Terror by Gaslight

by Edward Taylor

  Cedric Jamieson had chuckled with glee when his eyes first fell on the story, savouring the thought of those interfering nuisances suffering injury and pain. He was now reading the piece for the third time, and wishing there were more details.

  All in all, Jamieson considered that things were going remarkably well, and he might be entitled to a holiday. There was a lady in Paris who was always pleased to see him, when he had money to spend. And there could be more. With his luck going so well, he might even have a flutter in the casinos over there.

  There was a knock at his door, and Jamieson shouted ‘Come in’ in a cheerful voice. Could this be more good news? Gertie upstairs offering discounts on a slack day, perhaps?

  In fact, it was Arthur, with some papers he’d laboriously prepared. He put them on Jamieson’s desk and, seeing that his employer seemed in a genial mood, embarked on a little conversation.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr J. But them two blokes that was duffed up on Hampstead Heath, wasn’t they the ones that was here last week, pushing us around?’

  ‘Yes, the very same,’ chortled the lawyer. ‘And now they’ve got their comeuppance.’ He’d seen the chance of a little unearned credit. ‘No one takes liberties with Cedric Jamieson without paying the price.’

  Arthur was duly impressed.

  ‘Strewth!’ he said, admiringly. ‘You mean you set it up?’

  ‘Now, now, I didn’t say that, did I? No names, no pack drill.’ Jamieson tapped the side of his nose with a tobacco-stained finger. ‘Just work it out for yourself.’

  Arthur looked at his employer with new respect.

  ‘Well done, Mr J. I didn’t like them two, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they’ll be troubling us again.’ Jamieson made a decision. ‘Now then, my lad, big opportunity for you. I have to go to the Continent on business. I’ll go Sunday and stay for the week. You’ll be in charge of the office.’

  Arthur was taken aback. This had never happened before.

  ‘What, me? On my tod?’

  ‘You know enough to hold the fort for a week. Any new customers, tell them to come back in ten days. Any queries on current business, tell them it’s all in hand. You can spend your time chasing the unpaid bills. Anyone gets difficult, get on to Slasher.’

  His assistant still looked uncertain.

  ‘I’ll give you an extra quid,’ said Jamieson. ‘And you’ll have Gertie upstairs to yourself for a week.’

  ‘Make it two quid, Mr J.,’ said the clerk.

  ‘All right, two quid,’ said his employer expansively. ‘Why not? Money coming in, Slattery out of the way, Steele and his crony scared off. We’re in clover, lad.’

  There was a loud knocking on the outside door.

  ‘Go and see who that is, Arthur. Might be Father Christmas coming early.’

  As Arthur went to the outer office, Jamieson knocked back his whisky and started thinking about seven days in Paris.

  Then men’s voices were heard in the outer office and, a moment later, Arthur returned to Jamieson’s inner sanctum, followed by a large man in a dark-blue raincoat.

  ‘This man says he’s from the police,’ Arthur announced glumly.

  The large man stepped forward. ‘Inspector Boyle, Fraud Department,’ he said. ‘Are you Cedric Robert Jamieson?’

  John Mason was woken from a fitful doze by the noise of his door opening and the sound of the nurse’s voice. The latter was harsher than the former.

  ‘You mustn’t be longer than twenty minutes,’ she was saying. ‘Be careful not to tire the patient.’

  She showed in a familiar figure and then left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Hello there, Jack,’ said Steele. He took in his colleague’s hospital room at a glance: bedside chair and table, armchair, wash-stand and, best of all, a large window with a good view of sky: the army benevolent fund was getting value for money. ‘Nice little home from home you’ve got here,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Mason, raising himself further up on his pillow. ‘But I’ll be glad to see the back of it. The ruddy place is unlicensed. I can’t get a drink.’

  Steele sat on the bedside chair and looked at the jug on the table.

  ‘Plenty of good refreshing water,’ he observed.

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, guv’nor,’ Mason pleaded. ‘I’m not strong enough to take it.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Steele, delving into his briefcase. He produced a bottle full of light-brown fluid and handed it to the patient. ‘If you’re really thirsty, this might help.’

  Mason took the bottle and read the label with mounting dismay. ‘Benevita. Nature’s way to a speedy recovery. A unique blend of health-giving herbs and wholesome raw vegetables, designed to comfort the patient, improve bowel function and restore health and vigour.’

  At first no words would come. Then he managed to say, ‘Thanks, guv’nor. I’ll try some later.’

  ‘Have some now,’ said Steele. ‘And I’ll join you.’

  ‘No … really. Actually, I’m not thirsty any more.’

  ‘Smell it.’

  Mason unscrewed the cap and advanced the bottle cautiously towards his nose. Then a grin spread over his face. ‘You crafty old devil!’ he said. ‘This is the real stuff!’

  ‘Of course,’ said his friend. ‘Only I didn’t think the hospital management would approve of bedside whisky bottles. And the Benevita’s doing wonders for my window-box.’

  Two tumblers stood by the jug. Steele poured some amber fluid into each and added a little water.

  ‘Good health!’ said Steele. ‘And here’s to Commander West!’

  Mason joined the toast, took a drink, and exhaled gratefully. Then he reacted to the major’s words.

  ‘Commander West?’

  It was the first time the two men had talked since the battle on the bridge. Mason had been unconscious when Steele had to leave him at the hospital. Now the major told him everything that had happened since the final blow knocked him out.

  ‘Strewth!’ said Mason. ‘So the old rascal’s carrying a gun after all! I bet it’s unlicensed!’

  ‘It is,’ said Steele. ‘I checked.’

  ‘So how do the police feel about that?’

  ‘George Willoughby came straight over to take charge of the case. I told him West had snatched the gun from one of the thugs.’

  ‘Cor!’ Mason gave a little chuckle. ‘Did he believe that?’

  ‘He must have done,’ said Steele innocently. ‘It’s in the official report.’ He smiled. ‘Willoughby wasn’t going to make trouble. He’s rather happy about the whole thing.’

  ‘Is he? Including my cracked ribs and battered head?’

  ‘I think he feels that goes with the job. He’s pleased because they’ve nabbed Ned Barker, a villain they’ve been after for a long time.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mason, recalling Steele’s narrative. ‘I suppose that’ll be one of the blokes that Commander shot. They didn’t run away with the others, I take it.’

  ‘One did. But not Barker. He won’t be running anywhere for a long time. He’s under arrest in hospital with a shattered knee.’

  ‘Serves him right,’ said Mason.

  ‘Quite. The police believe Barker’s behind enough crimes to lock him up for life. They’ve started questioning him already.’

  ‘About the attack?’

  ‘That and many other things.’

  ‘There’ll be the usual trading, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course. They’ll offer to reduce some of the charges if he gives them the facts and the names they want.’

  ‘So we should find out who’s hired that scum to rough us up.’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Willoughby doesn’t let villains off lightly.’

  ‘Who do you think was behind it?’

  ‘There are quite a few people who don’t much like us, aren’t there?’ Steele produced another wry smile. ‘Strange, that. Two friendly chaps like us. But we seem to have made some enemie
s. It could have been any of them.’

  Mason sighed and drank some more whisky, while considering man’s inhumanity to man. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Austin, perhaps? He may have realized we’re after him. Or Frankel?’ Then another thought struck him. ‘What about Jamieson?’

  ‘Not Jamieson, he’s too mean. He wouldn’t have paid that many thugs. He’d have hired two men and a big dog. Anyway, we’ll soon know. Now then, what about you, Jack? What do the doctors say?’

  ‘Oh, there’s hairline cracks to two ribs. They’ll soon mend. Apart from that, it’s mainly cuts and bruises, plus a bit of concussion. That’s wearing off already.’

  ‘Why’s there a bandage round your neck?’

  ‘There’s a gash at the back. That’s got a couple of stitches. So has the wound on my side. The cracked ribs are strapped up. It’ll all mend quickly.’

  ‘I hope so. There’s work to be done.’

  ‘I can’t wait to get out of here, guv’nor. But the quacks say I have to stay a few more days, in case of delayed reaction.’

  There was a peremptory knock at the door and the nurse bustled in, looking stern.

  ‘Have you taken your medicine, Mr Mason?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes, Nurse,’ replied her patient dutifully.

  ‘Then why is it still on your table?’ The nurse was looking at a small glass, three-quarters full of green liquid, hidden behind the bedside Bible, on top of which socks had been folded to add height.

  Mason showed huge surprise. ‘Oh, is it? Good heavens! I must have mistaken the thought for the deed. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, drink it up now, please.’

  ‘Could I leave it for a moment? I’m just finishing this other stuff. It’s not good to mix drinks, is it?’

  ‘Drink your medicine at once, Mr Mason!’ For a moment it seemed she might be about to smack him.

  ‘Oh … yes … of course, Nurse. Sorry.’ With a grimace, Mason knocked back the green fluid, and then coughed ostentatiously.

  ‘That’s better,’ said the nurse. ‘Your next dose is at six o’clock.’ Her eye lit on the amber liquid in Mason’s tumbler. ‘What’s this you’re drinking?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Ah … er … it’s a sort of patent remedy,’ Mason mumbled.

  ‘Indeed?’ The nurse looked at the bottle and turned to Steele. ‘Did you bring this?’

  The major shifted uneasily in his chair, and became somewhat vague. ‘Er … yes,’ he conceded. ‘I think I must have done. I brought Mr Mason several things.’

  ‘Well done!’ said the nurse. ‘Benevita is an excellent restorative.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Steele, recovering swiftly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle. ‘I believe it’s very wholesome and health-giving. My grandmother swore by it. I thought it might do him good.’

  ‘Certainly it will, it’s a first-class tonic.’ She picked up the bottle and held it in front of Mason’s face. ‘Make sure you drink plenty of this, Mr Mason!’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I will, Nurse, I will!’ said Mason fervently. And then the nurse was gone and the two men were alone again.

  Steele had noticed the name on the lapel of the crisp white uniform. ‘Nurse Bullimore, I see.’

  ‘Yes. And bloody well named, I must say. Dreadful woman! I’d swear she chews iron filings for breakfast. Washed down with caustic soda!’

  Steele rebuked him mildly. ‘That’s not fair, Jack. She’s only doing what she has to do.’

  ‘So did Genghis Khan!’ said Mason, and then he gratefully changed the subject. ‘Any news from Scotland Yard? Has Professor Kane produced any more bright ideas?’

  ‘Several. Last week he decided the Maniac may have had a deprived childhood. He wanted our friends at the Yard to trace all men who grew up in British orphanages and children’s homes in the last forty years.’

  ‘Good God! How did they react to that?’

  ‘With very little enthusiasm. Willoughby’s worked out that a hundred policemen working seven days a week would take a year to do the job. He feels they could be better employed elsewhere.’

  ‘Like escorting Professor Kane on to a boat back to America.’

  ‘There is a growing body of opinion in favour of that idea. In the meantime, the professor’s announced that he’s been working too hard, and his brain needs rest and refreshment. He’s going to be walking the Yorkshire moors for a week.’

  ‘Oh well, that’ll keep him out of the way for a while. Is he up there yet?’

  ‘He went yesterday. He should have been there the day before, but he got on the wrong train.’

  Mason let out a guffaw, which quickly changed to a cry of agony. He clutched his ribs.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, guv’nor,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve got more places that hurt than places that don’t.’

  Steele’s tone became serious. ‘Well, there’s nothing funny about the next story. I’m afraid there’s tragic news from the Austin house.’

  ‘Oh dear. Not that poor frightened girl, I hope.’

  ‘No, the housekeeper, Mrs Butters. She’s dead.’

  ‘Good God! The housekeeper? What happened?’

  ‘They found her at the foot of the cellar steps with a fractured skull. Austin called in his friend Dr Frankel, as you might expect, and he said it was an accident, as you might also expect. George Willoughby has his doubts. He’s ordered a post mortem, and his men are investigating. There’ll be an inquest, obviously.’

  ‘I should certainly hope so. Frankel’s verdict will be about as reliable as a cart with three wheels.’

  ‘Mind you, it could have been an accident. You’ll have noticed that the lady was somewhat overweight.’

  ‘And overworked as well. Any other details?’

  ‘The back door was open, so there could have been an intruder. Anyway, it wasn’t the Heath Maniac. Not his modus operandi.’

  Mason peered into his whisky glass and pondered on life’s injustice.

  ‘Poor old duck! I liked her. I shouldn’t think Austin treated her very well.’

  ‘I’m damn certain he didn’t. It’s a sure bet he’s never treated anyone very well in his life. But he’ll soon get his comeuppance.’

  ‘It can’t come soon enough.’

  ‘Another thing to tell you is they’ve arrested Cedric Jamieson on a string of charges. Nothing to do with Austin.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose we can still carry on building up our own case against him.’

  ‘Certainly. And any more papers we need from Jamieson’s office, Willoughby can get them for us.’

  There was a pause. Mason drank another mouthful and began to feel more comfortable. But his professional curiosity was still working. ‘So what do we do next?’ he enquired.

  ‘You lie in bed and get yourself better quick. I may need you back on your feet by Sunday. While you’re lolling around here, I’ll be doing fieldwork.’

  ‘Fieldwork? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means the office can take care of itself for a day or two. I’m going back on the Heath, with my binoculars. Incognito.’

  ‘More of your scouting missions?’

  ‘Exactly. I want to pry about and see what’s happening in and around those big houses. I’m going to observe what goes on at Dunblane and Hillside and the Greenwells’ when no one’s watching. Or when they think no one’s watching.’

  ‘Sooner you than me. It’s getting a bit chilly out there. And damp.’

  ‘I’ll wrap up warm.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘A new line of inquiry, Jack. Perhaps the conclusive one. I’ve left the biggest news till last.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘Considerably more. I’ve had a very interesting letter from Luke Scully.’

  Mason was instantly alert. ‘Scully? I wouldn’t have thought he could write a letter, even when he was fit and well, and now he’s on his deathbed!’

  ‘That’s the point. He knows he’s about to kick the bucket and something’s been trou
bling him, something he needed to tell us. I expect his wife did the writing; it’s a woman’s hand. But the words are Scully’s.’

  ‘Are they important?’

  ‘If they imply what I think they might, they could solve the mystery. The case could be over on Sunday.’

  ‘What?!’ Mason sat up in astonishment and then winced with pain. ‘What is this? What have you got up your sleeve?’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure yet. But I want you fit and ready for action by the end of the week.’

  ‘I will be. Of course. Whatever the doctors say. But will you please tell me what this is all about? What did Scully say in this letter?’ Mason grabbed his colleague’s arm.

  ‘Don’t get carried away!’ said Steele. ‘It may not mean what I think it means. I have to do some research. And then Willoughby will want proof, and I’m not sure how we get it. I may have to set a trap. And I’ll need you for that.’

  ‘For God’s sake, guv’nor, stop playing games! Suspense is bad for invalids! What does Scully say in his letter?’

  ‘Calm down, Jack, and I’ll tell you. What Scully says is …’

  At that moment there was another cursory knock on the door and again it was opened without delay. The nurse ushered in a pleasant middle-aged woman of medium height – a slightly plump figure built more for comfort than speed. She had a motherly face and a kindly smile.

  ‘Not more than ten minutes today, Mrs Mason,’ the nurse was saying. ‘Your husband’s had a long talk with Major Steele already, and he mustn’t get overtired.’ She shot a glance at Steele. ‘I expect you’ll be leaving soon, Major.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Steele meekly. ‘Just a few more points I need to tell my colleague about.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the nurse. ‘Mr Mason needs to relax. You shouldn’t be talking business to him.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Nurse,’ said Steele. ‘He never listens.’

  The nurse went to the door. ‘When I return in ten minutes, I want to find Mr Mason lying down and ready for relaxation,’ she declared. And then she left.

  ‘That sounded like an invitation,’ Steele observed. ‘You may be in luck, Jack.’