A Thief in the Night

by Stephen Wade

  ‘Time for supper, My Lord,’ one of the henchmen said.

  Back at the Septimus Club, Lord George was worried. ‘Something is deeply wrong, Harry. She is a virtual prisoner!’

  ‘Well, drinking whiskies at this rate will not help, George. You need a plan.’

  ‘Plan? What the deuce can I do? There’s a cabal around her. It’s like a fortress of … of very large men!’

  ‘But you’re an army man, you must have a plan?’ said Harry.

  George stood up and paced the room from one side to the other, glancing into the billiard room where the young ones were frittering away time as usual. ‘It’s no use, Harry, this is a desperate situation. What I need is information. Could we have another afternoon tea arranged by Maria? Or some way of finding out more about this Bruzov man? While I’m at it, what’s this Mannheim affair?’

  ‘You have me there old friend. But what we need is Smythe!’

  Jemmy Smythe, long the filter of information from Eddie and his colleagues in Special Branch, had been expecting a call from the long lounge, as he sat and studied the form for the York meeting that week. Unusually, he was not called for but was in fact advanced upon by George and Harry, who came hurriedly into the quiet reading room, which was fortunately empty but for Smythe.

  ‘Ah My Lord …’ Smythe stood up.

  ‘Oh don’t be silly, Smythe. I need information …’

  ‘Well, I’d say Redbank for the York meeting tomorrow, a sound wager at a hundred to seven.’

  ‘You’re being obtuse, Smythe … you know why I’m here!’

  ‘Yes. Take a seat and I’ll give you a lecture on Russian history My Lord.’

  They all huddled in a corner area, heads bowed close as Smythe helped himself to a bowl of sweetmeats which had been left close to hand. ‘Now, gentlemen, after Maria’s little party the other day I asked Eddie to tell me what is known about these Russians. You will recall that Tsar Alexander was murdered, nine years ago now, as he drove along in St Petersburg, ready for a parade of his worthy soldiers. He was the victim of a party of political radicals called Narodnaia Volia. Two years later, My Lord, you met Miss Danova in Tehran. There is a link. Eddie informs me that, as Russia has not experienced the kind of changes many wish to have happened, there are still many radicals. The girl you met in Persia was the sister of a leading light in a very advanced political group – more advanced in thinking even than the Narodnaia.’

  ‘What? Is she in the hands of the authorities? Why have they not taken her to Russia? Why is she free, and here?’ demanded George.

  ‘Please do not be concerned My Lord … we do not know the answer to that question. But we must assume that she is not a target. But she may be … an instrument. That is as much as Eddie and his police brains have ascertained.’

  ‘Well, man, they may be here for some nefarious purpose,’ said Harry; ‘all that Derby Day allusion! Who knows, they may be out to do some evil here!’

  ‘My instinct is that we should find their hotel and drag her out to safety!’ George said defiantly, now red with fury.

  ‘Be patient,’ soothed Smythe, ‘Maria is putting out her spies and Eddie has men following them.’

  ‘I’ll try, but it’s damned hard!’ George shouted out to the world in general.

  In the Charing Cross hotel, Bruzov and his performers occupied a suite overlooking the river. In one sitting room, Irina and her maid were left to fill their time as they wished, but they were under observation, and Irina could not leave the hotel without permission, and this was restricted to a few hundred yards.

  The morning after the concert at the Steinway Hall, Irina, after a restless night, expected some kind of admonishment from Bruzov. Sure enough, at nine, after breakfast, Bruzov entered the room. ‘What was all that last night – who is this Lord Lenham-Cawde?’

  ‘I have no idea. He liked me. Men do.’

  ‘My dear Irina, you know very well why we are here. This is not a holiday. Remember what you have to do. There is no time for, how shall I say, attachments. If you know this man, or if he is important in some way, then forget it. I happen to know that he is a sad bachelor, gambling and wasting time at the Septimus Club where these English aristocrats fritter away their lives. Forget him. Do I have to remind you what will happen if we fail?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then, as you know, today we do it.’

  Irina was left alone with her thoughts, but could think of no way out. Mother Russia would dominate lives, as always. But there was one thing she could do. Bruzov had told her what she wanted to know – where to find George. If George were involved he could be in danger, but she could think of nothing else. She took the little golden owl brooch and kissed it, and then called for her maid.

  ‘Sarah, I know I can trust you. I want you to do something for me … it’s very important – a matter of life and death. Do you understand?’

  The girl made a little bow. ‘Yes Milady. What is it?’

  Irina kissed Glaucus and put him in an envelope, addressing it to Lord Lenham-Cawde at the Septimus Club. She used the hotel notepaper, with the letterhead and address.

  ‘I’ll make sure it gets there Miss,’ said Sarah.

  Irina put a sovereign into the girl’s palm.

  As Lord George occupied himself at Maria’s residence, Harry had spent the first hours of the day racking his brain, trying to think of a way to help his friend, before finally admitting defeat and picking up The Times lying on the table in the club sitting room. He read a feature on his friend Arthur Sullivan, who was apparently planning a new, serious opera. Flicking through the pages, he found the day’s events. An announcement caught his attention:

  MESMERISM AND SIR FAWLEY JONES

  At Buckingham Street, Strand, at 3: the Foreign Secretary, Sir Fawley Jones, whose interest in matters psychical are well known, will be introducing the celebrated practitioner of mesmerism, Jurgen Mannheim. He has been invited by the Society for Psychical Research to demonstrate the powers of hypnotic states in medicine. As Mannheim has written: ‘We learn from Mesmerism that there are in all of us hidden reserves of force, physical and moral, and there are vast unexplored tracts in our nature.’

  Harry Lacey almost jumped from his seat. What was this? There was Mannheim and there too was the Foreign Secretary. Surely this was more than coincidence. But he needed to know more before he acted, so he determined to go to his files and study the biographical profile of Sir Fawley Jones.

  Back at his rooms in Edwardes Square he soon found the file he was looking for and read: ‘Jones, Sir Fawley. B. 1848. Served in the East as military attaché in Delhi; later in first intelligence on gazetteer of the northern provinces. Politics – MP, 1880. Foreign Secretary 1882.’ Something was taking shape in Harry’s mind. Yes, he thought, it was a matter of who is attending and with whom, and why?

  Glancing at the wall clock, he saw that it was almost one. There may not be time to cross London to collect George and then go on to the Strand, so he returned to the Septimus Club, wrote a message to be delivered to him at Maria’s, and then decided to go immediately to Scotland Yard and inform Eddie that he had found a link between Mannheim and the forthcoming event involving a prominent politician. As he left the Club, the letter arrived for George from Irina, and it was put on a shelf labelled ‘L’ under the charge of the commissionaire.

  After leaving Maria’s Richmond Street address George decided to walk down the Edgware Road as far as Marble Arch, in order to think. His mind was preoccupied with the dilemma regarding Irina. The fact of the matter, he reflected, was that she was either excessively protected from her public, or that there was some other, more sinister, reason.

  Instinct told him that there was something deeply wrong. His mind went back to her troubled face before they parted in Tehran, and how she would not tell him the source of her worries. He raked his memory to try and recall any information she had given him during their time together. She was from St Petersburg and her real nam
e was Polichova, her father being Dmitri Polichevski – some kind of university lecturer. Then, as he stopped to concentrate, he remembered a phrase she had once said: ‘My father wants to take away the teeth of the Church.’ She had referred to the Church more than once, and the local power-hungry officials.

  Have I found myself in love with a dangerous radical? he asked himself. Noticing that he was now at the corner of George Street, he decided to see if Harry was at home.

  Harry’s neighbour saw him knocking and said that he had seen the professor going out a short while ago. There was nothing for it but to take a cab to the Septimus Club.

  In the second-floor room at Buckingham Street thirty people were gathered, eagerly awaiting the appearance of Jurgen Mannheim. The group included scientists, medical men, rationalists of all hues, some believers in thought-reading and a cluster of keen members of the Society for Psychical Research, who were apt to delight in any kind of experiment or demonstration whatsoever which might introduce an element of mystery.

  There were three reserved seats at the back of the well-lit room, and at ten to three, heads turned to see Irina Danova, accompanied by two stocky, solid guardians. There was a sudden increase in noise as the conversation level lifted and many spoke the name ‘Danova’. Monsieur Dalevy and Bruzov struggled to find a degree of comfort, and an attendant tactfully brought in a large chair for the big Russian, who sweated and puffed after climbing the stairs, and patted his face with a gaudy handkerchief.

  But Irina was disturbed by some new knowledge. As she had stepped into the cab on the way, she heard Monsieur Dalevy say to Bruzov, ‘Don’t worry, we took care of Glazin’. She wanted to scream and lunge at the Frenchman. Her cousin and former manager, Rudolph, was supposed to be ill and resting in Paris. Her heart was beating so fast that she feared a collapse. These men, they had killed her friend, and now they were pushing her to help in the ruin of another man.

  Yet she somehow contained her passion and as they took their seats, she longed for George to come. Only he could save her. Then Monsieur Dalevy whispered in her ear, ‘Now remember, my dear, Sir Fawley Jones is our man. You are to take him outside to the stairs when things stop and people are having drinks … then leave the rest to me.’

  She nodded. All she had been told was that Sir Fawley Jones caused many deaths, many years ago, in India. If she did not play her part, her father would die. The simple balance of facts was enough to give her the resolve she needed. But now things were different. Now they were the killers.

  Shortly before three o’clock George was at the Septimus Club and had collected his letter. He opened it immediately and the little golden owl fell into his hand. The note wrapped around it read: ‘19, Buckingham Street – come quickly.’ He was in a cab within a minute, shouting out the address. The cabby did his best but there was a throng of people, horses and carts, packing every street and progress was slow. He rapped on the roof, and heard the shout of, ‘Tryin’ me best, Guv. Some wagon fell over on the ’aymarket … I’ll turn and try another way!’

  Harry and Eddie had made it to Buckingham Street, entering the premises by a back staircase. Eddie told the attendant who he was, and they were allowed to wait outside the room, behind the speakers.

  ‘I’ve had no time to tell Sir Fawley Jones,’ Eddie said. ‘He needs to know that there may be danger.’ But before he could intervene, Sir Fawley Jones stood up and introduced Jurgen Mannheim. The Foreign Secretary was a man of military bearing: upright, firm-jawed and well built. He spoke with a balance of information and speculation, showing a deep interest in things paranormal.

  ‘Some of my colleagues in the House were rather tormenting me for coming here today, such are the limits of their poor benighted minds. But I feel sure that our guest will provoke some thought here today. I present Jurgen Mannheim, mesmerist.’

  After some applause, Mannheim began his talk, and after an explanation of his life and his intentions with this ‘new science’ he asked for someone from the audience to be his aide in demonstrating the hypnotic state.

  A young man volunteered and was asked about any illness he might have. He replied, ‘I have a st … stutter you s … see Herr M … M … Mannheim.’

  A few people tried unsuccessfully to suppress their giggles of amusement and they received a hard stare from Sir Fawley Jones.

  ‘You have had treatment for this I assume?’ Mannheim asked.

  ‘Everything has failed, Sir. A dozen medical men have tried to remove the stutter, and they have failed.’

  ‘Very well, let us begin.’ The young man sat before Mannheim, who proceeded to swing a pendant before him and speak in a soothing, lyrical way. He told the young man that he would speak fluently, with no hesitation, and he suggested some little tricks to use, in his mind, to feel the courage to speak.

  The result was impressive, and the patient proceeded to answer questions about his life from the audience with complete confidence and without hesitation. There was widespread applause and many eager questions. Sir Fawley Jones then invited everyone for drinks in the adjoining room.

  With Monsieur Dalevy’s hand on her arm, Irina was urged forward from the back of the room. ‘Now,’ he hissed. ‘Go now!’ She glanced down and saw a revolver in his hand, half hidden by his cuff. She knew at once what he intended to do and, walking towards Sir Fawley Jones, who saw her and smiled, holding out a hand to greet her, she pointed back to the Frenchman and screamed out, ‘He is here to kill you Sir!’

  At that moment, George had rushed up the stairs and was pushing his way through the crowd towards Irina. Harry, watching behind, ran and did his best rugby tackle on Sir Fawley Jones, knocking him out of the line of fire. The first bullet hit Irina in the head and she fell instantly, a few feet from George.

  The crowd ran for cover, then a crack whipped across the room and the gunman fell to the ground. Eddie had seen that there was no time to allow any advantage to be given to this desperate man.

  Eddie ordered everyone away from the dying man, but Sir Fawley Jones had to know who had wanted to take his life. He peered over the man, then said, ‘Ah, Kaspari! After all these years … you never forgot.’

  ‘This is Paul Dalevy, the French singer, Sir,’ Eddie corrected him.

  ‘No my friend, this is Dmitri Kaspari, of the Russian Army.’

  ‘You will pay in Hell, Jones!’ were the dying man’s last words.

  Across the room, George was holding Irina’s hand. Now there was nothing and he would never be the same man again. She was cold and still; there was no response to the call of her name and he resigned himself to losing her, lowering his head to kiss her lips one last time.

  ADVENTURE FOUR

  Another Jack

  His chin slammed against the hard wood of the floor and he felt a fist beating at his back. Then the strong hand held him firm. He had no strength to move and could only scream his protest in fitful bursts of strength which he willed from the depths of his misery. Would this animal never stop? The cries turned to sobs. He felt his naked stomach scrape along the wood and something sharp pressed into his belly, as if he were dragged along a bed of nails.

  ‘Please … stop! For pity’s sake.’

  ‘Ah soldier boy … my soldier boy … lovely young flesh you have, son…’

  His tormentor jabbed at him with his heels, drawing blood-spots where the metal had bitten.

  ‘Oh you beautiful little fanny. But why so still?’ The man slammed his fist into the floor.

  The brother and sister were in their early twenties and had had a good night out. They were on their way home to their lodging house when they decided to turn into Eldon Street and pay a call on their younger brother.

  ‘Well, he never leaves the home as far as I can see, Jess,’ said Charlie with a wry tone.

  ‘No, he’ll be working on the next great historical canvas I expect,’ Jessie laughed.

  They knocked with some force, as he was on the second floor and always had his door shut. But the front
door swung open and with exclamations of surprise they went in, Charlie leading the way, shouting, ‘Willy … it’s Charlie. You there?’

  ‘He’s probably dreaming of ancient Rome!’ Jessie smirked. The door to the artist’s room was open as well, and Charlie went straight in, noticing the clothes strewn across the floor and a corner table knocked over. The place was silent and, feeling alarmed, Charlie told his sister to stay back and wait.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Focusing his eyes in the gloom, with only moonlight to guide him, Charlie saw a heap of canvases piled up high in the corner and he moved towards them. Moving two or three out of the way, he saw part of an arm. He took the last ones away and saw his brother lying on the floor, completely naked, arms spread wide, his head turned to one side. ‘Willy … for God’s sake, Willy!’ he shouted. But there was no movement, and when he put a hand to his brother’s head, there was the sticky, matted mess of blood.

  ‘Stay back, Jess … stay back!’

  But it was too late. Jessie was standing behind him and she flung herself down across her brother, sobbing, wanting him to live. Charlie felt for a pulse. ‘He’s gone …’

  Detective Inspector Edward Carney of Scotland Yard appeared at the scene shortly after the police surgeon, who had come from the station on Hyde Park. A constable was at the gate and he told Eddie that the brother and sister of the dead man were with a lady on the ground floor, being comforted. ‘Sergeant Duff’s up there Sir, with the Doc.’

  As he entered the room, he heard the sergeant ask, ‘Was he successful then, this William Dockray?’

  Eddie answered before the doctor could. ‘Yes, very. He has RA after his name, Sergeant Duff.’

  ‘Oh, good day Sir.’ Duff turned to greet the Detective Inspector and moved to one side.

  ‘What facts do we have, doctor?’ Eddie asked, turning to the police surgeon.