[The Victorian Detectives 09] - Desire & Deceit

by Carol Hedges

  “Six months ago,” Rosalind says.

  “But … Mr Brooke wears no mourning band. He has never mentioned a stepdaughter. And I am sure he told me that his wife died several years ago. I do not understand.”

  “Different wife,” Lucy says. “He probably meant this one,” and she hands over the photograph taken by the church lych-gate. “This lady was Mr Brooke’s second wife. My client’s mother was his third wife.”

  “Your ‘client’?” the invalid queries.

  “I am a consulting private detective, Miss Ferry,” Lucy says. “Miss Whitely, whom you see here before you, engaged me to discover whether her mother died in suspicious circumstances.”

  The invalid’s face flushes. “I am sure nothing of that sort could ever be suspected of Fran ~ Mr Brooke! You must be mistaken, young woman. I may not have known him for long, but I am a very good judge of character, and I am quite sure he is an honourable man.”

  “Is he?” Lucy says, her eyes widening. “I wonder whether his first wife, who is still alive by the way, and who has shown me her marriage certificate to prove her marital status, would agree with that?”

  The invalid’s mouth quivers. “I … I … what are you telling me?”

  “That I believe, Miss Ferry, you have been the innocent and hapless victim of a ruthless and callous seducer,” Lucy says, (the words come straight out of her novel). “My investigation of Mr Brooke has revealed a similar pattern of behaviour: he befriends a woman who is in a position like yourself: single, with no immediate family, but in possession of independent means or property. If she is in poor health, so much the better. He marries her, and then, upon her death, he takes control of everything she owns. So far, he has enriched himself at the expense of three women. We, his step-daughter and I, are here to make sure he doesn’t do the same to you.”

  “Indeed, Miss Landseer only speaks the truth. Mr Brooke now owns my family home, the house where I was born and grew up. The house I have lived in all my life, where my dear Mama passed away. And he is going to sell it and turn me out into the street,” Rosalind says.

  Lucy gives her an approving nod. So far, so sticking to the script.

  “Except, of course, that he doesn’t, and he can’t,” she adds. “Because he was never properly married to Miss Whitely’s mother in the first place. I believe that Mr Brooke is planning to repeat his crime ~ for bigamy is a crime, Miss Ferry, make no mistake. If he intends to marry you, he does so in the full knowledge that he has a wife still living. That is why we have come to call upon you. We wish to save you from the clutches of this vile man and put an end to his unscrupulous behaviour towards innocent women, once and for all.”

  The invalid’s face is now chalk white. Her hands clutch compulsively at her book. The little dog goes to sit at her feet, looking up into her face. It gives a small, anxious whine. Immediately, Lucy darts over to the small desk and pours some water from a carafe.

  “Drink this, dear Miss Ferry. Regain your composure. Then let us tell you of our plan.”

  The invalid takes a sip of water. “I am recovered. I am listening.”

  “It is my step-father’s birthday this Saturday,” Rosalind says. “Although I expect you know this.”

  Amelia Ferry sighs. “I do indeed. He has told me, and I was intending to go into the West End after your visit to purchase a present.”

  “I would not bother, if I were you. Miss Ferry,” Lucy says drily. “But you might like to come to the tea-party my client is arranging. It will be in the garden of her house, and I believe it will be a memorable occasion. One that will linger long in the mind of the birthday celebrant. Yes, indeed. Please say you will attend?”

  The invalid looks despairingly from Lucy to Rosalind. “I hope you understand that I am finding all this very hard to believe, ladies. You enter my house, complete strangers, unknown to me, and tell me such dreadful stories! How do I know you are telling me the truth? It sounds so unlikely that Mr Brooke ~ the kind gentleman I have grown so fond of, could be guilty of all the terrible events you describe.”

  “Come to tea on Saturday,” Lucy replies firmly. “For we hope to invite another guest also. One whose presence Mr Brooke will find it very hard to explain away. She will bring the proof that will convince you that every word we’ve uttered is the truth ~ the whole truth and absolutely the truth. Will you come?”

  A short while later, having secured Amelia Ferry’s agreement to attend the birthday tea, together with her promise not to communicate with Mr Brooke in any way until the day itself, Lucy and Rosalind take their leave.

  “I hope she is a woman of her word,” Rosalind Whitely says, as they head for the omnibus stop.

  “I am sure she is,” Lucy nods. “She will come, if for no other reason than to prove us wrong and exonerate him in her eyes. And now, I must write post-haste to the first Mrs Brooke and invite her to attend the party also.”

  “If she is the ‘first’ one,” Rosalind says darkly. “Perhaps there are others we do not yet know about? Have you thought of that?”

  Lucy has indeed thought about it. “Possibly there are, yes. But let us not be greedy, Miss Whitely,” she says. “We have enough wives for our purpose.”

  ****

  While Miss Lucy Landseer and Miss Rosalind Whitely are on their mission of enlightenment, the Honourable Thomas Langland, MP is heading towards his office, prior to catching the early train back to the family mansion in the countryside. He has had a busy and productive day. A small syndicate has been set up and the money negotiated to purchase the mare he has set his heart upon.

  He has visited his tailor and shirtmaker, spending the tail-end of the afternoon at his Club. Parliament is going into recess, finally, and he intends to spend the end of the summer at his country house with his horses. And occasionally his wife and children. Langland enters the building, mutters a cursory greeting to the colourless clerk who is scratching away at his desk, before entering his office, where a fresh pile of reports awaits his attention.

  Uttering a sigh, he picks up the top one, his mouth curling in disdain as he sees it is a memorandum from the Committee for Providing Small Orphan Children with Useful Employment. He pats down his pockets to locate his cigar case, but upon opening it, finds it empty. Damn. He remembers giving his last cigar away to that rogue Boxworth. He goes to the door and summons the Replacement.

  “Look … umm … just cut along to my tobacconist in the Strand and pick me up a box of my usual cigars,” he says. “Tell him who it’s for. And make it snappy, would you. Lot of paperwork to get through before I pack up here, and I don’t want to miss my train.”

  The Replacement nods, without making any eye contact. He claps his hat onto his head and hurries out into the street. Reaching the shop, he enters and requests a box of Langland’s usual cigars. To his surprise, however, the shopkeeper takes a step back and stares at him suspiciously, folding his arms as he does so.

  “Now, wait a bit. Wait a bit, young sir. You ain’t the MP, nor you ain’t t’other young gent what comes in when he don’t, now are you?”

  The Replacement agrees that this is indeed the case.

  “I ask coz the cigars in question are the most expensive and exclusive in the shop, and I can’t just go handing them out to any Tom Dick or Harry who comes in SAYING they want them for their master, can I? After all, how do I know you are the genuine article?”

  The Replacement applies his mind to the problem. After a few minutes’ cogitation, he reaches into his pocket and hands a folded letter to the shopkeeper. “This is from Mr Langland, requesting a report from the Treasury to be supplied to him. I dealt with it this morning. You can see the heading on the notepaper, and his signature. I am unlikely to have this in my possession if I didn’t work in his parliamentary office, don’t you think?”

  The shopkeeper studies the letter, glances again at the Replacement, then nods. He reaches up to one of the shelves behind the counter and lifts down a wooden box.

  “Here you
go, young man. Ten Cuaba cigars and you won’t find anything finer in the whole of London.” He pauses, then leans across the counter and beckons the Replacement to come close. “Funny you should come in for them. I had two Scotland Yard detectors in my shop a while back, asking about these very cigars.”

  The Replacement stares. “What did they want to know?” he asks, trying to keep his voice disinterested.

  The shopkeeper leans his elbows on the counter and settles into his story. “Well, between you and me, I think they were investigating a murder. Not that they said so, far from it, but I could tell it was very serious. You work in a shop, you soon get to be a bit of an expert on people. They were hiding their real reason for coming in. Don’t know how the cigars fitted in of course, but then I’m not a detector, just a humble purveyor of fine tobacco and smokes.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the Replacement murmurs, backing speedily out of the shop, the box in his hand. He sets off back to his place of work. Sometimes you become aware of a pattern forming around you, but you can’t quite tell what it is. He recalls that a cigar was mentioned in the description the police officer gave him. At the time, he did not focus on it, being more concerned with the murder of his friend. Now, he takes his retentive and obsessive mind back to the actual words spoken on that occasion, as he hands the box of cigars to Langland, who as usual, barely looks up from his desk.

  The Replacement returns to the outer office, selects a piece of paper, and writes in his neat, clerkish hand:

  Dear Constable Williams

  At our meeting a few days ago, you mentioned, I believe, the presence of a cigar, or part of the same at the site where the murder of my friend took place. I would be grateful if you could tell me some more details. Do you happen, by chance, to know the brand of cigar? I have a particular reason for asking this question, strange as it may seem. I express my gratitude in advance.

  He signs the letter, blots it, and places it in a sealed envelope, which he addresses to Constable Tom Williams at Scotland Yard. The reply from the young constable, when it is eventually delivered, confirms his suspicions, although by the time that happens, Langland will have left London and be safely ensconced on his country estate with his horse and family.

  After reading the letter, the Replacement thinks long and hard about the case being closed. So be it then. It is not in his timid nature to return to Scotland Yard and insist on it being reopened. Besides, he tells himself, he has no actual proof to offer, just a set of coincidences, which Langland would deny. It would be his word against a well-known and popular MP. The detectives would send him away. Then he would be dismissed from his employment and spend the rest of his life hiding in shadows while looking over his shoulder, waiting for the same fate to befall him as befell his friend. So, dispensing justice must now be up to him. He feels his life twisting down to this point, as he turns over various possibilities in his mind, and wonders how to go about it, and what, if anything, he has to lose.

  ****

  The working day ends. Here are Detective Sergeant Jack Cully and Constable Tom Williams leaving Scotland Yard together. There is a reason for this, and it also has to do with closed cases and a sense of justice denied.

  Cully is anxious that he might be losing Constable Tom Williams. After all the time and effort he has put into training and encouraging the young police officer, he fears the young man might be feeling disillusioned with his prospective choice of career. He has, indeed, mentioned that he is not sure he sees a future for himself in the detective division. So, one afternoon a few days previously, Cully had sought him out, and invited him for supper.

  The invitation has been accepted with alacrity, and now master and pupil are threading their way through the stream of home-going clerks, crossing the river and entering a world where cobbles turn to asphalt and setted stone; a world of small but respectable houses with their whited steps, milk cans hung on the area railings and flowering geraniums in pots on windowsills.

  They pass hoardings advertising exotic soaps and curry pastes, they see women with baskets of bread, men hurrying from the docks, or lounging in doorways with their heads bare, smoking clay pipes and watching the world pass them by. Everywhere new yellow brick houses are springing up, new shops opening, new cuttings traversed by planks where new railway lines are being excavated, new sewers being laid. Only the tall sky-stabbing steeples of old churches are left to mark the places where the former great city existed, now swiftly being swept away by its brash replacement.

  “When I first came to London, all this used to be fields and market gardens,” Jack Cully says. “Who knows what it will look like when my daughters are my age? Doubt I’d recognise it.”

  The men turn the corner of Cully’s street, and stop at the small terraced house. There are two little girls sitting on the step, waiting. One has a stick of chalk and is instructing the other into the mysteries of writing her letters. They both spring up, regarding the tall policeman shyly from under their eyelashes.

  “Vi, Primmy, this is Constable Tom Williams. He’s coming to have his supper with us tonight,” Cully says, ushering the young man through the gate and into the house, where their nostrils are assailed with the fragrant smell of baking.

  Emily Cully emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She greets them both, one with a kiss, one with a warm smile. “You are very welcome in our house, Mr Williams,” she smiles. “Jack has often spoken about you. May I take your hat and coat? Now, girls, spit-spot, let’s have those hands washed, then sit up to the table.”

  Over a tasty supper of boiled chicken and green peas, Emily gently teases his back story out of the young officer. She does it with such skill and subtlety that Jack Cully once again wonders why there isn’t a female branch of the detective division. If there ever were one formed, his wife would definitely be chief inspector.

  Cully is genuinely surprised to discover that the young officer comes from a good middle-class family living in Norwich (which explains his excellent written ability). That he wanted to be part of the police force from an early age and, as soon as he was old enough, bade farewell to his birthplace and set off for London to join Scotland Yard. Cully has worked with young Tom for weeks, but he never knew that before this evening.

  Over a luscious gooseberry pie, Emily moves the conversation on, using her experience of being married to Jack Cully to talk about the disappointments and frustrations of her husband’s work. She never mentions what Jack Cully has told her about the young man’s state of mind, nor indicates that she has any purpose other than making polite conversation with a guest.

  “In all the years we’ve been married, Jack has never had a murder that didn’t follow him home at night,” she says. “Sometimes, I wake to find him tossing and turning; sometimes, he takes himself out of the house ~ he calls it ‘walking the case’. Mr Stride does it as well. Jack says the night air helps to clear his mind. Of course, it isn’t easy, the work. I know that more than many. I met my husband while he was investigating the murder of my dearest friend. Many a time I feared that the killer wouldn’t be found, but he was. In the end, he was.”

  The young man never takes his eyes of her face. “And if he hadn’t been found? If your husband hadn’t caught him? What then? How would you have felt?”

  Emily cocks her head to one side. “Why then, sooner or later, he’d have had to face a higher court and a greater judgement than any on this earth. And the punishment would not be for a while, but for all of eternity.”

  She cuts him another generous piece of pie.

  “I am so proud of my Jack. And I am so glad I became his wife. There is no greater profession than his, in my opinion. You are just starting out, but even so, every time you walk through those doors into Scotland Yard, I’m sure you must think of all the good men who have gone before you, faithfully tracking down criminals and making the city a better place for all of us. And I am equally sure some of them are watching you and cheering you on.”

  It is la
te when Jack Cully finally returns home from walking the young constable to the nearest omnibus stop. Emily is still up, finishing smocking the tiny dress. Cully pauses in the doorway, watching her bent head, seeing her nimble fingers plying the needle. Even after all the years of marriage, she still possesses the power to astonish him.

  “That was just right, what you said, Em,” he remarks. “It was exactly what young Tom needed to hear. I think your words have put new heart into him. You did a good thing tonight, and I thank you for it. And I believe so will he, one day.”

  Emily Cully smiles serenely up at him, and folds up her sewing, before gently suggesting that as he has returned, she will now go up to bed, and by the way, the dishes still need washing.

  ****

  Meanwhile, what news of Micky Mokey, music hall artist and his room-mate Little Azella? For them, life in the hectic world of mass entertainment moves at its usual frenetic pace. Several performances every day, with the audiences morphing from families who join in enthusiastically with Micky Mokey’s popular ditties and gasp at the aerial agility of Little Azella, to drunken youths who heckle and mock and make lewd suggestions as Little Azella flies through the air on her silver wires.

  Afterwards, there is the long trudge back to their lodgings, keeping their heads down, saying little, both preoccupied with their own internal thoughts. They have taken to stopping briefly at the same late-night coffee stall, which stays open to serve the night-time crowd of brightly painted backstreet butterflies, who congregate there at the end of their working shift before slinking off to frowsy rooms in squalid alleys to sleep off the night’s business until emerging into the sunshine again.

  Mickey Mokey is customarily the recipient of much attention. His youthful demeanour, and delicate features generate a lot of amusement from the coffee drinkers, who regularly offer to take him round the corner and make a proper man of him. So far, he has managed not to succumb to their raucous blandishments.