‘No, sir,’ Tanner whispered. ‘It’s Alice Parkes, the maid. She’s taken it very badly. Shall I show you through to the conservatory, sir?’ The man’s voice began to tremble, and he added, ‘Poor Sir Jocelyn! There was no one to come to his assistance in his hour of need.’
Box found Inspector Price standing among the potted palms, cool ferns and exotic plants of Lord Jocelyn’s extensive conservatory at the rear of the mansion. Somewhere in the room a fountain was splashing gently into a basin.
Price greeted Box in his lilting Welsh voice, and without further preliminaries he pointed to a spot somewhere behind a bank of tall ferns growing in wooden tubs.
‘He’s still there,’ he said, ‘where the housemaid Alice Parkes found him, at a few minutes after midnight last night. She’s very incoherent, but it seems that she had been out late, Thursday being her day off. She’d met some young man—’
‘Bert,’ said Box. ‘He and Alice are getting married next year. No wonder the girl’s upset. First, she witnesses the murder of the Reverend Mr Vickers, and now she discovers her master’s dead body. I’d best take a look.’ Box stepped beyond the ferns.
Lord Jocelyn Peto lay on his back on the terracotta tiled floor. There was a congealed wound in his right temple, and a pool of dried blood on the floor. A pistol lay a couple of feet away from his right hand. Yet another .38 Colt. Every villain seemed to have one, these days.
A wickerwork table stood beside the body, and a basket chair of the same material lay on its side. It was clear that Peto had been sitting in the chair when the shot was fired, and that he had then slithered out of it to the floor.
‘Why did you send for me, Mr Price?’ asked Box.
‘Because his eyes are closed. I’ve not seen a suicide of this kind where the eyes have been closed. And somehow – well, I’d have thought Lord Jocelyn would have weathered this particular storm. He’d many friends in the City, and was much liked here in Croydon. Quite frankly, I never imagined that he would commit suicide.’
Box knelt down over the body, which was dressed in day clothes – the very clothes, Box realized, that the frantic man had worn when he had last seen him, standing despairingly on the balcony of his ruined bank. He tentatively breathed in, near to the dead man’s partly open mouth. Price saw him frown. Then he inhaled a second time, more deeply and prolonged. He got to his feet and examined the wickerwork table. It held a silver tray with a coffee pot, a half-empty coffee cup, and a decanter of brandy. Box raised the glass to his nose, then put it down quietly on the table.
‘It was murder, Mr Price,’ he said. ‘First, he was rendered senseless by chloral, introduced into the brandy decanter, and perhaps into the coffee, too. He fell into a sleep here, in the chair, and then somebody came in and shot him dead. It’s very warm in here, and it’s going to be necessary to remove the body very soon.’
‘Murder? I thought so. I’ll make arrangements for the remains to be removed to our police mortuary—’
‘Would you mind if I took charge of it? There’s a brand new police surgeon at Horseferry Road, Dr Donald Miller, a house surgeon at Charing Cross Hospital. It was he who performed the post-mortem on poor PC Lane, and confirmed that he’d died of a broken neck, as the result of a massive blow to the throat. I know who did that, incidentally, and when I’m ready, I’ll bring him in. I’d like to cultivate this young Dr Miller, and doing a post-mortem on Lord Jocelyn would be an enormous boost for him.’
‘Just as you like, Mr Box. Meanwhile, we have to ask ourselves the usual questions. Who did it, and why? Well, it might have been a ruined investor, though I doubt it. Or it might have been a private affair, in which someone took advantage of Peto’s ruin to suggest that he’d committed suicide.’
Inspector,’ said Box, as the two men walked out of the conservatory, ‘this is an inside job. Avenging investors can’t enter a gentleman’s house, armed with a bottle of chloral, and lace his coffee and brandy with it. I don’t believe it. I’d like to talk to that hysterical maid, Alice Parkes. Last time I talked to her, I thought she was a sensible, sober kind of girl, not given to making all that fuss I heard when I came in just now.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right. The girl’s in a very peculiar state. There’s more behind her mood than distress for a good master’s death. She knows more than she’ll tell. That’s another reason why I sent for you to come.’
‘Incidentally,’ said Box, ‘have you done anything yet with Snobby Quayle?’
‘I have. He’s been up before the magistrate, where he said nothing, and refused even to reserve his defence. He’ll be found guilty of assisting at a burglary, and given three months.’
‘That’ll suit him down to the ground, Mr Price. He’ll do his time, and then slimy Milton Fisher will peel twenty five-pound notes from a greasy wad, and give them to his faithful follower. Well, let’s leave him with Croydon. He’s small fry, as the saying goes.’
The two police officers emerged from a passage into the light, airy hall, with its delicate white panelling and curving art nouveau staircase. A man was sitting on an upright chair near the door, a tall, distinguished man sporting a waxed beard and moustaches. He started uneasily when he saw Box, and peered at him through tinted spectacles.
‘Ah!’ said Box, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Mr Paul Lombardo, the celebrated private detective. Someone posted a note at the Rents to say that you were on the prowl in Belsize Park. This is Inspector Price of the Croydon Police. I take it that your business is urgent? We’re beginning a murder investigation here.’
Paul Lombardo whistled under his breath, and glanced nervously towards the closed door of the drawing-room.
‘Murder! Do you mean Peto? Look, Mr Box, will you come out into the road with me for a moment? As a matter of fact, I didn’t know you were here. I came by appointment to see someone in the house, and the butler told me that Lord Jocelyn had committed suicide. But if it’s murder— Come outside. There’s something I must tell you. It’s for your ears alone.’
‘I’ll see about the mortuary van, Mr Box,’ said Price, taking the hint. He turned back into the house, and closed the front door behind him. Box and Lombardo slipped out through the front garden and into the road.
‘Listen, Mr Box,’ said Lombardo, ‘I came out here today to visit Lady Marion Peto by appointment. Lady Marion’s been my client for the last three months. She hired me to find out whether or not her husband was being unfaithful to her.’
‘And was he?’
‘Yes. You’ll understand that I wouldn’t usually break a client’s confidence, but if Lord Jocelyn’s been murdered, than it’s my duty to tell you what I know. You can draw whatever conclusions you like from what I’m going to tell you. Lord Jocelyn Peto was conducting what he imagined to be a clandestine affair with Madam Almena Sylvestris, the famous medium. He was a frequent and regular visitor to her at her house in Melbourne Avenue, Belsize Park. I expect you knew about that?’
‘I didn’t, Mr Lombardo. It’s news to me, and very interesting news, too, though, as I said before, I knew you were watching her.’
‘It was a full-blooded liaison, Mr Box,’ Lombardo continued, ‘and I reported all the details to my client only last Saturday. She was obviously shocked, but you know what these society ladies are like. She made a valiant effort to show no emotion, but I thought to myself that Lord Jocelyn would be in for a bad time once his wife got her second wind, and decided to do something about his infidelities.’
‘Did you find out anything else? You were always good at ferreting things out, Mr Lombardo.’
‘I found out that the house in Belsize Park – 8 Melbourne Avenue – was wholly owned by Lord Jocelyn. He also bought his lady friend a new carriage, recently. He paid three hundred and fifty pounds for it.’
‘You did right to tell me all this, Mr Lombardo. It certainly gives me food for thought. What will you do now?’
‘I’ll hover discreetly in the grounds, Mr Box. The butler told me that Lady Marion w
as indisposed, which is not surprising, but she may rally sufficiently to want to see me later. I wish you well in your search for Lord Jocelyn’s killer.’
As the private detective walked towards the garden of Duppas Park House, he half turned to Box, and added, ‘I don’t think you’ll have to look far.’
Alice Parkes sat on a chair in the drawing-room, and looked at Box fearfully. She was as pretty and smart as when he had last seen her, but the fear that had shone in her blue eyes then had been replaced by something more akin to terror. Once again, this young housemaid had been a witness to something frightful, and whatever it was, thought Box, it was something infinitely worse than the attack on the Reverend Mr Vickers.
‘It was your day off, yesterday, Alice, and so you went to see Bert, didn’t you?’
The girl nodded, and moistened her lips. She looked as white as her own starched apron.
‘You returned to the house at about midnight. That’s what you told Inspector Price. Now tell me, Alice, what happened after you came in. I can imagine why you’re upset, but I don’t see why you should be so frightened. What happened?’
‘Sir, Bert saw me as far as Jubilee Road, and then I came through the wicket gate into the front gardens. I had my key, and entered the house through the front area door as usual. I went upstairs to the ground floor, lit one of the candles on the lamp table in the hall, and prepared to go upstairs to bed. At that time of night, sir, it’s all right for servants to use the main staircase.’ Again, the terrified girl moistened her lips. ‘Well, as I began to climb the stairs I suddenly heard a shot. It was so loud, it seemed to echo through the whole house. It came from the other side of the passage—’
‘What passage? Go on, Alice, you’re doing very well.’
‘I mean the long passage that runs right across the ground floor beyond the hall, the passage that leads to the library and the conservatory. I ran along the passage, and could see a light at the end. It was one of the gaslights in the conservatory. By then, I could hear the sound of voices as other people in the house came down to find out what had happened. I ran into the conservatory, and I saw—’
Alice suddenly began to scream. She writhed on her chair, and beat her head with her clenched fists. Box pulled her arms down to her lap, and shook her roughly until the screams changed to choking sobs. What ailed the girl? What had she seen?
‘Now stop that, Alice, do you hear? You’ve done nothing wrong. Think of Bert, and the baby. That’s better. You ran into the conservatory, Alice. What did you see? Just tell me briefly. There’s no need to take on so.’
‘Sir, I saw my master lying on the floor among the ferns. He’d been shot…. Oh, sir, there’s a curse on this house. First my master was robbed, then poor Mr Vickers was murdered. And now, poor Lord Jocelyn! If my mother had known that it would be like this, she’d never have let me work here.’
‘Was there anyone else in the conservatory? Did you see anyone else?’
‘No, no! It was empty. There was just Lord Jocelyn, lying there dead. There was nobody!’
‘Then why are you so terrified? Lord Jocelyn was murdered. It’s wasn’t suicide. Who did you see, Alice Parkes? You saw somebody. If it was somebody you knew, and you won’t tell me, you’ll make yourself an accessory after the fact of murder, and you’ll stand trial for your life. Think of Bert. Think of the baby.’
Alice began to cry, and her tears seemed to be those of hopeless despair.
‘There was nobody. Nobody! Leave me alone. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Yes, leave her alone!’
The ringing, aristocratic tones of Lady Marion Peto made Box look up in surprise. Already dressed in deepest black, the widowed lady stood, upright and haughty, near the drawing-room door. Alice got hastily to her feet and curtsied.
‘This poor, faithful girl, Inspector, did indeed see someone in the conservatory last night. She saw me! Alice, go to the servants’ hall. I’ll talk to this policeman alone. You’ve nothing to fear, girl. Go!’
Lady Marion stood on the threshold until Alice had gone, and then slowly closed the door. In her hour of distress she seemed to have regained some of the beauty for which she had been renowned in her youth. The almost wilful dowdiness of her middle years had disappeared. Box bowed gravely, and Lady Marion favoured him with a formal inclination of the head.
‘Yes, Mr Box,’ she said, in a high, clear voice, ‘she saw me. Over the years I had come to accommodate myself to Lord Jocelyn’s vile, low infidelities, his chorus girls and pretty shop assistants – yes, even this last dalliance, which was with a fraudulent medium! I swallowed my pride for the sake of our social position. But when he added total financial ruin to his catalogue of irresponsibilities, I sent him packing post haste out of this world. I rendered him senseless, and then I shot him. The gun was his own. There is, perhaps, a certain irony in that.’
Box had guessed as much from the heavy hints that Lombardo had dropped. Those hints had enabled him to interpret Alice Parkes’s terror as something more than shock at finding her master dead. The girl had surprised her mistress, perhaps with the pistol still in her hand, but custom and habit had constrained her to hold her tongue.
Half an hour later, as Box led Lady Marion Peto away from the house through a crowd of weeping servants, he saw Inspector Price arriving at the end of Jubilee Road with the police hearse that would convey her murdered husband’s body to the railway, and so to Horseferry Road mortuary.
From The Morning Post, Saturday, 5 August 1893
It is with the greatest satisfaction that we hear of the generous decision of Sir Hamo Strange to buy and operate Peto’s Bank in the Strand. Readers will recall the distressing events of the week gone, in which hundreds of depositors feared that they had been ruined by the fall of the old-established banking house. We venture to reproduce the statement made to your Correspondent by Sir Hamo Strange:
Peto’s Bank was never truly insolvent, and its demise was a great misfortune. I intend to open the bank for business this coming Monday, 7 August, and can assure all depositors that their funds will be made good immediately. Lord Jocelyn Peto, so tragically dead under circumstances that are not yet sufficiently clear, was a dear friend of long standing, and it is my wish that Peto’s Bank should continue trading under his distinguished name.
In these self-seeking times, we venture to say that England is proud to have in its midst a man of the calibre of Sir Hamo Strange who, while ranging across the world in his pursuit of business, can yet turn a compassionate eye to the tragic events unfolded this week here in London, and apply his great charity to their alleviation. He is already a Knight Bachelor, and, we hear, a member of an Imperial Russian Order. Perhaps those advising the Queen will, in the near future, consider the conferring of a well-deserved barony upon Sir Hamo Strange.
The directors of Peto’s Bank followed Sir Hamo Strange respectfully along the subterranean passage that gave access to their tiled bank vault. It was cold and cheerless under the pavement, and the bullion racks were still empty and forlorn. Later that day, they would be full again, as staunch allies of Sir Hamo in the banking world shored up Peto’s credit by making loans of gold in considerable quantity to the stricken bank.
‘And this, sir,’ said Mr Robert Thorne, the Managing Director, a distinguished, grey-haired man in his sixties, ‘is the late Lord Jocelyn’s private deposit box.’
Sir Hamo Strange looked with kindly concern at the group of men whom, that very morning, he had newly confirmed as salaried directors. They returned his smile with deferential lowering of the eyes. Things, thought Strange, were going well.
‘My dear Thorne,’ he said, ‘I have been greatly moved by your many years of loyalty to my late dear friend Jocelyn Peto, and I feel that a review of your remuneration should be my immediate concern. Further, I should like to make the link between Peto’s and the Strange Foundation closer by appointing you as a voting member of the Board of Strange’s.’
He held up a hand to stem th
e man’s profuse flow of thanks.
‘And this, you say, is the late Lord Jocelyn’s private deposit box? Mine, now, I think?’
He smiled, and there was just a hint about the set of his right hand to suggest that he was holding it out as though expecting to receive something.
‘Of course, sir,’ Mr Robert Thorne replied. He placed a key in Sir Hamo Strange’s hand.
Strange listened to the retreating footsteps of the directors as they made their way along the dreary tiled tunnel to the stairs. It was nice to have got Peto’s damned bank into his hands. It was even nicer to have got that million pounds insurance for the great and insoluble bullion robbery – the robbery that had never taken place. Then, of course, there’d be another million pounds coming in when the Swedish Loan was repaid. He’d have to do something about that fellow Box, though. A worthy young man, no doubt, but a considerable nuisance. Yes, he’d have to do something about Box.
Sir Hamo Strange inserted the key into Lord Jocelyn’s deposit box, and pulled back the lid. There it was, still wrapped in its protective green baize, the Complutensian Polyglot Bible, the secret edition of 1519, and here, in this first of the six volumes – yes! There it was, in its cardboard pocket, the secret history of Charles the Fifth of Castile. It was his! Destiny had always designed it to be his.
The directors, huddled near the cobwebbed stairs that would take them up to the marbled banking hall in the Strand, froze as they heard the peals of laughter echoing through the vaults, laughter that seemed almost insane in its hooting triumph, and its air of abandoned gloating. The laughter died away at last, and the figure of their benefactor appeared, a bulky parcel in his arms, ready to join them in the banking adventure that lay so enticingly ahead of them all.
16
Winner Takes All
Arnold Box walked rapidly along the Strand. Monday, 7 August had dawned grey and rather chilly, and by seven o’clock steady summer rain was falling. He had chosen a devious route from Fleet Street to Great Scotland Yard in order to pass the premises of Peto’s Bank. Would Sir Hamo Strange’s promise to open it for business hold good? Yes. The ‘Closed’ placards had been taken down, the big double doors stood invitingly open, and the windows blazed with light. He turned off the rain-lashed Strand into Adelaide Street.
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