A Thief in the Night

by Stephen Wade

  ‘No, Miss … you have much to learn about London!’ he said, directing them into a doorway.

  The room itself was dark and with a low ceiling. The main source of light was from what was left of the sun – very little – and a cluster of church candles on a table top. A man wearing a dirty smock was squatting over a still life picture of fruit. Around the plaster walls, dull ochre in hue, with paint peeling off everywhere, there were frames and lumber stacked, with a few small watercolours spaced between. Clearly, Eddie thought, the crook thought that the image of a poor painter, starving in a squalid back room of a lodging house, would increase the chances of a sale, a purchase through pity, as it were.

  As Byrne led Cara and Eddie in, the painter, Tosher, turned and said grumpily, ‘Not another interruption, Mr Byrne. I’m putting all my best efforts into this patch of light on the apple, see … Lord, what would my good father say to see me struggling? He had such a facility with the brush, though of course he used his finger-end very much. He always said his thumbnail was his best tool!’

  ‘Miss Delancey, may I introduce Fred Canlon, only son of the great man.’

  Cara gave a whoop of joy and Eddie, maintaining his role of cheery Cockney, said, ‘By gawd, you’re his flesh and blood … son of the man himself?’

  ‘You mean I’m standing a few feet away from the son of F.W. Canlon?’ Cara gushed.

  ‘Yes you are, Miss,’ said Byrne, ‘and if you turn around you will see the Canlon picture I spoke of. There it is, View of Lincoln Cathedral from the Witham – painted, I believe, in 1859 when Frederick was in his last year on this earth.’

  The painter wiped his hands on his smock. ‘Indeed, I can recall well his last months – a swan-song, of course.’

  Cara was smoothly into her part of rich heiress now, and cooed over the picture like a turtle dove. ‘Mr Byrne, you spoke eloquently about this at the sales, but I have to say that the real thing is beyond description … it simply is, don’t you agree Edward?’

  Byrne and the painter were now standing with a confident air, feeling certain that they had a buyer. But Cara and Eddie knew their task, and Eddie made the first critical comment. ‘Of course, Miss Delancey, we’ll have to be sure. I mean, five hundred pounds is a deal of money. Your Pa would want to be sure of the investment, like, see what I mean?’

  A frown appeared on Cara’s sweet face and she spoke coyly: ‘Oh well, Mr Byrne is an experienced dealer and he speaks very knowledgeably on art.’

  Byrne knew when his gift of the gab was called for: ‘Oh yes, I been in the trade for … twelve years you know.’

  Eddie took a few steps and looked over the other paintings. ‘These by our man as well Mr Bryne?’

  ‘All but one … the religious subject. As I said earlier, I have landscapes by a number of British artists. I specialise in work from earlier this century, mainly to the time of our dear Queen’s accession.’

  ‘You see, Edward, he is a particular student of his area of expertise,’ Cara said, patting Byrne’s arm and laughing.

  Eddie was ready to set the trap. ‘Still, I’m here to advise you Miss Delancey, and I have to say that we first need to check on some things and return another day … unless, Mr Byrne, we make a decision tonight and you call on us tomorrow?’ They had to get Byrne to come to meet them the next day, and the best location would be the one the Society had as virtually their own – the Oriental Hotel.

  Tosher, half in shadow, moved closer to Byrne and there was whispering. Then it was the turn of the artist’s son to speak, and it was clear from his tone that he was not pleased. He took down the painting from the wall and ran a finger along the gold frame. ‘Miss Delancey, this little picture is unique. There are people across several continents who long to possess it. You need to think of it as not merely a monetary investment, but as a dying man’s prayer to Nature. Oh yes, my dear Pa’s last breaths were not far off when he laboured over this. In truth, Miss, it would not be too extreme to say that this great work of art was the cause of his death.’

  Cara almost giggled, so grossly sentimental were these words, but her handkerchief came to her rescue; pulled out and placed over her mouth, it enabled her to simulate a few sobs. She dabbed her eyes and appeared to work very hard to fight back her tears. She gave a small gasp and turned away.

  ‘How can you, Miss Delancey, as a serious collector, allow this to pass you by?’ Byrne added, hanging the picture back on its hook. The painter was still in the emotional throes of his almost poetic discourse, to which Cara responded, crying, ‘Bid him take it down again, do!’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but this cannot be rushed,’ Eddie said. ‘But if you would care to come to the Oriental Hotel tomorrow, at say eleven, a decision will have been made. Our art man will need to look at some catalogues and such. I shall then pay you, other things being equal, in ready money – something we rarely do in my circles, though I did bring some with me tonight, hoping that my friend here would permit a deal.’

  There was a silence which seemed to last for ages, and in that time the painter and Byrne looked at each other searchingly. Eddie was expecting a response – perhaps a new deal and a reduced price, proving their desperation. In his experience, these types would take actual bank notes even if the profit was much less than they wanted. Would they take the bait? Cara wanted to say more, but exploited the silence well, taking a few steps towards the stairs. Then, at last, Byrne said, ‘Very well. Eleven tomorrow it is.’

  ‘Then goodbye … and Mr Canlon,’ Cara paused, ‘do be sure that I shall say a memorial prayer for your father. On what day did he die?’ This was a masterstroke from the actress, as she and Eddie saw the painter momentarily nonplussed and confused. Then Byrne cut in, before the embarrassment grew into an unwanted aura of suspicion. ‘It was December tenth of course, wasn’t it Fred.’

  ‘Yes, yes, December tenth,’ stuttered the painter. ‘His going was … merciful.’

  When Eddie and Cara were back on the street, they waited until they turned a corner before they both exclaimed ‘Yes!’ in triumph.

  ‘I always did like fishin’, Miss Cara … and this time we maybe caught a whopper!’

  Detective Inspector Edward Carney took her gloved hand and kissed it.

  Eddie looked up and down the street. It was dark and there was practically no light to be had. Luckily he knew this part of the city fairly well. They were somewhere near Lime Street, so he reckoned that they had some walking to do. For a second, he looked around and frowned. Cara sensed his doubt.

  ‘Eddie, are you alright? Are we lost?’

  ‘No, not at all. You’re talking to a police officer. I used to do my beat round here … only problem is, it’s very dark and it’s been a long time since I did anything but paper sorting and filing. Why do you think I like to use some time with George and Harry? They do some real detective work, and my Super don’t mind … we call it a special attachment.’

  They walked on and Eddie said, ‘We just need to reach the Old Lady and then it’s down Queen Victoria Street all the way to Blackfriars. They’ll be waiting for a report at the Oriental. I don’t know about you, Cara, but I need a drink!’ He knew that Byrne and the ‘artist’ now believed that he carried some hundreds of pounds on his person, after talking about being able to pay in cash. They thought he was rich, and that was temptation enough.

  He took her hand and led the way. A hundred yards further on they reached the way into a court, rather than the junction with Leadenhall Street. There was merely the slightest hint of nervousness in his voice as he said, ‘Oh, wrong way my dear. Turn back … left at the end. Sorry. They’ll have me back in uniform if I carry on like this!’

  Cara tried not to show any concern, but there was a noticeable thickening of the fog that muffled the street around them. There was not a sound, nothing, then one footfall, and it came from behind them. Eddie halted sharply and listened intently, trying to see who was there. ‘I can only see about twenty feet. Better trust to instinct, and I�
�ll tap the wall. We’ll come to a street name and then that will be fine.’

  Slowly, haltingly, they continued in what Eddie sensed was more or less a south-westerly direction , hoping that Leadenhall Street would soon appear. But in the fog that was wrapping it’s chill fingers around every brick, every cobblestone, every chimney, there was another, and he was not far behind them. Out of the gloom there came a sudden scraping sound, as if a cane had rubbed against a wall.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Eddie called.

  Pushing Cara behind him he turned to face the invisible menace. At first there was a rustling noise, and then something seemed to fall, something light such as a hat. Suddenly a shape rushed from the dark and before he could raise his hands to guard himself, Eddie was thrown to the floor and a very heavy, solid ruffian was on him, about to strike.

  ‘Inspector, look out!’ Cara cried as she saw the club raised but in that second the man got to his feet and ran off, shouting, ‘Not a bobby! I ain’t gonna see off no bobby!’ Cara realised that he was talking to someone else, and she thought she heard the sound of feet running a little further away, but her first instinct was to help Eddie.

  Someone shouted and a man approached. ‘What street are we on?’ Eddie asked him, getting to his feet.

  ‘You’re in Bury Street Sir … Cornhill’s just further on this way.’

  ‘Call a cab, man! I’m the police!’

  Twenty minutes later they walked into the Oriental Hotel, where the other five members of the Septimus Society were enjoying drinks and listening to Lord George regale them with how he had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a mob in Egypt. He was leaning back from the table and the others were listening intently, drinks in hand and the meal completed. Harry Lacey had drunk too much brandy; Maria de Bellezza was urging George to describe the riot in Egypt, and Smythe was chuckling at the sheer wildness of it all. But all talk stopped when Cara and Eddie walked into the room, the detective looking notably dishevelled.

  Maria went to him immediately, but he merely explained that he was fine and had simply had a ‘bit of a rough do’ with a footpad, but that the rogue in question was almost certainly one of the men in the artist’s studio. Cara recounted the events of the evening with Byrne, as everyone retired to armchairs and whiskies were given to Cara and Eddie.

  Harry felt that it was time to explain what might be done next. He leaned forward and looked around the group, inviting everyone to listen. ‘Now, Septimus people, there is no possibility that the fish will now bite. The attacker tonight was obviously either Byrne or someone with him. The most likely situation is that even now, as we speak, this “studio” will have gone. He and his accomplice will almost certainly move on elsewhere.’

  ‘Yes. They probably move from room to room, renting a dingy little place for each fraud, keeping one step ahead of everyone!’ Lord George agreed, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air.

  Smythe joined in. ‘Well, we must work out how to find the next studio and be waiting for the scoundrels!’

  Maria de Bellezza, perhaps the most accomplished speaker and lecturer of them all, stood and addressed the group as if it were an official meeting. ‘Gentlemen … and lady … I think we may assume that these men are setting up a so-called studio for each attempted sale of their fraudulent goods. Our task, therefore, is to be one step ahead and find their next most likely place for the next studio. Si, e vero?’ She resumed her seat and George took over, though without moving from his usual languid posture.

  ‘True, yes, I agree completely my dear Maria. My suggestion is that the next studio is likely to be either in Whitechapel or in Cheapside. They won’t be anywhere close to today’s location.’

  ‘Sorry to dampen your theory, My Lord … but they’ll be terrified,’ interposed Jemmy Smythe. ‘Even if we narrow it down to the cheapest rooms in those two areas, it’s a longshot.’

  ‘I was rather hoping we could reduce the options by noting the very cheapest lettings in the paper columns, and then deploying men to watch for arrivals,’ said George.

  Harry had been following the reasoning very closely. He walked across to help himself to another drink and then turned, stroked his moustache and let out a world-weary sigh. ‘Ah, fellow sleuths … I suggest that, instead of doing all this longshot work, we entice them. I have written a short piece this evening, as you were all expressing your very worthy ideas, and I can have this in the hands of my friend Wilbert at The Times by the morning. This is the simple paragraph.’ He lifted up his notebook and read aloud:

  CANLON STUDIO TO LET

  We have it on good authority that Mr Earnest Delmont, the Chairman of the Dilettante Club, has acquired the very studio in which the great Watercolourist F.W. Canlon worked whilst in the City. Though celebrated for his views of Lincolnshire, Canlon also painted the Thames, notably at Wapping, and the studio is very close to Wapping Basin, at the corner of Well Street. Persons wishing to rent should contact Mr Delmont at the Dilettante, Haymarket.

  Cries of ‘Well done Harry!’ cheered the literary bachelor far more than any applause he had received after seminars on Kit Marlowe or even the Bard himself.

  ‘Just one small point – won’t the bounders be a touch suspicious, reading this so soon after tonight’s little business?’ It was Eddie, ever the rational Peeler.

  ‘Fair point … but we shall have to hope that the men’s greed overcomes their caution, because if they had that studio, with this press cutting in their hand, think of the appeal to buyers!’ Harry beamed at his plan. ‘There will be, of course, no such place, but we shall be at that address with Mr Delmont, after enquiries.’

  ‘We’ll be there as soon as the piece is in the paper,’ said Eddie. ‘Believe me, our swindlers will be there right away, to survey the place.’

  It was around midday when Byrne and Tosher arrived at Well Street, and they were not alone. There was a small crowd there, some of the number gathered having notebooks, and there was also a photographer setting up. All eyes were on the first-floor window, and everyone listened to Harry, who was, for the day only, Mr Delmont of the Dilettante Club. He wore his most gaudy waistcoat, and a tie verging on the loud and assertive. Even his usual grey coat had been abandoned and replaced by a light fawn sports jacket, and on his head was a checked cloth bowler hat. His Cambridge friends would not have recognised him.

  ‘Gentlemen, you are gazing at the very room. Observe the long window for the necessary light, and that neat little balcony … an Italianate touch for our great artist. As you know, he painted the English rising of autumn sunrise amazingly well …’

  ‘We must get the place, Tosher,’ Byrne said. ‘Think of the pull of that address! The rent would be a sound investment. We’d appear honest and legitimate in the actual, approved studio!’ Byrne insisted on boldly walking across to join the crowd, but Tosher, nervous, dropped back.

  The crowd had moved in close to Harry, who was standing on a box so he could be seen as he spoke. In the middle of his speech, he saw Byrne approach – he matched Cara’s description very well, even down to the green cravat. Harry gave the nod and before Byrne could move, he was held by two pairs of strong arms and he turned to see two police constables, fixing their glare on him.

  ‘Mr Byrne, I believe?’ said Harry, and immediately Byrne shouted, ‘Tosher … help!’ but the big man was already running. From behind Harry, Eddie ran out, followed by two more officers, all giving chase to Tosher.

  ‘This will be the man who attacked me, boys!’ yelled Eddie.

  Tosher, in sheer panic, took a right turn into Smithfield. He was heavily built but he could gather some speed, and was soon on the edge of St Katherine’s Dock. Moving quickly he lunged for the first turning that appeared, and found himself running through an arched siding, like a dank tunnel, with massive beer barrels on both sides of him. A shout from behind called, ‘You – stop there! This is the law!’

  He ran but felt his pace slowing. ‘No, not inside again … I will not go back into that black
hell! I will not!’

  His heart was thumping so hard he felt the echo in his throat. He turned to see his pursuers, but in that second he took a sidestep and hit a rack holding a barrel. The massive bulk of it rolled into the side of his leg and he was knocked six feet aside, as the weight settled on an ankle. Tosher heard the running footsteps coming nearer and nearer. Only twenty feet ahead was the edge of the dock and the pool of water beyond. With one last effort of strength he pulled free of the barrel’s rim and crawled to the water’s edge.

  Eddie Carney was ahead of his men, wanting to grab the man who had meant to kill him just two nights ago. He saw the huge figure teetering on a fence and then the man’s weight fell forward and lurched towards the brown water. Tosher had time to turn, so that Eddie saw his face, and the detective heard the big man cry, ‘I’m not going back, bobby, I’m not going back in there!’

  ADVENTURE TWO

  A Thief in the Night

  ‘Really, Lacey, you have none of the skills required for billiards!’ said the tall aristocrat as the white ball slammed against the cushion and bounced into the air. He and his friend, Professor Harry Lacey of Cambridge, were enjoying a game at the Septimus Club. Lacey merely smiled, enjoying the ribbing. His long hair flopped into his eyes and his pince-nez slipped rather when he tried to concentrate on a shot.

  ‘Well I’ve had enough for tonight, George … too tired,’ he said, absentmindedly chalking the tip of his cue. ‘Been trying to construe seventeenth-century manuscripts all day, until you called and rescued me. The men of those benighted times loved their fusty, musty paper and tended to spill eggs and cheese all over their poems. That, on top of being too enthusiastic in dealing with a very large luncheon with some dons up in town. Anyway, look at you, six feet and more of youth and suavity, played billiards since you were a young blade, and me a middle-aged bookman with short sight! Perhaps you would like a game of chess – far more up my street old man!’