‘Betty?’
‘Right, where are we? The Phantom. Also known as Raven Hadleigh. Born 1871 in Gloucester to the youngest brother of Lord Ronald Hadleigh. Went to a local public school before a successful career at Oxford studying geology.’
‘He obviously had an interest in rocks right from the start,’ pointed out Agatha. This made both ladies giggle conspiratorially, causing Mary to start also. In fact such was the mirth at Agatha’s joke it took a few minutes and another round of tea before the meeting was able to resume.
‘The first recorded crime was,’ continued Betty, turning the page of her scrapbook to a newspaper cutting, ‘In 1907. Before then it seems he’d spent time abroad working for a petroleum company.’
‘So it’s entirely possible, his criminal career could have started long before then,’ pointed out Mary.
Agatha and Betty exchanged glances and nodded.
‘Entirely possible, Mary. We both certainly believe so,’ replied Agatha, ‘I’m glad you’re of a like mind.’
Mary studied the press cutting of a robbery of a small painting by Reynolds in Glasgow in which the robber had left behind a small calling card.
‘Between 1907 and 1914 a further thirteen robberies were reported. In each case a calling card was left behind by the Phantom. Interestingly, the calling card was never made public.’
‘I’m not surprised, I think a few other phantoms would’ve emerged from the woodwork. But what did he normally steal?’
‘Beautiful objects mostly. In fact beautiful things which were portable. Diamond necklaces and brooches, small but valuable paintings. He never took sculpture, probably too fragile,’ said Betty.
‘Or heavy,’ pointed out Agatha.
‘Indeed,’ replied Betty. ‘He was finally caught in June 1914. The printer of the cards, a man named Felix Kane, was in custody for another crime and he traded time on prison by pointing the finger at Mr Hadleigh as being the Phantom.’
‘Did they recover the stolen objects?’ asked Mary.
‘Well that is one of the more interesting aspects of this case,’ interjected Agatha, ‘Some of the objects were sent back to the owners soon after the theft. The paintings were found at the home of Hadleigh, however, and that was that.’
‘The man who caught the Phantom was your friend, Chief Inspector Jellicoe, or Detective Inspector as he was then.’
‘Why did he return the objects?’ asked Mary.
‘Good question. The belief was that he enjoyed the thrill of the crime more than the actual end product. In fact, the theory at the time was he only needed the necklaces for his wife when they were attending society events. Remember Hadleigh was a respected member of society and would have attended many balls in the city over the years,’ explained Betty.
‘His wife was a beauty,’ added Agatha.
‘Was?’
Betty took up the story, ‘I believe she died relatively recently. Not sure if it was that ghastly flu or something else. There was a daughter I believe.’
‘How terrible,’ said Mary, ‘She’s effectively an orphan.’
‘A very well off orphan,’ suggested Betty, ‘And not a child either. I would say she must be your age, Mary, perhaps slightly older.’
At this point there was a knock at the door.
‘Yes?’
Alfred walked in, ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but I was hoping I could get off now. The studio has been in touch.’
‘Yes, perhaps you can take Betty on your way. Just wait there for a moment, we’ll be finished soon,’ said Agatha.
‘She would be in her early twenties by now, Mary.’
‘Really? That’s interesting,’ said Mary, her mind considering an extraordinary possibility. The three women looked at one another, each thinking the same thought.
‘I see no reason why a woman can’t do what this Phantom did,’ pronounced Mary.
‘I quite agree,’ replied Betty, ‘Especially if it’s his daughter. Imagine that, a chip of the old bloc. The daughter of the Phantom becomes the new Phantom. How wonderful.’
‘I’m not sure we should be delighting in criminal behaviour, Betty dear,’ pointed out Agatha although she didn’t seem completely convinced by this idea herself. Especially if the master criminal in question was a woman.
‘I think we may be close to cracking this case,’ announced Betty excitedly standing up and putting the scrapbook into her bag which she then handed to Alfred. Mary and Agatha walked Betty to the door. ‘I’ll make a start in finding out where the young lady is living now and report back to you tomorrow morning.’
‘Excellent idea, Betty,’ said Agatha. “but can you remember her name?’
‘Caroline according to one of the cuttings. Caroline
Hadleigh,’ replied Betty on the doorstep. With that she turned around and followed Alfred down the steps towards a large Bentley parked on the street outside.
Agatha closed the door and looked at Mary, ‘A productive morning, I think. Now, we must plan our next steps carefully. I don’t think Christopher need know what we’re doing, do you?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Mary, ‘Let’s see if we can do this ourselves.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
‘By the way, where or what is Alfred doing? He mentioned the studio,’ asked Mary.
‘Alfred? Oh, I believe he has a part time job in one of those moving picture studios. He wants to direct films, apparently. A bit like those chaps Griffith or de Mille. Preposterous of course, but young people will get these ideas in their heads.’
Chapter 7
‘Would you like to come in my car?’ asked Kit as he descended the stairs at Scotland Yard with Jellicoe and Ryan.
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Lord Aston,’ replied Jellicoe until he spied Harry Miller pulling up in the Rolls Royce. ‘On the other hand,’ said Jellicoe. He didn’t finish the sentence. One look at Ryan and the decision was made.
The three man walked down towards the Rolls. Harry Miller hopped out of the car to let them in. Jellicoe and Ryan looked around the interior of the car. Kit looked at the two men with a wry smile.
‘How the other half live Chief Inspector?’
Jellicoe seemed amused and but made no comment of a feudal nature, confining himself to saying, ‘It’s certainly an improvement on our usual mode of transport. When I first started this job, sir, we were lucky to have a carriage. That was a long time ago.’
Miller turned around to Kit and asked, ‘Where to sir?’
In response, Jellicoe gave an address, south of the river, which caused Kit and Miller to look at one another.
‘Is this a new prison?’ asked Kit, ‘I can’t say I’m familiar with it.’
Jellicoe replied with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘Not new so much as special.’ He didn’t elaborate further, so Kit let the matter drop despite his curiosity.
The address of the facility was a little way out of the centre of town. Miller drove them south towards Clapham. The journey took around fifteen minutes. As they passed through the London streets, the three men chatted amiably about commonplace subjects. This was frustrating as Kit was burning to know who the second prisoner might be, but the good Chief Inspector resisted any subtle invitation of Kit’s to talk further on the matter.
They finally arrived at the facility which was cunningly disguised as a small mansion with a high wall and trees around its border. The area seemed relatively well-to-do. It amused Kit to think about what residents would feel about having a prison in their midst.
As the car drew up a man, dressed in country tweeds, came to meet them at the gate. Although his attire seemed to suggest a county gent, his face told a different story. The skin was rough-hewn, with heavy eyelids that slanted downwards; his nose had been broken once too often and been given up on as a bad job. Kit recognised a boxer when he saw one. Up close as they sped in, it was clear the tweed suit was scarcely able to contain the epic dimensions of this particular squire.
The driveway to the house was around fifty yards long and ended in a large area in front of the house set aside for vehicles. It seemed to Kit, once he was out of the car, that they were in the countryside rather than the heart of a major capital city. The doors of the large house opened and out stepped a man who greeted them on the steps. The man in his fifties with a bearing that was unmistakably military.
‘Hello sir,’ said Jellicoe, shaking the man’s hand, ‘Are you Major Hastings?’
The man smiled, ‘No longer a Major, Chief Inspector, but thank you notwithstanding that.’ He looked at the car and smiled.
‘Police cars have certainly come a long way.’
Jellicoe smiled and turned to Kit, ‘May I present Lord Aston and my colleague, Detective Sergeant Ryan.’
After the usual greetings, Hastings ushered the men inside. The interior was dominated by dark wood walls, flooring and staircase. It was perhaps a little dark for Kit’s taste, but this was a detail on what was otherwise the most extraordinary prison Kit had ever visited. A sense of anger began to build as he hoped that the second prisoner was not Eric Strangerson, the murderer of Mary’s uncle. As he thought this, he quickly scolded himself. Such a trick would be out of character for the Chief Inspector, a man he found he had increasing regard for.
-
Joe Ryan knew something was wrong as he walked towards the factory gates. Several men were walking away rather than to the factory. Some looked angry, a couple in shock, others had the muted resignation of another defeat. He felt his skin tingle and for once he knew it wasn’t the cold. The feeling in the pit of his stomach grew with each step towards the gate. He knew the feeling well. It was almost an old friend. Or enemy.
Once through the gates he made his way towards to the entrance of the factory. Inside the noise of the machines was loud but not quite deafening. The height of the vast arched roof overhead meant that the sound was dispersed more widely making it just about bearable. A few of his mates were strolling around the factory floor. He waved to one but was not acknowledged. Not a good sign.
‘Joe,’ shouted someone from behind.
He turned to see Alf Fairfax motioning for him to come over. Fairfax was the local union organiser for the factory. He was a sharp featured man in his forties with a look that was, whether by design or good fortune, permanently sly. This made him an ideal interlocutor with management, who probably disliked him as much as the workers unquestionably did. Ryan tended to avoid him if he could, which made him more like the factory management than the union man would have imagined.
Ryan felt his feet begin to drag. Fairfax looked at him impatiently. Before he reached the union leader, Fairfax turned and walked through a door. It led up to the management office on the floor overlooking the factory.
Ryan followed Fairfax up the stairs. There was no conversation. There was no need. Ryan had seen this before. He knew why his workmates had not looked at him. Why should they? He would have done the same. In fact, he had done the same. What could any of them do?
Fairfax pushed open a door marked Factory Manager. Ryan followed him to the office. Inside was a young woman, Lily, the secretary to Ken Tippett, the factory manager, who was sat behind his desk. Ryan nodded to Lily, who was liked for a variety of reasons by the boys on the factory floor, although none had ever come close to courting her. She smiled sympathetically.
‘This is Joe Ryan,’ said Fairfax to Tippett.
‘Ah, Ryan,’ said Tippett, looking up uncomfortably at Ryan. Fairfax remained standing, so Ryan did likewise. Lily had stopped using the typewriting machine since Ryan’s arrival in the office. ‘Come forward,’ ordered Tippett.
Ryan walked forward, taking off his cap. Holding it in both hands at his waist. Tippett was holding a letter. He looked from Ryan to the letter and then back to Ryan.
‘I shan’t beat around the bush. We’re laying you off,’ said Tippett. He paused for a moment to let the news sink in. It already had. Then he continued, ‘We’re having to do this to a number of chaps. I’m afraid it’s based on last in first out. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Yes, the ones that didn’t fight get to stay, sir.’
‘Ryan,’ said Fairfax sharply. ‘Enough of that lad. It can’t be helped.’
Tippett looked even more uncomfortable now. He was of an age at which he could have fought in the War. He hadn’t. His occupation was deemed too important for the overall War effort.
‘We’re aware that you served your country, Ryan and of course we’re grateful. The sad fact is we are suffering. Cheap foreign imports are undercutting us. We have to become more competitive. This is the reality of the marketplace. You understand?’
Of course I understand, thought Ryan bitterly. I’m not an idiot. He stayed sile
nt, leaving Tippett with the impression he was dealing with someone intellectually deficient. He decided to bring the meeting to a swift conclusion.
‘This letter explains it all. The management is also being quite generous to people like yourself, and there is a not insubstantial payoff,’ continued Tippett. He motioned his head and Ryan heard Lily rise form her desk and come forward. She handed Ryan an envelope that jingled. With coins. Tippett meanwhile sealed his envelope also and handed it to Ryan.
‘Come on lad,’ said Fairfax moving forward and touching Ryan’s arm.
Ryan turned and walked out of the office in silence. As the door closed he heard Lily begin typing again. The two men walked down the stairs and then down a corridor to another smaller office. This belonged to Fairfax.
‘I’m sorry about this lad. A dozen blokes have been laid off also. Do you have any other work you think you can find?’
‘No,’ replied Ryan. He knew a lot of men who had lost their jobs were looking around all the usual places. It seemed to be the same story everywhere. It didn’t matter that you’d fought for King and country. If anything it made things worse back in civilian life. You’d missed out in gaining work experience that others, who hadn’t served, were able to have. He felt himself sinking into a dark hole. Life wasn’t meant to be easy, but this?
Fairfax wrote down a name and an address. As he was doing so he said, ‘I know someone that might be able to help.’
Ryan took the piece of paper and looked at it.
‘A job?’
‘No guarantees. Tell him I sent you, mind. That’s important. Ask to speak to him and tell him you’ve been sent by me. Understand?’
‘Thanks,’ said Ryan, feeling some relief. The room became slightly brighter. The weight crushing his stomach lightened immediately through hope and gratitude.
‘Go along this morning, lad.’
Ryan didn’t need a second invitation. Within moments he was on his feet and heading out of the office.
‘Thanks Alf,’ said Ryan at the door. He meant it.
-
Major Hastings led Kit to a large office with a view over the expansive garden at the back. The office was sparsely furnished and there were no pictures on the walls bar one regimental photograph. Kit walked over to it. It was typical of the period. Very wide and containing ranks of men. Hastings was in the middle of the front row. The picture was taken in June 1914.
