by Carol Hedges
“A reminder of her happy childhood in the countryside. A simple flower to bring back sweet memories of roaming the yellow fields as an infant, plucking nature’s bounty from the green bosom of the earth.”
“I thought she was born in Highgate.”
The front door is opened. Arthur Harbinger shoots his brother a venomous glare, and steps quickly across the threshold, blocking the doorway. He hands his coat, hat and silver-topped stick to Rose, the stern-faced housekeeper, then strides towards the sitting room, leaving his brother to follow him a few seconds later.
“Miss Harbinger is writing her letters,” Rose says primly. “I shall tell her you are here.”
Sherborne crosses the room to the window and removes the cover from the parrot cage. The parrot shakes its head, then sidles hopefully along its perch.
“Wotcher me old cock,” it says. “Polly wants a biscuit. Where’s Harriet? Good Poll. Remember what I told you?”
“What in Heaven’s name is THAT?” Arthur exclaims.
“A little gift to aunt from my family,” Sherborne says loftily. “The elderly need taking out of themselves. We thought the bird might cheer her up in her last days. And it will allow my boy to make regular visits to help look after it. Nothing like the presence of a delightful small child to remind an elderly relative of her duties.”
Arthur Harbinger snorts derisively. “You always were a lost cause, Sherborne. No wonder father favoured me.”
“He did not!” his brother retorts hotly. “He once told me he thought that you would never amount to anything much.”
Arthur laughs heartily at the suggestion. “Oh, little brother, still playing that old tune? What a desperate soul it is!”
Sherborne’s hands bunch into tight fists. “I am a successful man of business. I have a nice home, a devoted wife and three children. You have nothing. Nothing!”
Arthur Harbinger folds his arms and stares at him, a smile spreading slowly across his lean features, his eyes empty as water.
“And that’s why you’re here, desperately trying to ingratiate yourself with Aunt E. isn’t it? Successful man of business? Living beyond your income is more like it ~ oh I know all about you, little brother. The expensive house, the hired carriage ~ it’s all a front, isn’t it? You are up to your eyebrows in hock to your bank, and if Aunt E. don’t leave you a fortune, which she ain’t going to, by the way, you can kiss goodbye to the fine house, and the rest.”
Sherborne utters a howl of rage, which is instantly subsumed into a cough, as the housekeeper re-enters the room.
“My mistress will see you both now,” she says. “Briefly.”
The two men stampede up the stairs, almost elbowing each other aside to enter the front bedroom where Aunt Euphemia is sitting up in bed, swathed in a lacy shawl, a portable writing desk propped up in front of her. Despite the heat of the day, the windows are closed, the curtains half-looped. The room smells of lavender water and old lady.
“Aunty,” coos Sherborne, “How wonderful to see you this morning. And how well you look. Does she not, Arthur?”
Arthur Sherborne bestows a smile of ghastly unctuousness upon the pinched-faced stick-figure in the bed. He lays the bunch of buttercups on the writing-desk.
“A little offering from the countryside, dear aunt.”
The old woman brushes them aside. “Rose ~ for goodness’ sake ~ take these away at once; they are spilling pollen upon my letters!”
Sherborne sneaks a sly grin as the maid removes the flowers. “Here is some fresh fruit for you, Aunty Euphemia. I rose at the crack of dawn to go to Covent Garden to purchase it.”
The old woman frowns. “What is that?” she asks, extending a shaky claw and pointing to the pineapple on top of the fruit pile.
“A lovely pine. My dear children adore it.”
“Then let them eat it. I can’t stomach fruit. Never could. Take it back with you.”
She sinks back upon the pillows, her dark beady eyes travelling from one man’s face to the other. “Where’s the third one of you?” she demands.
The brothers exchange puzzled glances.
“The girl. Or rather, the young woman, as I guess she is now. I wrote to her. Haven’t had a reply yet. Where’s she? Why isn’t she here, with her calculator and her empty bag, waiting for her share of my money?”
Enlightenment dawns.
“Oh, you mean sister Wilhelmina,” Arthur Harbinger says smoothly. “She is not able to travel to London at the moment.”
“Of course, we intend to share any good fortune that might possibly happen to come our way with her,” Sherborne interjects. “She is our sister, our flesh and blood after all.”
The lie is almost palpable.
“I liked her,” Aunt Euphemia mutters. “Had some pluck about her, I recall. I want to see her again before I die. I have some bits and pieces of family jewellery I’d like to give her.” She stares up at them fiercely. “You remind her of my letter and ask her to come and see me. And you’d better be quick about it; my doctor tells me he doesn’t think I’m long for this world, and I have no reason to distrust his judgement. Now go, I’ve had quite enough of the pair of you.”
Arthur makes a small formal bow. “We’ll leave you in peace then, dear aunt,” he says, then inquires casually, “Shall I post those letters for you on my way to the City? It would be a pleasure to serve you.”
The old woman indicates graciously that he may do so. Arthur picks up the two letters and without reading the addresses, tucks them straight into his pocket. The brothers slink out of the room.
“Do you know where Wilhelmina is?” Sherborne asks, as they descend the stairs.
Arthur shakes his head. “Last time I saw her was at the pater’s funeral. You?”
Sherborne frowns. “Me too. I can’t remember seeing her since. It has been so many years since we met. She wasn’t there for the reading of the Will, was she? I’m sure I’d remember if she was.”
Neither brother will ever admit that they could have helped their sister out with some of the money they inherited upon the death of their parent. After all, it was not their responsibility. The childhood home, the furniture, money and other things, had been left to them jointly, with the option of sharing with their sister. It was an option they mutually declined to take up.
“Well, I do not intend to write to Wilhelmina now,” Arthur says. “And nor should you. The last thing we need is for our sister to turn up out of the blue and steal our rightful inheritance from under our noses. I shall tell aunt that I am making diligent enquiries, of course. But I won’t be.”
The brothers part company on the doorstep. Sherborne sets out for the hotel, where his wife and three children await his return and, in Harriet’s case, news of Poll. Arthur turns his face towards the City. The letters, however, remain in his pocket; they are not for posting. Later, after his day’s work is done, he will steam open the envelopes, read the contents, reassuring himself that they do not involve any Will changes. He’ll then trace and copy his aunt’s signature on a life insurance policy. It will be backdated to the winter of last year and filed in a drawer in the office, amongst other documents of that time.
A policy taken out for the sum of £100 (half the money he has recently banked) will, upon maturity, pay out a thousand at least. All that remains is for the old lady to die, and, if necessary, he is sure that it can be arranged in such a way that he is not incriminated. So, Sherborne my little brother, Arthur thinks, what will you do to get your hands upon all that lovely money? Perhaps it is time to find out.
****
It is said of the city of London that in no other place might a man enjoy more undisturbed freedom of thought and rational action, for in London, the individuality of a man is of little consequence; in that strange, crowded jumble of lives that makes up the greatest city on earth, there is little feeling of solidarity or of brotherhood.
Hundreds of thousands of individuals of all classes and ranks of society pack the streets,
all restless and hungry for something. People rush past each other as if they had nothing in common. They pass and repass, their quick tread wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy underfoot. In London, a man might fall down in the street and expire, and get no more than a sparing glance from passers-by, and though his absence might be missed by his employer for a day or two, his place would quickly be filled by another.
Thus, when the Honourable Thomas Langland, MP arrives in his parliamentary office and discovers that his private secretary is not at his post once again, he sends for a ministerial aide and requests a replacement.
The Replacement, when he finally arrives, is a short stooping young man, his fair, meagre hair already thinning. He has spectacles and pale blue eyes. He wears a soft collar and cravat and a slightly shiny suit. A man you might pass on your way to the underground station and never notice or think of again. Instantly forgettable.
His appearance, however, belies a mind as sharp as a cook’s knife, honed by several years spent quietly getting on with his work while closely observing the political food chain around him. He lives in Kilburn, renting a small room over a shoe shop. He keeps a diary. Such innocuous men are overlooked, frequently misjudged, and always dangerous.
There is also a connection between him and the previous occupant. The Replacement and his predecessor had started in the parliamentary clerks’ system on the same day. They were of the same educational background, and so had been drawn to each other’s company. But one, thanks to his personal charm, better wardrobe and easy ability to make influential contacts, had speedily risen up the ladder, eventually slipping into the role of Langland’s private secretary.
The other, the son of a blacksmith, who grew up holding the bridles of horses and whistling to them to keep them calm, had knocked about in various outlying ministries, a bit like a political docker, turning up each day without knowing who he’d be asked to work for next. An ability to charm horses has proved not to be a transferable skill.
The Honourable MP barely registers his presence. He is an anonymous clerk behind a writing desk. Without even bothering to ask his name, he hands over the draft of a speech he has prepared, requesting that the clerk copies it out in his best hand, making any adjustments he thinks necessary. The Replacement lowers his eyes, selects a pen and commences upon the task in hand.
After an hour, the Honourable MP passes his desk, glances down, nods in a satisfied way, then announces that he is dining at his Club and won’t be back until the House sits for the afternoon. The Replacement waits until his footsteps have receded into the distance. Then he sets down his pen and picking up the copied speech, he leaves his desk.
Opening the door to the inner office, the Replacement treads lightly across the crimson carpet and slides into the broad leather-backed desk chair placed directly in front of the portrait of the Queen. So, this is what the inner sanctum of a Member of Parliament looks like? He riffles carefully through the papers on top of the shiny mahogany desk. They seem to consist of committee reports, together with various letters from constituents seeking redress over disputes.
Having satisfied himself that there is nothing of great import to be seen, he moves on to the desk drawers, which yield the customary stationery, bottles of ink and a pen knife, and a number of pamphlets listing various ladies, with their London addresses, scantily clad photographs and descriptions of the services they are prepared to offer the discerning customer.
In the bottom left-hand drawer, he finds a bottle of good brandy, a box of cigars and a small cut-glass tumbler. The right-hand drawer is locked. At which point, he hears voices in the outer office, and the door opens. The Honourable MP and a companion enter the room, bringing with them the blustering bonhomie of a lavish lunch and a waft of cigar smoke.
“I have just this minute put your afternoon speech upon your desk, sir,” says the Replacement, who has now moved to stand in front of the desk. He lowers his gaze humbly to the carpet. The very model of a humble civil servant.
“Ah. Yes. Good. Thank you … err … err …”
“Is there anything else you require, sir?” the Replacement asks.
“Yes. You can run these committee reports over to the Home Office. I shan’t be needing them any more today.”
“Certainly, sir. I shall do it at once.” The Replacement picks up the reports and bows himself out.
“New clerk? What happened to whatsisname?” he hears the Honourable MP’s companion remark as he leaves the room. He pauses on the threshold, to hear the Honourable MP’s reply: “One goes, another comes. These clerks are all pretty interchangeable at the end of the day, aren’t they?”
The Replacement’s mouth forms a tight straight line. His thin fingers grasp the report folders compulsively, for the Honourable Thomas Langland, MP does not know about the relationship between the so-called ‘interchangeable clerks’ that he is so quick to dismiss. Langland has no idea that when a friend confides, over a drink, that he is sure his employer is ‘up to something’ and he is determined to get to the bottom of it if he can, and then mysteriously disappears a short while later, leaving no note to indicate where he has gone, it is the duty of the remaining friend to discover what he was hinting at.
That is precisely why the Replacement offered his services to this particular MP. It is his intention to keep his friend’s seat warm, and his own ears and eyes open, so that when his friend reappears from wherever he has gone, he will be able to pass the desk back to him and hopefully enlighten him further as to what the MP they both currently serve is up to.
****
After another inadequate luncheon, Detective Inspector Stride returns to Scotland Yard, where he is summoned to the police mortuary. There have been, it appears, developments. The police surgeon’s expression is almost seraphic as he greets him.
“Ah, detective inspector! Here you are at last. Good. And here,” he gestures towards a shape lying on the slab and covered by a tarpaulin, “here, if I am not very much mistaken, is the body of our elusive man. Kindly brought in by Sergeant Foster and some bearers, all the way from Chalk Farm.”
A tall saturnine man in a dark blue uniform with very shiny brass buttons is standing rigidly against the wall, his arms folded. He is staring at the tarpaulin with the apprehensive expression of somebody attending a waxwork exhibition without a catalogue. Stride gets out his handkerchief; the smell of spoiled meat and stagnant water is overwhelming, though he notices that Robertson seems to be impervious to it.
“Found floating in the Regent’s Canal, under the cross-path bridge to Chalk Farm, sir,” the sergeant says shortly. “One of the park keepers spotted it in the early hours of the morning. Poled it out with the help of a passing bargee.”
Stride frowns. “In a canal? How come it wasn’t discovered sooner?”
The sergeant grimaces. “It seems the body had been weighted down to stop it from surfacing. Only the weights weren’t secured firmly enough and fell off, or maybe were struck off by a passing barge and the body came to the surface. We had read the notice you sent round about a stolen body, and as it seemed to fit the description, we decided to bring it here.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps you would like to view the actual body itself, detective inspector? I am sure you must be intrigued to see the corpse of a man who was spirited away in the night by persons unknown,” Robertson says innocently, his hand poised over the tarpaulin, his eyes alight with mischief.
“If it is the same man,” Stride demurs from behind his handkerchief. He does not move.
“Most assuredly it is. Your constable who originally discovered the body in situ has kindly identified it for me. So here we are. One corpse, delivered, stolen, disposed of in a canal, and now returned to us. The question one must ask is cui bono? ~ eh, detective inspector?”
Must one? Stride thinks grimly. The question foremost in his mind is whether he can leave before vomiting all over the floor.
“And I do not mean the common mistranslation
and misconstruction of the Latin phrase as in ‘to what good’,” Robertson continues happily, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. “No, indeed not. We have to go back to the original interpretation: cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit? That is, of course, beyond my remit as a humble surgeon though, so I shall leave it to your good self. Are you feeling quite alright, detective inspector, you look sightly green about the gills?” he remarks, noticing Stride’s discomfort for the first time. “I must say, I have never understood how you solve murders if you can’t stand the sight of dead people.”
“I arrest live people,” Stride mutters.
“I see. Well, perhaps that is something to be proud of. You will have my report on your desk as soon as I have performed my examination. Given the state of the body, I do not expect I shall be long. Good day to you, detective inspector.”
He waves a dismissive hand and Stride departs with as much alacrity as he can muster. Once back outside in the fresh air, he feels his gorge heave. Stars dance in front of his eyes. Stride leans against a wall, breathing heavily while the world spins around him, which is where he is discovered a couple of minutes later by Jack Cully, who has stepped out to get a breath of air.
“Are you unwell? Shall I fetch some water?” he asks anxiously.
Stride raises his head. “No. I’ll survive. It’s just ~ that body, the smell ~ I don’t know how Robertson can stand it. I couldn’t do a job like that. Not in a million years.”
Stride grimaces. He has never been good with dead bodies ~ beyond the point where he discovers them dead. His skill lies in working out the journey that they made to arrive at their final destination and then discovering who else was involved, and placing them in a police cell to await punishment. The two detectives return to the main building to await the police surgeon’s findings. Nothing more is said, but both are inwardly hoping that the report, when it arrives on Stride’s desk, will move the inquiry forward for, right now, there is so very little movement happening that it is almost static.
