Broken Blue: The Complete Series

by Amy Cross

  "Five or six months," he replies. "Perhaps longer".

  "Then it seems a little pointless to leave a message," I say, realizing that this line of inquiry is fruitless. I can't shake the feeling that this manservant has been drilled to present a barrier to my every request, and I could stand on this doorstep until Doomsday and still get no closer to Mr. Lockhart. "It was not a matter of any great importance," I continue, turning and walking down the steps, before glancing back at the door. "If you have any contact at all with your master, pleased tell him that I called and that I would appreciate a telegram from him with some contact details. Otherwise, no further action need be taken".

  "Very good," the manservant replies, before retreating into the house.

  Left standing in the street, I find it hard to shake the feeling that there's some part of the Edward Lockhart story that I'm not seeing. I simply cannot understand why the man would have suddenly left the country so soon after he came to me with his fevered claims, and now I am starting to think that Laverty was right when he claimed that the man has in some way been involved in the disappearances of a number of young women. While I am reluctant to escalate the case and attract the attention of my superiors just yet, I cannot help but feel this is a mystery I should look into on my own time. Turning to walk away, I glance across the road and see a man loitering on the street corner. I immediately recognize him as Jonathan Pope, one of London's less scrupulous private investigators, and a man with whom I have clashed on a number of previous occasions. Ordinarily, I would go out of my way to avoid any contact with the scoundrel, but the fact that he is evidently observing Edward Lockhart's house is clearly another coincidence to add to the pile.

  "Good afternoon, Inspector," Pope says with a grin as I walk over to him.

  "Good afternoon to you too," I reply, glancing back at Edward Lockhart's residence for a moment. "It has been some time since we last met, Mr. Pope, but I'm pleased to see that you're looking as innocent and innocuous as ever".

  "Thank you, indeed," he replies.

  "A fine day it is," I add. "One might almost wonder why a man would choose to spend his time standing around in an otherwise unremarkable part of the city. Particularly when he is known to prefer the company of drinkers and ladies of the night".

  "And one might wonder why an officer of the law would choose to come down here and pay a visit to an otherwise unremarkable household". Pope smiles. "I wasn't aware that Her Majesty's Inspectorate had so much free time. Are there no other cases to occupy your time?"

  "There are plenty of cases," I reply, "but there is only one man who seems to connect a number of them together. Have you by any chance heard of a Mr. Edward Lockhart?"

  "Late of this town?" Pope says. "I certainly have heard that name. In fact, the gentleman seems to have made a rather swift exit. Damned inconvenient for me, I must say. On a purely professional level, of course".

  "I hear he has gone abroad," I reply, hoping that perhaps Pope knows something that has so far eluded me.

  "That's what they say". He pauses for a moment. "As far as I can make out, the official line is that Mr. Edward Lockhart left late one night, and called for his luggage to be sent after him. Unfortunately, I arrived too late to follow the gentleman in question and see where he was going, but I was able to follow his luggage".

  Knowing full well how a man like Pope operates, I reach into my pocket and pull out a few coins, depositing them in his waiting hand.

  "Mr. Lockhart's luggage was taken to Bermondsey," he continues, "where it was burned in an industrial furnace. Not usually the actions of a gentleman's staff, I'm sure you'll agree".

  "And for what purpose are you interested in the matter?" I ask. "After all, a man such as yourself is hardly known for his public conscience".

  Clearing his throat, he holds out his hand yet again. Reluctantly, I give him some more coins.

  "I've been hired by the father of a missing girl," he says. "Elizabeth Cavendish is known to have been cavorting with Edward Lockhart for some time. She'd go into his house and stay for several days, but of late there has been no sign of her. She seems to have been added to the list of young ladies who have shared such a fate. They go into his home, or into his penthouse at the Castleton in Mayfair, but they rarely come out again".

  "And you suspect foul play?" I ask.

  "Don't you?" He pauses for a moment. "Obviously I cannot divulge all of my findings to you, Inspector. After all, Mr. Cavendish has paid a handsome sum for my services, and I owe him a debt of exclusivity. Nevertheless, I will tell you my general impression, which is that Edward Lockhart was a dangerous man. Dangerous to the ladies of this city, that is. He ate them up and spat them out, but he was not working alone. I am quite certain he had certain co-conspirators, although their names elude me for now". He shrugs. "One must wonder what has happened to Mr. Lockhart, and one can only conclude that perhaps those co-conspirators have tired of him".

  "You think he is dead?" I ask.

  "I think it most likely. I only wish Mr. Cavendish had engaged my services a few days earlier, instead of relying on the rather pathetic efforts of New Scotland Yard. If I had started following Mr. Lockhart a little sooner, perhaps we could all have avoided this uncertainty and unpleasantness".

  "Perhaps," I reply. "I wonder, Pope, if you would be so kind as to keep me informed of your progress in this case. As you can imagine, my curiosity is piqued".

  "I am more than happy to keep anyone obliged of my progress," he replies, "provided they pay my regular fee. I shall happily let you know if I have any juicy details to divulge, but I'm afraid it would be a rudeness to my existing clients were I to simply throw out my hard-earned information to anyone who asks". He smiles. "We both know that a case such as this is never going to get far if it's left to your lot, Matthews. Lockhart was a well-connected man, and I'll wager that his co-conspirators have some high-placed friends as well. If you get close to sniffing out the truth, you'll be shut down cold. Them in high positions don't take kindly to having their dirty underwear washed in public, do they?"

  "There is such cynicism in the air of late," I say, turning and walking away. Jonathan Pope can be an infuriating figure, and he has a level of arrogance that cannot help but shock a decent man, but he is no fool and I cannot help but acknowledge that he is one of the finest private investigators in the city. If he is interested in this case, then there is clearly something out of the ordinary occurring.

  As I reach the end of the street, I glance back and see that he remains in position opposite Mr. Lockhart's house. For now, I am happy for Pope to remain involved, but there might come a time when I wish to avail myself of his services. Furthermore, I fear he is correct on one point: if this case truly does involve members of the aristocracy, I am quite certain they will close ranks to protect one another as soon as they realize they are being investigated. Nevertheless, I feel there is one person in London who might yet shed some light on this situation, and I must not let a sense of propriety prevent me from paying her a visit. Nevertheless, I must prepare myself for a fight. There are certain corners of this city where officers of the law are most certainly not welcome.

  Five

  Today

  "Graham Bradshaw was a man who touched the lives of everyone in this room," says the priest, smiling kindly as she stands by the coffin. "He was a man who cared deeply for others, and who went out of his way to help his friends and family whenever they were in need. He was selfless and generous, and he was not only a loving husband and father, he was also a valuable and important friend and colleague to so many people, and an upstanding member of the local community".

  "I was a pain in the ass," my father whispers in my ear. "I didn't help people because I cared about them. I helped them because I knew it was a good way to get what I wanted. I played a long game. Suckers".

  I take a deep breath. This whole situation is so surreal. The priest is talking about my father as if she knew him, but they never even met. She's just patch
ed together an assessment of his life, ignoring all the interesting parts and focusing instead on a series of banal generalizations. Seriously, I bet she says almost exactly the same words at every funeral, just making a few factual changes each time. Am I the only one who can see through this bullshit?

  "Have you noticed the woman sitting directly behind you, but three rows back?" my father whispers.

  I keep my eyes on the priest.

  "Go on," my father continues. "Take a quick look".

  I glance briefly over my shoulder, and see a middle-aged woman with tears in her eyes. I immediately look back at the coffin, determined not to draw attention to myself.

  "Did you see her?"

  I give an imperceptible nod, just enough to acknowledge the question.

  "That's Felicity Haughton. You remember that name, don't you?"

  I sigh. Felicity Haughton was a friend of my father's from way, way back. Over the years, I pieced together a few parts of the story and came to the conclusion that they were in love with each other. For whatever reason, they never got together and they each married other people. I don't know exactly what happened, but every so often I'd see my father daydreaming and I'd wonder if he was thinking of the life he might have had if only he'd married Felicity Haughton instead of my mother.

  "That woman was the love of my life," my says. "Not your mother. Sorry, kid, but it's true. I loved your mother, sure, but my heart belonged to Felicity Haughton. I know you suspected as much, but I figured I might as well come clean now that it's all over. Your mother knew, too. I'd have given anything to have been with Felicity, but things never worked out. Don't get me wrong, I was content to settle for your mother, and I'm forever grateful that we had you, but there's a part of me that always wondered how things might have turned out if I'd just been brave enough to tell Felicity Haughton how I felt about her. Well, I did tell her once, but we were both drunk, so I guess it doesn't count".

  I swallow hard, wishing this voice would leave me alone.

  "Don't worry," he says. "Once the coffin goes into the oven, I'll be gone. You won't have to put up with me whispering this maudlin crap in your ear for much longer. I guess I'm just..." He pauses for a moment. "Well, I guess I'm just scared. I mean, I'm dead, but I still don't know what comes next. I'm in that coffin, waiting to be burned, and what happens after that? Imagine what it's gonna be like for me, trapped in that little wooden box as the flames rush in and consume me. I read once that the heat makes the stomach gases swell up, so the body rises a little, almost like it's sitting up. Fuck, the whole thing sounds gruesome. I wish there were some other way".

  Suddenly I notice that my mother has taken a folded piece of paper from her handbag, and she's holding it nervously in her shaking hands.

  "Graham's wife Margaret would now like to say a few words," the priest says, stepping back and leaving a space at the lectern. Moments later, my mother stands up and walks slowly over to address the room. She places the piece of paper in front of her and pauses. I had no idea she was planning to speak today, and I can't believe my quiet, timid mother would have the guts to talk to so many people.

  "First," she says, her voice faltering a little as she stares resolutely at the piece of paper," I want to thank you all for coming today. It would have meant a great deal to my husband if he'd known how many of you wanted to come and bid him farewell as he passes from this life to the next".

  "Bullshit," my father whispers. "I can't believe my friends were all the kind of losers who'd show up. Didn't they know me at all?"

  "I understand that today's service might seem a little unconventional," my mother continues, "since we are not in a church, but I'm sure you'll understand that it was Graham's express wish that we mark his life in a more secular setting". She clears her throat, and it's patently obvious that she doesn't approve of the arrangement. She almost spat the word 'secular' from her lips, as if it was poison.

  "She can't avoid making a little dig, can she?" my father says. "She has to register her disappointment and make sure that the crowd knows it's not her fault. Just like all the times I embarrassed her while I was alive".

  "Graham lived a happy life," my mother continues, "and we must all be grateful for the -" She pauses and takes a deep breath; after a moment, I realize she's close to tears. My first instinct is to curl up into a little ball and wait for this horribly embarrassing and cringe-worthy moment to be over, but I know I have to just sit here and soak it all up. Seriously, though, I have no idea why my mother put herself forward to read a speech like this. She must have known she wouldn't have been able to get the job done, so why did she set herself up for this nightmare?

  "Come on, Margaret!" my father's voice shouts. "Get on with it, you pathetic old wind-bag!"

  "Graham lived a happy life," my mother says after a moment, "and we must all be grateful for the time we had with him". She pauses yet again, and it's clear that there's no way she's going to be able to finish this speech. There's a long, painful silence and I suddenly realize that everyone is waiting for someone to do something. My mother is just standing there, looking down at her piece of paper but unable to continue speaking, and the room is filled with the loudest silence I've ever heard. I look over at the priest, expecting her to step in, but I realize with horror that she's waiting for me to do something.

  "Look at her suffer," my father whispers. "Doesn't it make your heart feel glad?"

  Before I even know what I'm doing, I stand up and walk over to join my mother. I feel absolutely terrified but, at the same time, there was no way I could continue to sit on my ass and watch this train-wreck unfold. I quietly take the piece of paper from my mother, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes before turning and hurrying back to her seat. Taking a deep breath, I glance out across the room and see a couple of hundred faces staring back at me, all of them waiting for me to start speaking. It feels like my legs are made of jelly, and I'm convinced I'm going to faint at any moment. I don't know if I'm doing this for my father, or for my mother, but either way it's the kind of moment I've tried to avoid my whole life.

  "Good luck," my father whispers. "You'll need it".

  "Uh," I say, before clearing my throat and looking down at the piece of paper. "Graham, my father, lived a happy life," I continue, my voice cracking a little through sheer fear, "and we must all be grateful for the time we had with him. His colleagues from work all say the same thing, which is that he provided a great deal of stability and motivation, and he drove all his projects forward with determination".

  "Fucking hell," my father says. "It's not much to show for a life, is it?"

  I clear my throat again, and suddenly I realize something: I can do this. It's just reading from a sheet of paper, and I can damn well get the job done. I just have to focus, and forget about all the people who are staring at me.

  "You're gonna fuck this up," my father's voice says.

  "No, I'm not," I mutter under my breath, before continuing to read out loud. The rest of the speech goes remarkably well, and I don't fumble my words once. Finally, I get to the end, fold the piece of paper back up, and walk slowly back to my seat. While the priest gets on with her own spiel, I sit down and feel my mother immediately place a hand on my shoulder. Finally, the nerves come back and I start shaking. I can't believe I just managed to give that speech, in front of so many people. I look back across the room and see Mark still sitting at the back. He has an emotionless expression on his face, but I'm pretty sure he must think I did a bad job. I mean, I got all the words out in the right order, and I didn't make any big mistakes, but I didn't exactly knock the ball out of the park. IT was nothing special.

  "Hey, kid," my father's voice says. "Chin up. Stiff upper lip, and so on. It's time for me to go".

  I turn to see that the panel at the back of the stage has opened, and the coffin is slowly moving along the belt, heading into the darkness.

  "I guess this is the end," my father continues. "It's been nice chatting to you, Elly. I feel I'
ve really opened up. By the way, you did a good job today. Just don't let it go to your head". The coffin disappears from view, and the panel closes. "See you around," my father whispers, his voice getting more and more faint, and then he falls silent. He's gone. He's really, really gone. I feel my chest tighten, and it's as if my heart has stopped beating for a moment and the whole world has fallen silent.

  Next to me, my mother has started to weep uncontrollably. She's not making a sound, of course, but tears are streaming down her face and she's looking at the ground. Instinctively, I reach over and put my arm around her, feeling her body shaking with grief. I never expected her to act like this, and I feel as if all the other people here today must be watching us. I want to take my arm away, to let my mother get on with sobbing on her own, but now I feel as if people would think I was being harsh, so I just keep on holding her.

  "Dear Lord," the priest says, "we commend the soul of Graham Bradshaw to your eternal care, and we ask that you take him into your fold. We ask that you see what we see, which is that he was a man who did his best for everyone around him, and who cared deeply for the comfort and happiness of others. We beseech thee, Lord, to judge him fairly and with compassion, and to reward him for his unerring devotion. Amen".

  We all sit in silence for a moment. I keep expecting to hear my father's voice, or to hear him banging from inside the oven, but there's nothing. He's really, really gone this time. I guess his body has already been burnt, and at this moment his ashes are probably being poured into an urn, ready for us to take home. Taking a deep breath, I feel an emotion I never expected to feel today: relief. It's as if the huge weight of the funeral has finally been lifted, and life can finally begin again. The past week has been totally surreal, but finally there's a light at the other end of the tunnel.

  "Thank you," my mother says as she wipes away her tears.

  "It was nothing," I say.

  She smiles, before resting her head on my shoulder for a moment. I feel like something has changed; the balance of power in our relationship has shifted, and it's as if she sees me a little differently. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing, but I can't help thinking a line has been crossed. I wish my father would pipe up with some kind of sarcastic comment, but I know that isn't going to happen. As my mother continues to rest her head on me, I turn and see that as the congregation starts getting up and walking to the door, Mark is still in his seat. I guess I might be crazy, but with this new-found sense of achievement, I feel as if maybe I should try talking to him. After all, I feel like I'm a completely different person. If I want Mark, I need to go and get him.