by George Mann
READ ON FOR A SHORT STORY FROM
THE CASEBOOK OF NEWBURY & HOBBES
FEATURING CHARLES BAINBRIDGE
THE HAMBLETON AFFAIR
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1901
“You never did tell me about the Hambleton Affair, Newbury.”
Sir Charles Bainbridge leaned back in his chair, sipped at his brandy and regarded his friend through a wreath of pungent cigar smoke. Around him, the gas lamps flickered momentarily in their fittings, as if a sudden breeze had passed through Newbury’s Chelsea living room. Unperturbed, the chief inspector crossed his legs and stifled a yawn.
Across the room, Newbury was leaning on the mantelpiece, staring silently into the fire. He turned towards the older man, the flames casting his face in stark relief. He nodded. “Indeed not. Although I will warn you, Charles, it’s not a tale with a heartwarming end.”
Bainbridge sighed. “Are they ever?”
Newbury smiled as he started across the living room to join his friend. “No, I suppose not.” He paused beside the drinks cabinet, his expression suddenly serious. He placed a hand on his left side, just above the hip.
Bainbridge furrowed his brow. “The injuries are still troubling you?”
Newbury shrugged. “A little. It’s this damnable cold weather.” He sucked in his breath. His tone was playful. “I heartily commend to you, Charles, to avoid getting yourself injured in the winter. The experience is rather detrimental to one’s constitution.”
Bainbridge chuckled and took another draw on his cigar.
“Still, I suppose it would do no harm to relate my little tale,” said Newbury, before taking the last few strides across the room and lowering himself gingerly into the chair opposite the other man. His black suit crumpled as he shifted to make himself comfortable. He eyed his friend.
Tonight, Newbury considered, the chief inspector was wearing his age. His white hair was swept back from his forehead and his eyes were rheumy and rimmed with the dark stains of too many sleepless nights. It was clear that he was in need of a rest. Newbury smiled warmly. “You look tired, Charles. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather turn in for the night?”
Bainbridge shook his head. “No. Not yet.” He raised his glass, a forlorn look in his eyes. “Tonight is the anniversary of Isobel’s death. I’d rather keep from dwelling on the matter, if it’s all the same.” He took a swig of his brandy, shuddering as the alcohol assaulted his palate. “I still think of her, you know. In the quiet times.” He shook his head. “Besides, I can’t bring myself to abandon a decent brandy.” He smiled, his bushy moustache twitching. “Come on, you’ve put this one off too many times before. Give it up!”
Newbury nodded and placed his own glass on the coffee table between them. He took up his pipe from the arm of the Chesterfield and tapped out the dottles in the palm of his hand. Discarding these, he began to fill the pipe from a small leather tobacco pouch that he searched out from amongst the scattered debris on the tabletop. A moment later he leaned back, puffing gently on the mouthpiece to kindle the flame. He had a haunted expression on his face.
“It was the spring of ’ninety-eight. April, to be precise. Just a few months before Templeton Black and the disaster at Fairview House, if you recall.”
Bainbridge looked sullen. “All too well.”
“Indeed. Well, I had just drawn a close to a particularly disturbing case involving a series of brutal murders at an archaeological site, when I received a letter from a man named Crawford, the physician of the Hambleton family of Richmond, North Yorkshire. I had schooled with Sir Clive Hambleton at Oxford, briefly, and while I couldn’t claim him as a friend, I knew him as a man of integrity and science. Anyway, the letter went on to describe the most bizarre of affairs.” Newbury paused whilst he drew on his pipe, and Bainbridge leaned forward in his chair, urging him to go on.
Newbury smiled. “It appeared that Hambleton had a new wife - a young wife of only eighteen years, named Frances - who had taken up residence with him at Hambleton Manor. Life had proved harmonious for the newlyweds for nearly twelve months, until, only a handful of days before the letter was dated, she had simply vanished from her room without a trace.”
Bainbridge took another long slug of his brandy. He eyed Newbury warily. “Well, it sounds pretty clear to me. She’d finally realised that she had inadvertently committed herself to a life of drudgery in rural Yorkshire, with an older man as her only companion. It doesn’t sound like the sort of matter I would usually associate with your field of expertise. Had she taken flight?”
Newbury shook his head. “No. Not as simple as all that. But I’ll admit that was the first thing that crossed my mind upon reading the missive. Until I read on, that is.” Newbury cleared his throat. “It seemed that, after dinner, Mrs Hambleton had retired to her room, as was typical of her daily routine. Only on this occasion, she failed to reappear in the drawing room an hour later. Believing that she had likely fallen into a light doze, her husband made his way up to her room to look in on her, only to find that the bed was undisturbed and that his wife was nowhere to be found.”
Bainbridge frowned. “You’ve lost me, Newbury. I still can’t see how it could be anything other than the woman’s desire to take flight from her circumstances.”
“Quite. And Hambleton initially believed the same. Until he discovered that her belongings were all still in situ and had not been disturbed since that morning. Clothes were still in the dresser. Jewellery was still on the dressing table. Precious childhood mementoes were still in a box beneath the bed. Not to mention the fact that the lady had no money of her own.
“Distraught, Hambleton interviewed the servants, none of whom had seen the lady leave the premises. He had them tear the place apart looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found in the house or the grounds. It seemed that, somehow, Hambleton’s new wife had simply vanished without a trace.”
“Kidnap, then?”
“It remained a distinct possibility, and the local constabulary was indeed called in to investigate. But they could find no evidence of any wrongdoing, and the days that followed brought none of the expected demands from the imagined kidnapper in question. The entire affair remained a mystery, and Crawford, concerned for his charge, had been forced to watch as Hambleton had fallen into a deep funk from which he could not be roused. It was as if the life had gone out of him, leaving behind nothing but a shadow of the former man.”
Bainbridge eased himself back in his chair and clamped his cigar between his teeth. “Quite a singular case. I can see now why the man was drawn to write to you. What else did he say?”
“The letter stated that Crawford was aware of my reputation as a man who had experience of the occult and, since there appeared to be no other explanation for what had become of Mrs Hambleton, asked if I would pay a visit to Hambleton Manor to investigate. At the very least, he hoped that I would be able to rule out any occult interference. Hambleton himself, of course, knew nothing of the letter.” Newbury shrugged. “Of course, I’m a rational man and knew there had to be a rational explanation for the lady’s disappearance, but one finds it difficult to resist a challenge. I set out that very morning, taking the twelve o’clock train from Euston to York.” Newbury puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. After a moment he took it from his mouth and waved it at his companion. “Feel free to pour yourself another, Charles. You’ll forgive me for not getting up?”
Bainbridge nodded. “Of course. You stay put, Newbury. I’ll fetch the decanter over.” The chief inspector placed his glass on the table beside Newbury’s and pulled himself to his feet. He crossed the room, retrieved the bulbous, flat-bottomed vessel and returned to his seat. He removed the glass stopper with a light clink and began sloshing the brown liquid into his glass. He looked up. “Well, keep going man!”
Newbury laughed. “All this police work is starting to show on you, Charles. Patience certainly isn’t one of your strong points.”
“Starting to show! By God, Newbury, after thirty years
at the Yard I’d expect even the most fresh-faced shoeshine to be able to discern that much.”
Newbury grinned. He retrieved his glass from the table. “I hadn’t had time to send a telegram ahead to alert Crawford of my impending arrival, so there was no escort awaiting me at the station when the train finally pulled in at York that evening. Collecting my bag from the steward, I took a cab immediately out to Hambleton Manor, which proved to be a pleasant - if brisk - drive through the countryside. The light was starting to wane by this time, and my first sight of the house itself was almost enough to cause me to reconsider my initial thoughts about the case. The place was a rambling wreck, more a farmhouse than a country estate, and appeared so dilapidated that I had to allow for the possibility that my earlier reasoning may in fact have been correct. At that point I admit I would not have been surprised to discover that the young Mrs Hambleton had indeed fled the estate in sheer desperation at her circumstances.”
Bainbridge coughed noisily and placed the stub of his cigar in the ashtray. “I take it from your tone that this was not to be the case?”
“Quite so. In fact, as the hansom drew up outside of the house it became clear that the structure was not in such an alarming state of disrepair as it had at first seemed. Certainly, it was in need of urgent cosmetic attention, but the building itself appeared to be sound and the welcome I received from the manservant, Chester, was enough to immediately put me at my ease. I clambered down from the cab and followed the wispy-haired old chap into the house.
“Once inside I was taken directly to the drawing room to meet Crawford, whom - judging by his expression - was more than a little relieved to see another friendly face. He pumped my hand rather vigorously and bade me to take a seat.
“I could tell almost immediately that Crawford was an honourable man. He was clearly concerned for his old friend, and the strain of the situation had begun to show in his face. He was in his mid-forties, with a shock of red hair and a full moustache and beard. His skin was pale and he was obviously tired. He sent Chester away to fetch tea. I asked him where Hambleton was and he offered me a rather sheepish look. He said that he’d sedated him an hour earlier and left him in his room to get some rest. Apparently it was the only way that Crawford had so far managed to force his friend to sleep.”
“Sounds like a rum job for a medical man. Was there no housekeeper who could have helped with all that?”
Newbury shook his head and regarded the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. “I think they were all a little in awe of the man. Later I would witness the manner in which Hambleton bustled around the house barking directions at his staff, giving orders like he was running some sort of military operation. Which I suppose he was, in many respects, marshalling his troops to search the local area for evidence of his missing wife.” He paused. “Still, I’m getting ahead of myself.” He smiled, and Bainbridge nodded for him to continue.
“With Hambleton asleep in his room, Crawford took the opportunity to fill me in on the circumstances of the case. He explained that Hambleton had barely spoken a word for days, and spent all of his time waiting on news of his missing wife, or sitting in her room staring at her belongings, as if they could somehow reveal to him what had become of her. It was soon clear from Crawford’s testimony that Hambleton was on the verge of a complete breakdown.
“After Crawford had finished recapping the details he had already disclosed in his letter, I explained that I had not had any real contact with the family since my time at Oxford, and asked Crawford to fill in any gaps. He went on to explain that Hambleton had inherited the family fortune - such as it was - after his father had died a few years earlier and had invested heavily in farming and agriculture. He was currently engaged in a project to develop a method of better preserving fruit and vegetables after harvesting, and until recently had spent long hours locked away in his workshop; time, Crawford was not afraid to add, that he felt Hambleton should have been spending with his wife. Nevertheless, Crawford was quick to establish that Hambleton did in fact dote on his young wife, and that if truth be told the doctor was worried about how Hambleton would be able to carry on without her.
“Soon after, Chester returned with the tea, and our conversation moved on to more practical considerations. I promised I would do all that I could to help resolve the sorry situation, and that, first thing in the morning, I would examine Mrs Hambleton’s room for any signs of evidence that may have been missed. Crawford promised that I would be reacquainted with Hambleton later that evening over dinner, and while the doctor was yet to enlighten his friend about my visit, he was sure that Hambleton would be pleased to see an old friend from Oxford.” Newbury smiled. He eyed Bainbridge over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. “Can you begin to imagine how Hambleton really felt about my unannounced visit?”
Bainbridge shrugged. “Well, I’d imagine he’d be less inclined to reminisce about his schooldays than Crawford seemed to be suggesting, but glad of the extra help in searching for his missing wife, no doubt.”
Newbury shook his head. “I fear that could not be further from the truth. I parted from Crawford after tea and Chester kindly showed me to my room. It was small but pleasant enough, furnished with oak panelling and an ostentatious four-poster bed, but with a wonderful view of the grounds. I unpacked my case and took a while to refresh myself, before heading down to the dining room to meet the others for dinner.
“No sooner had I approached the door to the dining hall, however, than I became aware of a heated debate being played out on the other side. Unsure what else I could do, I hesitated on the threshold, awaiting an opportunity to politely make an entrance.
“It seemed that Crawford had finally informed Hambleton about his invitation and my subsequent arrival at the house, and the news had not been received well. I heard Hambleton cursing the doctor. ‘She’s left me, Crawford, can’t you see that? I need to be left alone to my misery.’ Crawford then uttered some sort of bumbling reply, and I decided that was the point at which to make my entrance. I strolled through the door as if oblivious to the tension between the two men, and made a point of greeting Hambleton like an old school friend would.”
“Did he alter his temperament upon seeing you?”
“Not at all. He greeted me gruffly and without emotion. He refused to look me in the eye, and showed no real sign that he recognised me from our time at Oxford together. It was as if he saw me as an interloper, come to interfere and ogle at him as he wallowed in his misery. He hardly spoke a word throughout dinner, and then made his excuses and repaired to his room, claiming he needed an early night to be fresh for the morning.” Newbury shrugged, pausing to gather his thoughts. “Crawford had certainly been right about one thing. Hambleton was indeed in a funk, and a dire one at that. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. His hair was in disarray, he had neglected to shave, his shirtsleeves were filthy and he bore the haunted look of a man who was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was clear that he truly cared for this girl, and that he blamed himself for whatever had become of her, to the exclusion of all else.”
“So how did you handle the man? It can’t have been easy trying to help someone in that state of mind, no matter how understandable their disposition.”
“I decided to carry on regardless. At that point in proceedings I was still unsure whether I’d actually be able to shed any light on the case, but with no other means to help the poor fellow I decided to follow Crawford’s example, and together we retreated to the drawing room to plot our next move. Over a brandy we discussed how we could get to the bottom of the situation. We both felt that our influence on Hambleton could only prove beneficial, and that, whatever had happened to his wife, it was clear he was in need of answers. If we were able to shed even the tiniest sliver of light on the subject, we should do our damnedest to try. I reiterated my intention to search the lady’s room at first light. Then, downing the rest of my brandy and offering Crawford all the reassurance I could muster, I ret
reated to my bed to take some rest.
“It was at this point, however, that things began to take a turn in an entirely different direction.”
Newbury stared at the flickering gas lamp on the wall, lost momentarily in his reminiscences. Bainbridge edged forward in his seat. He was caught up in Newbury’s story now, anxious to know what happened next.
“How so?”
Newbury smiled. He ran a hand over his face before continuing. “Wearily I made my way to my room, tired from my long journey and more than a little distracted by the shocking appearance of my old school friend. I spent my usual hour reading before settling in for the night - a rather lurid novel entitled The Beetle - and a short while later fell into a light doze. Sometime after that I found myself rudely awakened by a terrible banging sound from elsewhere in the house. I sat bolt upright in bed, unsure what to make of the despicable racket. It was as if someone was beating panels of metal sheeting, and the sound of it quite startled me from my bed.
“Pulling my robe around my shoulders, I took up a candle and crept from my room, anxious to understand the nature of the bizarre noise. The hallway outside of my room was dark and deserted. The entire episode had the quality of an intangible dream and I wondered, briefly, if I weren’t acting out the fantasies of a nightmare, inspired by the gothic novel I had indulged myself with just a few hours earlier. Yet the banging was so loud and persistent that I knew it had to be real. I crossed the hall, feeling the chill draught as it swelled up the stairwell. The sound was coming from deep within the bowels of the house, far below where I was standing. I wondered why there was no sign of Crawford or any of the staff. Surely they must have been awoken by the thunderous sounds?”
“Remarkable. Did you find out what it was?”
Newbury laughed. “Yes. Indeed. And I fear it was nothing as sensational as you might have imagined, Charles. At the time, however, I admit I was perplexed. I made my way down the stairs in the darkness, my candle guttering and threatening to leave me stranded alone in the shadowy hallway at the foot of the stairs. Then, startled, I heard the shuffling sound of approaching footsteps and all of a sudden Chester was upon me.”
