A Thief in the Night

by Stephen Wade

Late that night, Lord George was back in Richmond. He was led into the drawing room and given whisky. When he drank the glass straight down and refused to sit, Perch was worried.

  ‘What on earth is it My Lord?’

  ‘Mr Perch, I need the services of your daughter, urgently!’

  Perch’s double chin quivered and he blinked in such a way that Lord George started to blink also.

  ‘Look, I said she was an actress but …’

  ‘No you damned fool … I need her to help find this impostor.’ He immediately apologised for his language, aware that he could be petulant when in a hurry.

  Alice was called in from the library, where she was trying to forget her lover by reading the most sensational periodical she could find.

  She had changed her clothes and was wearing a beautiful long black dress and some very colourful slippers. George was, for a moment, mesmerised by her angelic looks – the ice-grey eyes and the fair hair, and that flush on her cheeks. He thought again, Ah, the sweetest English rose, lovelier even than before. He could see that Jimmy Canter had chosen the Perches so that he could enjoy her favours, and as a bonus to his real reason for inveigling himself into the family.

  ‘Yes, Lord Lenham-Cawde?’

  ‘Please, call me George. Now, Alice, I have a part for you, in a little drama I have written myself. Are you game?’

  Perch started to puff out his cheeks and grunt but Alice cut in. ‘Papa … please, leave me be this time!’

  He left, huffing and puffing, saying that he washed his hands of the business.

  ‘Alice, do you wish to help trap your rogue? For I’m pretty sure I know his real identity.’

  ‘Well, yes … how does the acting come into it?’

  ‘My dear Miss Perch, our play is to take place at the western branch of the Bank of England at nine o’clock tomorrow, and you are to be there at that time, in disguise.’

  ‘Disguise? Oh how exciting! Are we out to get our man?’

  ‘Indeed … and he will be, unless I am much mistaken, your ex-lover, the blackguard known to the police as James Canter, a fraudster. I have a feeling he is trying for the grandest prize of his dark career this time.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Alice, my dear,’ he took her hand and squeezed it gently, ‘you are, I believe, going to see this man in the bank tomorrow. It is imperative that you simply watch him and listen very closely to everything he says. In fact, if you are bold enough … you may befriend him … your disguise must be impenetrable so that he does not recognise you.’

  She moved away and took some steps towards the window, where she mused for a moment. Then she thought of something and smiled. ‘My dear Lord Len … George … I have the very thing. I have a costume in which a woman may be buried, complete with fox collar and a net across the face. I shall also colour my face … as when I played Gypsy Lara in The Spanish Goblet. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds splendid – if you’re sure you can keep command of your feelings, if you see my point?’

  ‘Oh yes, George, oh yes. Revenge is sweet, don’t they say?’ She forced a broad smile and held out her hand.

  Lord George shook her hand, as if they were two gentlemen settling a business deal.

  In a dark corner of the Old Coach in Covent Garden that night, Professor Lacey bought Eddie Carney a drink and listened to what the Detective Inspector had to say. Eddie stood only a few inches over five feet and his face was hidden under such a mop of thick black hair that few could make it out and give any account of him. He also wore dark clothes, regardless of where he was. Lacey thought of him as the ‘Shadow’ and sometimes called him that. It was surely a useful skill for a plainclothes man.

  ‘I came earlier to tell you that the American detective is in town … whatsisname … the one what came last year after that counterfeit crowd from France.’

  ‘You mean Harness, the Pinkerton man?’

  ‘Harness, that’s it! He’s a hard nut that one. Anyway, my mates down the station was sayin’ how there’s a big show on, something top order. So I been watching and sloping around and I got sumfin … just a sniff like.’

  ‘What are you sniffing, Eddie? It wouldn’t be a name like Canter would it?’

  Eddie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Gawd Prof Harry … you’re on the wager, mate. You had another jack working for ya?’

  There it was again – jack. He gave his friend a querulous look. ‘Eddie, take this. I owe you this from the Thames Police affair.’ He slid a roll of notes across the table. ‘Now it’s all happening at the western branch of the Old Lady tomorrow, just after doors opening. If you could be on the door ready to take this man, you’d be due a glass or two of the best malt at the next Oriental dinner, old friend. But his brother is almost sure to be there, so bring Bill. We’ll need his fists.’

  Eddie chuckled. ‘Bill … there’s an irony! Bills of exchange, Prof … they bin forgin’ em … yes, they know all about bills.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s George’s notion too. So you brought the signature?’

  Eddie delved into his pocket and grabbed a small sheet of paper. ‘There you are … read that!’

  The name written in a messy hand, but just readable, was Charles A C Perch, followed by a squiggle.

  ‘Perfect – though slightly questionable!’ said Lacey. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  They didn’t shake hands. Only lawyers and barristers called at the Old Coach, and so they were mostly clear there, but you still had to be careful.

  The massive door swung open and the commissionaire smiled as he welcomed the gentleman into the Bank of England foyer. ‘Good morning Mr Perch. Lovely day!’

  Mr Perch dropped a silver coin into the man’s hand and walked at a stately pace up to the cashier’s counter, where he was met by Major Gavin, the bank manager and the teller. However, before the major could speak, a woman bumped into them, before apologising and giving copious thanks as Mr Perch bent down to help pick up her things. As they did so, Major Gavin was called away by a tall man in a corner. It was Lord George, and he was there to distract the bank manager.

  As they spoke, Major Gavin kept glancing across at Perch, but the slim man in the long tweed coat was seemingly distracted by his new female acquaintance.

  ‘Miss, I am sorry to have to rush you,’ said Perch, ‘but I’m here on business and I have to see Major Gavin.’

  The woman was adept at her art – that of chatting and distracting, while extracting a pocketbook from his overcoat. But it was not to steal. No, it was to make an opening to speak his name. The pocketbook was dropped on the floor, and then, as she picked it up, she said loudly, ‘Oh, Lord Lenham-Cawde, you almost lost this!’

  Several heads turned to look. As for ‘Perch’, he knew in a second who the woman was, and would have darted for the door but for the fact he was cool enough to play the game for a little longer.

  ‘This woman is a drunk … an habitual criminal, and she tried to steal my pocketbook!’

  It seemed to work. The bulky commissionaire moved towards her and took one of her arms.

  Lord George stepped forward and addressed the crowd. ‘Gentlemen, I am Lord George Lenham-Cawde, formerly of the Guards, and this man in the rather brash and tasteless coat is not Mr Perch. He is, in fact, Mr James Canter, a noted fraudster!’

  As the assembled company made the appropriate sounds of astonishment, a man in the crowd in the foyer, looking rather like the fake ‘Perch’ but with a fuller figure, moved to the door and slid out.

  ‘Harry … Eddie … come in please!’ Lord George shouted. There was the sound of a scuffle and some cries outside before ex-boxer Bill Crooks dragged the Jack Canter back into the foyer. George told Eddie to give Major Gavin the paper. The major took it, looked closely at it, and then glared at Mr Perch as if his eyes would pop.

  ‘This is James Canter, not your Mr Perch. He’s been busy across in New York as well, forging bills of exchange. Hold him tight there men!’

  Canter was f
irmly in the grip of Bill and Eddie now. ‘I’ve done nothing!’ he spat. ‘Lord George … I should have finished you last year in Edinburgh!’

  That night in the Septimus Club, the real Charles Perch was the guest of Lenham-Cawde and Harry Lacey. Lord George explained things to him.

  ‘You see, Mr Perch, James Canter became you. He had your address and all your personal details … then all he had to have was your signature, so he could put it on a forged bill of exchange. His brother – Jack – is the penman, the forger. Jimmy is the actor. They usually make a formidable pair. But this time they came up against some old enemies – us!’

  ‘The Septimus Society?’ Perch asked.

  ‘Look around you at the men in these commodious armchairs, Sir,’ said Harry. ‘What do they have in common? They are all – either in reality or metaphorically – seventh sons of aristocrats. You know the situation: the older sons go to the army, the law, parliament, the cloth. By the time you reach the seventh, what on earth are they to do? Now, usually they play billiards, go to the races, visit ladies of the night, frequent the theatre …’

  ‘You’re not referring to my Alice again?’ interrupted Perch.

  ‘No Sir, but you see the point? Well, some of these men want something a little more challenging. Crime offers them a challenge, notably more interesting that the Derby or the latest Gilbert and Sullivan, don’t you see? This is the Septimus Club, and some of us here tonight are the Septimus Society! I myself am a seventh son. Lord Lenham-Cawde is a Lord because six elder siblings perished in imperial outposts. Even Smythe is a seventh child. Our lady members, however, are only metaphorically Septimuses. We meet for dinner at a place where ladies may join us! Fittingly, there are seven of us, and our rules say that there may never be more than seven.’

  Perch was puzzled, and he asked the question the investigators had heard many times before: ‘What about the police?’

  Lord George chuckled. ‘What about them? We have one of them as a member, and that’s very useful. Raise your glass to our members who cannot be here tonight: Eddie, who has police work to do, and to Leo, who is probably dreaming up another ridiculous spy story. They are in the Society too!’

  ‘These bills of exchange …’ Perch started.

  ‘Oh, well, you see Major Gavin had been fooled by James Canter into thinking he was you. So he introduced him as a client to the Bank of England – that means that he can have a bill cashed on demand,’ Harry explained.

  ‘My God! How much was this bill for?’

  Lord George managed a wry smile. ‘Three thousand pounds sterling … he told Major Gavin that he needed to pay a number of foreign contractors in notes. He’s so damned clever he almost got away with it.’

  There was something worrying Harry. ‘May I mention one thing, dear George? I mean, why did Canter break into Mr Perch’s house? He had had lots of opportunity to steal when he was courting Alice.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lord George, ‘here we come to the interesting aspect of the case. You see for all his exotic cigarettes and expensive suits, Canter loves burgling! His father was a safe-breaker, and his uncle a robber of the night streets … Mr Canter liked to enter premises. I first came across him while staying at Edinburgh with an old school friend, a lawyer who told me all about Canter and his gang … they moved South since then, hoping to be unknown here, of course. Anyway, he knew that Alice was away and that you were out too, Mr Perch. He had the thrill of getting in without passing through an opened door. I’ll wager a thousand notes that he never asked Alice for a key … not even when he was almost a son-in-law and father of your grandchild Sir!’

  Perch scowled and grumbled to himself, but he raised a glass.

  As they enjoyed their drinks, the Canter brothers were sitting in a police cell, cursing Lord George and his ‘dirty lot of stuffy Lord Mucks!’

  ADVENTURE THREE

  The Torment of Memory

  Richmond Street, St John’s Wood, was ideally placed for a patron of the arts to live, and on an October day in 1891 the mistress of number 5 had had her servants and cook busy since dawn. Her expected guests included a lord, a noted poet and a number of respected actors, the latter being hard to find, as most of that profession were considered to be beneath consideration for social events of a high tone. The house was ideal for the kinds of artistic events that tended to be held there, having a multitude of small corners and alcoves, sitting rooms and garden rooms; there was even an inner atrium, copying the Roman ideal of strolling and mentally relaxing among little groves of shrubs and flowers, with the city left far away and out of mind.

  In the large sitting room, Maria de Bellezza’s conversazione was going very well. The afternoon tea had been served and the drinks were being given out by her manservant. She took advantage of a lull in the conversation, while drinks were taken and sipped, to look around. The young poet was suitably voluble and self-concerned; the Dowager Fenlon was busy with stories of Paris scandals in her youth, and the classical pianist was patting the shoulder of the bel canto tenor. But poor Lord Lenham-Cawde looked rather melancholy. There he was, legs stretched out as usual, too long for any decent mode of relaxation, she thought. He would have to be cheered up.

  Everyone was standing and the newcomers – mostly actors and writers – were nodding and smiling, playing the responsive rather than the active parts in the cut and thrust of chat. This meant that she could walk through and look down on the one solitary seated guest.

  ‘Why George, why so down and dismal? Has there been a death in the family?’ Lord George Lenham-Cawde was simply George here, in a place he loved, surrounded by talk of ideas and beliefs, revolutions and celebrations, but on this day he was down in the mouth. ‘I do beg your pardon, Maria, but yes, I am troubled. Someone from the past has returned … ’

  Maria was a woman with a past; she had lived and she had suffered. But she chose to laugh whenever she could, and on this occasion she tried to cheer up her friend. She was one of those women who are always radiant, always the cause of smiles and good cheer wherever she found herself. She was beautiful, not pretty. She had what many thought to be classic Italian beauty: a full figure, and a face like a courtesan from a Fragonard painting. Her smile, many thought, would melt a heart of stone. Maria had known just one husband but many lovers, and had been a society hostess in several European capitals; her husband had been the Margrave of Karnesheim, and she had learned grace, manners and discretion from the best courtiers in France and in Austria.

  ‘This person, George – is it a woman?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you are a man of the world … surely this is nothing too serious?’

  ‘Maria, the truth is that I loved her, and she loved me. I have never forgotten her, but I had assumed that fate had stepped in and that she would have a husband by now … probably in St Petersburg.’

  ‘Oh Heaven – she’s Russian?’ Maria winced dramatically.

  ‘Yes. She’s Irina Danova, the singer.’

  ‘Irina Danova! Why, she’s celebrated from Madrid to Moscow and from Paris to Prague. Her voice is a divine gift, George. In fact, I once met her at a soirée given by the Duchesse de Madancourt. All eyes were fixed on her the entire evening!’

  Before George could speak, a voice cut through all the small talk and made heads turn. It was the young poet, an aesthete, holding a lily. He asked everyone to sit down and gave them notice that he was to read a poem. ‘Now, let’s talk of love, my friends, the one blessing in a world of sorrows. Why, I hold that poetry tells beautiful lies in an ugly world and ugly truths in a beautiful world, and therefore, as we live amongst the ugliness of the great horror of London, I speak of beauty.’ He flicked a lock of auburn hair from one eye and began to recite. The assembled crowd were silent and attentive, and as his last line – ‘And so a woman’s beauty saves us all from our failures’ – was spoken, George stood up and walked briskly from the room, whispering an apology to Maria.

  He loitered outside for some time
, unable to decide what to do next. His instinct was to find a dark hole and hide there, like a wounded animal. George knew that, as had happened to him at other times in life, notably out East in the hill country, the feeling was of a black shadow over him, the arrival of the past, which never really stays where it should be.

  Later, at the Septimus Club, Lord George was dozing on his usual sofa, a book on his knee, when Harry walked in and woke his friend with a hearty hullo. He dropped a letter on George’s knee. ‘Picked it up as I came in … Smythe said it had just arrived.’

  ‘Oh, it’s what I expected!’

  ‘Why aren’t you playing billiards in there George? Young Tabby Culhorn’s taking on all-comers at a fiver a go and you could beat him surely?’ Harry asked, as his friend opened the letter, read it, and then put it away in an inside pocket.

  ‘Something wrong, you great skulking aristocrat?’

  George took a cigarette from its case and waited until it was lit before replying. ‘Sit down, Harry, if you have a while to listen.’

  ‘Of course. Whatever’s the matter?’

  When Harry was settled and attentive, George gave a deep sigh and said, ‘An affair of the heart, Harry.’

  ‘Well, that’s nothing new for you old boy … only last January you were pursuing that horse-riding woman back in Lincolnshire.’

  ‘Oh Harry, that was a jeu d’esprit … a trifle. This is the real thing. You have brought me a note from Irina Danova. Need I say more? Your copious memory will recall I have spoken of her before.’ His friend’s face was blank. ‘Very well, you have forgotten. Well, I met Irina when I was in Persia back in ’85. God, Harry, she took my soul away! Now here she is in London, five years later, inviting me to a recital. She’s singing classical lieder at the Steinway Hall tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Well George, that’s a fine thing, surely? I can hum along with Arthur’s tunes at The Savoy every day of the week, but lieder … that’s another thing!’

  ‘Really Harry, enough about the damned lieder! Oh, I’m sorry. Keep to your sonnets and your odes, Harry. Love is not in your vocabulary is it? Have you ever felt the pain of the kind of love that eats at you? I’ve tried to forget her and failed miserably. My mind is constantly of her … I feel her close to me, sense her perfume, merely talking of her to you now. Now here she is, on my doorstep, as it were.’