The Darke Chronicles

by David Stuart Davies

  Carla stared intently at this charismatic figure and her mouth opened in an expression of shock and amazement, which quickly transmuted itself into one of great amusement. The figure on the stage, his face caked in dark greasepaint to give it an oriental complexion and sporting a thin moustache, was none other than Luther Darke. So, she thought, that’s why he had been so eager for her to accompany him to the theatre that evening. He had wanted her to see him perform his tricks in front of a full house. She had seen him execute some sleight of hand magic business with cards and small objects at various soirées they had attended, but she had no idea that he had been working on anything as dramatic or spectacular as a stage act.

  Merlin bowed to the audience in acknowledgement of their enthusiastic applause and as he did so, two birds seemed to fly out from each sleeve of his jacket. They circled his head and with amazing swiftness he snatched them from the air, appeared to squash the creatures in his grasp and then threw them back into the air. What left his hands this time was a brightly coloured parrot which fluttered up into the flies. The audience roared their approval. Already Carla was mesmerised.

  The act continued with an array of amazing illusions. At the climax of the performance, two volunteers were enlisted from the audience to help. Merlin was handcuffed and the volunteers checked carefully that they were indeed locked tightly. Then Merlin was placed inside a large canvas bag, which was secured with an iron chain. Further checks were made on the lock by the volunteers before they returned to their seats. The lights were lowered as the stagehands doused the canvas bag in petrol. The smile disappeared from Carla’s face. This was dangerous. She knew that Luther gained great satisfaction from taking personal risks but this was perhaps going too far. She wanted to stand up and yell from the box, to tell them to stop but it was too late.

  There was absolute silence in the audience as one of the stage attendants lit a torch and applied it to the canvas bag. With a great whoosh, it flared into a bright yellow flame. There were screams from the onlookers, who stared in horror, believing that they were witnessing Merlin’s certain demise. Carla bit her knuckles, stifling a cry of anguish. No one, it seemed, could survive that fierce conflagration.

  When the flames died away, an awful hush descended over the theatre again. By now Carla was on her feet gazing down at the smouldering remains of the sack, her heart sick with fear and despair.

  And then she heard the familiar tones of Luther’s throaty laugh. With a cry of elation, Merlin the Magnificent suddenly appeared, caught in the spotlight high up in the flies above the stage. With a cheery wave he swung down on a silver rope to land exactly where the remains of the bag were still smouldering. Carla sank back in her chair, her eyes moistening with relief as her lips formed the silent words, ‘You bastard.’ The audience were on their feet and the applause was deafening. Merlin took his bows graciously and then waved farewell before stepping backwards into the darkness at the rear of the stage, disappearing from sight altogether.

  Carla was exhausted, elated, mystified and completely entranced by the whole experience. She had never seen anything like it before. It truly was magical.

  Some ten minutes later, she was backstage searching for Merlin’s dressing room. The stage door keeper was less than helpful. ‘What d’you want wiv ‘im, miss?’ asked the old timer grumpily.

  ‘I’m a friend,’ she said and then added tartly, ‘Well, I was.’

  The stage door keeper ignored the comment. ‘You’ll find him down there, in room six,’ he said, waving his arm in a vague direction before returning to his paper and glass of ale.

  Carla wandered off, squeezing past the crush of backstage visitors and performers. At last she came upon the dressing room with the large number six painted upon the door. Without knocking, she entered.

  Luther Darke was standing by the mirror, stripped to the waist, wiping the dark brown greasepaint from his face.

  At first he was nonplussed to see Carla. He had expected her to wait for him in the foyer. However, he soon recovered his equilibrium and his face split into a broad grin. ‘My darling…’ he said warmly.

  ‘Don’t you darling me,’ she responded frostily, stepping back from his advance. ‘How could you do this to me?’

  His features darkened. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Trick me in this way. Make believe I was going to see a famous magician and … and it was you all the time. And then you set fire to yourself on stage. You could have killed yourself.’

  Darke shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, my sweet, I never was in any danger. You don’t think I am so irresponsible that I would put my own life at risk?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I saw you climb into that bag and it being set alight.’

  ‘Illusion. You saw what I wanted you to see. It was a trick.’

  Carla looked mystified. ‘How?’

  ‘Simple. The sack had a secret opening which allowed me to slip through a trap door in the stage. As I did so, I slipped a rag dummy into my place in the sack. I then made my way under the stage to the wings and thus up into the flies while you and the rest of the audience gazed in wonder and horror as the rag dummy was consumed by flames. So you see, my darling, I was never in any danger.’

  Carla slapped Darke’s shoulder hard. ‘But I didn’t know that. I thought that…’

  He moved forward, took her in his arms and kissed her.

  ‘I didn’t realise that you’d be so concerned. I just wanted to surprise you, that’s all. Do you forgive me?’

  Carla could not help but smile. ‘I suppose so,’ she said warmly.

  ‘Good. Well let me make it up to you by treating you to supper. There’s quite a pleasant little place called Leonardo’s just around the corner from the theatre. Let me get this stuff off my face and take you there.’

  Carla discovered that Leonardo’s was not just ‘a pleasant little place’ but was in fact an impressive and expensive Italian restaurant. They were greeted warmly by the head waiter, who obviously knew Luther Darke as a regular customer.

  The dining room was very busy, but a table had been reserved for them at the far end by the window. Darke ordered a bottle of claret before settling in his seat. ‘I’ve hardly had a drink all night,’ he explained.

  ‘So, are you abandoning your career as a painter for a life upon the stage, Mr Merlin?’ asked Carla tartly as she surveyed the menu casually.

  Darke chuckled at the thought. ‘I think not, my sweet. This is my first and last week as a stage illusionist. I just wanted to see if I could do it. It was a challenge. As you know, I have always been fascinated by the thin line that exists between illusion and reality, by what we think we see and what we really see. It’s been very useful in my detective work. I was just putting some of my theories to the test. And now the experiment is over. Of course, I will honour my contract with the theatre but on Saturday night, Merlin the Magnificent will pack away his equipment and his silk turban and like one of his doves, disappear from the scene.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden commotion in the restaurant. A newly arrived customer was shouting angrily at the waiter. He was a short, red-faced man with thick-set features and an arrogant gait. ‘Don’t contradict me!’ he boomed, waving his arms wildly. ‘I booked a table two days ago, damn you!’ Many diners, disturbed by the noisy outburst, turned to watch this extraordinary demonstration.

  The little Italian waiter cowered away from him. ‘Apologies, sir. I will arrange a table for you immediately.’

  ‘I should think so,’ came the loud, ungracious response.

  ‘Charming fellow,’ said Carla.

  ‘I know the chap,’ said Darke quietly, leaning forward. ‘Well, at least I know his face. It is familiar to me…’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Ah, yes. It’s Charles Stone, the property developer.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Carla, wrinkling her nose. ‘He doesn’t seem a particularly nice individual.’

  Darke raised an eyebrow. ‘Name me a property developer who
is?’

  A waiter brought the wine. Darke declared it excellent and downed a full glass before the waiter had time to pour any for Carla. They made their choices from the menu and soon forgot about the obstreperous customer and his manic behaviour for the moment, but towards the end of the meal Charles Stone’s strident voice was heard again. This time he appeared to be complaining about his food and demanding to see the manager. The waiter scurried away from his table and Stone rose from the table, scraped his chair noisily on the floor and strode towards the gentlemen’s lavatories.

  ‘It must take a lot of energy and self-sufficiency to be as objectionable as that all the time,’ observed Darke.

  Carla nodded. She was feeling tired and the wine had gone to her head. She glanced at her watch: it was half past eleven. ‘Heavens,’ she cried, ‘I didn’t know that it was so late.’

  ‘I’ll order coffee and then I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Thank you. It has been a long evening, and not one without a surprise or two.’

  Darke caught the waiter’s eye and requested coffee for two, a large cognac for himself and the bill.

  Twenty minutes later, Luther Darke and Carla were retrieving their coats from the foyer. As they did so, Charles Stone barged through in front of them, grabbing his own hat and overcoat before stomping out of the restaurant.

  ‘Manners maketh the man,’ observed Darke softly, as he helped Carla with her coat.

  Once outside, they both pulled their collars about their faces. The night had turned chilly. A pale crescent moon and a smattering of stars decorated the clear, cloudless sky. Across the city they could hear Big Ben chiming midnight. Then suddenly other sounds intruded upon the night: strident, desperate calls for help, followed by a terrified scream. Glancing up the hill in the direction of the cries, they saw two figures silhouetted against the feeble rays of a gas lamp. They appeared to be grappling with each other in a violent struggle. The figures were just beyond the sphere of light and it was difficult to see clearly, but one of them, a man, was shouting in desperation, ‘Help! Murder! For God’s sake, help!’

  ‘You wait here,’ said Darke, making off up the hill at great speed.

  ‘Certainly not,’ snapped Carla, following on his heels.

  As they grew nearer, the figures disappeared out of sight around a bend in the road. There followed a loud guttural scream and then silence.

  When Darke turned the corner he came upon a body stretched out on the pavement. He knelt down and saw that it was Charles Stone, the obnoxious diner. He was alive and breathing heavily, his face bathed in sweat and grime. He gazed up at Darke, his eyes wild with fear. ‘I’ve been attacked,’ he panted hoarsely. ‘Did he get away?’

  Darke glanced around him. Apart from Carla, there was no one else in view. The street was empty and silent.

  Carla knelt beside Darke and helped cradle Stone’s head in her hands. ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.

  ‘I… I don’t think so. Not badly, anyway. Just … shocked … he wanted my wallet. He had a knife. My God, it was awful.’

  ‘Well, you’re safe now,’ said Carla.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you think you can stand up?’ Darke took hold of Stone’s arm.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Slowly, they raised the man to his feet. There were no traces of swagger and bounce in Charles Stone’s demeanour now: he was shaken and afraid. ‘Thank heavens there was someone around. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t come to my rescue.’

  ‘Where did he go, this fellow?’ asked Darke, glancing around the empty thoroughfare. ‘Did he slip down this alleyway here?’

  ‘No, no. He ran off up the street, away from you.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  ‘Very sure.’

  ‘Perhaps you should see a doctor,’ suggested Carla.

  ‘No, no. I’ll be fine. I just need a brandy to calm me down. If you two kind people will see me home. I only live less than five minutes’ walk away … I don’t feel safe enough to go on my own.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Carla.

  ‘Thank you, and then I can reward you for your endeavours.’

  ‘Naturally, we’ll see you home,’ said Darke. ‘But no rewards are required.’

  Carla nodded.

  ‘Oh, I shall insist,’ Stone smiled. ‘This way, then.’

  While making their way slowly up the hill, Stone introduced himself and explained that he’d just been for a quiet meal at Leonardo’s restaurant. At the mention of the phrase ‘quiet meal’, Darke and Carla exchanged amused glances.

  As predicted, in less than five minutes they had arrived at Stone’s impressive town house where more surprises were in store for them. The street door was ajar, and light from the hallway spilled out on to the stone pathway.

  ‘I don’t understand…’ Stone exclaimed as he approached the house. ‘I locked the door myself when I came out this evening. It is the servants’ night off, you see. My wife has a heavy cold and she retired to bed early. That’s why I went to Leonardo’s alone.’

  ‘We saw you in there,’ Darke admitted.

  ‘Ah, did you,’ replied Stone distractedly. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘So why is the door open now…?’

  On entering the house it was clear that there had been an intruder. Vases had been knocked over, chairs turned on their sides, and drawers opened and their contents tipped on to the floor.

  Stone ran to the bottom of the staircase. ‘Marjorie!’ he cried out. ‘Marjorie!’

  There was no reply. With Darke and Carla close behind, he ran up the stairs and into the first bedroom on the landing. The sight that met their eyes stopped all three in their tracks. Lying sprawled across the bed in a blue nightgown was the body of a middle-aged woman. A knife had been plunged deep into her breast and the blood was still seeping on to the bedclothes. Although it seemed likely that she was dead, Darke took hold of her hand and felt for a pulse. There was none, although her flesh was quite warm. It was clear that she had not been dead very long. Stone gave a long moan of anguish and crumpled to the floor, sobbing hysterically.

  Carla turned to Darke. ‘I saw a telephone downstairs. I’d better ring for the police. You keep an eye on Mr Stone, but don’t let him touch anything.’

  ‘Call Edward. Let’s have someone we know on the case,’ said Darke, extracting a visiting card from his pocket and handing it to her. ‘His telephone number is on there. He will most likely be at home in bed, but he won’t mind being disturbed…’

  Carla gave him a wry smile. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ she said as she left the room.

  With only a small degree of reluctance, Edward Thornton agreed to come along to investigate the matter. While they waited for his arrival, Carla took Stone away from the murder scene to the drawing room downstairs, where he consumed two large glasses of brandy. The alcohol, along with the shock of discovering his murdered wife, seemed to send him into a kind of trance. He sat in a high-backed armchair, rocking backwards and forwards, staring at the floor and sighing.

  Thirty minutes later Inspector Edward Thornton arrived, unshaven and somewhat bleary-eyed. He had Sergeant Grey with him, who had similarly been prised from his bed for the occasion. ‘You pick your moments, Luther,’ said Thornton, gazing down at the dead woman.

  ‘I thought you’d be interested. I know you’ve been rather quiet of late. So here I am, presenting you with a nice juicy murder.’

  ‘Tell me all about it.’

  Darke took a large swig from his whisky flask and then told Thornton of all that had happened that evening after he and Carla had gone to Leonardo’s, including details of Stone’s strange behaviour in the Italian restaurant and the murderous assault that had taken place on the hill not far from the property developer’s house.

  Thornton stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s a funny one, all right,’ he said, gazing around the bedroom. ‘It looks as though the intruder murdered the woman first before ransacking the place,
which is not the normal course of events in a burglary. There’s no disturbance upstairs, so the chap must have come up here specially to kill her. So it seems that he wasn’t just after valuables… and, of course, we won’t know if anything valuable has gone until Mr Stone is a little more…’ He made a gesture with his hands to suggest stability. ‘The lady didn’t surprise our man because it’s clear that she was murdered where she was found.’ Thornton took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Maybe murder was the motive, and the burglary bit is a bit of show.’

  ‘A sleight of hand, Edward? Very much in keeping with my line of thinking.’

  ‘What is your precise line of thinking?’

  ‘Nothing definite as yet. I agree that murder – rather than theft – appears to be the motive, but as for the rest … well, I’m afraid the waters are too cloudy at the moment, but something tells me that all is not as it seems.’

  ‘And then there’s this mysterious attacker in the street. Are you sure you didn’t get a good look at him?’

  Darke shook his head. ‘I can tell you nothing about him, not even his height. He was too far away and in shadow. Carla will give you the same story.’

  ‘You don’t suppose he could be the murderer do you?’ asked Grey, stifling a yawn.

  Thornton pursed his lips. ‘At the beginning of an investigation we have to consider every eventuality. What do you think, Luther? Could he have run up here and murdered Mrs Stone and got away before you arrived?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but unlikely,’ Darke said. ‘I think she was murdered before the attack. The whole affair seems strange. What would be the motive for murdering Mrs Stone, I wonder? I suppose it’s possible that someone has a grudge against Stone and wanted to take some kind of revenge against him. He’s certainly not the most charming of men.’

  ‘We’ll have to ask him if he has any ideas – but not now. He looks like he’s had his brain scrambled. Poor devil. We’d better get him to the Yard for the night so’s we can interview him in the morning. Perhaps you’d like to be in on that.’