by Carol Hedges
The footsteps pause outside each loose box. Molly sees a dark lantern being swung into the interiors, hears the snorting and pawing of the horses as they react to the sudden intrusion into their rest. The sheep dog instinctively returns to her pups and the boy, who has now taken on the role of friend and master, and begins to paw at the straw in an attempt to cover those she loves and knows she must protect, even at the risk of her own life, from whatever evil is coming their way.
The footsteps reach the end box. The bolt is pulled back. Molly waits, growling softly at the back of her throat, her eyes fixed on the triangle of light. The intruder steps into the loose box. He has a knife in one hand. Molly opens her jaws in a roar of rage and launches herself straight at him, like a small black and white thunderbolt from hell.
The rain continues to fall, silently, persistently, turning the stable yard into a sea of noxious mud. When William Smith arrives early in the morning, the first thing he notices is the half-open gate. He hurries into the yard, sure that he definitely locked the gate, and that blame for anything he discovers, especially any stolen or injured horse, will be his fault.
The second thing he sees is a body, lying in a pool of liquid. The colour and viscosity of the liquid suggests that it is not horse-generated. William feels a thickening in his throat and a singing in his ears. He can hear his heart hammering furiously under his coat. Bending down, he grasps the body by a soaking wet shoulder and flips it over.
****
Detective Sergeant Jack Cully has received a strange and slightly disturbing communication from Gerald Daubney, in which the collector accuses Scotland Yard of withholding important information pertaining to the theft of his collection of priceless Japanese netsuke and Cully himself of being an accessory to the decision. There are also vague threats of an undefined but unpleasant nature involving members of the legal profession.
The letter is written in a scrawling hand, various words crossed out, and, from the blots and deep indentation marks on the paper, it is clear that the writer was enduring some strong emotions while penning it.
Cully frowns. He cannot see where Mr. Daubney has got the idea from. He knows he was extremely discreet last time they met. And now this? Cully skim-reads the letter once more. The most worrying part comes at the end, when the collector suggests he might be forced to take matters into his own hands, and offer a reward for information leading to the return of his precious items, as the detective police seem both unable and unwilling to track down the thief.
This threat is never taken idly. Too many investigations have foundered on some victim’s decision to bypass the legitimate channels and go rogue instead. The thought of weeks of wasting precious time interviewing the sort of people who always came in to ‘confess’ to every crime committed, or claim part of the reward for information that turns out to be useless, resulting in public criticism from the press, and wild goose chases across the city, is not to be contemplated.
After thinking about his next move for a while, Cully decides to go and consult Lachlan Greig. He finds his colleague in the day room, also perusing a letter, which Greig stuffs hastily into his jacket pocket as soon as he sees him.
“Don’t tell me Mr. Daubney has been writing to you as well!” Cully says, rolling his eyes. “The man is obsessed. He cares more about those little wooden carvings than about the death of his manservant.”
Greig shakes his head. “No, he has not written to me,” he says.
Cully regards him curiously. There is something reticent behind his colleague’s tone of voice, and his usually frank gaze is clouded. This, coupled with the speedy way he put up the letter raises immediate warning signals. He wonders whether there might be something amiss. A medical problem, perhaps? Cully is on the cusp of framing some innocuous remark that might lead to a shared confidence, when the door is flung open. One of the day constables stands upon the threshold, panting and breathless.
“Detective inspector, sir, please ~ you have to come with me at once,” he says. “There’s a dead body at a livery stable in St John’s Wood, and you’ve been sent for.”
Greig leaps to his feet, “Come with me, Jack,” he cries, reaching for his coat and hat, “And let’s pray this isn’t the young lad I left in Will’s charge ~ because if any harm has come to him through my actions, it is my fault entirely, and I will never forgive myself.”
The two detectives hail a cab and arrive shortly at the gate of Bob Miller’s Livery Stables, where they find a crowd of eager local bystanders, each with their own lugubrious contribution to make to the situation.
“I allus knew there’d be trouble eventually,” a grizzled old man says, shaking his grey locks, as they push through. “Stands to reason ~ where you got h’airystocratic horses, it’s bound to ’appen sooner or later.”
“Oi, Mr. P’licemen ~ you ask about the screams,” a woman at the back calls out, as they pass through the gate, now being guarded by a Marylebone constable with folded arms and a warning expression. “Horrible screams there was. And rending sounds. Like someone was being torn in pieces. Kept me awake all night.”
Greig and Cully ignore the various strange and unhelpful suggestions being made, and enter the yard. Will Smith, his face the colour of a corpse candle, steps forward to greet them.
“Thanks for coming so prompt, gents. I didn’t know who else to send for. I found him lying in the yard,” he says, leading the way. “I remembered not to touch anything ~ only I did turn him over, just to make sure.”
By the end of Will’s speech, they have reached the centre of the yard, where the ring of grooms and stable lads, standing in a solemn circle, part to allow them access to the body, covered by a stable rug. Taking a deep breath, Greig lifts one end of the rug and stares down.
Into the face of a complete stranger. He meets Cully’s eye and sees the same relief echoed in his expression.
“It’s not the lad,” Will says. “I was afraid it was too. In a dim light, it could’ve been anyone. I was dreading telling you he’d gone ~ especially after his escaping the fire.”
“Where is Brixston?” Greig asks, looking round.
“Over here, Mr. Detective,” says a voice from the back of the stable lads, and the boy advances, closely followed by the black and white sheepdog, who is limping and looking decidedly the worse for wear. Brixston squats down and curls his arm gently around her neck.
“My friend Molly saved me, Mr. Detective. When the man came to kill me, she tried to cover me and the pups up in the straw so he wouldn’t find us. Then she fought off the man ~ went straight for his throat and wouldn’t let go. She’s a hero, this dog. A bloomin’ hero.”
Cully gestures towards the body. “I see the puncture wounds in the throat, but I don’t think that was the only thing that caused his demise. Look here: he also suffered a blow to the back of his neck, which is one of the most vulnerable areas of the body. I don’t know how that happened, though.”
Greig sees a quick significant glance pass between Will and Brixston.
“As far as I could make it out,” Will says, “The dog went for his throat, then the hand holding the knife, and as he tried to push her off, he must’ve stepped back and tripped over one of the stone mounting blocks, it being dark, like, and hit his head upon it. ’Course, I’m not a detective, but that’s how I see it.”
Greig decides not to pursue matters. He turns to the boy. “You said the man came to find you. How do you know that?”
“Coz I recognised him,” Brixston said. “Remember I told you there was two men in the pub that night? Black and another one. This was t’other one. I saw him in the street a coupla days ago. Besides, he had a knife. So someone must’ve sent him to get rid of me. Coz of what I saw.”
Will interjects, “We found a knife outside the stable door. It’s still there. I told the lads not to touch it.”
Greig turns his gaze to Will. “I thought I told you not to let the boy out of your sight,” he says reproachfully.
Will S
mith shuffles his feet guiltily, like a ten-year old caught with his fingers in the jam. “I can’t watch him every minute of the day,” he says. “Sometimes I’m away from the yard visiting a client. Besides, he ain’t a prisoner; he’s done nothing wrong. If he wants to go out for a walk and sitch, that’s his decision.”
“A decision that meant he was spotted, and nearly killed?” Greig says sternly. “No, it won’t do, Will. It really won’t.”
“So where do we go from here?” Will asks.
“We need to find somewhere else to keep the boy. It is clear his hiding place has been revealed, so he is no longer safe.”
“I could take him to my place,” Will says. “Josephine will be back from her business trip next week, and I’m sure that’s what she’d want to happen.”
“It might be for the best,” Greig says.
All the while Brixston has been looking from one man to the other, following the conversation keenly. Now he speaks. “I ain’t going anywhere, gents. Sorry an’ all that. This is my home now, and Molly and the pups are my fambly. She put her life on the line for me, and I ain’t going to leave her. Not now, not ever. You’ll haveter carry me out of here feet first, and that’s my last word.”
He turns, and stomps across the yard to the open stable door at the far end. The sheepdog limps after him, her ears pricked. The men watch their progress, then exchange wry smiles.
“I’ll fit a new lock on the gate,” Will says. “And we’ll all try to keep a better eye on the boy from now on.”
While the two men are talking, and Brixston is voicing his objections, Cully is kneeling beside the body. He lays his fingers carefully across the throat. Then behind an ear. He senses nothing. Then he places his palm flat on the man’s chest. Very faintly, but quite definitely, he feels a flutter of movement. He looks up at the others.
“I think this man is still alive, though only just.”
Will exclaims, “But he can’t be! I’m sure he was dead when I checked him over.”
Cully stands up. “You’d be amazed how many dead men turn out to be fit and well after someone has pronounced them dead. I’ve read of cases where a man was almost buried alive, but for a mourner at the funeral hearing knocking on the coffin roof.
“I think we’d better get this man off the damp floor and into a warm police cell as soon as possible. Robertson can take a look at him ~ it cannot be beyond his expertise to suggest what should be done to bring him back to enough consciousness for us to question him.”
“Finally, the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for!” Greig exclaims. “I’ll get the constable at the gate to send for a stretcher party at once.”
He hurries away. Meanwhile Cully covers the man back over with the blanket, being careful to leave his face free this time. He decides to use the intervening time to examine the knife. He walks over to the stable door and studies it. Carefully. It is an unusual knife ~ in the sense that most fatal stabbings are committed with kitchen or domestic or pocket-knives of various sorts and sizes.
This knife looks neither culinary, nor domestic. He decides it is more like a dagger than a knife. It has a curved blade with a slightly serrated edge, and a shiny carved handle that glints goldenly up at him. It is covered in muck, but even so, he is pretty certain he has seen something similar in the recent past. Cully racks his brains, but the location stubbornly refuses to reveal itself. He returns to find Greig issuing final instructions to Will and the stable boys. The two detectives wait until the man has been carefully placed on a stretcher and carried out of the yard.
“What Will told us back there, about the mounting block and the fall wasn’t the whole truth,” Greig says, as they both set off in the direction of Scotland Yard. “Apparently the boy picked up a shovel and lamped the man on the back of his head when he saw him punching and kicking the sheepdog.”
Cully nods silently. “Ah. Self-defence?”
“I’d be prepared to say so, if it ever came to court, which it won’t. After all, the original intention was to kill him. Therefore, he was quite justified in taking whatever means he could to preserve his life.”
“I agree. And we have a shrewd suspicion who sent this individual to silence him.”
“We do. But once again, we have no direct proof,” Greig says gloomily. “Our best hope is that this man regains consciousness. Let us alert Robertson and hope he can bring him back from whatever state he currently occupies. It will make a nice change for him! Usually he deals with the recently dead, not the barely alive.”
****
Mrs Riva Hemmyng-Stratton has been kept awake by the storm raging outside her window. And the anger and indignation raging in her writer’s breast. That some man should use her novel to try to make her pay for his own marital failings! That she should be made to forfeit her hard-earned income to fund his impecunious habits! That she should endure shame and suffering while he, because of his position in society, could impugn her reputation!
It is too much!
At three am, with sleep eluding her, and a branch of the tree outside her window beating a tattoo upon the glass, she had risen, lit a candle and placed it on her desk. Taking up her pen, she had poured out her soul onto a virgin sheet of paper, blotting the words with hot tears, then, in an ecstasy of rage, she had torn and crushed the paper again and again between her hands.
Now here she is, tempest-toss’t, making her way once more into the court room, where her barrister greets her arrival with a slight shake of his head, which she is unable to interpret. She presumes it refers to the tardiness of her arrival.
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton slides onto the hard, wooden bench seat. After the fracas and near riots of the day before, the judge has declared that members of the public may only attend the hearing in limited numbers, so the spectators’ gallery is sparsely filled. The press has been told their presence is not welcome.
She glances across to where Strutt & Preening are sitting. They are in earnest discussion with each other, seeming oblivious to anything else happening in the court. Even when the usher announces: “All rise”, they merely elevate themselves a couple of inches before resuming their seats. She assumes they are mentally sharpening the knife, ready to expunge her from the literary world for evermore.
The judge shuffles his papers, peers over his spectacles, and addresses her barrister.
“Mr. Fladgate, the floor is yours.”
The barrister rises, bows.
“Thank you, M’lud. As you know, I have been awaiting an acknowledgement of my telegram from the husband of the Honourable Mrs Venetia Ackwynd. I have to inform you, and the court that no such acknowledgement has been received, and therefore I am, as of the present time, unable to call the lady to act as a witness in the defence of my client.”
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton hears someone utter a groan. To her horror, she realises it emanates from her own throat. The judge turns to Lord Lackington’s lawyers.
“Before I rule on this case, do you have anything you wish to add on behalf of your client?”
The pause after his question seems, to the hapless Author, to go on for an eternity. Finally, Strutt (or is it Preening?) gets to his feet. He clears his throat.
“M’lud, my client wishes to withdraw his accusation.”
Consternation in the court!
Slowly, the judge sets down his pen.
“Have I heard you correctly? Lord Lackington does not wish to pursue his claim for libel and defamation against the author Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton?”
“Correct, M’lud.”
“I see. Then the matter is no longer the concern of this court. Case dismissed.”
Cheers erupt from the small crowd in the gallery. Her barrister turns around and congratulates the Author, who gapes at him, unable to grasp what has just happened. Certain members of the press, who have managed to gain access to the courtroom by some mysterious process only known to the journalistic profession, now advance, notebooks in hand.
A short while later, the Author a
nd her barrister reconvene in one of the small rooms off the main hallway.
“I congratulate you, Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton,” he says, his voice booming round the walls. “An unexpected capitulation, but a capitulation nevertheless. You live to write another day. The introduction of the novel, albeit at the last minute, has frightened them off. You must be delighted with the outcome.”
Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton purses her lips. “Oh, I am,” she says. “And I thank you, and my unknown benefactor for your invaluable assistance.”
“It was an honour, dear lady,” the barrister purrs loudly. “Now, I suggest you celebrate your success ~ for you have won a great victory for the female writing profession. Nay, the writing profession in general. All that remains is the public restoration of your reputation, which I shall take great pleasure in arranging.”
And indeed, she has won a great victory. Or rather, Lucy Landseer has. But was it just the production of the novel, Mrs Hemmyng-Stratton wonders, as she makes her way home? She will never know.
(The truth is slightly more prosaic. Stephen Ackwynd, a fellow pupil at Harrow with Lord Lackington, and a man with an acute sense of his social position, was horrified by the thought that his wife might have to debase herself by speaking in a public courtroom.
As soon as he received the barrister’s telegram, Ackwynd went straight round to see his former schoolmate Edwin Lackington. In the ensuing violent row, overheard with great relish by all the Lackington servants, he made it quite clear that unless Lackington withdrew his accusation forthwith, he’d make sure his old Harrovian chum would be blackballed from every club in town, the local Hunt, the Gentlemen’s Private Gambling Society, the Casino de Royaume etc.
Ackwynd also made mention of Lackington’s patronage of certain bookshops in Holywell Street, which might be of interest to members of the press and the police. And finally, for good measure, he threw in a pretty little horse-breaker, who lived in some style in a nice house in Maida Vale, which she could not possibly afford. It was more than enough to persuade the ignoble lord to withdraw.)
