Mr Smight, believed to be in his early sixties, was a well-known medium who had practised his trade for many years in the purlieus of Tottenham Court Road. According to the authorities his establishment in Tullis Street had recently been visited by members of the police force who were acting on information received. His sister Miss Ethel Smight, who used to assist Mr Smight in his sittings, said that her brother was deeply upset by the intrusion of the police into affairs that were confidential and ‘of a delicate nature’. She went so far as to talk of ‘persecution’. Although she was too overwrought to speculate as to why her brother might have taken his own life, if that is what has occurred, we understood that the unfortunate demise of this individual may be connected with the possibility of a forthcoming legal action. A coroner’s jury will shortly pronounce on the death of Mr Ernest Smight.
‘Oh God,’ said Tom.
‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘I have had the whole day to think this over. I’ve read the story again and again. I couldn’t help thinking that the medium warned about the danger to us, the danger near water, and now he is drowned.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ said Tom, though he wasn’t sure whether he was saying sorry to Helen or expressing regret about the whole Smight business. One advantage, the only one, was that there could now be no court case and so no need for witnesses.
‘Why was he dressed in those thick clothes?’ said Helen, breaking into his thoughts.
‘I don’t know. Probably because he thought they’d drag him down more quickly.’
‘Ugh. Horrid thought. That’s if it was a suicide.’
‘What else can it have been? It would be hard to fall off Waterloo Bridge by accident. Besides, we know some of the circumstances that led up to it.’
‘We do know the circumstances, but I can’t help feeling we have a hand in this, somehow.’
‘We didn’t unmask Mr Smight, Helen. That policeman, Seldon, did it. Smight was an impostor.’
‘An impostor who had a glimpse of your late father.’
Tom had forgotten this or rather had done his best to forget it. Now he said, ‘I’m sure the medium got the information from somewhere. He no more saw my father than I did.’
‘You weren’t looking in the right direction.’
It wasn’t worth arguing about. Helen now seemed inclined to give the medium the benefit of the doubt even while Tom’s own doubts had hardened. But the news story about the drowning of Ernest Smight wasn’t the only thing to unsettle Helen. She told Tom how Hetty had been at the shops that afternoon and had discovered that someone had been asking questions about them.
‘About us?’
‘You know Hetty always goes to Covins for the vegetables? Well, it appears that someone was in the shop earlier today asking about the neighbourhood, saying how it was coming up in the world and so on, and how he’d heard that lawyers and such people were moving out to Kentish Town. He wanted to know whether it would be a good place to start a business or open a shop.’
‘Sounds innocent enough,’ said Tom.
‘Wait a moment. According to Hetty, Mr Covins said that if the fellow asking the questions was a would-be shopkeeper then he was a Chinaman. Mr Covins was a Chinaman, that is.’
‘I still don’t see what it’s got to with us.’
‘He mentioned Abercrombie Road by name, he talked about lawyers and notaries coming from the City.’
‘Coincidence,’ said Tom.
‘And that is not all,’ said Helen more urgently as Tom was dismissing her words. ‘There was a man standing on the other side of the street this afternoon. I watched him from the upstairs window for a good ten minutes. Loitering, I would have said, and casting his eyes across the houses on this side.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Small and slight. Dressed in labouring clothes. But when I opened the front door to go and have a word with him he’d gone.’
‘It’s probably nothing,’ said Tom. But nevertheless he felt uneasy. The mysterious figure might have been a ‘crow’, as they were known, someone deputed to scout a district for potential break-ins. He reminded himself to make certain that all the doors and windows were well fastened that night. On the other hand, the whole thing might be a case of Helen letting her imagination loose. She made up stories, after all, and might see patterns and plots where someone else — Tom, for example — could see nothing at all. But he didn’t say this. Instead he changed the subject.
He told Helen about his instructions from David Mackenzie and outlined what he knew of the Major and his dagger, which wasn’t much. Her blue eyes opened wider. Now he too had an official reason to travel to Durham. Helen also believed that there’d probably been some collaboration between her mother and Mr Mackenzie. It could hardly have been prearranged though. Just a coincidence — yet another coincidence! — and a fortunate one from the point of view of Mrs Scott, who did not wish her daughter to go on her mission unaccompanied.
So while his wife would be doing her best to persuade her aunt Julia Howlett away from her devotion to Eustace Flask, Tom would take a statement from a Major-turned-touring-magician who wanted to let the world know that he had come honestly by the item known as the Lucknow Dagger.
It was all very odd.
Penharbour Lane
At about the same time as Tom and Helen Ansell were discussing Ernest Smight’s suicide, a man in working clothes turned off Lower Thames Street in the area immediately to the east of London Bridge. He walked down Penharbour Lane, which was little more than an alley between factories and warehouses. The evening was miserable with drizzle. The man arrived at a building which seemed to have had all the life squeezed out of it by its bigger, taller neighbours on either side. At the bottom of a flight of steps was a basement door. Above the door there swung and flickered an oil lamp, hanging from a rusty bracket.
The man knocked twice on the wooden door, and, after a pause, once more. There was a shuffling from the other side, the sound of a bolt being withdrawn, and the door swung open. Whoever had unfastened it was no more than a shape in the dimness, a shape so slight that it might have been a child but one which appeared to acknowledge the man by the slightest of nods as he walked in. At the end of a short passage hung a tattered curtain. Beyond the curtain stretched a long, low-ceilinged room similar to the Tween Deck region of a ship. There were storage places here too, arranged in tiers with a narrow aisle between them. Instead of goods, people were stowed away on tiny bunks. Once the visitor was accustomed to the very subdued lighting, he would have seen slight signs of life. The shift of bodies sitting or squatting, the glow of red embers, now brightening, now fading. From all around he would have heard sounds of disturbed dreamers: garbled phrases, groans and sighs. Above all, there was a sweet and pungent odour smothering the smell of the damp fustian which clothed most of the dreaming bodies.
A dangling hand clutched at the man’s face as he went down the aisle between the wooden tiers. He didn’t flinch or jump but brushed the hand aside. He moved by instinct rather than by sight. At the far end of the room was a second tattered curtain, beyond which was a short flight of stairs illuminated by a single flaring gas lamp. At the bottom was a door. The man knocked again — the same pattern, two quick raps followed by a third — and was told to enter.
The interior was scarcely bigger than a boxroom. A cadaverous man was sitting on a low three-legged stool. He had a long pipe in his hand which he had evidently been about to lean forward and light from a candle on the floor when the knock came at the door. The sweet, pungent smell was even stronger in this little underground chamber where there was no apparent ventilation.
A woman lay on a mattress which was pushed against the wall and which took up half the floor space. One of her legs was cocked up and her skirts had fallen back to reveal pale thighs. Her white face was turned towards the door and her eyes were half-closed. She did not acknowledge the newcomer. Her white complexion by the light of the single candle, together with the gash of her red
lips and the dark rings around her eyes, gave her a clownish look.
‘Evenin’, sir,’ said the newcomer.
‘Good evening to you, George,’ said the man crouched on the stool. He spoke with an odd formality as he gestured with his unlit pipe in the direction of the woman. ‘The lady is in the arms of Morpheus. She’s two pipes down and I haven’t even started. But I am glad of it, George. Why am I glad? Because I can listen to you with full attention before I take my pleasure. Sit yourself down on the mattress.’
The man called George — or in full George Forester — took off his cheap mackintosh and lowered himself on to the mattress. He sat cross-legged with the damp garment over his knees. He was small and lithe and did not find the position uncomfortable.
‘How can you breathe in here?’ said George. ‘It’s stiflin’. The air is wicked.’
Even as he spoke he felt the thick atmosphere in the room settle inside his throat like wet flannel. He would have preferred to be on the outside, drizzling and cold as it was.
‘It’s what you’re used to,’ said the other man. ‘Me, I take to this like a fish to water — or is it a duck?’
‘Anyone would think you own this place,’ said George, meaning it as a compliment.
‘Ssh, less of that now. I have my reputation to think of. The owner is a Malay whose name is so polysyllabic that no one can pronounce it apart from me. The fact that I can pronounce it and that I reminisce with him about Penang are reasons enough for him to respect me, and give me a private room when I require it.’
George did not know where or what Penang was. And, although he got the general drift of the other man’s words, the meaning of ‘polysyllabic’ was unfamiliar to him. The individual who’d been about to light an opium-pipe was someone of education and breeding, no doubt about it. You only had to listen to his talk for a few moments to realize he was a cultured gentleman. He might have come down in the world and grown thin and pinched in the face. He might have lost most of what he once had but he still possessed a certain authority. Perhaps it was on account of his old profession, George thought. That was how they had met, through his old profession. George had good reason to be grateful, eternally grateful, to the man he always referred to as ‘sir’.
‘Well, what have you learned?’
‘It’s quite simple, sir. I hung around their drum and asked around their neighbourhood today and yesterday and I visited the shops and picked up a few titbits.’
‘Such as?’
George raised his left hand and enumerated the points, one finger at a time. ‘They are newly married. They recently moved into Abercrombie Road. They’ve got a maid called Hetty who’s got a sister livin’ a few streets away.’
‘I’m not interested in the maid or her sister,’ said the cadaverous man, gazing up at the low ceiling where the shadows jumped.
‘What I’m gettin’ at, sir, is there’s just the three of ’em in the house.’
‘No little ones?’
‘Not yet.’
‘That’s good,’ said the gentleman.
‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘Never mind. Give me more details.’
‘His name is Ansell, which you already know. First name Thomas. Hers is Helen. He works at a lawyers’ in Furnival Street, he does. She’s the daughter of a lawyer, deceased, of the same firm, so it’s all very cosy.’
‘What time does he get back in the evening?’
‘’Bout six or so.’
‘And go to bed?’
‘I saw no lights after ten,’ said George.
‘Hmm,’ said the other. ‘Well, they’re newly married, I suppose. Street lights?’
‘Nearest one’s many yards away. You want any more help, sir? Any more kit? Just ask. I got one or two pieces left over. An’ I got the know-how.’
‘No, I don’t want any more help, George. I am not yet decided what to do.’
‘What about the other two, the ones I’ve already reported on?’
‘I am still thinking about them as well. You may leave now, George.’
And the cadaverous individual leaned forward and started his pipe going at the candle. It was a sign of dismissal. George sprang up from the mattress where the white-faced woman slumbered oblivious, her eyelids completely closed by now. He put on his mackintosh, almost knocking over the candle as he did so. The shadows swirled across the tight walls and low ceiling.
‘Careful,’ said the other. ‘We don’t want to be left darkling, do we? Shut the door behind you.’
George did as he was told. He climbed the stairs, pushed aside the tattered curtain and paced through the long low room full of men and a few women banked in tiers and sprawled in various attitudes in their roosts. The red embers pulsed in the furthest shadows like the eyes of nocturnal beasts. The individual who attended on the outer door was revealed, now that George’s eyes were more used to the gloom, to be an oriental woman, very diminutive and antique.
Once he had been let out and climbed the worn steps to street level, George paused and took in great lungfuls of the drizzly air as if he were striding along the North Downs rather than standing heel-deep in the filth of Penharbour Lane. He disliked his occasional visits to the smoking den — he had never been tempted by the habit himself — and he went only because it was the spot where he could almost definitely count on finding the gentleman he sought.
As he returned to Lower Thames Street, he wondered what use the gentleman was going to make of the information he’d given him. He wondered too why his offer of help had been turned down. For it would have been a simple matter for George to worm his way inside the house in Abercrombie Road. In his younger days he had been apprenticed to a sweep and the training was an excellent introduction for burglary, since climbing boys had to be fit, nimble and small. George dabbled in crime, acting as lookout for burglars, going to the scene of the crime beforehand to check that the coast was clear, then keeping watch while his two mates were at it. He had slithered through the odd window space himself. But he was not really cut out for a criminal life, never felt truly comfortable, and he did his best to turn away from it. Why, he even settled down and married. Now he and Annie had kids, a few of them, which was how he encountered ‘sir’ in the first place.
It was when one of their children had fallen ill of a fever. Someone said there was a doctor down on his luck who lodged round the corner in Rosemary Lane. He’d occasionally attend on a sick child if you caught him at the right time, if you found him in a kindly mood. His name? No one knew his surname. He answered to Tony. So George had hared round to Rosemary Lane and knocked on doors and toiled up rickety staircases and several times risked a punch in the phizog to track down this geezer. He’d inquired with increasing desperation of dozens of loungers and passers-by whether they knew a Tony, a medical gentleman. And, lo and behold, after half a day and when he was about to give up, he asked the man himself without realizing it. Doctor Tony was a tall, thin, long-haired gent with skin that, even by the vaporous daylight of Rosemary Lane, was decidedly sallow. George Forester did not discover his surname then or ask for it later.
The medical man accompanied George back to the two rooms in the Old Mint where he lived with Annie and the kids. He examined the child, a boy called Mike who was three years old and very hot to the touch. He prodded and poked with his long yellow hands as Mike lay on the ticking of the cheap mattress. The other children looked on curious and silent. After a while Doctor Tony nodded to himself. He reached inside the pocket of the greatcoat which he still wore indoors — it was midwinter and freezing in the room — and withdrew a queer kind of wallet from which he took out a phial of amber liquid. He asked Annie if there was any water and she brought him some in a chipped, dirty cup. Doctor Tony poured a little of the amber liquid into the water and swirled it round. He squatted on his haunches, propped up Mike’s head with his left hand and eased some of the preparation into the child’s mouth. Mike spluttered but he swallowed a few sips and then more, until the cup w
as almost empty. The tall man stood up. He said, ‘The crisis should soon be past.’ And he left.
George and Annie could only pray that he was right. They despaired when the boy seemed to sink further into his fever and grow yet hotter in the chill of the room. But by the next morning Mike’s temperature had fallen and his eyes were open and he was uttering a few feeble words. ‘That man’s a saint,’ said Annie, referring to Doctor Tony. ‘I don’t mind telling him so.’
But it was George who next encountered the good doctor a few days later in Rosemary Lane, by which time Mike was back to his normal mischievous self. George Forester was so grateful that he not only passed on his wife’s comment about saintliness but offered to do anything for the man he could only call ‘sir’.
So it was that he found himself running odd errands for Doctor Tony, who seemed to know without asking that George had a dubious past and that, however respectable his current employment, he retained a few of his old skills. For his part, George came to know Tony a little better but remained in awe of the gentleman who had, surely, preserved his son’s life.
As he sheltered inside his thin mackintosh and made his way along Lower Thames Street and towards the east, he pondered again on why Doctor Tony had instructed him to observe the habits of the newly married couple living in Abercrombie Road.
Back inside the opium den in Penharbour Lane, Doctor Tony drew for the last time on his pipe. He placed it carefully in the brass bowl by the candle and lay back on the mattress beside the sleeping woman. He left the candle to burn itself out, watching the rising spiral of smoke. He observed the smoke-thread joining the other shadows overhead, all of them swelling and shrinking as if they had life. He turned his head sideways and watched the woman. Poor as the light was, everything his eyes lingered on seemed to stand out with an unnatural clarity. He admired the white curve of her cheek and the generous red of her lips. A delicate handkerchief, lilac coloured, had fallen from her sleeve. He picked it up and held to his nose. He inhaled her scent.
The Durham Deception ta-2 Page 5
