by Simon Clarke
Thomas hurried in the direction of a pair of soldiers armed with rifles. There were more guards dotted about the perimeter of the yard.
A figure stepped out of from behind one of the sheds. Thomas saw that the man no longer wore his yellow coat. His wounded arm, however, still rested in its sling.
‘What is happening, William?’ Franco Cavalli asked the question in that nonchalant way of his. ‘Have we been invaded by the Russians? Is this war?’
‘William Denby’s daughter is sick.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. But why are they taking the balloon from its shed?’
‘I can’t speak now, Franco. I need to talk to the sentries.’
‘Really? They won’t be able to tell you anything. They aren’t looking outwards. They are looking inwards at all these soldiers, being busy as bees round a honey pot. Si?’
Thomas continued toward the soldiers.
Franco called after him, ‘They have not seen what I’ve seen. What is obvious.’
Without even glancing back, Thomas quickened his step.
Franco called out again, ‘They have not noticed a flash of light from the trees over there. Someone uses a spyglass, or binoculars, or some such device. Sunlight is reflected from a lens.’
‘A lens?’ Thomas spun round to face the Italian. ‘Where?’
He pointed. ‘That line of trees. A hundred metres to your left.’
Thomas shielded his eyes. Late afternoon sunlight shone brightly along the valley to bathe the trees in a golden glow. Then it came – a silvery flash of light: the same kind of flash when sunlight is reflected.
‘My God.’ His heart began to pound so furiously it hurt.
The next second he ran toward William. The man helped soldiers attach ropes to a balloon basket on the lawn.
Thomas yelled at the top of his voice: ‘GET DOWN! GET DOWN!’ Thomas guessed what had reflected the light. The sun had caught the lens of a telescopic sight. ‘THERE’S A GUNMAN OUT THERE. GET DOWN!’
The soldiers were well trained and reacted in a blur of speed. Unarmed soldiers ducked behind cover. Sentries grabbed their rifles as they dropped to a crouch; they were instantly ready for any threat that might present itself.
‘William!’ Thomas bellowed. ‘Get down!’
That’s when the gunshot rang out. A bullet tore a gash in the lawn just inches from William’s feet. Soil exploded upwards. The man was so startled that he lost his balance, and fell sprawling to the ground.
William Denby lay absolutely still, a perfect target for the marksman.
The next bullet would slam into living flesh. The man had just seconds to live.
CHAPTER 35
Thomas took in the scene with a single glance. Out here, at the back of the house, the remarkable drama was unfolding in a heartbeat. Franco Cavalli stared in the direction of the trees from where the gunshot had sounded. Abberline ran toward William Denby, yet he was still some fifty paces away. William had stumbled when the bullet had ripped through the lawn just inches from his foot.
Now he lay winded on the grass. He didn’t move. The man was the perfect target for the assassin. The next bullet would shatter his skull.
Then an extraordinary thing … such an extraordinary thing …Thomas watched a figure, clad in a flapping garment, race across the lawn.
‘A woman?’ Franco exclaimed. ‘Warn her – she’ll be killed!’
Thomas watched the figure and, in that moment, realized it was none other than Miss Groom. Her long skirts and her shawl swished as she ran. Without an atom of hesitation, she raced across the lawn to William Denby. Then the extraordinary became the astonishing. She knelt down in front of her master who lay dazed on the earth after his fall.
She held up her arms as if beseeching God in heaven, and in an astonishingly loud voice cried, ‘Don’t kill him … don’t you dare!”
If they were prayers, or a plea to the assassin, they went unheeded.
Another loud bang. A rifle bullet screamed through the air. The bullet missed both figures. Then another shot – that missile of lead, racing at 500 miles an hour, slammed into an outbuilding, sending splinters of brick raining down.
Franco hissed, ‘He’s getting his range. The next shot will kill.’
He snatched a rifle from a soldier, aimed, and fired into the line of beech trees.
Colonel Brampton yelled, ‘Damn it! Who gave the order to fire?’
Franco raised the rifle over his head to attract the attention of the troops. ‘Men! Look! Do you see gunsmoke drifting out of the trees? Place your shots there. Keep firing. Put the devil off his aim!’
The soldiers gawped at this Italian civilian who had the audacity to give them orders.
Abberline cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Do what he says! FIRE!’
A dozen soldiers – consummate masters of their weapons – aimed their rifles. A series of loud bangs, and a dozen bullets slammed into the trees where a trace of blue gunsmoke still hung in the air. Franco Cavalli fired again; as did the soldiers. More bullets tore at the trees a hundred yards away. Branches fells, white marks appeared on tree trunks where bullet ripped away bark.
Franco gave a roar of exultation. ‘Keep firing. Don’t let him recover his aim!’
Thomas glanced across at William. The man had managed to scramble to his feet after hitting the ground hard enough to wind himself. Seizing Miss Groom by the arm, he pulled her toward Abberline. Soon all three retreated behind one of the sheds. The assassin’s bullets couldn’t reach them now.
The assassin, meanwhile, must have reached the same conclusion. What’s more, he would have been forced to shelter behind the thickest of tree trunks to avoid being killed by that bullet storm. The soldiers fired with incredible precision. Round after round slammed into the trees. Leaves showered the dirt, together with twigs and even whole branches.
Abberline emerged from behind the building. He waved his arms over his head.
‘Stop firing! He’s running!’
Franco whooped with excitement. ‘There goes the devil! See, Inspector? The black cloak? He’s the same man I saw before! He was at Fairfax Manor!’
Soldiers aimed their rifles at the fleeing assassin. In the shapeless cloak, he resembled a grounded crow, flapping its wings in the useless hope of taking to the skies.
Abberline ran out onto the lawn. ‘Stop! Don’t fire! I want him in one piece! Do you hear me? Don’t kill him! I need that man alive!’
Night was approaching. Mountains grew darker by the moment. Shadow filled the valley, and servants glided silently through Newydd Hall, lighting lamps, drawing down blinds, and putting more logs on fires as cold air seeped into the house – those ghostly fingers of cold touched Thomas Lloyd’s neck as he stood in the corridor. Thomas waited for William to bring him news from the sickroom upstairs.
Thomas vividly recalled those dramatic events of just three hours ago when the gunman had targeted William Denby, and Franco Cavalli and the soldiers fired a salvo of bullets back in his direction. A man in black had fled. However, he’d only made it partway across the meadow beyond the trees when the soldiers caught him. Then, gripping him tightly, they’d brought him back to Inspector Abberline. Meanwhile, Thomas had seized Miss Groom by the wrist. She hadn’t struggled. In fact, she appeared to accept this turn of events as her destiny. She said nothing. Not a flicker of emotion crossed her face.
William Denby had raced back to the house. All he longed for at that moment was to be with his wife as Edith Denby struggled to keep death at bay. And for hours that seemed as long as days Edith fought the poison in her blood.
Thomas waited for William to come. He gazed out at the hills as darkness fell: engulfing, drowning, shrouding the living landscape, then glanced at the closed door to Abberline’s office. Miss Groom and the assassin were in there. A murmur of voices reached him through the woodwork. He had sensed an air of resignation about the couple. Their fight was done, their battle lost.
Thomas heard a door ope
n in the distance. Feet on the staircase. Echoes coming closer … then receding, as if being swallowed into the underworld. Thomas felt his muscles tense, because he sensed the moment had come. And, indeed, William appeared at the far end of the corridor. The man’s face is unreadable. So is this bad news? The most tragic news of all? Thomas took a deep breath; his scalp tingled. He prepared himself to hear the worst.
William stopped dead in front of Thomas. A twitch tugged at one side of his mouth; he’d clearly been under a terrible strain.
For a moment he couldn’t speak … then, at last, the words came rushing out: ‘Thomas. Edith is over the worst. She will live.’ He shuddered, and seemed close to weeping, though it would be tears of relief. ‘Doctor Penrhyn confirms that Edith had been poisoned with camphor. The drug exaggerated the symptoms of the illness, so it appeared as if she suffered an acute attack.’ He struggled to keep a grip on emotion. ‘Camphor poisoning … there is no sure antidote. But if the overdose isn’t too a large one it can be treated with coffee, of all things. Edith is much better. She is sleeping now and breathing easier.’
‘That is wonderful news, William. Wonderful!’ Thomas shook the man’s hand. ‘Perhaps this is a turning point for the better.’
‘God willing, Thomas.’
The office door swung open. Abberline stood there. A quiet, magisterial dignity radiated from the man.
Calmly, he asked about Edith. He, too, grasped William by the hand when he heard the good news.
Abberline said, ‘Would you step inside, please, William? It’s finally time you heard the explanation you’ve been waiting for.’
Thomas followed William into the office. Inspector Abberline softly closed the door behind them.
Miss Groom and the gunman sat side-by-side on straight-backed chairs. He still wore his long, black cloak that he’d used to mask his physical appearance. Thomas made a mental note of the man’s features: he had a square jaw and a broad face; some might say a brutish face. His thick, curly hair was unkempt, while his eyebrows formed striking black arches over a pair of eyes that glared at Abberline. So, there was still a flame of anger in the assassin’s heart after all? A pair of burly soldiers stood at the other side of the room. They were there in case the gunman turned violent again. After all, he appeared to be the type who might have formed the habit of brawling in taverns, and settling disputes with the swipe of a razor.
Abberline spoke in an understated way. ‘Sitting beside Miss Groom is a man by the name of Jack Durrkar.’
William’s eyes burned. ‘Miss Groom, you gave poison to my daughter. How could you be so cruel?’
She didn’t answer. Her expression hadn’t altered once.
Abberline said, ‘Miss Groom and this man are responsible for the deaths of three of your brothers, possibly more. To be more accurate, we should refer to Miss Groom as Mrs Durrkar, but for simplicity’s sake we’ll stick with the name you know her by.’
William wouldn’t be denied an answer to his question. Again he asked, ‘Miss Groom. Edith is already afflicted with a weakness in her lungs. Why did you make her life worse? What made you put more camphor into her medicine?’
Her eyes flashed with a sudden fire. ‘To make you suffer. What’s more, I wanted to see you suffering. The pain that etched itself into your face brought me such satisfaction.’
‘Why?’
She pressed her lips tightly together, saying nothing.
Abberline inhaled deeply. ‘I don’t know exactly why Miss Groom tormented you by making your daughter appear more ill than she actually is. But I do know that an associate of your late brother, Sir Alfred, was important to her. His name was Leonard Guntersson. He died several years ago.’
Miss Groom glanced sharply at Abberline, though she remained silent.
Abberline continued, ‘The clues are small. Yet they do add up to suggest that Miss Groom harbours powerful emotions. Yesterday, I noted that Miss Groom took particular interest in the blackboard which listed names and other items of information. This morning I laid a trap using pieces of cotton – one I threaded through the sheet covering the easel; another thread I nipped between the room door and its frame. I then locked the door. When I returned to the office, the thread that was held in place by the door lay on the rug. Furthermore, someone had disturbed the thread I’d placed in that sheet. An intruder, therefore, had clearly entered the room in order to read what was written on the board. The first two letters in the name Leonard Guntersson were smudged when the intruder touched the board. You’ll notice that there is faint mark on Miss Groom’s blouse. Green chalk transferred from her fingers to the material when she looked at the watch that is pinned to the blouse.’
‘Proves nothing,’ Miss Groom said tartly.
‘Miss Groom has also been deceiving us all. I noticed that there is a pale mark on the third finger of her left hand. She wears a wedding ring when she meets her husband here. The sun has been much hotter over the last few days. Miss Groom, I believe, dispensed with gloves, because she prefers the intimacy of feeling her bare hand holding the hand of her husband. She married a while ago, but decided for reasons of her own to keep the wedding a secret. Perhaps, more importantly, she wished to keep her husband a secret.’
Durrkar growled, ‘Damn foolish game. Holding hands, whisperin’ lovin’ words … but that’s what she wanted. Like she wanted me to wear this ‘ere ring.’ He held up his hand. A gold wedding band glinted there.
‘Miss Groom,’ began Abberline, ‘who is Leonard Guntersson? Why is he important to you?’
She remained tight-lipped.
‘A former husband?’
‘No.’
‘He shared your bed?’
‘No … but I loved him. Leonard Guntersson is my father. I say is, because he will always be my father, even though he was taken from me seventeen years and eight months ago. Yes. I know precisely how long has passed since he went to his grave. I know it to the days, the hours.’ Her eyes were cauldrons of hate.
Durrkar grunted, ‘Why bother telling them anything? We’re going to the gallows, aren’t we?’
‘If I am going to hang,’ she snarled, ‘I will tell them everything. That will give me so much pleasure as I watch Mr Denby’s face. I will devour his anguish when I explain how his brothers really died. Believe me, gentlemen, I will still be laughing when the noose goes around my neck.’ Miss Groom spoke quickly. Her eyes gleamed. She enjoyed this. Oh, yes …. Thomas Lloyd could tell that the woman experienced intense gratification as she confessed her crimes.
CHAPTER 36
‘I loved my father,’ Mrs Groom told them. ‘Leonard Guntersson was a good man. He never committed any crime whatsoever. But he met a scoundrel by the name of Sir Alfred Denby who tricked him into handling stolen antiques. The police arrested my father. Yet there was no evidence to link the stolen valuables to Sir Alfred. My father, however, had innocently placed the antiques in his strong room. After a travesty of a court trial, where the most awful lies were told about my father, he was convicted. That kind-hearted, loving man endured twelve months in a lice-infested cell with diseased convicts. Within weeks of his release my father was dead. His health had been broken by the pit of infection that they call Wandsworth Gaol. I blamed Sir Alfred. The man could have spared my father that year of confinement if he, himself, had confessed to his wrongdoing. Sir Alfred was responsible for my father’s death – it was as if he’d pointed a pistol at his heart and pulled the trigger.
‘I began to watch Sir Alfred. I’d heard rumours that he’d been involved with statues from Italy. Gold statues, they said. I hoped to find evidence of his crime so I could see Sir Alfred go to prison. But he was too snake-like, too clever. Yet I still followed him … always at a discrete distance. He didn’t know I existed. For weeks I kept watch on him at Fairfax Manor. Then, one morning, I waited at the railway station in East Carlton for a train home to London. It was a gloomy, misty day in November. As I stood on the platform I noticed a man in a top hat in front of
me. There was no one else on the platform. My heart gave a leap. “It’s Sir Alfred”, I told myself. Oh, my heart! I thought it would burst, it was beating so fast. My intention was to accuse him of my father’s death. Yet before I could utter a word a goods train came through the station. Steam and smoke covered everything. A grey veil. A shroud. I could hardly see. And I knew the time had come. This was the special time. I stepped forward, and I pushed the man. Sir Alfred fell from the platform and struck the ground in front of the train. The locomotive passed over him and he was killed. Ah … gentlemen, you look at me strangely. How could the man I killed be Sir Alfred? After all, he died this year in the explosion. No … I realized what had happened when I read about the accident in the newspaper. I’d killed Sir Alfred’s brother by accident. They look so much alike … the steam and the mist did the rest.
‘At first, Inspector, I experienced terrible guilt. I’d pushed an innocent man in front of the train. Thoughts of confessing my crime were uppermost in my mind. However, I felt a compulsion to be in the graveyard on the day of the funeral. My own dear father had died. I know only too well the pain of grief, which tore me apart. So what would be the expression on Sir Alfred’s face, and the faces of his brothers, when the man I killed was lowered into his grave? There were so many mourners that another woman in black, wearing a veil, wouldn’t be noticed. Sir Alfred stood at the graveside with his brothers. Oh, when the coffin was brought to the grave, what did I see? I saw grief on Sir Alfred’s face. His eyes were filled with sadness. No doubt he remembered boyhood games with his brother. He recalled Christmas Days, birthdays, and family gatherings. Now his brother had been broken to pieces and lay cold in a casket. Do you know what I felt, gentlemen?’ Her eyes fixed with what Thomas could only describe as hunger on William’s face. Overwhelming, ungodly hunger. ‘I felt something twist in my heart. As if a key had been turned. My heart actually hurt, yet it was a sweet pain. I pressed my hand to my breast as I felt pressure being released inside my body. Sir Alfred’s sadness made me happy. Oh, it sounds cruel of me to say these words. But at last I’d managed to extract at least a modicum of revenge. Sir Alfred caused my father’s death; I caused the death of Sir Alfred’s brother, and that scoundrel’s grief made me feel content with life once more. All this happened many, many years ago, of course. After that, I found employment with the Denby family, using the name Miss Groom. They didn’t suspect I was Leonard Guntersson’s daughter.’
