[The Victorian Detectives 09] - Desire & Deceit

by Carol Hedges

  Lucy makes a mental note. “It would aid me in my investigation if I might also have a photograph of your stepfather ~ perhaps there is one of him together with your mother that I could borrow?”

  Rosalind Whitely stands. “There is the exact one you require upon my stepfather’s desk in his study. If you care to follow me, Miss Landseer, I can supply you with what you request.”

  Lucy follows the young woman into what was the back parlour but is now clearly a ‘man’s room’ with its smell of hair oil and cigars, shelves of books, a writing desk, and a comfortable armchair by the fireplace. Rosalind goes over to the mantelpiece. Then stops, frowning.

  “Ah, I am sorry, it is no longer here.”

  Lucy indicates the writing desk. “Perhaps your stepfather couldn’t bear to look upon what he has lost ~ may I?”

  Rosalind nods, still frowning.

  Lucy slides open the top drawer. Sure enough, there is a silver framed photograph placed face down. She extracts it, confirms that it is of the happy couple, and places it in her bag. Then, standing by the desk, she begins to casually play with the Cairngorm paperweight that is holding down a stack of documents.

  “What occupation does your stepfather follow?” she inquires.

  “I believe he works in an office somewhere in the West End, but do not ask me further, Miss Landseer. He always told my mother and I that the world of work was the man’s domain, the home and hearth the woman’s.”

  Did he indeed, Lucy thinks, drily.

  Their conversation is suddenly interrupted by the maid, who informs Miss Whitely that the grocer’s boy is at the door waiting for the order.

  “Oh. I had forgotten that this is his day to call round. I must leave you for a short time, Miss Landseer,” Rosalind says. “My stepfather is very particular about his meals. I shall return as quickly as I can.”

  “Please do not hurry back on my account,” Lucy smiles seraphically. “I shall be quite content to study the room and make notes.”

  As soon as her client has left, Lucy picks up the top folder. She opens it to reveal a sheaf of documents. The top one appears to be a death certificate, signed and dated by a Doctor P. Q. Farris. She grabs her notebook and starts scribbling frantically. Hearing footsteps return, she hastily replaces the document in the folder and sets it under the paperweight once more.

  “I am so sorry to leave you on your own, Miss Landseer,” Rosalind Whitely says, entering the room.

  Lucy demurs. Promising to return the photograph in due course, she takes her leave. Her visit has given her much to think about. Her client was quite right to seek her out, she thinks, as the omnibus jolts and rattles her back through the late afternoon traffic. Everything seems to be in perfect order, which must mean that there is something suspicious going on. Hopefully, she will soon be able to set her client’s troubled mind at rest.

  Back in her consulting room, Lucy takes the silver-framed photograph from her satchel and slides the cardboard retainer out of the back. To her surprise, she finds another photograph underneath. This one also depicts Mr Brooke, who is a good-looking man with luxurious side-whiskers and a moustache. He wears a black morning coat with top hat, and stands next to a plain-faced, stout, middle-aged woman, clad in a light dress and a pale bonnet with a lot of feathers. They are posing at the lych-gate of a church. On the back, someone has written: Hitchin 1864. She removes both photographs, placing them side by side on her desk.

  Lucy reminds herself that, tempting though it may be, good detection work should never be based upon groundless speculation. She needs tangible proof that what she is looking at is what she suspects it is. She takes her copy of Bradshaw from the bookcase and consults it. There are regular trains leaving from London to Hitchin. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, she will be on one of them.

  ****

  Next morning, Detective Inspector Stride is reading the report from the police surgeon. Not out loud, but with a sufficient accompaniment of grunts and sotto voce muttering. The day is off to a slow start, scorching hot again. The window to Stride’s office has been propped open with a ruler, but only seems to be admitting stale thrice-breathed air from the street below. A small drooping plant on the windowsill has considered its options and given up.

  Stride reaches the last page of Robertson’s analysis, slaps the report closed and looks across the desk at Jack Cully, who has been waiting patiently for him to reach the end.

  “Translate it for me, Jack,” Stride sighs.

  “I think what Robertson is saying is that he is unable to make an accurate diagnosis due to the condition of the body, but while examining it, he has observed that the right eye is normal, whereas the left eye is fully dilated, which indicates the man suffered a blow to the head at some time. He therefore thinks, in the absence of any other indications, that this was the most likely cause of his death.”

  “See!” Stride exclaims. “Now I understand perfectly. So why can’t he just say that, instead of presenting me with three pages of tetanic spasms, states of aggregation and some story about a Dr W. Ogle and his letter to the Times in August 1865, not to mention Xenophon and his retreating army who apparently suffered from eating honey collected from the Azalea plant. What is all that about? And how is it possibly relevant?”

  “He does like to provide supporting evidence.”

  Stride huffs. “He enjoys showing off his knowledge is more like it.”

  “But his findings do confirm that the man was murdered, and with the theft of his body from the morgue, and then the attempted disposal in the canal, we have an unusual investigation, do we not?” Cully says. “How many bodies have been removed from Scotland Yard in our lifetime?”

  Stride concurs. “Who is this man, Jack? What was so important about him? Why was he lured to some out of the way location? What did he do to deserve such a death?”

  “I will put out an update on our last police appeal,” Cully says. “It is no longer a case of ‘Information is sought’. Now we have a confirmed murder on our hands. I think we should let some of the newspapers run the story as well. Maybe with an image of the man. It is imperative that somebody comes forward to tell us what they know.

  “Meanwhile, I am going to visit Gold’s Finest Cigar and Tobacco Emporium in the Strand. They stock these cigars, so I gather. I have had a letter from my own tobacconist, who promised to make some inquiries for me. I shall take young Constable Williams along with me and let him try his hand at questioning the proprietor. I think he has the potential to join the detective division, in time and with a steer in the right direction. As you are always saying, we need to bring on the youngsters.”

  Stride rolls his eyes and indicates that whatever the putative or future skills of the young constable, Cully is wasting his time running after a hare that does not exist. Or rather, the smoker of a cigar.

  Cully goes to collect the young constable from the day room, where he is playing shove-halfpenny on a battered wooden board and together, they set off. The shop they seek is tucked back between Short & Co. Wine Merchants, and the Strand Restaurant. Outside the door, a street advertiser, know colloquially as an ‘animated sandwich’ is alerting the passing public to the merits of Phillips Teas: The Best and Cheapest while being pestered by three bare-legged street Arabs who are capering around him and shouting, ‘Oi mister, where’s the mustard?’

  Cully waves them aside. The two men go in, inhaling the rich smell of tobacco. The small shop is furnished with drums of snuff, carefully labelled, and long coils of tobacco, curled in three-foot lengths like black sausages, waiting to be sawn off and sold. There are boxes of cigars, snuff boxes galore, cigarettes, racks of pipes of all sizes and makes, leather pouches and matches. It is a sniffer and smoker’s paradise.

  The shop bell is answered by a small middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a droopy walrus moustache, stained with tobacco juice. He wears a dark suit that was made for somebody slightly bigger. His eyes bulge slightly when he sees that one of his potential c
ustomers is a uniformed constable.

  “Oooh. Wasn’t me officer,” he squeaks, opening his eyes wide in faked innocence, “I didn’t do it. Sweartogod.”

  Cully sighs. What is it about the mindset of some members of the general public that means they cannot resist having ‘just a little joke’ every time they encounter a police officer? Constable Williams turns to him for guidance.

  “Mr Gold, is it?” Cully says, smoothly. “I am sure you are not guilty, sir. Of whatever it was you didn’t do. However, we are not here about that. We are from Scotland Yard’s detective division, making some inquiries in the area. We’d very much appreciate it if you could confirm whether you supply a certain brand of cigar.” Cully places the gold cigar band onto the counter. “This brand of cigar, if you’d be so kind.”

  The shop owner stares at the band. Then he glances from one man to the other. Finally, he addresses himself to Constable Williams. “Detectors, are you? Never met any detectors before. On a case, then?”

  Constable Williams nods.

  “Is it serious? How serious? Murder? Would it be murder?”

  Constable Williams is just about to reply when Cully intervenes. This is the primal error of first-time investigators, he thinks wearily, a tendency to answer questions rather than ask them.

  “The cigars, sir?” he prompts.

  The tobacconist picks up the cigar band and studies it. “Yes, I stock these. Just a few boxes, mind. You’re talking about a very nice but very expensive smoke, gents. These cigars are hand rolled by experts using only the finest picked leaves. Each one is a little masterpiece. Not for the everyday smoker. Oh no, not for them, indeed.”

  “Can you give us a list of customers who purchase them?” Cully asks, getting out his notebook.

  “Ah. Well. Now. That’s a question, isn’t it?” the tobacconist says. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly tell you that, gents. Secrets of the smokers’ confessional, as it were. I can tell you that they are enjoyed by the sort of gentlemen who send their servants to buy them. Which in itself says something, doesn’t it? I don’t think people of that class would be involved in anything criminal, would they? And it’s more than my job’s worth to give you their names.”

  Cully pulls a face. It is clear this line of inquiry is not going to produce any fruit. “Many thanks, Mr Gold. You have been most helpful,” he lies. “Come constable, we shall not detain this good man any longer.”

  The look of disappointment upon the tobacconist’s face is almost comical. “That’s it? That’s all? But what about the murder? Aren’t you going to tell me about it?”

  “Murder? I don’t recall saying anything about a murder, sir,” Cully says. “Nor did my officer say anything about murder, as I recall. We are merely inquiring about a brand of cigars. I would advise you not to let your imagination run away with you. Many a decent individual has found himself in very hot water indeed from having an over-active imagination. Sir.”

  He bestows upon the luckless tobacconist a smile so wooden it could have served as an ironing-board. “And now, having pursued our inquiries, we shall be on our way,” he continues, ushering his youthful companion swiftly out of the street door.

  “Never reveal your intentions, Tom,” he tells the crestfallen young officer. “Nor allow yourself to be diverted. And do not give anybody the slightest hint of what you are investigating, because they will immediately put two and two together and make five. Which will then become six or seven, which will then leak into the public domain like spilt treacle and upset Detective Inspector Stride. In my experience, a rumour can spread faster than the truth, and that can be fatal for the success of an investigation.”

  “Yes, Mr Cully. Sorry, sir.”

  Cully pats him on the back. “Cheer up, young Tom. You have a long road ahead of you, but you are making good progress. I see a food stall up ahead. How about something to eat and drink before we go back to the Yard? My treat. Would a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee suit?”

  Constable Williams indicates that it would suit very well. So Cully steers his newest recruit in the direction of some street sustenance. In his experience, young constables have a voracious appetite. Besides, they have some serious thinking to do on their return to Scotland Yard, which is always better done on a full stomach.

  ****

  Miss Lucy Landseer, on the other hand, is a long way from eating and drinking, having consumed a very early breakfast before making her way to Kings Cross station to catch a train to the small market town of Hitchin. Now, as the train pulls into the station, she is also a long way from London. Lucy alights, asks for directions from one of the porters, then sets off towards the town centre.

  She is on a quest to find the church whose lych-gate features on the photograph she discovered secreted underneath that of her client’s stepfather and mother. In the end, it is an even easier quest than she’d thought: the first person she shows the photograph to, directs her straight there. Lucy, a child of the manse herself, knows the form: the vicarage will be the nearest house, slightly shabby, probably in need of a lick of paint and with a straggling unkempt garden, situated in close proximity to an immaculately kept graveyard. The church, in her experience, reveres the dead far more than the living.

  Sure enough, it is exactly as she pictured it. Lucy scuffs up the dusty vicarage path and knocks on the paint-peeling door, which is opened by a very young girl in a grubby pinafore trailing a skipping rope. She eyes her curiously. Lucy identifies her provenance, so bends down and asks gently if Papa is at home and if so, might she speak with him about a family matter of some urgency?

  The request (well, it is a family matter ~ just not her family) succeeds, and a few minutes later, she is sitting in the kindly-faced vicar’s study, a high-ceiling book-lined room, cold even though there is a heatwave outside, explaining earnestly and not entirely truthfully that she has come to find her aunt, her only living relative, whom she believes might dwell hereabouts because, look, she has a picture of her and it shows the gate of the church, does it not?

  The vicar studies the photograph carefully, while Lucy smiles and mentally crosses her fingers. Then he nods. “Yes, indeed, I recall marrying this couple. Beatrice Shipper and Francis Brooke. She was the owner of the confectioner’s shop in the high street ~ you probably passed it on your way here. Her sponge cakes and gingerbread were known throughout the town for their excellence.”

  “Was?” Lucy queries.

  “I’m afraid she died a year or so after the marriage. Heart failure, I seem to remember. Such a loss to the town. The shop is rented out to a new baker, but it isn’t the same. Not at all. I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Have you come far?”

  “Yes,” Lucy tells him, deciding that geographically, London probably fits into the ‘far’ category. “Oh, I didn’t know Aunt Beatrice had died. Nobody wrote to me. Oh, how very sad.” She wrings her hands in a tragic manner. “I wonder, would it be too much to view the parish records of her marriage. At least I could see her signature, and that would be something to take away with me,” she asks.

  Lucy sighs deeply, clasping her hands in her lap and casting her eyes down to the wooden boards of the floor. It has been said of Lucy Landseer by those who knew her, that the stage lost a potentially shining star when she decided to enter the literary profession.

  Who could resist such a plea? Certainly not a man of the cloth, for whom kindness and charity are part of the genetic makeup. Lucy is escorted across to the church. A big leather-bound ledger is brought from the back and placed on the wooden eagle lectern, and after a short interval of page turning, the book is folded back at the relevant page. She scans the details, although it is only the man, not the woman who interests her. She reads:

  Name and Surname: Francis Brooke, Age: 42, Condition: Widower, Rank or Profession: Businessman, Residence at the time of Marriage: 51 Borough High Street, London.

  Lucy feels an electric shock go through her. ‘Widower’? What is this? She had guessed from t
he second photograph, that Rosalind’s stepfather had been married before he met and married Rosalind’s mother. But twice? This is not what she is expecting at all. Carefully keeping her face neutral, she thanks the vicar, agrees she would like to see her aunt’s final resting place, and follows him out to the quiet churchyard, where, after spending a suitable amount of time in thoughtful contemplation of the very plain headstone, she announces that she must return to London.

  “I am so sorry your journey has been in vain, Miss Landseer,” the vicar says. “I have been racking my brains for something that might make it worthwhile. I wonder, now, if you have the time, you might pay a call upon Miss Clarissa Cameron ~ she and your aunt were neighbours and good friends, I believe. She only lives a step from the church, and I am sure she’d welcome you, and possibly be able to tell you a little more about your aunt’s life. Shall I write a short note of introduction?”

  Lucy’s eyes sparkle and she quickly agrees. The note is speedily composed and handed over, and soon, Lucy stands outside a black painted door with a shiny lion’s head knocker. Pink and white striped old English roses twine round the windows, gently scenting the air with their sweet perfume, and a blackbird fusses in the beech hedge that surrounds the house.

  The door opens. The note is handed to the servant-girl, who bears it into the house, returning in a few seconds to say that her mistress is at home and can receive her. Lucy steps into a white-painted parlour with black wooden ceiling beams. She notes the good, dark oak furniture, blue and white jugs on the mantelpiece and bright polished brass fire irons. This is the home of a comfortably well-off country gentlewoman.

  The mistress of the house, dressed in an old-fashioned sprigged muslin dress, her grey hair tucked neatly into a frilled day cap, rises from the chair where she is engaged in some complicated crochet work, and greets her unexpected visitor politely. Lucy is placed in the opposite chair and invited to explain her visit. Which she does. When she has finished explaining, Mrs Cameron nods thoughtfully at her a couple of times.