The Durham Deception ta-2

by Philip Gooden

  They had not planned to fall into bed together but Kitty had been teasing him for days and letting him feel her tits in a companionable way until late one evening, when Ambrose was out drinking, it just happened. Kitty had not been much impressed by Flask’s efforts — in fact she wondered whether he was a virgin in the female department — but she had played along. It was unfortunate Ambrose picked that moment to make his drunken return and burst in on them. Kitty almost laughed when she remembered his remark about a ‘case of insects’. But the consequences had not been funny, not at all. The bedroom still smelled of singed feathers and burnt linen from the spilled oil-lamp. Her hand was still bandaged from the glass cuts.

  From that instant everything had gone wrong. They had attended the performance at the Assembly Rooms and Eustace had been persuaded to go up on stage. Kitty had been genuinely worried because she recognized the magician as the man who caused such a stir at Miss Howlett’s house. After Eustace failed to emerge from the Perseus Cabinet she thought that Marmont had somehow done away with him. That was why she had pushed her way backstage, only to be told that it was all a trick. Even so…

  When Flask returned to the house late that night, he was in a queer mood, half angry, half gleeful. She was almost asleep. He mentioned that he had got hold of something of Marmont’s, some item the magician would regret losing. He did not tell Kitty what it was and she had not passed on this particular bit of information to the police. Perhaps the item was what Major Marmont was looking for when he arrived at the house on the morning of Eustace’s death.

  Otherwise she had told Harcourt everything she knew, which was not much. Eustace had left saying he was going to meet someone. Then, minutes later, Major Marmont had tipped up. If she was the police, she would have questioned the magician very closely. But that Superintendent had not seemed to be very concerned. He had asked her nothing much about Ambrose. In her book, they should be looking for Ambrose as well. Was he a murderer? Kitty didn’t believe it although he’d certainly looked capable of the deed when he burst into the bedroom. Was he still in Durham? Kitty thought she’d caught a glimpse of him over her shoulder once or twice. Was he still consumed with anger? Enough to commit murder? Had he followed Eustace yesterday morning, got him on his own and done for him? If so, would he come after her next? Strange to say, these ideas had not occurred to Kitty before. She knew that Ambrose was not so hard underneath, for all his fighting airs.

  Now, alone in the rented house in the early afternoon, she grew frightened. She went round drawing the thin curtains and bolting the front and back doors. Ambrose had a key but he could not get past a bolt. She was standing in the kitchen when out of the corner of her eye she suddenly noticed a shadowy movement in the tiny backyard. Heart in mouth, she crouched down below the sink. There was a tap at the back door.

  ‘Kitty, are you there? I know someone’s there. Kitty, open up.’

  It was Ambrose.

  Later, when they’d made everything up, Kitty ventured to ask a question. The only question that mattered. She and Ambrose were lying in their bed, the one in the back room with its view of the gaol. Not so spacious or comfortable as the mahogany one in the better bedroom but that was associated with Flask and, besides, there was still the stench of burnt feathers in the room. It was late afternoon. Kitty stretched. She felt warm and relaxed — and hungry. She’d hardly eaten that day, what with her visit to the police station (which she was tactful enough not to mention). In a moment she’d go down to the kitchen and see if there was anything to cook.

  It was strange, she reflected, that a few hours before she had been hoping never to see Ambrose again. It was good riddance as far as she was concerned. Yet here they were, snugged up tight together, like nothing had happened. Except something had happened. Eustace Flask was dead. Hence the question.

  ‘Ambrose, did you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know. Did you do Eustace?’

  ‘What do you think, Kitty?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘You think I’m a murderer,’ said Ambrose, gripping her throat not hard but not so playfully either.

  ‘Leave off, Ambrose. ’Course I don’t. Otherwise I’d hardly be lying here with you, would I? I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I don’t know ’bout that. It takes someone pretty stupid to think they could get away with lying with a molly like Flask.’

  ‘Oh that. That was just a — ’ Kitty searched for a word that would not offend him ‘ — a ’speriment. I was curious.’

  ‘You know what they say about curiosity and the cat. The cat, remember, Kitty Kitty.’

  Ambrose was sufficiently amused by his own joke to move his hand from the area of Kitty’s throat and to start stroking the inside of her thigh instead. She was encouraged. She ran her own hand — her left one, not the bandaged one — down his body and said, ‘If I’m a cat, Ambrose, look at what I’ve found here. Why, it’s a mouse, a very large mouse. Don’t you worry your head about Eustace. He couldn’t even get it up.’

  ‘Not true from what I saw.’

  ‘Not properly up anyway, not for more than a mo. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. Not like you, Ambrose. You can always get it up. But, serious, where’ve you been the last few days? Have you been sleeping rough?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I missed you.’

  Ambrose pulled away from her hand. He looked slightly uneasy. Not really guilty but a bit uncomfortable.

  ‘Where’ve I been? Here and there. But not sleeping rough, no.’

  In fact, Ambrose had prudently invested in a widow, not too old a widow, who lived in a neighbouring street. His investment had taken the form of a few knowing words and suggestive grins over the last couple of months and she was more than receptive when he went knocking on her door round the corner. It was the night when he’d stormed out the house after discovering Kitty in bed with Flask. Being round the corner had been convenient too since he was determined to keep a close eye on Flask and Kitty. On the subject of the widow, he might have said to Kitty that a wise mouse needed more than one hole to creep into but the thought did not occur to him. He was split between wanting to boast about the other woman to Kitty — except that the widow would lose a few years in the telling — and wanting to keep quiet. Truth was, he was a little bit nervous of Kitty’s reaction. So he said nothing except to repeat that he had not been sleeping rough.

  Kitty had a fair idea that something of the widow-variety might have occurred. It didn’t bother her. They were quits in a way. But Ambrose still hadn’t answered the question about the murder of Flask, not right out. She had to know. So she approached the problem less directly.

  ‘What were you up to while I was missing you? You with someone?’

  ‘You sound like a police jack with all this quizzing. No, I wasn’t. If you want to know, I was keeping an eye on you and Eustace. I went to that theatre like you did. I saw Flask vanish. That was a good trick. Take my hat off to the magician.’

  ‘He came back afterwards,’ said Kitty.

  ‘I know he came back, more’s the pity,’ said Ambrose. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘I had a glimpse of him, didn’t I? He was a long way off. I recognized his coat.’

  Kitty stiffened. Was Ambrose saying that he had been following Flask on the morning of his death? Was this his way of edging towards a confession? As though he could read her mind he said, ‘But I didn’t get no closer to Flask. I kept my distance. Next I knew there was some big kerfuffle, the crushers coming and blowing their whistles and shaking their rattles and all that. I made meself scarce.’

  She wasn’t sure whether to believe him. Not the bit about making himself scarce but whether he really hadn’t got close to Flask, close enough to kill him.

  ‘Tell you who I did see, though,’ said Ambrose suddenly. ‘That old fellow who was at Miss Howlett’s. He passed me in a right state. If he weren’t so old I’d say he’d b
een running.’

  Teatime Confession

  Septimus was not usually at Colt House at teatime since he tried to put in a full working day in the cathedral library. But he had not been back to the library for two days now. Like the rest of the household, he had been unsettled by the murder of Eustace Flask and so these two old friends, Septimus and Julia, naturally turned to each other for comfort. Septimus had something else on his mind which he had yet to reveal to his landlady. First, though, he had to establish how Miss Howlett was bearing up. He commiserated with her on the death of the medium.

  ‘Oh, it is terrible, Septimus, terrible. But I have hardly given the unfortunate Eustace a thought because I have been so worried about Helen. What happened to my niece is a disgrace, it is an outrage.’

  ‘I expect the police thought they were acting for the best. Perhaps they had no choice in the matter because Mrs Ansell was found near the… because she was…’

  ‘How dare they arrest my niece! How dare they suspect her of having a hand in Mr Flask’s demise! Helen would not hurt a fly. She is not robust, you know.’

  ‘I never like to disagree with you, Miss Howlett, but from what little I have seen of Mrs Ansell she strikes me as being quite the opposite. She is robust, she is capable. She even hinted to me that her experience might be useful to her in her writing. For she is writing a novel, one of those novels they call a three-decker.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Julia, ‘but there are some experiences which a lady ought never to have, whatever the length of the novel she is writing.’

  ‘I was there,’ said Septimus, putting his teacup down in the saucer with particular care.

  ‘Where? Where were you, Septimus?’

  ‘I was near the river when Eustace Flask was… was murdered. I saw him.’

  ‘You saw him what, Septimus? You saw him alive, you saw him dead?’

  At once Julia Howlett looked very alert, especially bird-like.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I am afraid I do not quite follow you.’

  ‘I was visiting St Oswald’s. I do sometimes, when I want peace and quiet to think. I was walking in the graveyard and looking at the view of the cathedral over the river and through the trees. All at once, I heard a noise below me, from among the trees. And I saw someone making his way in haste through the branches and the undergrowth…’

  ‘Really, Septimus, you are not writing a three-decker novel. Less circumstantial detail, if you please. Who did you see?’

  ‘It was Flask. I recognized him by his coat, the bright green coat, like a peacock’s I have always thought. I was curious to see what he was up to. There is a path from the St Oswald’s graveyard leading to the river. I began to go down it. I am not sure what happened next but I rather think I stumbled over a tree root. Anyway I lost my footing and I fell over, and was badly winded and confused. I must have lain on the ground for some time. When I came to myself again, I was aware of strange noises from a spot further down. I went to investigate and I saw… oh, Miss Howlett, I saw a body lying there which I think was that of Mr Flask… I think he might have still been alive.’

  ‘Think, Septimus. Aren’t you sure?’

  ‘It must have been him.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing, I did nothing. I am ashamed to say that I was frozen with fear. And then I heard the sounds of someone coming from the other direction, from the river, and I responded by moving as fast as I could upwards, back to the graveyard of St Oswald’s. I suppose I was fearful that I too would be attacked. It was not my most glorious hour.’

  ‘It was not,’ Julia agreed.

  ‘My life has not been very full of glorious hours, Miss Howlett.’

  In his distraction Septimus ruffled his hair so that it was more straggly than ever. He looked so woebegone that Julia reached across and patted his knee.

  ‘But I suspect many men, younger and fitter men, would have done just the same.’

  ‘Your niece did not, she was brave, she went to investigate. It may have been her who I heard coming.’

  Septimus did not mention that he had also heard distant screams as he was stumbling through the graveyard, the screams of a woman. That would have been an admission too far. Miss Howlett would think even worse of him if he revealed that he had not gone back to assist.

  ‘Perhaps you are right in saying Helen is a robust girl,’ said Julia. ‘A little foolhardy too. But, Septimus, there is one thing which you can do — one thing which you must do — to make amends. You must tell the police everything which you have told me.’

  ‘I already have. I visited the police-house earlier today. I spoke to Superintendent Harcourt.’

  ‘Good, good. Your account is useful because it helps to exonerate Helen even more. Since you saw poor Mr Flask when he was already dead or dying and then heard a person approaching, a person who was most likely my niece, it confirms she cannot possibly be considered responsible for this heinous crime.’

  ‘That is what Harcourt said although he didn’t put it quite like that. The trouble is-’

  ‘What is the trouble now, Septimus?’

  ‘The Superintendent seemed to think I might have done the deed.’

  ‘You! That is as ridiculous as imagining that Helen did it. Almost as ridiculous.’

  ‘He established that I lodged with you, Miss Howlett. He was already aware of your, ah, friendship with Mr Flask. He asked whether I like the medium, whether I approved of him.’

  ‘Which you did not.’

  ‘Was it so obvious?’

  ‘You never said much but I could see from your expressions, even from your silences, that you were a sceptic.’

  ‘A sceptic not so much on my own account but on yours, Miss Howlett. I did not like to see Eustace Flask practising on you.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ said Julia firmly. ‘But if you related all this to the policeman, I can see that you might have made him suspicious. But not so suspicious that he locked you up, like poor Helen.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have been locked up. It would be a fitting punishment, Miss Howlett, for my many failures. But I did not lay a hand on Mr Flask. And I do not believe that Superintendent Harcourt really thought I might have done. Instead he said something rather odd.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He said, “The more the merrier”.’

  The Visitor from the Yard

  Earlier that afternoon, a mystery had been solved. Detectives from Great Scotland Yard did not wear uniforms. The individual sitting in Superintendent Frank Harcourt’s room was wearing an ordinary suit, and if Harcourt had passed him in the street he would not have given him a second glance. He’d scarcely have looked more than twice if they were sharing a railway compartment. Inspector William Traynor, with his round face and bland gaze, was average in every respect. Harcourt began to relax slightly.

  ‘Welcome to Durham, Inspector. I do not think we have been privileged to receive a visit from Scotland Yard before. You have had something to eat, I hope.’

  ‘I bought a meat pie when I changed at Derby. But I would appreciate it if you could recommend a place where I might stay in the city for a day or two.’

  The Inspector had come straight from the station. He travelled light, his only luggage a small portmanteau by his chair. Harcourt was about to suggest a couple of places when a better idea occurred to him.

  ‘We have some good hotels and lodging houses in Durham but it would be a pleasure if you would stay with us, Inspector. My wife would be delighted to meet a detective from Scotland Yard.’

  Traynor nodded and was, in his quiet way, effusive in his thanks.

  ‘Although I am a bachelor, Superintendent, there is nothing that pleases me more than the sight of domestic felicity. Your invitation is appreciated.’

  Harcourt was thinking such a guest would impress Rhoda. It will do my career no harm either when the Chief Constable gets to hear of it. And it would be better to have this stranger from the Yard in a place
where I can keep an eye on him. But, on the heels of these thoughts, it occurred to him that he had yet to discover exactly what Traynor was doing in Durham. What was the urgent and confidential business that had brought him all the way from London?

  Harcourt decided to grasp the nettle. ‘You’re here about the Flask business, I expect.’

  ‘The Flask business?’

  ‘A well-known local…’ Harcourt hesitated. How to describe Eustace Flask, since he was reluctant for some reason to say ‘medium’? He settled lamely for ‘… a local character.’

  Inspector Traynor looked even blanker and Harcourt relaxed even more.

  ‘Mr Flask had the misfortune to be murdered yesterday. The crime was perpetrated near the river.’

  ‘I know nothing about that.’

  ‘Well, that’s a — that’s not surprising. I mean, it would be surprising if the news had already reached the London papers.’

  ‘I dare say the news will eventually,’ said Traynor. ‘An interesting case? You have apprehended someone?’

  ‘Only a matter of time,’ said Harcourt. ‘So, if it isn’t to do with this murder, why are you here, Inspector?’

  ‘Just as I am unaware of your man Flask, Superintendent Harcourt, I don’t suppose you have heard of a recent accident in London. It occurred in the suburb of Norwood. A married couple died because one of them had carelessly left the gas jets open. It was fortunate there was no explosion. A neighbour caught a whiff of gas, and smashed a window. She alerted the constable on the beat and together they ensured that no one caused a spark in the vicinity, until the supply could be turned off at the mains and the house thoroughly ventilated. But it was far too late. The man and his wife were found upstairs, asphyxiated in their bed.’

  Now it was Harcourt’s turn to put on a blank face. Had the Inspector travelled all the way from Great Scotland Yard to give him a first-hand account of an accident in a London suburb? He wondered how to respond.