[The Victorian Detectives 08] - Fame & Fortune

by Carol Hedges

  On and on she runs, weaving in and out of the crowd, never slackening her pace until she reaches one of the river bridges, where she stops and bends double, gasping for breath. The adrenaline that gave wings to her feet has vanished. And with it, her former bravado.

  The reality of her position begins to dawn on her. What has she done? She can hardly believe it. She certainly does not think she will get away with it for a second. He knows her name; he knows where she works. He has powerful friends in the underworld. He has only to say the word and her life will be snuffed out like a candle-flame in the wind.

  The little cat still sits in her hand. Its green eyes stare up at her accusingly. I saw what you did back there, it seems to say. As a swift comet’s tail of fear runs down her spine, Amy leans over the parapet and hurls the ivory cat into the swirling lead-coloured water below.

  ****

  It is not just in fiction that unlikely events happen. Sometimes real life tosses a fortuitous scenario into somebody’s unsuspecting path. The eighteenth-century writer Horace Walpole coined the word ‘serendipitous’ to describe such a happening.

  Mrs Riva Hemmyng-Stratton has possibly never heard the word, and probably could not even hazard a guess at its meaning. And yet, arriving at the offices of The Gentlewoman’s Home Journal and Fireside Companion with an article in her hand, she is about to experience a serendipitous event herself.

  Standing outside the building is a young woman carrying a manuscript tied up in green ribbon. She has very bright blue eyes, hair the colour of toffee and the air of somebody who is remarkably pleased with herself.

  As Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton prepares to enter the outer office to hand over her article (a paltry thing, but the fee will pay this month’s rent), the young woman impulsively reaches out a hand and touches her arm.

  “Excuse me,” she says, “We have not met, but I feel I must share my good fortune with somebody, or I will absolutely burst!”

  The Author regards the young woman with some surprise. “Indeed, we have not met,” she says a trifle stiffly.

  “Then let me introduce myself at once. My name is Miss Lucy Landseer and this” ~ here she waves the manuscript she is clutching ~ “is my debut novel! It really is! And it has just been read by the publisher, who likes it and might want to publish it, and I am so excited!”

  Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton has a sudden moment of déjà-vu: she recalls that heart-stopping moment, so long ago now, when her own first tentative foray into the world of fiction was met with approval. She unbends and bestows a smile upon the young woman.

  “I am so pleased for you, Miss Landseer,” she says warmly.

  “I see you are a fellow writer,” the young woman continues. “Would you consider it very presumptuous of me to invite you to celebrate my success in a cup of tea and a piece of cake?”

  Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton considers the offer. Her plan for the day was to hand in the article, pocket the fee, and then walk to her own publisher to reassure herself that the matter of the Lackington divorce accusation was being taken care of satisfactorily. But the young woman’s face glows with such a rapturous delight that she cannot refuse her request. It would be like kicking a friendly puppy.

  “I shall be delighted to accompany you,” she says. “Let me hand in my own little piece first and then I will be at your disposal.”

  Thus, a short while later, the Author finds herself sitting at a small table in one of the newly-opened little tea-rooms that are springing up all over the West End to cater for the needs of ladies who shop.

  Then, even more surprisingly, after two cups of tea and a buttered scone, she is unburdening herself to this total stranger, who listens intently, her pretty head on one side, and a half-eaten scone in her hand.

  When Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton has talked herself to a standstill, there is a pause, while the rest of the scone is conveyed to Lucy’s mouth. After which, having dabbed off any crumbs onto the linen napkin provided, she leans forward in her chair, her blue eyes alight with interest.

  “I am so glad we met, Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton, for I believe I may be able to help you in your predicament. Let me explain: a while ago, I found myself in a situation where my powers of observation were useful to the detectives at Scotland Yard. Indeed, the information I provided led to the apprehension and incarceration of a serious criminal!

  “I have always been interested in solving things ~ I am seriously considering the possibility of setting up as a female detective ~ yes, I see the smile on your face, but think about it: so many crimes take place as a result of affairs of the heart, in which women detectives would make far better investigators than men, for they are considerably more sympathetic, and less likely to attract attention.

  “But to revert to your own matter: if one could prove that this Lady Lackington had read, and was influenced by your book, it would stop her husband pursuing you, would it not? He wouldn’t have a case against you. And you wouldn’t have to pay him a penny in compensation. So, we must devise a plot whereby we can meet with the unfortunate lady and find out whether she took events from the book to help her arrange her extra-marital affair.”

  “We?” Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton queries.

  “I assume you wish for my help?” the astonishing young woman says, flashing the Author a winning smile. “After all, you can hardly turn up at the Asylum yourself ~ that would be rather too obvious and might be seen as coercion of a witness.”

  “Turn up at the Asylum?”

  “Is that not the most obvious plan?”

  “But I do not know into what Asylum she has been placed. Nor where it is.”

  Lucy Landseer waves a dismissive hand. “Not a problem. That is easy to find out. I shall consult the archives at one of the newspaper offices. I have contacts. We are dealing with aristocrats here, so there are bound to be articles ‘in the public interest’. The press loves this kind of scandal: a betrayed husband, a lover and a guilty wife etc. It is meat and drink to them. Once I have traced the information, we will meet and plan our next move. Oh, this is wonderful! My first novel and maybe my first case! What a perfect day.”

  Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton demurs. “It is very kind of you to offer your assistance, but I am sure it will not come to this, Miss Landseer. My publisher has written to the lawyers affirming my complete ignorance of the affair. That will be enough to end the matter.”

  The fledgling detective butters another scone, pours some more tea and begins scribbling away in a notebook very similar to the one currently residing in Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton’s own capacious bag. She tears out the page and places it on the table.

  “Very well. But here is my address. Believe me, if you do require my help, I shall not fail you.”

  She flashes the bemused writer a beaming smile, finishes her scone, then places some coins upon the table. “I await your summons, fellow scribe,” she says, and sticking a vicious-looking hatpin determinedly into the side of her hat, she shrugs on her coat and departs, leaving Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton to wonder whether she has just dreamed up the past hour.

  But if it was a dream, her subsequent visit to her publisher soon dispels the supposition, for there she discovers that the solicitors of Lord Lackington are not to be put off by the assertion of her innocence and intend, unless ample compensation is offered, to take the matter further, and instigate legal proceedings against her for producing a work that brings his noble name into disrepute.

  After restating her position yet again, Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton is left to creep home, feeling sheer dread dog her every footstep. Once back in her little sanctuary, she throws herself into a chair and contemplates her current position, and the choices open to her. That she has the funds to pay the vast amount of money that she suspects will be demanded, is out of the question.

  She cannot afford to leave the country and make a new life for herself abroad under an assumed nom de plume, even if she wanted to, which she does not. Nor is she willing to take that dark and lonely road that leads to a silent grave in a lonely churchya
rd (she is a novelist, so she does tend to think in rather dramatic and clichéd terms).

  Eventually, having exhausted all her options, she picks up her pen and writes a letter to the impulsive young woman she encountered a few hours earlier, who, despite being almost an unknown quantity and of dubious provenance, now appears to be the only person left who might possibly be able to salvage her reputation and save her from public humiliation and utter financial ruin.

  ****

  Meanwhile, Stride and Cully are attempting to breach the outer ramparts of Number 55, Russell Square once again. This time, their efforts are rewarded. A maid servant answers their knock, and shows them straight into a sitting room, where a big brutish man with a waxed moustache is relaxing over coffee and a cigar.

  The room’s furnishings are lavish: thick Turkey rugs cover the floor and there are numerous small occasional rosewood tables full of ornaments and small china figurines. The fireplace is black marble, with a pair of unusual Oriental gold-handled daggers mounted in a crossover pattern above. It is clear that no expense has been spared in the fixtures and fittings.

  The man rises at their entrance. Extends a hand. Introduces himself as Munro Black. Apologises for his absence on a previous occasion. Indicates that they might like to sit. Orders coffee for them from the servant. Asks how he might assist them, in an unctuous manner that suggests that he is pretty sure he can’t. Or probably won’t.

  Throughout these procedures, Stride and Cully observe their host closely. They note his hulking body under the well-tailored suit, the starched cravat, the gold rings and watch-chain. They also observe the broken nose and grossly swollen mouth.

  “Oh dear, you seem to have been in the wars, sir, if I may say so,” Cully remarks.

  Black laughs thickly through his bruised lips. “You should see the other bloke.”

  His voice has an incongruous lisp resulting from a missing front tooth.

  They sit. Stride produces his notebook. He flicks through the pages, taking his time. Through many such interrogations, he has learned the power of building suspense, especially when he suspects he is about to be manipulated by a skilled operator, such as the one facing him now.

  “We are sorry to disturb you, Mr. Black, but we are investigating a murder.”

  “Oh yeah?” Black observes.

  “A manservant called Mr. James Flashley ~ and, as we are reliably informed, Mr. Flashley was an acquaintance of you and your brother, we decided to pay you a call. Am I correct in this assumption? Do you know the gentleman?”

  Black raises his hands, his eyebrows and the level of his voice.

  “Jem Flashley? Murdered? No – I can’t believe it! Not Jem. Why, I’m sure only the other day we were sharing a yarn about the good old days over a pot of ale.”

  He regards them wide-eyed with horror. He is either genuinely upset, or the theatrical profession has lost a valuable asset. Both detectives assume the second option.

  “Indeed. And that is the reason we are here,” Stride says. “We have been told that you were spotted drinking with a friend on the exact night and close to the exact place where the murder happened. Can you confirm this?”

  Black looks towards the heavily curtained window. He shrugs. “I go out for a lot of drinks. Business, pleasure, sometimes somewhere between the two. I don’t keep a note of them all. Can you be a bit more specific. What night? What pub?”

  Stride consults his notes. Tells him the date. “You were seen that evening in the Ship Inn, near St Catherine’s Dock.”

  There is a pause. Black seems to be paging through some mental directory.

  “Can’t say I remember the place. Who said they saw me there? Was it the barmaid said so?”

  “The point is, you were seen there,” Cully cuts in. “And a short while later, Mr. James Flashley, a man you were once sharing a yarn with about the good old days, was found dead.”

  “Well, when I was talking with him, he clearly wasn’t dead, was he?” Black snaps, the colour rising to his bruised cheek.

  “Perhaps your drinking companion might vouchsafe for your movements?” Stride says.

  “Like I already told you, officer, I meet a lot of people in my line of work. I don’t remember who I was drinking with that night.”

  “Maybe you could try to remember?”

  Munro Black makes a big performance of scratching his head and screwing up his face in concentration. Then shakes his head. “Nope. No idea, sorry.”

  “What a pity,” Stride says evenly. “He could have given you an alibi.”

  “For what?” Black replies. “Did this barmaid see me doing any harm? Did anybody else?”

  He stares at them. The silence thickens.

  “Thought not. So, gents, you are clearly wasting your time.”

  “What was your relationship with Mr. Flashley?” Stride asks.

  Black shrugs his massive shoulders. “We go back. Born in the same street. Played in the same gutter. Only one of us managed to climb out of it and make something of themselves. Guess which one? I run several clubs. Successful ones, naturally. Gambling, cards, for those who like that sort of thing. Drinks and entertainments for those who don’t. People work for me, not the other way round. Jem wanted my kind of lifestyle and thought he could get it by gambling.”

  “Did he owe you money?”

  Black considers this carefully. “Most people do.”

  “We have reason to believe debt might have contributed to Mr. Flashley’s demise,” Stride says, studying Black thoughtfully.

  Black shrugs in a nonchalant ‘nothing to do with me’ manner.

  “What is your brother’s business?” Cully asks. “And can we speak to him?”

  “He does a bit of this, bit of that. He buys and sells stuff. Paintings, furniture, that sort of thing. And he isn’t here, so you can’t speak to him.”

  “What does he buy and sell specifically? Collectables? Valuable items from overseas? Maybe from the Far East?” Stride asks.

  Black’s face is wiped of everything except the bruising.

  “I couldn’t say. He does what he does, I do what I do. Mostly, he lives abroad, which is where he is at the moment.”

  “You see, we have reason to believe that Mr. Flashley’s employer was robbed of a collection of priceless Japanese netsuke on the night that his manservant was murdered. The night when you and an unremembered companion were seen in the same vicinity as the victim, who owed you money. Perhaps you could shed some light on that?”

  Black looks puzzled. “Sorry gents, you got me there. Don’t understand. Nets of what?”

  “Netsuke,” Cully repeats. “They are small Japanese carved ornaments.”

  “Never heard of them, sorry.”

  “Oh, I think you have,” Cully says. “In fact, I am sure you know exactly what I am talking about, because I have recently seen a netsuke in your house. And it matches one on the list of stolen articles supplied to Scotland Yard by Mr. Flashley’s employer.”

  He rises, walks to the door, opens it and goes into the hallway. The other two follow him. But there is no little ivory cat on the mantelpiece. Jack Cully blinks, checks again. He turns, meets Stride’s eye and shrugs sheepishly.

  “Right then,” Black says briskly. “Like I said, I don’t know what you are talking about and it is nothing to do with me. Jem’s death is nothing to do with me either. Or Herbert. Now, I have an important business meeting, so if you have no more questions, I’ll bid you both good-day. Sorry I couldn’t be more help. Any time you’re passing the house, please feel free to pass, eh.”

  He throws a fake smile at them, then snaps his fingers to summon the servant, who opens the door. They are shown out into the street. The door slams behind them. They walk away in silence. Halfway across the square, Cully glances back at the house. The blinds are pulled down at every window. The house seems to exude a hostile, even malicious air.

  “There was a small ivory cat on that mantelpiece. I saw it with my own eyes,” Cully murmur
s.

  “I’m sure you did,” Stride says. “Mr. Black is clearly a smooth-tongued operator. As is his always-absent brother who ‘buys and sells stuff’ ~ and some of that stuff is clearly human. Come Jack, we will park Mr. Black here for the time being and try to work out another route to reach him. Perhaps Mr. Daubney might be able to tell us a little more about his stolen cat.”

  Upon their return to Scotland Yard, Jack Cully writes a letter to Gerald Daubney asking whether he might call round, at his earliest convenience, as he wishes to consult him upon some matters pertaining to the recent robbery.

  He tries to keep it as vague as he can, given that the evidence is no longer available, and he does not want to hold out false hopes. He has a feeling that Mr. Daubney isn’t the sort of individual to whom the term ‘stoic’ might apply.

  ****

  Letters, and their possible outcomes are currently the focus of Detective Inspector Lachlan Greig’s attention. Here he is at his desk in his small rented room, chewing the end of a pen as he stares at one of the most frightening sights in the world: a blank piece of paper.

  Greig has always served in the police force, first in Leith, now in London. He has seen many developments in policing, some good, some less helpful. He has never really stopped and thought about the trajectory of his life. Events happened, he dealt with them, and then more events arrived to take their place.

  And now?

  Greig thinks about his colleagues. He wonders how they will react to his decision. He writes a couple of words, crosses them out and screws up the paper. This might be the most important letter he has ever had to pen. He must get it right. He has only one shot at it and the consequences of making a mistake are too great to contemplate.

  He stares out of the small window into the back yard. The apple tree still bears some late fruit. A blackbird perches on one of the branches and as Greig watches, it suddenly opens its beak and lets forth a trill of careless notes.