The Gold Masters

by Norman Russell

‘I suppose there was an element of luck involved, Lord Jocelyn?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose there was. And then, it seems that Fuentes had prepared a false copy of the unique Bible, concocted from a genuine edition which had been “doctored”, if I may use that expression, and sold it to Sudermann before absconding to escape his debtors. Strange comes back to London with his prize, attempts to humiliate me by flaunting it in front of a couple of experts, only to have those experts pronounce it a forgery! I must say, Inspector Box, that it was an amusing business—’

  Box angrily interrupted the banker’s account of his triumph over Sir Hamo Strange.

  ‘No, sir!’ he exclaimed. ‘It was not amusing at all, if I may say so. It was a sordid, wretched business all along! I am presented here, sir, with the prospect of two renowned bankers, one said to be broker to the crowned heads of Europe, the other – yourself – a nobleman, and a household word for probity in London, squabbling like jealous schoolboys over an overpriced second-hand book! And that petty behaviour, sir, has led indirectly to the violent death of a respected clergyman—’

  ‘Inspector—’

  ‘No, sir, hear me out! You thought it was amusing when Sir Hamo Strange was publicly humiliated. Did you let him see that you were amused? Did you gloat, sir?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I did. I pretended to commiserate with his loss, but he knew that I was secretly laughing at his discomfiture. The money was nothing to either of us. It was the loss of face that rankled with Strange.’

  Box’s anger was beginning to evaporate. Lord Jocelyn’s behaviour had been typical of his class, and it had been idle to take him to task. Besides, the noble banker had shown no resentment at being scolded like a schoolboy. Perhaps Box’s words had gone home.

  ‘Loss of face? Yes, sir, I suppose that’s true. And he would have guessed from your manner that you yourself had procured the Polyglot Bible. I’ll save you the embarrassment of hinting that Sir Hamo Strange was behind this burglary by saying it for you. He wanted that Bible, and he was prepared to get someone to break in to your safe to get it. But, of course, Lord Jocelyn, you knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did. And so, I made sure that Hamo would be disappointed a second time. When he opens that particular green baize bag – it’s not the original, by the way – he’ll find six bound copies of The Cornhill Magazine.’

  ‘And where have you hidden the Complutensian Polyglot Bible, Lord Jocelyn?’

  ‘It’s where I intended it to be all along: in the vault of my banking-house in the Strand. Even Sir Hamo Strange can’t cheat his way into that!’

  Twelve people had been assembled in the servants’ hall, a long stone-flagged room in the basement of Duppas Park House. Inspector Box and Sergeant Knollys stood near the door, and studied them. Tanner stood slightly apart, as though stressing his superior position as director of the household. A stern, starched housekeeper guarded her little flock of servant girls – the house parlour-maid, looking haughty and superior, three general housemaids, and a tearful little between-maid. Behind these stood the cook, her assistant, and the scullery-maid, a timid little creature who looked no more than twelve years old. Bringing up the rear, and ranged stiffly against the back wall, were the two footmen, resplendent in their knee breeches and blue and silver liveries.

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Box, of Scotland Yard,’ said Box. ‘I’ve had you brought here so that I can ask you a single question: Did any of you hear or see anything that may be relevant to this robbery of your master’s possessions during the night?’

  Nobody answered, but one of the three housemaids started violently, and only just managed to stifle a sob. Box pretended not to notice.

  ‘Nobody saw or heard anything? Are you all quite sure of that? A robbery has taken place, and a murder was committed in the grounds. A murder! If you’ve anything to tell me, you must tell me now. No? Very well. I think that’s all, Mr Tanner.’

  As the staff began to disperse, Box whispered to Knollys, ‘The second of those two footmen – the lanky one, with fair hair – is Snobby Quayle, one of the Milton Fisher gang. He’s been in service, and can pose as a footman, a skilled waiter, or a valet. He leaves doors unlocked, and windows half open – things like that. So when we get back to London we’ll go after the Milton Fisher gang. It’s interesting….’

  ‘Do you want me to arrest him, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Then hand him over to Mr Price to keep locked up in Hatchard Street police station until we need him. He won’t talk, though. The Fisher boys never do. Meanwhile, I’m going to have a word with that sobbing housemaid. She knows something.’

  8

  Sir Hamo Strange Dines Out

  Box looked at the young woman who stood, pale and silent, waiting for him to speak. Alice Parkes was in her mid-twenties, a pretty girl with frightened blue eyes and a nervous mouth. She looked smart in the uniform of a housemaid, and Box guessed that she was the kind of young woman who performed her duties willingly and well.

  ‘Now, Alice Parkes,’ said Box, ‘it’s obvious to me that you saw or heard something last night – no, it’s no good denying it, my girl, so you’d better tell me all about it! We’re private here, in this little pantry, but if I have to haul you down to Hatchard Street, then everyone will know. So what was it?’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ cried the young woman tearfully, ‘don’t tell the mistress! If you do, she’ll dismiss me straight away. I meant no harm. And neither did Bert—’

  ‘Bert? Look, Alice, just sit down there in that chair, and tell me all about it. If you’ve done nothing wrong, then nothing’s going to happen to you.’

  ‘You see, sir,’ said Alice, ‘last year, when I was twenty-four, I had a baby, a little girl, it was. Well, Bert, my young man, swore he’d stand by me, and he did, and next year, when we’ve saved a bit more, we’ll get married. Lord Jocelyn knows all about it, and agreed that I could stay. That’s typical of his lordship, he’s a wonderful, kindly man. But if Lady Marion ever found out – well, she’s very strict, and she’d dismiss me immediately.’

  ‘And where’s the baby now?’ For the moment, Box was more interested in Alice’s story than in the burglary. He was beginning to regret his angry outburst to the noble banker. His regard for his wife may have evaporated, but in his treatment of Alice Parkes he had shown himself to be a far worthier man than Box had thought him.

  ‘Baby is with my mother and father out at Selhurst. Bert’s in service, too. He’s a groom with Mr Sanders Clarke at Woodside. Mr Sanders Clarke is very strict, too, and won’t let Bert visit, so once a month he walks in to Croydon from Woodside, and we meet in the trees by Jubilee Road to exchange news.’

  ‘Ah! At last!’ cried Box. ‘A glimmer of light on the horizon! Your Bert was due to meet you last night, wasn’t he? So, after the house was shut up, and everybody safely in bed, you slipped out into Jubilee Road, and waited in the trees for Bert to appear. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It was just after half past two. I slipped out of the front area door and across the lawn to the trees in Jubilee Road. The moon was ever so bright, and I could see the whole side of the house lit up. As I looked, a hulking great man appeared from the direction of Park Road. He was carrying a sack, which he threw down near the fire escape while he fiddled with some kind of lantern. Then he began to climb the iron steps…. I was terrified, sir, and when he turned on the first-floor platform and looked across at the trees where I was hidden, I nearly fainted.’

  ‘He looked across, did he? I don’t suppose you saw what he looked like, did you? Young women, when they’re frightened, usually cover their faces with their hands.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t, Mr Box,’ said the girl, pettishly. ‘That man was after my master’s goods, and I intended to get a good look at him. He was a huge fellow, with a big beefy face all pitted with smallpox scars. He stood there, hunched forward on the platform, looking more like an ape than anything human. Then he began to climb. I didn’t wait to see if Bert would turn up. Instead,
I made my way back to the house and crept up to my bed. I thought I’d dream about that man all night, but in fact I went to sleep straight away.’

  ‘When you left the house, Alice, did you lock the door behind you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I have a latch key to that area door. I’d never have left my master’s house open in the middle of the night.’

  Alice suddenly began to cry.

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything, sir,’ she sobbed, ‘but when we heard that poor Mr Vickers had been murdered by that man, I didn’t know what to do. You won’t tell the mistress, will you? I’ll lose my place—’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone, Alice, apart from my police colleagues, so don’t worry about it. I hope all goes well for you, and Bert, and the baby. Meanwhile, if you recall anything else that you think I ought to know about, write a note to me. Inspector Price will give you my address.’

  ‘This is a very sinister business, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box, drawing on his slim cigar. They had left Croydon on a train that would take them straight through to Victoria. Their compartment was empty, so that they could talk freely.

  ‘Sinister, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. At first, it looked as though we were investigating a silly prank perpetrated by one spoilt millionaire upon another. But then, we find that one of the spoilt millionaires, Sir Hamo Strange, had access to a specialist villain like Snobby Quayle, one of the Milton Fisher gang of high-class robbers. How is it that a renowned banker has access to villains of that calibre?’

  ‘It suggests something very unpleasant, sir. There’s a whiff of corruption in the air.’

  ‘There is, Sergeant. And then, we come to murder. Alice Parkes had the courage to look at Mr Vickers’ murderer, and gave me a description of him. It was Francis Xavier Mahoney, a man with a trail of corpses behind him. He doesn’t usually have any grudge against his victims, Sergeant. They’re just people who got in his way while he was engaged on a job. He usually batters them to death in minutes, and then gets on with whatever he’s doing. We know all about him, but we’ve never been able to bring him to book. Dead men tell no tales.’

  ‘What’s a man like that doing in the pay of Sir Hamo Strange? Incidentally, sir, if ever I catch this beauty, I’ll not let go until I’ve brought him in. Mr Vickers was a good man, and a first-rate rugby player.’

  ‘We’ve got to look into the matter of Sir Hamo Strange, Sergeant,’ Box replied. ‘Anyone who can call on the services of the Milton Fisher gang and Basher Mahoney needs to be investigated. But in three days’ time millions of pounds’ worth of gold are to be moved out to the East India Export Dock. Until that’s done, Sir Hamo and his criminal associates will have to wait.’

  Police Constable Lewis Lane sat at a corner table in the back bar of a public house near Long Acre, and thought about the business of his dead daughter, Catherine Mary. He had both heard and seen her, and tomorrow – Friday, 28 July – he would witness her final revelation before she was taken away to the Garden of Innocence.

  PC Lane stirred uneasily. Was it all true? How could it be? There had been Mrs Pennymint and her platitudes, the reptilian Mr Portman, and then – and then the elegant and accomplished lady, Madam Sylvestris, who could bring back the spirits of the dead. Inspector Box was clearly an unbeliever, too ready to scoff at what he didn’t understand. He’d been that way himself, once.

  And yet…. This public house, the Sarah Siddons, was firmly anchored in reality. It was brash, very noisy, and very glittering, but it held its own quality of realism and common sense. Over in the far corner, an articulate old fellow was holding forth to an audience of a half-a-dozen theatrical customers, folk who worked at Covent Garden or Drury Lane. He had a fine, old-fashioned theatrical voice, and his long story was punctuated by laughter from his listeners. A broken-down old actor, by the look of it, but he, and his audience, belonged to the real world. Was he right about Madam Sylvestris? Or was the whole business a fraud, as Mr Box believed?

  And had he been right in accepting an offer from a sergeant he’d never clapped eyes on before? Sergeant Webb, he’d called himself. The letters on his collar showed that he was from ‘N’ Division, at Islington. He’d heard on the grapevine, this Sergeant Webb had said, that he urgently wanted to attend a seance on Friday, the twenty-eighth of the month. Webb was a spiritualist himself, and sympathized with Lane’s dilemma. He’d be able to send a substitute, a Constable Edwards, also of ‘N’, to take his place on guard at Sir Hamo Strange’s private pier below Carmelite Pavement.

  PC Lane looked at the old actor, who was still regaling his friends with amusing stories. He was a man nearing sixty, with an elfish, good-humoured face. In his imagination, Lane suddenly began to hear the strains of Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, which had been played on the phonograph at the seance in Belsize Park.

  The blood rushed to Lane’s head, and for a moment he thought he was going to faint. That expressive, fleshy mouth … the last time he had heard the old actor speak, he had told him that he was Roger Wilcox, his wife’s uncle on her mother’s side.

  It was a fraud! It had all been lies. And little Catherine Mary’s memory had been violated by that woman, by Portman, and by that superannuated old villain holding forth in the corner, and being repaid with tots of gin.

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’ enquired a man who was threading his way towards the bar. ‘You look as pale as a ghost.’

  ‘Just a little turn, friend. The fresh air will put that right. I don’t suppose you know who that old chap is, the one telling funny stories in the corner?’

  ‘That? That’s Sebastian Tolmache, the old character actor. He’s more or less retired now. I’d drink up and leave, if I were you, mate. You don’t look well at all.’

  Villainy…. He’d been got out of the way by someone. Well, fate had put paid to their little trick. He’d go after all to Carmelite Pavement tomorrow, and have a look at this Constable Edwards, who was supposed to take his place. And when the bullion assignment was over, he’d go after the so-called Sergeant Webb, and arrange for Pennymint, Portman and Sylvestris to be taken up on a charge of conspiracy.

  Meanwhile, little Catherine Mary was where the vicar had said she was: safe in Heaven, with the angels. PC Lane finished his Guinness, and hurried out into Long Acre.

  Louise Whittaker, thinking about her friend Inspector Box of Scotland Yard, stepped out of the Ladies’ Dining Room in High Holborn, and almost collided with a distinguished bearded gentleman who had just alighted from a cab.

  ‘Why, Miss Whittaker! You remember me, I trust? How nice to see you again!’

  ‘Professor Verner! I’m so sorry to have barged into you like that. My mind was preoccupied with a friend of mine who’s connected with the investigation of this terrible murder and robbery out at Croydon. How are you, Professor?’

  ‘Very well. And hearing you mention that robbery at Croydon – at the home of Lord Jocelyn Peto – makes me recall that you told me, when we last met, that you banked with him. With Peto & Company in the Strand, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I do. For my twenty-first birthday my parents opened an account for me there. I was tremendously proud of that, you know! Even today, the private banks have a certain cachet—’

  Professor Verner glanced conspiratorially at Louise, and lowered his voice.

  ‘That may well be, but if I were you, my dear young lady, I’d take my money away from Peto’s as soon as possible. There’s a rumour going round that Peto’s vaults are virtually empty. Take your money out, and put it somewhere safe, like in the Westminster Bank. A word to the wise, you know.’

  When the professor had bidden her good day, Louise Whittaker walked thoughtfully up towards Holborn Circus. She’d wondered herself about Peto’s. A stationer’s clerk who had called at her house in Finchley had told her of a conversation he’d overheard in one of the City public houses. One of Peto’s clerks had stoutly defended the bank, but in such a wild way as to arouse immediate suspicion.

&
nbsp; If only she could entice dear, shy Arnold Box out to Finchley that very day, so that he could tell her all about the robbery at Peto’s house in Croydon! There was something odd about the whole Peto business, and she’d take shrewd old Professor Verner’s advice. Better safe than sorry.

  ‘You continue to spoil me, Lord Jocelyn. I’m constantly flattered by your little attentions.’

  Madam Sylvestris opened the large, flat box of marrons glacés that Lord Jocelyn Peto had placed on the occasional table beside her chaise-longue. She admired the rows of sugared chestnuts in their little silver foil cups, but forbore to eat one. She adored marrons glacés, but they were a confection best eaten in private.

  ‘This is a beautiful room, Almena,’ said Lord Jocelyn. ‘It complements your exotic beauty. I suppose I can’t persuade you to drop the “Lord”, and just call me Jocelyn?’

  Madam Sylvestris treated her friend to a languid, amused smile. What a dear, florid fool he was! And how weary she’d become of his increasingly insistent demands. The trouble with Lord Jocelyn was that he was an incurable romantic. To him, these visits furnished him with harmless excitement in what had become a life of drab domesticity. He thought that his wife, Lady Marion, lived in guileless ignorance of his doings. It was like him to underestimate, as well as undervalue, a woman who could prove to be a deadly and ruthless enemy….

  ‘No, Lord Jocelyn. To do that would be to yield to a very bourgeois kind of vulgar familiarity. Ours is a fine and noble friendship. Come, now, Lord Jocelyn, tell me about this poor clergyman who was murdered in the grounds of your house. What a shock that must have been for you!’

  ‘It was. Poor fellow, he was very highly valued in Croydon. He was killed by a burglar who’d managed to break into Duppas Park House and rifle the safe. It’s not a pleasant thing, Almena, to have the police trampling all over the place. It looks bad. And it’s bad for business. Did you like your new carriage?’