by Simon Clarke
This took Abberline by surprise. ‘How on earth did you come by such an accurate date?’
Thomas produced a scrap of newspaper. ‘This was wedged between the shelf and the bracket. The carpenter hadn’t been careful enough ensuring the brackets were level when he set them into the wall. He used a piece of folded newspaper to lift the shelf at that end.’ He unfolded the tightly folded paper and handed it to the detective. ‘There’s a date printed on the top corner: 3rd August, 1881.’
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet, Thomas. Go on.’
‘Therefore, Sir Alfred has been worshipping at his shrine for almost ten years before his death in February.’
‘Although he could have had another shrine elsewhere. He might have been saying his prayers to the goat-horned god for many years before that.’
‘He might.’
‘If he was raised a Christian, what made this English gentleman bow his head toward heathen deities?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that, Inspector; would you like to hear my theory?’
‘By all means.’
‘Picture this. Over two decades ago Sir Alfred buys the golden statues known as the Gods of Rome, which have been discovered by chance. Such a find should have been reported to the Italian Government, and, of course, it is illegal to remove antiquities from Italy without the proper export licence. Sir Alfred smuggles the statues into Britain. All this is done in absolute secrecy. Sir Alfred is ambitious. He plans to gift one of the golden statues to Queen Victoria in the hope he will be given an aristocratic title in return.’
‘So instead of remaining Sir Alfred Denby he is elevated to Lord Denby?’
‘Which is not only a great honour to serve in the House of Lords, it also puts him in a singular position to become extremely wealthy. An aristocratic title attracts cash like bees to a honey pot.’
‘But we know it all goes wrong. The Italian authorities learn that the priceless statues have been discovered, and that one has been offered to the Queen of England, hence the scandal.’
‘And yet Sir Alfred was never publicly named as the owner of the statues; moreover, the statues have never been found.’
Abberline scratched his jaw. ‘What caused Sir Alfred to believe that Roman gods are real, and should be feared?’
‘We can’t be sure, but certain events that Sir Alfred experienced made him believe that the gods had cursed him in some way. After all, we do know that the fortunes of the Denby family had begun to falter. Sir Alfred worshipped at his altar in the hope that the gods would lift the curse. If that happened, the Denby family might prosper again.’
‘I think you’re near the truth, Thomas. Once I met an explorer, who lived in a house full of talismans and magic voodoo dolls. He was a man of science, yet he was terrified that he’d brought some dreadful curse down upon him after he stole a sacred bell from a Chinese temple.’
‘Did he break the curse?’
‘The curse broke him. He’s now confined to an asylum. A demon sits on the end of his bed waiting to eat his soul – or so he tells everyone.’
‘Superstition can be a powerful thing. Lucky four leaf clovers, hanging horseshoes from doors.’
Abberline blew into his hands. ‘I wonder if our coffee’s on its way.’
They had a very long wait for the butler to arrive with a tray, bearing a pot and cups. The coffee was quite cold.
CHAPTER 13
The troubled maidservant, Laura Morgan, had been moved to an attic room of the manor house. Here there was a single bed and a little table with a glass and a jug of water; that’s all. Laura stood at a window that looked out toward hills where roaming sheep resembled white speckles against dark heather. A key turned in a lock. Hesitantly, someone opened the door to what was, to all intents and purposes, Laura’s prison cell.
‘Meg?’ Laura felt surprise at the expression of fear on the young maid’s face. ‘It’s only me. Come in.’
The maid, trim in her black dress and white lace apron, nervously entered the room. She carried a tray, bearing bread, cold mutton, pickles, and a Welsh cake studded with raisins. Meg set the tray on the table. That done, she quickly retreated to the door, her eyes averted from Laura, and saying nothing.
‘Meg? Have I made you angry?’
Meg shook her head without looking at Laura. She clearly wanted to leave the room as soon as she possibly could.
‘Meg, stop.’ Laura caught the young maid by the arm.
Gasping with shock, Meg struggled to break free.
‘We’re friends, aren’t we, Meg? I gave you my best boots when yours wore out.’
‘Please, Laura … let go.’
‘Why won’t you talk to me?’
‘I’m scared of you.’
‘You’ve no reason to be scared. I’m your friend.’
Meg’s eyes were bright with shock; the girl was close to screaming. ‘Why did you do that terrible thing last night?’
‘I saw men bring a body to the house yesterday. I had to find out who it was.’
‘The poor gentleman was dead. What made you go and disturb him like that?’
‘I needed to know if it was the young man with the red hair and green eyes.’
‘You’ve got the devil in you: that’s what they’re saying below stairs.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘But they say you can see things that aren’t there.’
‘Meg, who was the dead man?’
‘Let me go.’
Meg struggled; the girl wanted to be out of the room with the door locked behind her.
‘Meg, I won’t let go until you tell me the man’s name and where they found him.’
‘Then I can go?’
‘I swear.’
Tears welled up in Meg’s brown eyes. ‘It was terrible, Laura. The young gent was Captain Sefton. He’d come to help the master with his work. Yesterday, they sent up one of the balloon things. I hate those balloons, Laura. Surely it’s unnatural for a man to ride through the sky like he’s become a bird.’
‘The master is a good man. He builds flying ships that will defend this country from our enemies.’
‘Captain Sefton was up there on a balloon, flying through the air. For some reason he slipped and fell over the side. Oh dear God, Laura, he dropped such a long way. They say he was dreadful to look at. All broken up – his arms and legs twisted around.’
‘Where did they find him?’
‘On the path that goes from the big clearing in the forest.’
‘That’s where I saw him fall.’
‘You couldn’t have. You were locked in the room.’
‘No. Yesterday morning, as I walked back from the village, I heard such strange music and a white figure chased after me.’
‘Laura, stop it.’
‘I was running along the very same path you’ve just told me about, the one near the big clearing, and whoosh! A man fell out of the sky and dropped onto the path not five feet from me. He had red hair, green eyes, and a gap here in his teeth.’
Laura gripped Meg by the arms. She felt the young maid convulse as she gave a loud sob.
‘Stop saying these things, Laura. It’s not right. They’ll send you to a mad house and that’ll break my heart.’
‘Meg, listen.’ Laura spoke tenderly. ‘Believe me, please. I saw Captain Sefton fall out of the sky and be killed.’
‘No …’
‘My dear, sweet Meg. For some reason, I’ve been given the gift to see the future.’ She gripped Meg tighter as the girl began to tremble. ‘I have visions.’
‘You’re scaring me, Laura, please stop saying these things.’
‘I see the manner in which people end their lives. I have visions of their deaths. …’
‘That’s witchcraft.’
‘This scares me, too,’ she whispered. ‘What if I see you, Meg? What if I’m tormented by visions of you lying dead?’
Meg’s knees buckled as she fainted. Laura had to hold the maid tightly to st
op her falling.
Laura continued, ‘Before they sent me here, I worked at Fairfax Manor. It’s where Sir Alfred got killed when the gunpowder exploded … a maid told me that the Denby family have been cursed by something called the Gods of Rome. Meg, I think the curse killed the man with red hair yesterday. What’s more, the Gods of Rome are making me have visions of the future.’
Meg’s eyes stared dully. Sheer terror had overwhelmed her senses.
Laura murmured, ‘I keep asking myself who will be next.’ The sounds of a flute came from somewhere faraway. Haunting, sinuous notes glided into the room and into Laura’s head, where that slow melody danced deeper and deeper into her soul. ‘I don’t want to see your dead face in my dreams, Meg. Nor Jake’s. Nor the master’s. Can you hear the music? There’s music when the spirit comes. Pale as death he is. He’s one of the Gods of Rome … can you hear it?’
The door burst open to reveal Miss Groom. ‘What on earth’s going on here?’
‘The music’s started. He’s approaching …’
‘What have you done to poor Meg?’ The housekeeper pulled the maid out of Laura’s grasp. ‘Oh! The girl’s fainted dead away … if you’ve hurt her, I shall bring the police.’
A tall man, wearing a long, black coat, stepped into the room. His most striking feature was a bushy beard that was white as snow.
The housekeeper still had to grasp Meg tightly to keep her on her feet. ‘I’m sorry about this, Doctor Jones.’ She was clearly embarrassed by the situation.
When Doctor Jones spoke it was in a deep, rumbling voice. ‘Which one is the lunatic girl?’
‘There, standing by the window; she’s called Laura Morgan.’
The doctor said, ‘Miss Groom, you maintain that the girl sees things that aren’t there, and she claims she can perform witchcraft?’
‘No, sir. I’m no witch,’ Laura protested. ‘But I can see the future.’
‘She causes the most dreadful trouble, Doctor.’ Miss Groom’s expression became ferocious. ‘Such wickedness. Yesterday, she ran away into the wood, and my staff had to search for her. Last night, she went downstairs to a room where the body of poor Captain Sefton had been left. For some ungodly reason she wanted to touch the corpse. Everyone is shocked by her depraved actions.’
‘Leave her to me, Miss Groom. I will make everything all right.’ He placed his Gladstone bag on the bed and opened it.
Laura watched as he drew out a jar full of a yellowish powder. Meanwhile, Meg had recovered enough to stand upright by herself. She pressed her hand to her forehead as if afflicted by a fierce headache.
Miss Groom said, ‘Laura, you’ll cause no more mischief from now on, my girl. No more running off, no more lies about ghosts.’
The doctor poured water from the jug into the glass, then added a spoonful of the yellow powder, which he stirred.
‘Drink this,’ he told Laura. ‘You’ll soon feel much better.’
Laura shook her head. ‘They’re keeping me locked up. I shouldn’t be treated like a lunatic.’
Miss Groom spoke firmly. ‘Drink the potion, girl, or I’ll tell the master that you are beyond helping.’
The doctor handed the glass to Laura. ‘Drink, child. The nightmares will vanish.’
Laura knew she had no choice. Her parents’ survival depended on her wages. The milky potion had a strange, perfumed odour, and she didn’t even know what the drug was. Nevertheless, she drank.
‘Lie down on the bed,’ directed the man with the white beard. ‘Sleep.’ He turned to Miss Groom. ‘I’ve administered a powerful sleeping draught. It’s an opiate and will render her unconscious.’
‘Will it cure her mind?’
‘Not a cure, but it will curb the hallucinations for the time being. Perhaps all the girl needs is rest to bring about a cure. I will speak to your master before I leave.’
Laura Morgan tried to tell the doctor that she did not hallucinate – that she was sane. However, the drug was taking effect: already it was beyond her power to move so much as a finger, and she could no longer speak. Her head rolled to one side, so that she gazed in the direction of the window. A white face appeared there. Its skin grew brighter and brighter until it was dazzling and its light seared the room.
But neither Doctor Jones, nor Miss Groom, nor Meg noticed. Laura wanted to shout and point at the figure that hovered there fifty feet above the ground outside the window, yet she couldn’t even utter the slightest sound. Nor could she give voice to this premonition: strangers will come here soon … there will be more deaths … many more deaths ….
CHAPTER 14
Thomas knew that trouble had erupted when he heard the woman’s scream. This was followed by shouts of: ‘MURDER! MURDER!’
Thomas had been helping Abberline interview staff in a room at the back of the house. When he heard the shouts, he rushed to the window where a shocking sight met his eyes.
‘Inspector,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a man lying out there! His face is covered with blood!’
Thomas dashed along the corridor to the back door. Within seconds, he was outside. The man lay flat on his back perhaps twenty yards from the workshop. A rifle lay in the doorway. Thomas immediately identified the fallen man as Brown, the gamekeeper. Blood trickled outwards across the ground. His face was absolutely pale and he didn’t move – didn’t even appear to be breathing. Domestic staff flooded from the house; there were screams and shouts of panic and distress. He noticed Abberline calling instructions to the butler.
Thomas continued into the workshop. Abberline had arranged for a photographer to take pictures of the shrine before the carvings and bowls were removed. Now the photographer knelt over the smashed remains of his camera. The man shook his head as he gathered the shattered remains of the wooden case to him as if grieving over a dead loved one. The shrine had been attacked, too. Parts of the stone carvings were scattered across the floor.
Thomas ran toward the photographer. The man immediately threw his arm over his face and cried out, ‘No! Don’t hit me again!’
‘Look at me,’ Thomas panted. ‘My name is Thomas Lloyd. We met earlier.’
The man sagged with relief. ‘I thought it was him coming back. Dear God …’
‘What happened?’
The photographer remained sitting on the floor, too shaken to stand. Nevertheless, he managed to stammer out an explanation. ‘I-I photographed the items on the shelf as you told me to, Mr Lloyd. The gamekeeper came to the door and we chatted about what had been found. Then a second man appeared behind the gamekeeper and crack! The stranger hit him with a piece of wood. The poor fellow fell like he’d been struck by a thunderbolt. Then the stranger rushed toward me. He struck me with his fist, and that’s the last I knew until just now. My camera, Mr Lloyd … my camera is in bits.’
‘What did the man look like?’
‘It all happened so quickly.’
‘Try.’
‘He wore a dark hat with a large brim and … and he had a suntanned face. Very suntanned he was. A moustache … yes, a black moustache.’
‘What about his clothing?’
‘I’m not sure, other than he was in a yellow coat – bright, mustard yellow.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘No.’
Thomas quickly surveyed the wreckage. The camera, which had been in the form of a brown wooden box on a tripod, had been thoroughly smashed. All the statues had been broken, too. The rotten remains of the cockerel that Sir Alfred had sacrificed to the Roman deities lay on the ground. A large, black fly walked along one stiff wing.
‘Can you stand?’ Thomas asked the photographer.
‘If you give me a moment or two, sir, I’m sure I will.’
Thomas ran back outside. A ring of housemaids and footmen stood around the body of Brown. Abberline crouched beside the man; the detective’s fingertips rested on the side of the victim’s neck.
Thomas shouted breathlessly, ‘Inspector, the shrine’s been smashed, and the p
hotographer’s been beaten.’
‘Is he alive?’
‘Yes, he’ll be all right.’
The elderly gardener hobbled around the corner of the workshop. ‘I’ve seen ’im! He’s yonder! By the barn!’
Thomas didn’t hesitate. He shot across the yard with the speed of a greyhound released from its leash.
Abberline called after him in alarm, ‘Thomas, for heaven’s sake, man, don’t get too close! He might be armed!’
Thomas made for the barn that lay along a track some hundred yards from the house. He was perhaps halfway there when he saw a figure flit from a doorway toward a line of bushes. I’ve got him, Thomas thought in triumph. The man’s coat flapped open as he ran – it really was a striking mustard yellow.
‘Wait!’ Thomas yelled. ‘You are under arrest!’
At that moment, he no longer thought of himself as a newspaper reporter. No, Thomas Lloyd, was the man who would capture the killer. The intruder moved at a furious pace through bushes into the forest. Thomas ran as fast as he possibly could. He glanced back, but nobody was following at that moment. Then he could hardly expect Abberline to dash with the speed of an athlete – the man was well into middleage.
Thomas had the impression that the one he chased carried a white object. However, the gloom beneath the trees impaired his vision. He could see no detail of the attacker other than he wore a hat and the yellow coat. The pursuit took them by the quarry where Abberline had found the remains of the pistol. Birds flew squawking from the undergrowth as the stranger charged through, trying to make good his escape. Thomas had closed the gap. He was now perhaps twenty yards behind the stranger. The woodland became more overgrown. Barely any light penetrated the branches. Thomas’s eyes blurred with exertion to the point the stranger became a yellow smudge.
Pushing aside branches, Thomas tried to close the gap. As he did so, he prepared himself for a fight. After all, the stranger was a violent man. He’d attacked both the gamekeeper and the photographer. He wouldn’t surrender quietly. Thomas would have to subdue the killer with his fists.
