Dark Detectives

by Stephen Jones

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Calloway, “And our condolences, Mr. Theobald. We’ll just pop along now and see how Elmore is getting on.”

  We found the elderly butler in an echoing, stone-flagged Victorian kitchen, drinking a cup of strong tea and being fussed over by a middle-aged woman whom I assumed to be the cook.

  We sat down at the scrubbed refectory table and accepted an offer of tea for ourselves. The cook served us with steaming mugs and having thanked her profusely, Calloway turned on the charm and complimented her on the breakfast. “Best porridge I’ve ever had!” he boasted. Some simpering from the woman, a little more banter from Calloway and suddenly she found herself agreeing that, yes, she could find something to do elsewhere while the gentlemen had a word with Mr. Elmore. At times Calloway amazed me.

  “A sad business, Elmore,” said Calloway when we were left alone with the butler.

  “Aye, sir,” the man replied. “Sir Isaac were a good man and he’ll be sorely missed. I know he were old, like, but he’d always kept healthy. Used to get tired sometimes, but that’s understandable at his age.”

  “He didn’t suffer from rheumatism or arthritis, anything like that? Use bandages for support at all?”

  “Nay, sir, whatever gave thee that idea?” Elmore chuckled. “Sir Isaac were in fine fettle, better than me, happen.”

  “What occurred at dinner last night, before we arrived?”

  “I’m not rightly sure at that, sir. The maister were as sprightly as allus when he came down to eat. Then a while after I’d served the coffee, when I came in to clear away the crocks, he were practically out on his feet—could hardly stand oop by himself. In the end yon other pair helped him oop the stairs and that were it until I tried to call him this morning.”

  “Do you know if he habitually took sleeping tablets?”

  “He took ’em sometimes.” Elmore scratched his thinning pate. “As he got older he didn’t sleep so good. But when he did have a pill, it was usually just a half-a-one. Said he didn’t want to rely on ’em.”

  “Did he have much to drink?” Calloway asked.

  The old servant flared up. “Maister were no drunkard!” Calloway hastened to soothe his feelings and at last he continued. “He had mebbe a glass or two of wine wi’ dinner and then coffee. He were so knackered he didn’t even have his usual armagnac.”

  “Still liked his Marquis de Montesquiou, did he?”

  “Oh aye, sir. Wouldn’t touch owt else. Kept some good cognac and whisky for guests, though.”

  “And did he always keep a bottle by his bedside?”

  “Nay, he never did that. But there was a bottle there, wasn’t there?” Elmore’s mouth slackened and his eyes widened with shock. “Here, mebbe the maister meant to kill hisself.”

  “Don’t distress yourself, Elmore. I don’t think he intended that at all.” Calloway pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering Elmore one. I poured us all some more tea then Calloway said: “I’m not criticising, just curious, but I noticed that your master’s bedroom was a bit dusty. Surely that’s unusual?”

  There was pride in the reply. “Aye, well, that’s Sir Isaac for you. A good maister. Place like this, sixty years and more ago, had dozens of servants. Now there’s just me, Mrs. Hopkirk and a lass as cycles oop from t’village to clean like. She’s been down wi’ bad flu for a couple of weeks and maister wouldn’t let me or Mrs. H. do any of the cleaning work.

  “Now, sir, we’ve had us tea and we’ve had a smoke together, so let’s go along to my room. Maister gave me a letter for you some weeks back, said if owt happened to him, see that you got it as quickly as could be. I’ve waited till now ’cos I didn’t want them other two buggers to see it.”

  Elmore led us down a short corridor leading from the kitchen to his quarters. He had a small sitting room simply furnished with a couple of armchairs, a small bookcase and a highly polished old bureau. Several reproduction prints hung on the walls and there was a radio which must have dated from the early Fifties (I can recall my parents having one very similar). Through a partly opened doorway I could see a single bed and the edge of a wardrobe.

  Elmore delved into the bureau and produced a heavy brown manilla packet with the single word CALLOWAY on the front. I could see that the flap was thickly sealed with red wax. “Here it is, Professor. Tha’ll want to look at it in private, so I’ll leave thee and the good Father here alone. Stay just as long as tha needs.”

  As the door clicked shut, Calloway broke the sealing and ripped the package open. Three other envelopes—one bulky, the others slim—fell out, together with a piece of folded notepaper and a key. There was a card label tied to the key with a cryptic message. “You can guess where this is for.” “Yes indeed,” Calloway muttered. He opened and read quickly through the note before passing it to me. It was hand-written, dated about two months previously.

  Dear Calloway,

  If you are reading this, Alchuan’s prophecy has been realised and I am dead. I do hope you remember well our first dinner and conversation and your promise from all those years ago. Just in case this envelope falls into the wrong hands, I am leaving you a pair of simple puzzles to solve. When you have deciphered them, you should know what to do next. The locks are my favourite books, the key is seven.

  Perhaps when you leave you would care to take with you a cabinet or two of Hoyo de Monterey and a case of the Marquis. Enjoy them to the full.

  Your grateful acquaintance (or friend),

  Isaac Pryce

  (5,2,2,5)

  831214926142252425798

  While I was reading this, Calloway had ripped open the larger of the two inner envelopes and removed the contents. “Sir Isaac’s will,” he said. “And another note attached to it. Listen. ‘This is my latest and only genuine will and testament. All previous wills have been destroyed and any other document found will be a forgery. Isaac Pryce.’”

  Calloway flicked through the document quickly. “Properly signed and witnessed,” he commented. He turned his attention to one of the thin envelopes and produced a newspaper cutting. It was a photograph of Richard Theobald, Lambourne slightly behind him, the pair descending the front steps of an impressive-looking building. A caption read: RICHARD THEOBALD AND HIS SOLICITOR LEAVING MELDRUM’S, THE MERCHANT BANK, YESTERDAY AFTERNOON.

  “Now I know why Theobald looked familiar when we met,” exclaimed Calloway. “You may recall the business, Roderick. It was a year or two ago—there were City rumours of dodgy business at Meldrum’s, accusations of insider dealing, forgery, misappropriation and so on. Either nothing could be proved or there was a whitewash. Whatever happened, Richard Theobald had to resign and left under a cloud.”

  Two pieces of paper—or rather parchment, for it was far more heavy and of better quality than ordinary paper—fell from the third envelope. Calloway laughed. “A puzzle indeed,” he commented.

  The first read:

  θκηβγβ ώλ γνκ ωσηου φκεώδα νοβ λσκβυ

  and the second:

  θοαφβ ώλ γνκ ηοα βιηγγκα νοβ θώυκβ

  “What do you think, Roderick?” Calloway asked me.

  “It’s Greek, but from the little Greek I know it doesn’t seem to make any sense,” I replied.

  “It probably wouldn’t,” said Calloway. “I’ll wager anything that these notes are in English. I told you on the way here that Sir Isaac was surprisingly proud of his lack of languages.”

  There was a soft tap at the door and Elmore’s head appeared. “I’m serving lunch now, gentlemen,” he said. “Maister would want things to carry on as normal.”

  Calloway pushed everything back into the packet and stuffed it all under his shirt. I didn’t think anyone would notice, Calloway’s appearance generally being so untidy.

  We ascended to the dining room and ate lunch, during which our fellow guests once more did their utmost to ignore us, maintaining normal courtesy but no more than that. At the end of the meal, Lambourne pushed back
his chair and stood up, saying to Elmore, “Mr. Theobald and I have some private business to discuss concerning the late Sir Isaac’s affairs. It will take much of the afternoon. If needed we’ll be in the library although I trust that there will be no reason to disturb us.”

  Through the open door we saw them cross the great hall and enter the wing in which the library was situated. Calloway followed quickly and silently. I know of old how stealthily he can move when necessary but it still surprises me. Seconds later he was back.

  “They’ve taken precautions against disturbance. I heard the key turn in the lock.”

  “That’s a heavy hint,” I observed.

  “Did you notice anything odd about their actions, Roderick? No? When did you ever hear of a lawyer wanting to discuss business without having a case filled with documents? Never mind, it gives us a chance to do what’s necessary.”

  “And what is necessary, Reuben?”

  “Oh, didn’t I say? We’re going to search their rooms.” I started to protest but Calloway just flapped a big paw at me. “We’re not police, are we? The rules of search and evidence don’t apply to us, do they? So come on.”

  I wasn’t too certain about the legal accuracy of his arguments but I followed on, knowing that he’d just go ahead without me anyway. Calloway caught Elmore in the hall and muttered instructions about warning us if the others seemed likely to vacate the library.

  We went into Theobald’s room first. There was nothing very interesting there except for a small scrapbook filled with newspaper cuttings. All were concerned with the troubles at Meldrum’s bank; it seemed apparent that Richard Theobald took pride in the part that he had played in the scandal.

  A large briefcase lay on Lambourne’s bed, fastened and locked, but Calloway was undeterred. He took out a pocket-knife and used the smallest blade to fiddle with the locks until they sprang open. The case was filled with papers and documents. After a quick glance at each, Calloway threw many aside as being of no interest but retained three. Not even bothering to repack and close the briefcase, he grabbed my arm and dragged me back downstairs where he hailed Elmore who was still keeping watch.

  “A couple more questions,” Calloway said to the old man. “What can you tell me of a Doctor Wragby of Felldike?”

  “He’s Sir Isaac’s GP, sir,” Elmore replied.

  “And what sort of person is he?”

  “He’s a good doctor, right enough, but …” The butler paused, as if slightly embarrassed to be discussing the physician. Calloway gave him a cigarette and waited patiently. The cigarette was half-smoked when Elmore made up his mind. “It’s this way, Professor. He’s got a reputation, like, for being careless wi’ money and so on … They reckon he’s o’er fond of gambling and expensive women …”

  “And what about our friends in the library?”

  “Them?” Elmore snorted with contempt. “Yon Mr. Richard’s a right wastrel. Expelled from school though he did well enough at college. And tha may have heard of yon bank shennigans. His mother’s Sir Isaac’s favourite niece, so he’s been tolerated all these years. Only ever cooms here when he wants summat.

  “As for Mr. Peter Lambourne, he’s not Sir Isaac’s real solicitor. That was Mr. Lionel Lambourne, Mr. Peter’s father. Mr. Lionel is a lawyer of the old school. Tha could trust him wi’ your life. Mr. Peter’s another one like Richard, only cleverer, or more cunning mebbe, not having been caught out like. Mr. Lionel had a stroke awhile back, which is why the young ’un’s here.”

  Calloway thanked the elderly servant. “I don’t think you’ll have to bother about those two much longer, Elmore. But we’ll see, we’ll see.”

  We were off again. Calloway ushered me into the library wing but instead of going there we approached the opposite door. Calloway took out the labelled key which had been with Sir Isaac’s letter and tried it in the lock. “I thought so,” he said, pleased. He opened the door to admit us. It was an attractive-looking room although a light layer of dust signified unoccupancy for some time. It was very warm because of the central heating and materials for a fire were laid in the grate. Calloway struck a match and within moments small flames were flickering around the logs which started to snap and crackle.

  While he was tending the fire, he said: “The diorama I mentioned, it’s over there. Go and have a look. I think you’ll find the switch just under that left-hand corner of the table.”

  I did as bid and was overwhelmed by the beauty of the model, which was as close as I could imagine to seeing the real savannah from an aircraft. I stood there in such wonder that I became breathless, with a sense of vertigo, and could almost feel myself being drawn into the scene. I drew back, slightly shaken.

  Having got a good blaze going to his satisfaction, Calloway had taken a Havana cigar from a cedar box and was now puffing cheerfully. The smoke was fragrant, a great improvement on his dreadful cigarettes. He came to stand by my shoulder.

  “This is … well, it’s just beyond description,” I said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” As he looked at the diorama, an expression of doubt crossed his face. I asked him what was wrong.

  “I’m not sure.” He walked around the table, cigar gripped between his teeth, stopping from time to time to gaze closely, nose almost touching the glass top. “I know it has been many years since I’ve seen this, and my memory may be playing tricks, but I’m almost certain that it’s not the way it was then. Different groupings of animals, changes to the landscape, old trees down and new trees growing, things like that. Perhaps I’m getting old.” He shrugged. “Anyway, come and meet Alchuan.”

  The image of Alchuan was even more astounding than the African diorama. It was as Calloway had described to me and yet there was more. He had not mentioned how tall and skeletally thin the thing was, nor just how sinister it truly appeared. And perhaps it was because I am occasionally sensitive, an unwanted and unappreciated inheritance from some Celtic ancestor, but for me the thing radiated power. And more than that. I felt a tacit approval of Calloway and myself but beneath that approval lurked menace, malevolence even.

  I told Calloway this. “Do you really think that it contains Alchuan’s remains?” I asked.

  “Would you care to look under the mask?”

  “No, I don’t think that I would.”

  “Good, then let’s get to work.” Calloway stalked back to the fireplace and sat in one of the armchairs, gesturing me into another. He poured two armagnacs and pulled out the various documents and papers from under his shirt.

  “This is the will that Sir Isaac noted as being the only genuine one. There are substantial bequests—all net of taxes—to Elmore and Mrs. Hopkirk, with a lesser amount to someone called Rosemary Garth, presumably the cleaning girl. Generous amounts to various charities and the bulk of the estate of Joanna Theobald—presumably Richard’s mother. No mention at all of Richard. Lionel Lambourne and his partner Daniel Jason are named as joint executors.” Calloway put the will carefully to one side.

  “This is a will I took from Peter Lambourne’s case. It appears good, but if Sir Isaac is to be believed, then it is false. There are some small bequests to the servants and the whole of the remainder goes to ‘… my beloved great-nephew Richard Theobald …’ The sole executor is Peter Lambourne.

  “Now turning to the other papers I filched, one is a promissory note from a Doctor Wragby of Felldike. He seems to owe Peter Lambourne ten thousand pounds. The second is a letter to Peter Lambourne from the Law Society, instructing him to attend a disciplinary hearing in the new year. There have been allegations made which, if proved, could result in him being struck off.”

  “Poor Sir Isaac seems to have surrounded himself with rogues,” I observed.

  “More likely the rogues chose to surround him. Pryce was sharp and I’m sure that he was on to them. Which brings us to our puzzles.” Calloway produced the two pieces of parchment with the Greek lettering. “I said before lunch that these will be in English. And they shouldn’t be too difficult to
crack. As well as his pride in speaking no foreign languages, Sir Isaac impressed upon me his belief in simplicity.

  “I’m just realising that what I thought to be somewhat boring dinner chat all those years ago was probably a preparing of the way. Sir Isaac was dropping hints.”

  Calloway pointed to the drinks table. “Pick up those books, Roderick.” I did so and looked at the titles. They were The Boy’s Book of General Knowledge and The Boy’s Book of Puzzles and Brain Teasers. “Pryce mentioned in his letter to me that his favourite books were ‘the lock’. Have a look through them. I’m sure that between them you’ll find the Greek alphabet and a section on simple codes.”

  I riffled quickly through the thick pages. “Yes, here’s the Greek alphabet, and here in the other book is a section on codes.” Light dawned. “It says here that the simplest of all codes is the transposition of one letter or number for another. You think that Sir Isaac transposed Greek letters for Roman.”

  “That’s the most likely thing, wouldn’t you agree?.”

  “That could lead to other complications,” I said. “There are only twenty-four letters in the Greek alphabet as compared with our twenty-six. And there’s no exact correspondence. For instance, the third letter of the Greek alphabet is ‘gamma’ which is equivalent to our ‘G’, not ‘C’.”

  Calloway poured himself another armagnac and rekindled his cigar which had gone out. “I don’t think so. Pryce wouldn’t have wanted complications. I think he made a straightforward transposition. We’ll write it down and to even things, we’ll just try leaving out the final two letters of our alphabet.”

  Calloway scribbled on the back of the largest envelope and passed it over to me. “Does this look right?”

  a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p r s t u v w

  α β χ δ ε φ γ η ι φ κ λ μ ν ο π ρ σ τ υ ώ ω

  “Seems okay. Pass me the parchments and let’s see what that gives us.” This time it was my turn to scribble and I came up with two lines of mixed and senseless letters.