Terror by Gaslight

by Edward Taylor

  The boy hesitated, looking uncertain for the first time. A frown seemed to be gathering on his face. Anger? Or merely regret?

  It was with relief that Harriet observed the patrolling constable was now quite close and heading in their direction.

  ‘Now please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I want to have a word with that policeman. I can tell him about Ella.’

  The moment he became aware of the law approaching, an inbuilt alarm galvanized the boy.

  ‘Bloody rozzers!’ he said, and marched off swiftly.

  As he went, he took the knife from his belt and hurled it at an oak tree that stood ahead of him, throwing it skilfully so that the point thudded into the trunk at head height and stayed there. When his retreat took him past the oak, the boy wrenched the knife from the bark and restored it to his belt. Then he disappeared into the trees.

  Harriet watched him go and then stood there, bewildered, shaken by this confrontation, and wondering if she could carry on with the job she had come here to do.

  Nervousness was mingling in her mind with a curious excitement. Then, as she havered, the constable arrived and greeted her respectfully, touching the side of his helmet in salute.

  ‘Good afternoon, miss.’ His voice was strong and reassuring, with a Berkshire accent. He was one of those hefty, stalwart country bobbies the authorities were always glad to recruit, to keep the peace in London.

  ‘Good afternoon, Officer.’ She gave him a small smile.

  ‘Was that boy annoying you?’ the policeman enquired.

  ‘Oh no.’ Harriet was surprised to find herself oddly protective about the ragamuffin who had so recently alarmed her. ‘No, not at all. He’s going to try and help me find my cat. I think she’s lost on the Heath.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the constable. ‘Well, I strongly advise you not to trust him. He’s no good, miss. We think he’s been thieving food down Camden Market.’

  ‘He looks as if he needs it,’ said Harriet. ‘He seems half starved.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said the officer. ‘But thieving’s not the way to go about it. If we catch him at it, he’s going to cop it and no mistake.’ He noticed the leaflets in the young woman’s hand. ‘You’re putting up notices about your cat, are you?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s not illegal, is it?’

  The policeman pondered. ‘Well, strictly speaking I suppose you might need permission. But I don’t think anyone will bother. Specially not in these times. If you like, I’ll take a couple and show them round at the station.’

  ‘Oh yes, please do.’ Harriet handed him two leaflets and he studied the top one with raised eyebrows.

  ‘A guinea reward! That’s very handsome. I’ll be keeping a lookout myself, I can tell you.’

  He turned to resume his patrol and then paused. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to warn you, miss, to be very careful out here. Make sure you’re home before dark. There’s some rum customers about on the Heath these days. It’s not just the Maniac you have to worry about. Take care.’

  ‘Thank you, Officer,’ Harriet called, as the policeman strode away.

  Buoyed up by the thought that she now had help from both sides of the law, she decided that she would complete her mission. There was just time to pin up the remaining leaflets before dusk.

  The polishing fluid had dried on the cutlery, and Mrs Butters was now busy wiping off the powdery residue with a soft cloth. In a gentle way, she was quite enjoying herself. It pleased her to see the metal start to shine like silver.

  Also, although it was a task that should properly be done in the scullery, Mr Austin was out, and Mrs Butters knew that neither of his daughters minded her bringing it to the more congenial surroundings of the drawing room. Here she worked at a small table, which she’d covered with a green baize cloth.

  The scullery managed to be damp and dark at all times of the day but here in the drawing room she’d been cheered by the huge sky that filled the windows, and by the view across the Heath. This was a pleasant place to work. Earlier on, there had even been some weak sunshine. That was now fading into dusk but the view remained, and there was even a little lingering warmth on this side of the windows.

  Mrs Butters had learned to get satisfaction from simple domestic tasks: not the strenuous, back-straining heavy work, of course, nor the less salubrious jobs. But sedentary ones that showed a good result always gave her modest pleasure.

  There were not many joyful activities in Mrs Butters’ daily round. The exciting and romantic penny novels, on which she spent part of her hard-earned wages, brightened the last half-hour of her long day, though she sometimes found it hard to read the bigger words.

  In the summer she enjoyed taking the sun for a few stolen minutes in the kitchen garden alongside the house. And, of course, she shared with Harriet the delight of stroking and fussing over household pets. It was a limited existence but at least a relatively secure one. At least, that was what she’d always thought.

  There had rarely been much frivolity in Grace Butters’ life. Daughter of a parlourmaid and a footman, she herself had begun in domestic service at the age of fourteen, as part of a big household in Sloane Square. Here she had toiled her way from kitchen skivvy to assistant cook in eight years, before marriage changed everything.

  Michael Butters was a handsome, lively fellow, a soldier by profession and an athlete from choice. He had boxed for his regiment with some success. The two years during which he was stationed at Chelsea Barracks had been the happiest time of the young woman’s life, and it was then that their daughter Ann was born.

  But all too soon things changed. Michael’s regiment was posted to India. Here he was involved in a skirmish on the Kashmir border, which left him with a head wound, a minor medal and a medical discharge from the army. On his return to England, he was a changed man: moody, violent and unpredictable, often berating, and sometimes beating his wife. She put up with his behaviour, telling herself it was not his fault. She would never have left him. But then he left her.

  Their love and their marriage had both ended twenty-five years ago, in dramatic fashion. Embittered by years of unpleasant menial jobs, frequent sackings, often for violent conduct, mixed with long periods of unemployment, Michael Butters launched a fierce attack on his wife and child, hitting them with his fists and then threatening them with a knife. Grace had saved their limbs, and probably their lives, by locking herself and her daughter in a room with a stout door.

  When they nervously emerged hours later, Michael Butters was gone. And neither of them had seen or heard of him since. Grace had reported his disappearance to the police, but there had been no outcome. For years Grace and Ann had lived in fear, before at last accepting that his exit from their lives was final.

  Mrs Butters had gone back into service to support herself and her daughter. Then, at eighteen, Ann had married a decent young man, a carpenter, who had heard of great opportunities for skilled tradesmen in the New World. And Ann and her husband had sailed steerage to America, with her mother’s blessing.

  Mrs Butters’ occasional exchange of letters with her daughter was the highlight of her year. One day Ann and John would return to England with her grandchildren. That was something to look forward to. For now, Mrs Butters must get on with her daily routine and make the most of its lighter moments.

  It was getting colder. Mrs Butters went to the fire and brought it to life by means of a few ferocious prods with the poker. Then she returned to her chair and contemplated the results of her labour.

  But the temperature took a sharp tumble as Harriet opened the garden door and came in. She shut it quickly behind her but there’d been time for the icy wind to sweep across the room.

  The housekeeper shivered. ‘Brrr! You must be frozen, Miss Harriet. I’ll wager it’s colder than a dead frog out there!’

  In fact, Harriet was now glowing from her achievement in pinning up ten leaflets, every one of which had been affixed by a drawing pin at each corner, to prevent the wind getting u
nderneath it.

  She was also warmed by the effort involved, and by the excitement of her encounter with the boy. Looking back she had mixed feelings about this but it had certainly been an adventure. So there was more than a touch of cheerfulness in her reply.

  ‘It’s chilly, yes. But it was pleasant while the sun was out.’ She made for the fireside and announced triumphantly, ‘I’ve put up all the notices!’

  ‘Well done, miss. But I’m glad to see you safely home and that’s a fact. I wouldn’t want to be walking on the Heath these days. It’s too dangerous for me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no danger in the afternoon, Mrs Butters. The Maniac has never struck in daylight.’

  Mrs Butters sighed. ‘There’s always a first time, that’s what I say.’

  ‘Besides, the police are everywhere. There’s a bobby behind every bush. I had a nice talk with one.’

  ‘Talk’s all very well but they didn’t stop those poor young men being murdered, did they? With respect, miss, I say you were taking a risk.’

  ‘A risk worth taking, if it brings my Ella back.’

  ‘Well, I pray it does. With all my heart.’ Then the housekeeper remembered her duties. ‘Shall I put your things away, Miss Harriet?’

  ‘Don’t get up now. They can wait till you’ve finished that job.’ Harriet took off her coat and gloves and put them on the back of a sofa. Then she sat down in an armchair and picked up a piece of embroidery. Now she was ready to impart the big news of the day.

  ‘I met a young man on the Heath this afternoon.’

  The older woman’s interest was swiftly aroused, together with considerable alarm.

  ‘What sort of young man, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘A very young young man. More of a boy, really. Fourteen or fifteen, perhaps.’

  ‘A boy of fourteen? Out there alone?’ Mrs Butters was shocked. ‘What can his mother be thinking of?’

  ‘Alas, I fear he may not have a mother,’ said Harriet. ‘But he appeared well able to look after himself, and he seemed quite at home in those surroundings. He said he was gathering firewood.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of that about. But what was he going to do with it?’

  ‘That’s the surprise. He seemed so at home out there, I thought perhaps he lived on the Heath. Some people do, I’m told. But no, he lives in the house next door! Dunblane! He was gathering firewood for Dr Frankel!’

  ‘Oh. The boy from Dunblane,’ said Mrs Butters, a little disappointed at having the mystery peter out so tamely. ‘Yes, they always keep a boy at Dunblane. Mrs Piper at the grocer’s says they use him very badly. They feed him scraps, and he has to do all the rough work. It seems he’s just a slave.’

  ‘That’s what he told me. He wants to get away.’

  ‘I wish him luck, poor little devil. To tell you the truth, Miss Harriet, although it’s not my place to say so, I don’t like that Dr Frankel. I wish the master didn’t have him treating you. I don’t think he’s a nice man.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Harriet, without much conviction, ‘I’m sure my father knows best. Dr Frankel has an unfortunate manner but I believe he’s very clever. He does a lot of research, you know.’

  ‘So they say,’ said the housekeeper, darkly. ‘Goodness knows what that means. Mrs Piper says there’s a lot of funny things go on in that house. I hope that poor boy gets away soon.’

  Harriet attempted to drive from her mind the picture of her medical adviser cutting up animals, and strove to regain her former cheerfulness.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said brightly, ‘he’s going to try and find Ella for me. And the policeman said he’ll keep an eye open too.’

  ‘Well, the more the merrier, I say.’ Mrs Butters held up a fork, to inspect it in the fading light. There’d been a blemish which had required extra polishing. But now it seemed to have gone. She gave the fork a final rub, replaced it with the others, and asked, ‘D’you think those notices will help, Miss Harriet?’

  ‘One can only hope, Mrs Butters. But I believe the guinea reward should create some interest.’

  The housekeeper was impressed. ‘Goodness me! If a guinea doesn’t do the trick, I don’t know what will!’

  ‘I only wish I could afford to offer more,’ said Harriet.

  ‘It’s my belief your Ella just wandered off. Cats like a change, you know. She may come back of her own accord.’

  ‘Pray God she comes back alive,’ said Harriet. ‘I miss her terribly.’ She snipped the silk thread she was using, and changed the subject. ‘I suppose my sister’s writing in her room?’

  ‘That’s right, miss. These days she seems to spend all her time there.’

  Harriet sighed. ‘She loses herself in her work, lucky girl. And she’ll do anything to avoid speaking to our father.’

  ‘Such a shame, that is. It’s not natural.’

  Suddenly, Harriet was alert. ‘What was that? It sounded like our garden gate.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything, Miss Harriet.’

  Harriet put down her embroidery and hurried to the window. ‘I’m sure I heard the gate open. Or close.’

  ‘Well, your ears are younger than mine, and that’s a fact.’

  Harriet peered through the window and instantly cried out in alarm.

  ‘What is it, miss?’

  ‘There’s a strange man by our gate! A horrid-looking man, all wild and dishevelled! He’s staring in!’

  Mrs Butters rose. ‘Let me come and have a look.’

  ‘Come quick! Oh heavens, he’s seen me!’

  The housekeeper dropped a spoon, picked it up, and advanced across the room, mumbling, ‘These legs aren’t as fast as they used to be.’

  ‘Yes, he’s seen me!’ cried Harriet. ‘He’s running away!’

  The housekeeper arrived at the window and surveyed the scene outside. ‘Well, I can’t see anyone, miss.’

  ‘Too late. He’s disappeared into that clump of trees.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s more frightened of you than you are of him. So you needn’t worry, miss.’

  ‘But I do, Mrs Butters. I saw him yesterday. Some sort of tramp, with dirty clothes and hair down to his shoulders. He comes up to the gate and stares at our windows.’

  Mrs Butters plodded back to her chair. ‘You’d better tell your father, miss.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d believe me.’ Harriet sat down again in her armchair and picked up her embroidery, without enthusiasm. ‘He’d say I was imagining things. Like he did when I told him about the whistling I sometimes hear at night. He got angry when I mentioned that.’

  ‘He’s not an easy man to talk to, that I will say. Makes things awkward, that does. I’ve got something I’d like to tell someone about. Something very odd. But I don’t fancy speaking to the master.’

  Harriet looked up with interest. ‘Something odd? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well … a sort of … a contraption.’

  ‘A contraption? Where?’

  ‘It was when I moved some logs in the garden shed. There was this funny-looking thing behind there, like it might be some sort of weapon. And it had some sticky stuff on it. I thought it might be … well … dried blood.’

  ‘Blood?’ The younger woman was amazed. ‘Surely not. It must be paint. Or something for the garden.’

  ‘Well, it might be. But I wondered if I should tell the police.’

  Harriet was very alarmed at the suggestion. ‘Oh no! You mustn’t tell the police, Mrs Butters! Father would be furious! He says the police always create scandal! He doesn’t want them coming here any more.’

  The housekeeper pondered as she shone up the last of the dessert spoons. Satisfied, she laid it in the large-spoon section of the velvet-lined case in front of her. Then she yielded the point. ‘I daresay you’re right, miss. But I do feel I should tell someone who might know about these things.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Harriet, ‘perhaps you should tell that Major Steele. He may be more discreet than the po
lice.’

  It was the older woman’s turn to be shocked. ‘The detective? But he’s not allowed to come here! I shan’t be seeing him!’

  ‘I’m afraid you will, Mrs Butters. Quite soon. My sister is determined to collaborate with him, and she’s advised him to call when Father is out. I think she’s arranged for him to come this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cried the housekeeper. ‘Not again! That Miss Clare, she’ll never learn! She’ll bring disaster on all of us!’

  ‘I cannot dissuade her, she is older than I am. I can only try to avoid being involved myself.’

  ‘Heaven help us! Those men are coming here today?’

  ‘Apparently. And as they’re to be with us anyway, you might as well tell them of your discovery.’

  As the housekeeper struggled to digest this advice, the hall door opened and Clare came in, with a bright greeting.

  ‘Good afternoon, Harriet.’

  The response was muted. ‘Hello, Clare.’ Harriet bent over her embroidery without looking up.

  ‘Mrs Butters,’ said Clare, ‘I’m expecting two visitors.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Twenty minutes to five. Not too late for tea, I think. Will you bring some, please?’

  ‘If you say so, Miss Clare. But … would it be that major and his friend?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Butters, it would. So please serve the best tea. I expect they’re quite discriminating.’

  ‘Forgive me, miss, but is that wise? You remember what the master said.’

  ‘I do,’ said Clare. ‘And I remember what he did. But tyrants must not prevail. You may rest assured that all precautions have been taken. I have ascertained that Mr Austin has an important meeting in his office at half past five, which he will not want to miss. And our visitors will use the front door.’

  ‘The front door, miss?’

  ‘When they used the garden door, Dr Frankel saw them and warned Mr Austin. He’s less likely to observe them approaching by the road. Also, I believe Major Steele has some other plan to avoid detection.’