by Simon Clarke
Thomas said, ‘Evidently, Colonel Brampton considers your safety a priority. He ordered the soldiers to keep a close eye on you.’
William nodded. ‘A wise precaution as it turned out.’ He glanced at Thomas beside him. ‘Shall we continue our tour?’
‘Absolutely. However, I must say that disguising yourself as a coachman hasn’t been at all successful. Jake recognized you.’
‘Then I should try a little harder. Next time a postman, or a shepherd, or a priest all dressed in black?’
‘Perhaps your safety isn’t something you should jest about?’
‘You’re right. This isn’t a game, is it? We live in a world where tragedy might lie around the very next corner, isn’t that so, Thomas?’
That night, Thomas wrote an account of his first day at Newydd Hall. Or, to be more precise, he wrote two accounts. One would be for his newspaper when Inspector Abberline gave him permission to publish details of the case; the other report of the day’s events would be posted to Abberline in Scotland, where the detective was conducting his investigation into the slaying of Thaddeus Denby by an assassin’s bullet.
He sat at a small table by the window, re-reading his report by lamplight. Here and there, he made corrections, or added what might prove to be a salient fact. And yet Thomas had very little to say about anything that could help the investigation along. He had made a tour of the sprawling estate here in Wales; he’d visited the grave of William’s brother, who’d died three years ago. William Denby didn’t know anything but hearsay about the Gods of Rome; certainly no facts that would prove useful. All in all, the case was becoming even more mysterious and baffling.
Thomas pushed open the window for a breath of fresh air. Winds sighed about the eaves of the house. Stars shone through thinning cloud, revealing the dark, hump-backed shapes of mountains. He leaned out, his hands resting on the window ledge, his head fully out in the cool, night air. His bedroom was located on the third floor. From this height, the ground seemed a long way beneath him. His body suddenly tensed as he saw a face staring up at him – a ghostly, shimmering face at that. A pair of eyes locked onto him with a startling intensity. Thomas had been on the point of shouting a challenge, demanding to know why they stared up at him, when he let out a sigh of relief and chuckled. Fool that I am, he thought. I’m seeing my own reflection. His eye adjusted to the starlight. Dash it all, he’d been gazing into a horse trough for– he’d seen nothing more than the reflection of his own face. The breeze blew harder, causing the eerie mirror-image of his features to disintegrate into ripples.
Quite abruptly, he froze as an idea occurred to him – an idea that was so striking that his skin tingled. He thought: I saw my reflection from an unusual angle and it seemed to be stranger staring up at me. What if I were to look at aspects of this case from a different angle? Would that help?
Thomas continued to stand at the window as he recalled the list of Denby brothers who had died violent deaths. They’d all apparently been killed by accident; the conclusions of the various coroners. So which death stood out? The most unusual death in this catalogue of dead siblings was, Thomas fancied, the one that hadn’t aroused any suspicion whatsoever … the death of Joshua Denby; he’d been claimed by illness in this very house three years ago. At that moment, Thomas heard the sound of soft weeping. Leaning further out of the window, he looked up. Pale hands protruded beyond the window ledge above his. That must be one of the attic rooms, he decided. A servant’s room. One of the maids must be in distress for some reason.
Thomas called out gently, ‘Hello up there. What’s wrong?’
A face appeared some ten feet above his. Against the night sky, it appeared as a striking, pale oval; a pair of glittering eyes looked down at him.
The woman whispered, ‘I’ve seen you before in a dream … leave this place … leave tonight … you are in danger. Death follows you, and he is coming ever closer.’
The face vanished abruptly, leaving him alone. Meanwhile, a cold breeze came down from the mountains to ghost through the forest – it sounded like the long, heartfelt sigh of a lost and despairing soul, or so it seemed to Thomas Lloyd.
The next morning Thomas went downstairs and happened to see William Denby in the conservatory: he was pushing a girl in a wheelchair along a little avenue created by potted ferns. She was around ten years of age, had soft, blonde curls that hung down over her shoulders, and her eyes were the same bright blue as William’s. Thomas had planned to mention his encounter with the maid last night, the same one who’d been struck down by mental sickness. She’d peered down at him from the window above his, and her words still resonated: ‘I’ve seen you before in a dream … leave this place … leave tonight … you are in danger. Death follows you, and he is coming ever closer.’ The poor girl must be bewitched by terrifying hallucinations. But meeting William like this, in the company of the invalid child, wasn’t the appropriate moment to discuss one of his servants.
‘Ah,’ William said, ‘good morning, Thomas. This is my daughter, Edith. Say “hello” to Mr Lloyd, Edith.’
‘Good morning, Mr Lloyd. Are you the newspaper man from London?’
‘Indeed I am, Edith.’
The girl’s smile was a cheerful one. ‘I am very much sorry that I cannot stand to greet you. I’m not as well as I might be this morning. The damp is in my chest again.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Edith.’
‘Will you write about my father’s work here?’
‘If your father allows it, I would be honoured.’
‘He’s a brave man, isn’t he? To fly through the sky, higher than eagles?’
‘He is very brave, Edith. I admire him and I believe millions of other people do so as well.’
This pleased the girl. She grinned up at her father. ‘Did you hear that, Papa? Mr Lloyd has declared you famous.’
William smiled back. ‘The gentleman is most kind.’
‘Kindness be damned. Mr Lloyd speaks the truth.’
‘Edith, don’t swear in front of guests.’
Edith giggled. ‘I will be famous, too, when I fly in my father’s balloon. He promises to carry me halfway to heaven.’ She giggled again; however, the sound immediately turned to bout of coughing.
William crouched beside her. ‘Remember: slow, deep breaths. Try to rest for a while.’
She coughed again. Even so, she gave a mischievous smile. ‘Rest be damned.’
He spoke softly. ‘Shush there, my dear. Catch your breath.’ A woman in a white uniform appeared at the door. ‘Ah, Nurse. Will you take Edith to her room? She should have peace and quiet for a while.’
Edith continued to cough, the effect of which seemed to rob the girl of her strength; her head drooped downwards; her shoulders sagged.
After they’d gone, Thomas said, ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted you. I hadn’t realized there was anyone in the conservatory.’
‘Well, you won’t have seen us hidden by this jungle.’ Denby brushed his hand against the ferns. ‘But don’t apologize. This area is for my team and guests alike to use. Common ground, as it were. A little public park indoors.’
‘Your daughter has a winning personality.’
‘And she swears like a grenadier.’ William smiled. ‘Edith has to spend a lot of time in bed, resting. She hears soldiers talking outside in the gardens. They have, shall we say, an exotic vocabulary.’
‘I trust Edith will feel better soon.’
‘There are good days and bad days.’ He smiled sadly. ‘If I have a relentlessly cheerful disposition, it’s for the sake of my daughter and wife. The girl is quite poorly, you know.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Thomas didn’t wish to pry into such delicate matters as the health of the man’s daughter so began to make his excuses in order to leave William alone. However, William beckoned him closer.
‘Thomas, you’ll probably hear this from others, but I’d prefer that you hear it from my lips. Edith had an older sister. Mary had the sam
e condition – a weakness of the lungs. It’s a congenital illness, which occurs from time to time in my wife’s side of the family. Mary was bedridden for much of her young life. One day, when she was sixteen, I was sitting reading to her. All of a sudden, she sat up very straight and, when she spoke it was with such a note of surprise, “Papa,” she said, “I cannot cough”. Mary had a tenacious cough, just like Edith’s. She needed to cough to clear her lungs. I saw Mary’s face grow pale, and I knew at that moment, not only could she no longer cough, she could no longer breathe normally. I carried her outside where the fresh air might revive her.’ He sighed as he gazed through the window. ‘My lovely, gentle Mary, with her blue eyes and blonde curls, just like Edith’s, slipped away as I held her in my arms.’
‘I am so sorry to hear about your loss, William. I truly am.’
‘Thank you, Thomas.’ He sucked in lungful of air as if he absolutely appreciated the value of this life-giving atmosphere. ‘Colonel Brampton orders me to mount guns on the balloon, so we can destroy our enemies from the sky. But you know, Thomas, I am deceiving him. The real reason I press forward with my work on airships is because high altitudes benefit people with lung complaints. I want, with all my heart, to fly little Edith to an altitude where the air is so clear and so pure that she will be healed, and she will not suffer the same fate as her sister. My balloon, God willing, will save Edith’s life.’
He continued to stare silently out of the window. No doubt the man lived in that dreadful moment all those years ago when he had carried his daughter Mary outside, and prayed that she would breathe again. After a while, Thomas quietly withdrew from the room.
‘Sorry, sir.’ The soldier’s manner was polite, yet firm. ‘I can’t allow you into the balloon sheds, sir.’
Thomas had decided to explore the grounds near the house. When he’d approached the large, white buildings the soldier had appeared and held up his hand.
‘I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ Thomas said. ‘The work here is confidential, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you noticed any strangers hereabouts recently? Particularly foreigners?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir.’ The man remained impeccably polite. ‘You would have to make such enquires with the colonel.’
‘Of course, good day.’ Thomas touched the brim of his hat and retraced his steps.
A gardener hoed soil that had the same fine consistency as pastry crumbs. Thomas strolled toward the man, intending to convey the impression that he was merely enjoying the April sunlight. The gardener, a man of fifty or so with a huge white beard, paused just long enough to say, ‘G’morning.’
‘Good morning.’ Thomas smiled. ‘A splendid day.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Five years or more.’
‘Your accent indicates you aren’t a Welshman.’
‘No, sir. It was the old master’s intention that staff be transferred from one house to the other every few months.’
‘But, of late, you’ve avoided such removals?’
‘The ground is difficult to work here, sir.’ He deftly used the hoe to cut out a thistle. ‘Gardeners and gamekeepers are kept here on account of their knowledge of the land.’
‘I see. So you were here when Mr Joshua Denby took ill and died?’
‘Yes, sir. Three years ago, it was. The household was bereft, sir.’
‘Was it a long illness?’
‘He became afflicted in summer, got took winter.’
‘Do you recall the symptoms?’
The gardener’s eyes swivelled toward Thomas in surprise. ‘Symptoms? I wouldn’t know, sir. And it wasn’t for the likes of me to know.’
‘There must have been talk? You know how servants chatter.’
‘I’m a gardener. I’m no chatterer.’ Then he said pointedly, ‘My work demands so much of me that I’ve no time for idle gossip.’
Thomas saw what the man implied. ‘I shouldn’t keep you.’ He smiled. ‘Though it’s been a pleasure to talk to you.’
‘Very kind of you, sir.’
An idea suddenly occurred to Thomas. ‘You pay such close attention to the flower beds, you’d notice if there was anything amiss about them?’
‘Amiss?’
‘For example, you’d notice if there were footprints in the soil.’
‘You mean left by trespassers?’
Thomas nodded. ‘They’d indicate if anyone was hiding amongst the bushes and so on?’
‘The colonel asks me to watch out for footprints and the like.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s them war balloons. The colonel doesn’t want foreign spies stealing the master’s plans.’
Thomas thanked the gardener and wished him good day. The gardener returned to his never-ending task of hoeing league upon league of flower beds. Thomas noticed that the boy who cleaned the household’s boots came toward him at a run.
‘Telegram, sir. Telegram!’ The boy waved a small envelope.
‘Thank you,’ Thomas said, as the boy skidded to a halt. ‘Best wait, in case I need to send a reply.’
Thomas opened the envelope and pulled out a slip of paper. The message was from his editor at the newspaper. Thomas’s article about how Abberline had identified the pickpocket at the London railway station by simply observing the thief’s mannerisms had captured the public’s imagination. The entire print run of the newspaper had sold out in record time. Readers clamoured for another story about the famous detective. Indeed, the editor, himself, clamoured for more Abberline stories. The message ended with the exclamations : give me more! more! more!
Such praise – such success! This pleased Thomas, but he couldn’t yet deliver reports of the Denby case for publication. What occurred to Thomas was that he could write up the account of Abberline’s defeat of the bully who attacked the child because of the spilt milk.
The boy asked, ‘Want to telegram a reply, sir?’
He took out a pencil and wrote on the envelope: you shall have more! ‘Please have those words telegraphed back to the sender.’
The boy dashed away to the house, thrilled to be given the task of conveying such messages. Thomas decided to return to the house, too. Perhaps he could saunter the corridors until he came upon domestic staff and engage them in conversation. He might be able to extract some valuable nuggets of information regarding Joshua Denby’s death. Thomas also found himself thinking about William Denby. The man’s character was much deeper and much more complex than he’d hitherto thought. Initially, William’s personality had been as bright and breezy as this April morning; however, Thomas hadn’t known about the man’s sick child. The girl, Edith, was unable to walk. William had confessed in a heartfelt way that another daughter of his had died of the same lung condition when she was sixteen. Moreover, the man had declared that he was exploiting the army’s interest in his flight experiments in order to build a balloon that would carry his daughter to an altitude that might alleviate or cure the weakness in her lung. The man would be worried to the very depths of his being about his daughter. He could imagine William and his wife discussing what could be done to alleviate her suffering, and William endeavouring to give Mrs Denby hope with optimistic plans about an altitude cure.
Thomas, deeply immersed in his thoughts, walked with his head down and his fists thrust into his pockets. The notion of a remedy that involved taking the patient aloft in a balloon where the air was purer wasn’t so outlandish. He knew many ill people who used the services of mountain-top sanatoriums. Spending time at high altitude, the doctors said, helped ease those suffering from tuberculosis, or bronchitis, or other such maladies of the lung.
He turned the corner of the stable and nearly collided with a figure.
‘Penny for your thoughts, Thomas.’
‘Inspector?’ Thomas couldn’t hide his delight at seeing the man.
‘Good morning, a boy told me that you were out taking the air.
’
‘Dash it all, it is good to see you.’ He shook the detective’s hand warmly. ‘Did you learn anything in Scotland about our case?’
Abberline smiled. ‘And good to see you, too. I’ll tell you about my findings regarding the death of Thaddeus Denby, although to be frank, I discovered very little of value. And what of you? Have you found anything of interest?’
‘There’s plenty of interest. Here in Wales we have ships that sail through the sky. There is a maidservant who claims she can see into the future. Yet, sadly, there is nothing relevant to the case.’
Abberline fixed his eyes on Thomas – those shrewd eyes, which seemed to read what was on his mind. ‘Nothing? Absolutely nothing?’
‘There is one oddity – yet it isn’t an oddity at all.’ Thomas shrugged.
‘Let me guess at what’s troubling you.’
Thomas laughed. ‘I’m sure you never will.’
‘Joshua Denby, the man who died peacefully in bed. That’s what you find odd.’
‘That’s precisely what I’ve been asking myself. How the devil did you know that his death had been on my mind?’
‘Because it’s been on mine. The truth of the matter is that his death, if it was murder, is crucial to this investigation.’
‘How do we prove it was murder?’
‘We raise him from his tomb. Joshua Denby’s corpse is vitally important. It’s evidence!’
CHAPTER 20
‘Drink your medicine.’
Laura knew she had no choice. She took the glass of cloudy liquid from the housekeeper and drank it down. Miss Groom pointed at the bed.
‘Hop back in there, girl. Get some sleep.’
‘But it’s morning, the sun is shining.’
‘Sleep will make you better.’ Miss Groom primly regarded Laura through those peculiar spectacles with the half-moon lenses. ‘What’s more, rest will dispel those strange notions of yours.’
Laura sat down on the bed and smoothed out the creases in her nightdress. ‘Once I read a story about a pig that spoke our language.’
