Dark Detectives

by Stephen Jones

  θκηβγβ ώλ γνκ ωσηου φκεώδα νοβ λσκβυ

  hkgbcb vl cnk wsgou jkevda nob lskbn

  θοαφβ ώλ γνκ ηοα βιηγγκα νοβ

  hoajb vl cnk goa bigccka nob hvukb

  “That’s gibberish,” I said. “Either the messages are nonsense or else there’s another code buried underneath the first.”

  “You’re right, Roderick,” was the answer. “The Boy’s Book of Puzzles probably didn’t anticipate a reader substituting a foreign alphabet for the Roman. We’re on the right lines though. What would be the simplest transposition?”

  I thought for a moment. “I suppose using B for A or something like that. I’ll give it a try.” Several more minutes of work and the result still lacked logic.

  ilhcdc wm dol xthpv opc mtlco

  ipbkc wm dol hpb cjhddlb opc iwvlc

  “Say that Pryce’s transposition went deeper into the alphabet,” suggested Calloway. “He liked things simple but there is such a thing as too simple. Let’s have another look at his letter.” He read briefly and then grinned. “We both need our backsides kicking, Roderick. Not only did he say that his books were the lock but also that the key was seven. What’s the seventh letter of the alphabet? G? Try again, taking ‘G’ as the first letter of the alphabet.”

  Calloway doesn’t need me, he needs a secretary. “There!” I said when I finished.

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

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

  “I’ll do the next bit, Roderick,” he grinned. “Before you have to confess to the venial sin of losing patience.”

  Taking a fresh envelope, he started to work. Feeling that I now deserved another drink, I poured a liberal double into my glass. I was almost tempted to try a Hoyo de Monterey but why should I give up the good habits of a lifetime?

  “That’s it, Roderick. I’ve cracked it.” He looked at my face and added hastily, “I mean, we’ve cracked it. Here, what do they look like to you?”

  θκηβγβ ώλ γνκ ωσηου φκεώδα νοβ λσκβυ

  hkgbcb vl cnk wsgou jkevda nob lskbn

  beasts of the plain devour his flesh

  θοαφβ ώλ γνκ ηοα βιηγγκα νοβ

  hoajb vl cnk goa bigccka nob hvukb

  birds of the air scatter his bones

  I read and felt a slight chill. “They look like curses to me,” I admitted. Calloway nodded. Then I had another thought. “We’ve forgotten something, Reuben. At the end of Pryce’s letter there were some figures. What’s the betting they’re another code?”

  “Yes, I overlooked that. Very likely that you’re right. Let’s see them again—”

  (5,2,2,5)

  831214926142252425798

  I picked up the pencil. “Assuming that each number indicates a letter, I’ll try the simplest conversion first. ‘A’ for one and so on until we have twenty-six for ‘Z’.

  (e,b,b,e)

  hcabadibfadbbebdbegih

  “Not much help,” said Calloway. “But I didn’t think it would be. The key is seven, so we’ll start again with ‘G’ as one, which will give us … let’s see … yes, ‘F’ as twenty-six, thus—”

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

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

  I had been wondering again about the first set of figures: (5,2,2,5). “You know what they remind me of, Reuben? The indicator in a cryptic crossword clue. You know what they’re like. You have a written clue and then in parenthesis a series of figures with commas to show the number of words in the answer and how many letters there will be in each. So let’s just go for a transposition of the second set of numbers.”

  “Good thinking,” approved Calloway. “The first number is eight, which on our new scale is ‘N’, followed by three equivalent to ‘I’ … Therefore 8312 spells ‘NIGH’ and then we have ‘G’ and ‘J’, which are obviously wrong. How many English words start with ‘N-I-G-H’, Roderick?”

  “I’d say about half a dozen or so … Supposing that after 8312 the one and four are actually fourteen …”

  “Right! Fourteen is equivalent to ‘T’, giving us the five-letter word ‘NIGHT’. So the next figure, nine, is ‘O’, followed by two and six, either ‘H’ and ‘L’ or twenty-six ‘F’. Definitely twenty-six because the two-letter word ‘OF’ makes more sense that ‘OH’.” Calloway muttered on, more to himself than to me, then started to chuckle. “Very droll, Sir Isaac,” he said. He showed me four words. NIGHT OF THE DEMON.

  “What on earth does that mean?” I asked.

  “I think it means a very nasty surprise for someone,” was the reply. “First of all I’ll get rid of this—” Leaning forward, Calloway threw the second, supposedly false, will into the fire and prodded at it with a fire iron until it was ashes.

  Lighting another cigar, Calloway waddled over to a window and looked out. I joined him there. During the day there seemed to have been fresh snowfalls and now, mid-afternoon, it was almost dark outside. “I know that expression, Reuben. I think you’re having one of your crises of conscience. Have you reached a decision about whatever the moral dilemma is?”

  My friend reached up to pull the curtains closed, then answered me. “Yes, we’ll have an end to this affair now. Wait here a moment, Roderick.”

  He stalked from the room and pounded on the library door which was snatched open. Lambourne’s voice came to my ears, rasping, annoyed. “What do you want, Calloway? I said that we wanted to remain undisturbed!”

  “I know,” said Calloway. “You wanted to discuss matters concerning Sir Isaac’s death. Well, so do I. If you would care to join myself and Father Shea I think we can give you some pertinent facts about the matter.”

  “Very well,” grumbled the other. They followed Calloway in, Lambourne with bad grace, Richard Theobald with an air of arrogant detachment. Calloway’s manner was jovial and expansive as he ushered them to the chairs that I had pulled forward to the hearth.

  Calloway sat facing them, his manner relaxed, his expression benevolent. “Drinks, gentlemen? Cigars? No? Very well, to business. In my opinion, Sir Isaac Pryce’s death was neither a natural one nor accidental.”

  “You mean you think that he killed himself?” asked Lambourne. “I suggest that you be sure of your facts before making such rash accusations.”

  “Oh, I’m so sure of my facts I’ve ruled out suicide. Sir Isaac was murdered.”

  Again, it was Lambourne who reacted. “Balderdash! Murdered? By whom?”

  Calloway’s expression became even more benevolent. “By whom? Why, by you two, of course.”

  Richard Theobald just smiled a lazy smile but Lambourne’s face reddened to an extent that I momentarily expected him to keel over. “This is bloody nonsense!” he snarled. “I’m leaving …”

  “Sit!” Calloway’s command would have impressed a regimental sergeant-major. Lambourne collapsed back into his chair.

  Richard Theobald continued to smile. “A ridiculous accusation,” he drawled. “What evidence and motive can you come up with?”

  “I came here expecting the worst,” Calloway said. “You’re probably unaware but I once stayed here with Isaac Pryce, many years ago. He told me of a prophecy that he would be murdered by someone close to him and he asked me to look into the matter when it eventually happened.”

  “And that’s it?” Lambourne’s voice rang with disbelief. “Years ago an eccentric old man told you he would be murdered and so when he dies you look around for someone to accuse?”

  “Of course that’s not it. Not alone, anyway.” Calloway reached over for the decanter. “I was always a little sceptical about the prophecy until I saw the dead man and examined him and his chamber.” Calloway held up his glass, letting the soft light play on the cut crystal and the pale amber fluid. “Armagnac, gentlemen. A very fine, very expensive armagnac called Marquis de Montesquiou. Sir Isaac told me that he never drank
any other spirit. I’ll bet that neither of you knew that. Odd, then, that the bottle by his bedside should be Remy Martin. A very good cognac, gentlemen, but a cognac nevertheless. Sir Isaac wouldn’t have touched it.”

  “People can change,” commented Richard Theobald. “And if he intended to kill himself, as may have been the case, would it matter what he used to wash the pills down with?”

  Calloway shook his head. “Possibly not. I did ask Elmore today, though, and he confirmed that his master still only drank the Marquis, although he did keep other good liquor for any guests who wanted it.

  “Then there were the bandages …”

  “Bandages—just what the hell are you talking about now, Calloway?” Lawyer Lambourne was becoming very agitated.

  “The cut bandages I found in Sir Isaac’s bedside cabinet. You’ll recall that when we were in your uncle’s room this morning, Mr. Theobald, I plucked a piece of lint from your sleeve. We found matching pieces of lint on the cuff of Sir Isaac’s dressing-gown, more caught on the arm of the wooden chair in the room, and also on the door of the cabinet. Inside the cabinet was a small bundle of bandages.”

  “There are any number of reasons why my uncle could have bandages in his room.” Richard Theobald sighed. “This is becoming boring, Professor.”

  Calloway looked contrite. “I’m sorry for that,” he said. “Bear with me if you will. I also asked Elmore if Sir Isaac had any need for bandages and he said not.”

  “Elmore’s only a servant!” snapped Lambourne. “What could he possibly know?”

  “Probably far more than you,” was Calloway’s dry observation. “Let’s move on, though. We’re all agreed that the brandy and bandages are good grounds for suspicion—well, perhaps not all of us but Father Shea and I certainly thought so. Therefore we delved a little further. We looked for hypostasis. I’m sure that Father Shea can tell you about that.”

  I was touched. It wasn’t often that Reuben Calloway threw any glory my way. “Hypostasis—also known as post-mortem lividity,” I explained. “When someone dies, after a time blood accumulates at the lowest point in the cadaver.”

  Calloway had given me my moment. “Thank you, Roderick,” he butted in. “We found Sir Isaac lying on his back. Lividity should have been evenly distributed from the shoulders down. It wasn’t. It showed on his buttocks, backs of his thighs and the lower part of his legs. Indications are that he died in a sitting position and remained so for quite a few hours after death. Now I’ll tell you what I think happened …”

  Throughout Calloway’s exposition, Richard Theobald had remained calm and watchful, had even served himself with an armagnac which he sipped with apparent approval. Lambourne had ceased his bluster. His lips were now tight and I thought that I caught a whiff of fear.

  Calloway steepled his fingers beneath his chin and regarded the two men, face still benevolent. “Earlier today you told me that Sir Isaac was complaining of feeling unwell during dinner last night. And yet Elmore has testified that when his master appeared for dinner he was quite well. ‘Sprightly’, I think, was the word he used. I surmise that somehow during the meal you contrived to feed him one or two of his sleeping tablets, possibly in strong coffee which would disguise the taste.

  “Eventually you had to help him to his bedroom, apparently unwell, almost falling asleep. Once there, you sat him in his chair, carefully secured him in place with the bandages around his arms and body then poured a mixture of cognac and crushed sleeping pills down his throat. After which, you callously left him to die.

  “When you broke into the bedroom this morning—” Calloway pointed an accusing finger at the seemingly unflustered Richard Theobald “—you hastily cut the bandages free and laid the old man out on his bed before calling us. It wouldn’t have been too difficult. The room was stiflingly hot and rigor mortis had not yet set in. You had to hide the bandages somewhere in a hurry and so you stuffed them into the bedside cabinet.”

  “Very clever, Professor Calloway.” Richard Theobald looked amused. “An interesting theory but haven’t you overlooked the fact that my uncle’s room was locked from the inside? This being the fact, how could we have done what you accuse us of?”

  Calloway grinned. “Ah, the famous locked-room mystery. Locked room, bah! You may not be aware that during the Thirties and Forties several British detective story writers had very successful careers by specialising in locked-room mysteries. And you know what? At the dénouement, the solutions were simple to the point that the reader wanted to kick himself for not working it out.”

  “And am I going to kick myself?” Theobald sneered.

  “I think so. There is no locked-room mystery. When you left Sir Isaac last night, you just locked the door from the outside. The key was in your pocket when you climbed that ladder this morning. You see, you told us that the key was on the bedside cabinet but it couldn’t have been.

  “The place has remained undusted for a couple of weeks because the cleaning girl has been off work sick. The dust on the bedside cabinet was disturbed where the brandy and sleeping pill bottles had been but there was no sign that said the key had been placed there.”

  For the first time since Calloway had accused them, Richard Theobald seemed unsure of himself. “That would have been careless of me if your theory’s correct,” he muttered. “You’ve given us what you obviously consider evidence. How about motive?”

  “Greed, what else?” Calloway nodded at each man in turn. “I don’t know if you were summoned here by Sir Isaac so that he could warn you off, or whether you invited yourselves. You are both men whose integrity is questionable and both of you probably needed a lot of money and fairly quickly. Whatever the circumstances, I think you came here quite prepared to kill the old man.

  “You, Mr. Theobald, were compelled to resign from one of the City’s top merchant banks under a cloud. No criminal charges were brought against you, but the old boy network—well known for closing ranks against outsiders—does not expel one of its own unless they are very suspect indeed.

  “As for Mr. Lambourne, he is due to appear before the Law Society to answer some embarrassing questions about misappropriation of clients’ funds. Again, the Law Society is a conservative organisation which does not turn easily on its own.”

  “You’ve been nosing in my property,” gasped Lambourne, astounded.

  “Of course I have,” was the unabashed reply. “I’ll even tell you how you thought you’d get away with murder. You got your hooks into another weak man, one Doctor Wragby of Felldike. Doctor Wragby is in your debt, Lambourne, for quite a few thousand pounds. I take it that when Sir Isaac’s body was discovered, Doctor Wragby would be summoned and would sign a death certificate without question. His debt would be expunged and he could go his way. If Elmore had queried this, he would have been told that you were doing it this way for the sake of his master’s memory, so that it would not appear that Sir Isaac had either killed himself or accidentally drunk himself to death.

  “What you couldn’t reasonably have expected was for us to turn up here nor could you have expected the heavy snowfall which would make it impossible to summon the profligate Doctor Wragby.”

  Calloway drained his glass and leaned back in his chair, grinning like an unpleasant schoolboy who has just perpetrated a nasty practical joke. “Of course,” he said, “All this is speculation on my part. It might be very hard to prove anything in a court of law. Why, I’ve even destroyed one piece of vital documentary evidence. The will that you so beautifully forged between you went into that fire some time ago. Father Shea saw me destroy it.”

  Lambourne pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. I could see that his hand was trembling. Richard Theobald’s face contorted with hideous fury and for a moment I thought that he was going to spring at Calloway. Something in Calloway’s calm stopped him and he relaxed. After a few seconds, Theobald even managed a shaky laugh. “Not that I’m admitting anything but it looks as if we’re off the hook,” he said as he stood up.
“So if you don’t need me any more …”

  “A moment, please. These were in a letter to me from Sir Isaac. I think he meant them for you.” Calloway passed each man a piece of the parchment bearing Greek lettering. They looked at them in puzzlement.

  “Just what’s this supposed to mean?” cried Lambourne.

  “That’s from the Greek alphabet,” Calloway told him. “Perhaps Mr. Theobald can read it, being a Cambridge man.”

  “No. I did Latin,” said the younger man.

  “No matter. The lettering is Greek but the messages are in English. And that’s not much help to you, either. They’re in code. Sir Isaac loved simple puzzles. To save you effort, Father Shea and I solved them this afternoon. I’ll tell you what they say, shall I? Mr. Theobald, your piece of parchment reads: ‘Beasts of the plain devour his flesh’; while yours, Mr. Lambourne, transcribes as: ‘Birds of the air scatter his bones.’”

  “What sort of nonsense is that?” yelled Lambourne, bravado starting to return.

  Calloway shrugged. “Precisely, it’s just nonsense. The ramblings of an eccentric old man. Best place for that sort of rubbish is the fire. That’s what I’d do if I were you. I’d throw it on the fire.”

  Lambourne’s face screwed up like a child in tantrum. “Damn right!” he screamed, as if burning a piece of paper would solve his problems. He crumpled the parchment and cast it into the flames and then snatched Richard Theobald’s slip and repeated his action.

  “Is that it? Can we go now?” The lawyer’s voice was petulant.

  “One last thing,” said Calloway. “Sir Isaac left us another little code to solve, a numerical one this time. I won’t bother showing it to you. The answer was in four words: NIGHT OF THE DEMON.”

  “So what?” Lambourne asked.

  “Obviously you are not a cinema fan,” said Calloway, “Whereas I enjoy a good film, as did Sir Isaac. About eighteen or nineteen years ago there was a film titled Night of the Demon. Dana Andrews played the lead.”