The Darke Chronicles

by David Stuart Davies

  Thornton’s reverie was broken by Darke’s announcement: ‘Well, my boy, it seems that we have arrived at our destination.’

  Sure enough, the two men stood before the Wilberforce mansion in Curzon Street. The lights from the windows shimmered through the moist net of the fog.

  ‘Lay on, Macduff,’ cried Darke, pushing the inspector towards the door.

  The butler, Boldwood, received the visitors and invited them to wait in the hall while he informed his mistress of their presence. He was a tall, dignified man, prematurely bald, with a naturally reserved and melancholic manner. As he walked away in a stiff, erect fashion, Darke nudged his companion. ‘By the look of his gait, our friend Boldwood was recruited from the ranks – an ex-soldier, sergeant probably – and that scar on his neck suggests that he has seen some action.’

  ‘Is that relevant to the case?’

  Darke grinned and shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant fashion.

  Within minutes, Boldwood returned. ‘Mrs Wilberforce will see you in the drawing room, but I beg you gentlemen to keep your visit as short as possible. My mistress has not yet recovered her strength after her terrible loss.’ Although couched in formal terms, the statement was more of an order than a request.

  ‘We shall be a brief as possible,’ said Thornton.

  ‘Served in India, did we, Boldwood?’ asked Luther Darke.

  The butler eyed his interrogator with suspicion. ‘I did, sir. 101st Bengal Fusiliers.’

  ‘Good man. The rank of sergeant, I should guess.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Boldwood paused for a moment, staring intently into Darke’s face with some puzzlement, and then neatly turning on his heel, he led them to the drawing room. As he held the door open, Darke leaned over and addressed him again. ‘I think it would be propitious if you join us, Boldwood, old boy. You can help fill in certain pieces of the puzzle.’

  Reluctantly the tall manservant entered the room and positioned himself by the door.

  Beatrice Wilberforce rose from the chaise longue on which she had been reclining to greet her visitors. Her face was gaunt and dark circles ringed her pale blue eyes. She seemed not to notice Boldwood’s presence. She looked with some disdain at her two visitors.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ Her voice was weary and distant.

  Before Thornton could respond to this request, Darke moved forward and gave a low theatrical bow. ‘I am the one you can assist, dear lady. Luther Darke, a seeker of truth.’

  The woman seemed somewhat taken aback by this effusive stranger in her drawing room and involuntarily she sat down on the chaise longue as if she needed it for support.

  ‘Mr Darke is assisting me in my enquiries,’ ventured Thornton for clarification.

  Mrs Wilberforce’s sour expression remained intact.

  Darke moved closer to her and addressed her in the softest of tones. ‘I wonder if I can prevail upon you to recount the events on the evening of your husband’s passing,’ he said.

  Beatrice Wilberforce glanced over at Thornton. ‘But I have already told the inspector everything I know several times.’

  ‘But you have not told me.’

  A flicker of irritation passed across her brow, but it was gone in an instant. ‘If … if you think it will help.’

  ‘It may save a man’s life.’

  Mrs Wilberforce seemed puzzled, but she made no comment on Darke’s enigmatic claim. In a firm, clear voice, she began to recount the events of the evening when her husband had died. ‘We were having a little dinner party – for no special reason. It was just a social occasion.’

  ‘Who drew up the guest list?’

  ‘I did … in consultation with my husband, of course.’

  ‘Of course. What was the purpose of inviting Richard Armstrong to this soirée? There was bad blood between him and Mr Wilberforce, was there not?’

  ‘It was my idea. The bad blood you refer to was purely a business matter and not personal on my husband’s side. Business was one thing; friendship another. Laurence was a strict man of business and he expected – and indeed demanded – others to be so. Sometimes this led him to act in what I suppose was regarded by some as an unreasonable manner – but he could be reasoned with. I thought that in a relaxed, informal atmosphere, some amicable arrangement between Armstrong…’ Her eyes misted and she clutched the edge of the chaise. Her lips tightened as she fought to control her feelings and it struck Darke that she was dismayed at betraying her own emotions. It seemed to him that she saw this as a great weakness. It wasn’t the memory of her husband or the events of that fateful evening that distressed Beatrice Wilberforce, but the cracks in her own reserve. ‘As it turned out,’ she said at length, ‘inviting that man to dinner was the worst decision I could have made.’

  She reached for a handkerchief, but there was none. Darke flashed the cream silk one from his jacket breast pocket and pressed it into her hand. As he did so, his eyes were caught by a mark on the woman’s arm.

  ‘At what time did you last see your husband alive?’

  ‘At around six o’clock,’ Mrs Wilberforce replied, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘He said he was going to his study to write some letters and then have a long soak in the bath before the party.’

  ‘Were any letters found?’ This question Darke addressed to Thornton. The policeman shook his head.

  ‘Who laid out his evening clothes?’

  ‘Boldwood, of course.’

  Darke turned to the butler with a quizzical glance.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Did you see your master while you attended to this task?’

  ‘No, sir. The study door was closed.’

  Darke shut his eyes for a moment and sighed heavily. He raised his hand slightly as if he were reaching out for something. The room fell silent as the others waited for him to return to them. At length his eyes sprang open and, with a ghost of a smile playing about his lips, he resumed his questioning of Mrs Wilberforce. ‘Who were the first guests to arrive?’

  ‘I … I can’t really say for sure, everyone came more or less at the same time. I think Lord and Lady Clarendon were the first.’ She grinned briefly. ‘I know Jack Stavely was last – and late.’ Her grin broadened. ‘He’s always late.’

  ‘He comes here a great deal?’

  Beatrice Wilberforce nodded, her face resuming its pained expression. ‘He is a regular visitor.’

  ‘You were cross when your husband did not appear to greet his guests.’

  ‘Yes. I felt sure he had become absorbed with his correspondence and lost track of the time. I asked Boldwood to check on him for me.’

  With a wave of the hand, Darke indicated that Boldwood should come closer and join the inner circle. ‘Tell me, Sergeant Boldwood, what happened next?’

  ‘I went up to Mr Wilberforce’s dressing room. He wasn’t there and neither were his evening clothes, so I assumed that he had bathed and dressed and was now in his study. I tapped on the door. There was no reply. I tapped again, louder this time in case he had nodded off, and informed him that the guests for the party had arrived. There was still no reply. Then I tried the door. It was locked.’

  ‘Did he often lock it?’

  ‘Never when he was inside the room.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I went downstairs to inform Mrs Wilberforce.’

  ‘Were you worried?’

  ‘I … I thought that it was strange.’

  ‘And then with Mrs Wilberforce and Jack Stavely, you returned to the room and Stavely broke down the study door.’

  Boldwood nodded and bowed his head.

  ‘The door was bolted on the inside, Mrs Wilberforce. Is that correct?’

  Suddenly the widow’s patience snapped and Darke witnessed the flame of anger that burned inside that soft and timid exterior. ‘You know it is! How long is this tirade of questions going on? Why must you put me under this torture yet again? I cannot tell you any more
than I have already told you. My husband is dead and all you can do is make me relive that dreadful evening when he died. Have you no tact or manners?’

  ‘Gentlemen, I think it best if you leave,’ said Boldwood, taking a pace forward. There was more than a hint of aggression in his demeanour.

  Darke grinned back at the butler. ‘Distressed though your mistress is, Sergeant Boldwood, I am sure that she is also very concerned that the person who killed her husband is caught and tried for his murder. She would not want to hinder the course of justice.’

  ‘But the police have caught him,’ snapped Mrs Wilberforce, the anger still vibrant in her voice. ‘Richard Armstrong. Inspector Thornton arrested him.’

  ‘An arrest doth not a conviction make. You seem so very certain that he was your husband’s murderer.’

  Boldwood took another step nearer to Darke, his eyes blazing, but Beatrice Wilberforce stopped him in his tracks with a spirited glance.

  ‘In order to allow you to recover your equilibrium, Mrs Wilberforce,’ said Luther Darke smoothly, ‘perhaps you will allow Boldwood to show us your husband’s dressing room and study so that we may examine the scene of the crime?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her reply was hardy audible. ‘As you wish.’

  As Boldwood led the two men upstairs, Thornton held his companion back a few steps and whispered in his ear. ‘You were rather harsh on the poor woman,’ he hissed.

  Darke nodded. ‘I overstepped the bounds of decency – again. I shall repent. Boldwood, old fellow, pause a moment, will you? I just want to apologise for my brutish behaviour towards your mistress. It was unforgivable.’

  The butler turned to face Darke; his face was stern. ‘I must confess, sir, if it had not been for the thought of disturbing Mrs Wilberforce further, I should have struck you for your insolence.’

  ‘And I should have deserved it. The lady is lucky in having such a chivalrous protector. You have been with her long?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘Mr Wilberforce was a good employer?’

  ‘He … he was, sir.’

  ‘They were a happy couple? The marriage was a sound one?’ Boldwood’s face blanched with anger. ‘How dare you! That is none of your damned business. What right have you to come here…?’

  Darke halted this sudden outburst by holding up his hands in a mock surrender. ‘There I go again, overstepping the mark. I shall say no more. Pray continue.’

  Without a word, the butler carried on up the stairs. Thornton and Darke followed, with the latter giving his companion a huge wink.

  At length the two men were shown into the dressing room of the murdered man.

  ‘You can leave us now, Boldwood. Inspector Thornton and I need to inspect these rooms alone. We shall not be too long.’

  The butler hesitated by the door.

  Thornton gave a polite cough to initiate the servant’s departure. ‘Thank you, Boldwood. We shall make our own way downstairs.’

  With reluctance, Boldwood left the room.

  ‘Now,’ said Darke, rubbing his hands, ‘show me this magic study.’

  Thornton led him to the rear of the dressing room and flung open the study door to reveal a small, dark chamber beyond containing a desk, a chair and a small bookcase. There was a fireplace on the far wall. Thornton switched on the electric light, which bathed the study in a suffuse amber glow.

  As soon as Darke had entered the room, he examined the door. ‘Was the key found to the study?’

  ‘No,’ said Thornton kneeling beside him. ‘But it was bolted, too, remember.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, I do remember. This is the poor thing hanging off here.’

  ‘It was damaged when Jack Stavely broke down the door.’

  ‘Mm. He did us something of a favour. Look here, Thornton, at these screws: they are new and the bolt is shiny and unmarked.’ He indicated where the bolt had been attached to the door. ‘Notice the portion of wood which had been covered by the bolt before Mr Stavely’s boot came into play. It is the same colour as the surrounding wood. There is no differentiation whatsoever.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That this bolt is new, very new. It cannot have been there for very long. If it had been in place for any length of time, the wood beneath it would be of a different hue. See the screw holes, how white and fresh the wood is. And, my friend, most damning of all…’

  Darke scooped up a few white specks from the carpet. ‘Sawdust,’ he explained. ‘From the screw holes. It is possible that the bolt was only fixed there on the day of the murder.’

  ‘This is all very well, but I fail to see how this throws any fresh light on the identity of the killer, or indeed on the way in which the murder was committed.’

  ‘Patience, my friend.’

  Darke had now moved to the centre of the room and was examining a dark stain on the carpet. ‘Wilberforce’s blood, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not as large a pool as I had expected, but that fits the theory which is forming nicely in my mind. I suppose the knife is at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  ‘It’s a long-handled knife. Dull metal with some simple carvings and a longish blade which curves slightly at the end.’

  Darke sat at the desk and sketched out a crude drawing. ‘Something like that?’

  ‘Why, yes…’ Before Thornton could say more, a strident voice called out: ‘What the Devil is going on here?’ Both men turned to discover a young man standing in the doorway of the study. He was short of stature and had his hands on his hips in an aggressive manner.

  ‘Mr Stavely,’ said Thornton.

  ‘Yes, Inspector, and you will answer to your superiors for this – barging into Mrs Wilberforce’s house and upsetting the lady.’

  ‘News travels fast, eh, Edward?’ observed Darke with a flicker of amusement.

  ‘You may do what you wish, Mr Stavely,’ said Thornton, approaching the intruder so that he towered over him comfortably. ‘But there is no case of “barging” anywhere. We were invited into the house, and as a police officer I am carrying out my duties in a murder enquiry. I would hope you have no wish to hinder that enquiry.’

  Stavely hesitated. ‘But the enquiry is closed. You have the wretch who murdered Laurence.’

  Darke joined his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is amazing how everyone is so certain that an innocent man who had the misfortune to owe Wilberforce a lot of money is guilty of his murder.’

  ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘I, sir, am Abraham attempting to drink from the well of truth. And how did you learn of our visit?’

  ‘I have just arrived. I have called every day since the murder to spend some time with Beatrice, Mrs Wilberforce.’

  ‘And Boldwood informed you of my dreadful behaviour.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, sir, I have apologised to him and I will apologise to you. Any rudeness on my part was calculated in order to bring this mysterious case to a swift conclusion. I am afraid Boldwood may have been more concerned about what we may find in here rather than our apparent disrespectful ways. I suspect he was hoping that your heroic intervention would put a stop to our scrutiny of this chamber.’

  Stavely’s face clouded with confusion. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Mr Stavely, let us do a deal together. I will tell you some of the matter, on the proviso that you help us with a little subterfuge. Is that agreed?’

  It was just over thirty minutes later that Thornton and Darke sat in the drawing room with Beatrice Wilberforce and Jack Stavely. Boldwood had just served tea and was about to leave the room when Thornton stopped him. ‘You had better remain,’ he said. ‘What Mr Darke has to say will be of great interest to you.’

  ‘Come, sit down, man,’ cried Darke, indicating a seat next to Stavely.

  Casting an apprehensive glance at his mistress, he pulled up a chair.

  ‘Now, Mr Darke, y
ou have been mysterious, you have been rude and you have been persuasive. Pray tell us what this is all about,’ said Beatrice Wilberforce.

  Luther Darke placed his cup and saucer on the tea trolley and stood facing the small group. ‘Murder most foul, as in the best it is. Inspector Thornton here sought my assistance because he was far from convinced that the poor devil languishing in the cells at Scotland Yard was the perpetrator of the crime that was committed here a few evenings ago. After hearing the details of the case, I was certain that debtor Armstrong was innocent. It was all too convenient. Anyone capable of carrying out a clever murder in a locked room would not have been careless enough to leave some blood on his outdoor coat. It was a foolish embellishment, placed there in order to establish a scapegoat. I had my own ideas concerning the method of the murder, but I needed to discover a few further details before I could be certain. Now I am certain.’ He retrieved his cup and drank some tea as his audience absorbed this information. It was a brave act on his part. He abhorred tea, and as a rule it never passed his lips.

  ‘In the detection of crime, sixth sense and guesswork play a valid part in reaching the right conclusion. On very slender evidence, I guessed or at least sensed that the marriage between Laurence and Beatrice Wilberforce was not a completely happy one.’ He raised his hand to silence Mrs Wilberforce before she could protest.

  ‘I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Laurence Wilberforce was a humourless, cold-hearted bully who could turn nasty even towards someone of whom he once thought kindly. His treatment of Richard Armstrong bears witness of that. As does the bruising on your arm. You have been badly used, my dear.’

  The woman said nothing, but stared determinedly ahead of her, avoiding Darke’s gaze.

  ‘The bruising gave some foundation to my surmise. Similarly, Boldwood’s angry reticence when I questioned him concerning the state of the Wilberforce marriage added more grist to my mill. Boldwood revealed himself as a great protector of his mistress. What did you say, Sergeant? Something like: “I would have knocked you down for being so impertinent but it would have upset Mrs Wilberforce.” Words to that effect. A real Sir Galahad. How difficult it must have been for you, Boldwood, to live and serve in a house where the husband treated his wife miserably and on occasion, struck her with some violence. Hard for a man who loved his mistress and wanted to protect her. Here you were, an old military man used to action, used to fighting for what you believed in, but unable to do anything about the injustice going on under your nose. But, oh, there are straws – there are straws, apparently insignificant, puny little straws, which yet have, as the proverb has it, the power to break a camel’s back.