[The Victorian Detectives 09] - Desire & Deceit

by Carol Hedges

  The two performers drink their coffee and eat the thick slices of buttered bread supplied by the elderly woman and her husband manning the stall, before creeping quietly through the front door of the lodging-house and climbing the dark stairs that smell of all the cabbage and all the mutton and all the beef ever consumed within its walls, until eventually they reach the attic room and fall into their beds.

  ****

  It is Thursday night. Songs have been sung, aerial ballets performed. The chairman has pounded his gavel on the wooden table and rung his bell for the final time. The music hall lights have been extinguished, the costumes hung up, stage makeup removed. Mickey Mokey and Little Azella set out on the familiar journey. Their contract is coming to an end, like the long hot summer. In a short while, the music hall will briefly close its doors while the sets and flats and costumes are got ready for the upcoming Christmas season. The two performers will have to find another venue.

  They discuss the possibilities as they walk.

  “I fink we should look outside London again,” Little Azella says. “I was talking to one of the dancing girls ~ she says Liverpool is a fine place. Lots of halls and the lodgings is much cheaper.” She shoots a sideways glance at her companion. “Oi, you listenin’ to me?”

  Mickey Mokey nods. “I’m listening.”

  “No, you ain’t,” Little Azella says, reaching up to nudge him in the ribs. “And I know why. When are you going to give it a rest?”

  “When it is over,” Mickey Mokey responds. “When I see him leaving the hotel with his luggage in his hand and his tail between his legs. When I know that he has failed to get what he came for. Then it will be over.”

  “But you may never know,” Little Azella says craftily. “What then?”

  Mickey Mokey shakes his head. “I shall know, Little Azella. Either I shall see it for myself, or I will find out some way or another ~ maybe I shall sense it, I don’t know. But I can’t be easy in my mind until it is done.”

  Little Azella pulls a face in the darkness. “Well, all wot I can say is it’d better be done soon. We only got a few more weeks, and then we’re out of the theatre and out of a job.”

  Mickey Mokey turns to face her. “We will be alright, Little Azella. Haven’t we always got work? Don’t worry yourself. Trust in the stars.”

  Little Azella slips her hand into his and gives it a squeeze. “You and your bloomin’ stars!” she scoffs.

  They are just about to turn into the road leading to Mrs Brimmer’s lodging-house when suddenly, a figure rushes at them out of the darkness. Mickey Mokey automatically steps in front of Little Azella, raising his fists in a defensive gesture. But the man is not interested in them nor in their meagre possessions. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of their presence. He stares straight ahead and utters a low cry of anguish as he rushes by them.

  Mickey Mokey stares into his face as he passes, and the expression in the man’s eyes and the pallor of his complexion makes his blood run cold. He looks like a tenant with a short lease on life. It is like meeting something gruesome in a graveyard.

  “Who the ’ell was that?” Little Azella asks, as they continue on their way.

  “Dunno. But I wouldn’t like to be thinking whatever he’s thinking,” Mickey Mokey says, shaking his head. The desperation in the man’s face made him glad that his own life, however precarious, had not sunk to such depths.

  All the way back to the lodging-house, the encounter plays in his mind on an ever-repeating loop. It is as if a man knocks your elbow in a crowded street and you catch only a glimpse of his face, but the memory of it stays with you like a bruise. There is always someone worse off than you, he reflects. Maybe tonight, he had seen that person.

  Meanwhile, the Replacement (for it is he) slows to a walking pace. He is huddled into his coat. It is a light night, the gas-flares muttering in a breeze from the river. Since he has read the incriminating letters hidden away in Langland’s secret safe, and since he has received the confirmatory communication from Constable Williams, he has taken to walking the streets at night, falling insensibly into the habit. He would rather do without sleep than wake screaming as he falls into some pit, his head gnawing at itself. He no longer trusts his night-time self. So he walks and walks, the city seeming to echo his fear.

  Sometimes, he is sure he is being followed. He dives into dark alleyways, ears strained for footsteps, eyes searching for some dark figure. He listens. He hears the silence listening back. The nights are short and full of sounds. Occasionally, he walks while asleep on his feet ~ the only reason he can imagine for ending up in some strange location, where small houseless children, ghosted with moonlight, crouch round a broken sewer pipe, black with slime. He is an outcast, just like them. They stare at him, their eyes feral.

  On other nights, he passes construction sites surrounded by wooden hoardings covered with posters. He drifts past dark doorways, sensing within them the presence of people like him, who did not intend to show their faces, but shied away from the light, retreating deeper into their world of shadows. He pulls his hat low over his brow, fearful of being recognised or worse still, pitied.

  He goes down endless successions of sombre and deserted streets, sometimes crossing bridges with the murky river flowing sullenly underneath. He traverses wildernesses of bricks and mortar, occasionally hearing the heavy regular footfall of a policeman on night duty.

  He walks through parks, trees overlapping the sky. He hears singing, the shouts of belated parties of revellers; sometimes he catches glimpses of passing faces caught by the light of a streetlamp or a shop window. He keeps his head down, passing from shadow to light and back into shadow again. His life has fallen away into itself. He thinks of his dear dead friend, of their shared conversations, their hopes and dreams. And always, he sees the smile fading in the shadow of his friend’s face as the silence rises and rises behind him.

  ****

  The Saturday of Mr Francis Brooke’s birthday arrives finally, fine and clear, and while the celebrant is at work, preparations for the momentous tea-party are in hand. Rosalind Whitely has ordered food for the event to be supplied by a local baker and confectioner, for she is far too nervous to trust herself to be in charge of a breadknife.

  The cake, a marvel of pink and white icing has been delivered the day before, and now sits on a larder shelf. His stepdaughter, under instruction from Lucy, has persuaded Brooke that a small celebration is all that she feels appropriate, given the recent demise of his wife, her mother. Faced with her request, Brooke has been forced to agree, though he has told her that he may well only be able to attend for a brief time as ‘work commitments’ will probably draw him from the house soon after.

  By two o’clock, the scene is set. A table is laid in the garden and covered with the best cream lace tablecloth. The chairs and places are all ready. Crustless sandwiches, little cakes, tarts and gingerbread biscuits are plated up, and waiting under clean muslin cloths to keep off the insect population. Rosalind, in a dress of white muslin and a straw bonnet comes out of the small conservatory and casts a critical eye over the preparations. She is satisfied. All that remains is for the principal guest to appear.

  At half-past two, the time he usually gets back from his Saturday half-day, Brooke strides up the path and turns the key in the front door, to be greeted by his stepdaughter, who suggests they adjourn to the garden, where tea is ready and waiting. Brooke discards his hat and summer jacket and follows her into the small sunlight garden.

  “What is all this?” he says, gesturing at the table. “I thought you told me a small celebration was appropriate. Are we now expecting company?”

  “Please sit down, stepfather,” Rosalind says calmly. “All will be revealed shortly. Now, while we wait for the guests to arrive, pray tell me about your morning’s work? I hope it was not too hot in your office.”

  Brooke frowns. “What are you going on about, Rosalind? I repeat ~ why are there all these places set?”

  As if in r
eply, the conservatory door opens and Miss Amelia Ferry steps cautiously down into the garden. At the sight of her, Brooke rises, a look of alarm on his face.

  “Amelia? What on earth are you doing here?”

  Miss Ferry walks across the lawn, leaning heavily upon her stick. “It is your birthday, Francis. I am here to celebrate it with your stepdaughter. The one you never told me about.”

  She lowers herself into a wicker chair and stares up at him. “Just as you never told me about your wife, her mother. Who only died recently. Far too recently for any respectable gentleman to think of entering into a new relationship, let alone make promises to another woman, as you have done to me.”

  “What the devil is this?” Brooke exclaims, glaring furiously at Rosalind. “What damned lies have you been spreading about me?”

  “Nothing but the truth, Mr Brooke,” comes a clear voice from behind him.

  Brooke whirls round as Lucy Landseer enters the garden. She nods a greeting to the two women.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demands.

  “This is Miss Lucy Landseer,” Rosalind says sharply. “She is a private consulting detective, hired by me when I became suspicious of your conduct after my mother died. She has worked tirelessly on my behalf and is here as a guest in my house. I should appreciate it if you would lower your voice and treat her with respect.”

  Mentally applauding her client, Lucy pulls out another white basket chair and sits down.

  Brooke’s face is now the colour of the crimson peonies growing by the wall. “A detective? What the …? Your house? What do you mean your house? It is MY house ~ and don’t you forget it, young lady. I inherited this house when your mother passed away.”

  “Ah,” Lucy interrupts, raising a cautionary finger. “There is some problem about that. You see, Mr Brooke, it appears that you might have been ~ how shall I put it, a little careless in respect to some previous marriages. For instance, here I have the photograph of one of your former wives ~ the one before you married Miss Whitely’s mother. I am sure you recognise her?”

  Brooke snatches up the photograph, glances at it, then tosses it aside. “So what? She died many years ago, leaving me free to marry again.”

  “But you are not free, Francis, are you?”

  And exactly on cue, Mrs Leonora Brooke, in full feathers, frills and war-paint comes out of the house and strides into the garden. “Yes, well may you look afraid! You thought you’d seen the last of me after you deserted me and ran off with our savings. But here I am, thanks to Miss Landseer, who tracked me down. So, whatever your little games are, I am come to put an end to them, once and for all.”

  “Bigamy is a criminal offence, Mr Brooke,” Lucy takes up the narrative. “It comes under the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861 and carries a sentence of seven years penal servitude.” (Oh, the usefulness of a Cambridge professor with access to law lecturers!)

  Francis Brooke stares from one female face to another but finds no hint of sympathy in any of them. Eventually, he turns back to face Leonora Brooke. “You can’t prove any of this! It’s your word against mine!”

  “Well, here is our marriage certificate to show we are still man and wife in the eyes of the law,” Leonora Brooke says, fishing a document out of her reticule and waving it in his direction. “I am happy to show it to any judge in any court in the land. Now what do you have to say?”

  “We are not interested in what he has to say,” Rosalind breaks in. “Please pack what you need overnight, Mr Brooke, and then leave this house ~ my house, at once. The maid will relieve you of the front door key on your way out. I never want to see you here in the future. I am prepared to send the rest of your things on when you have a forwarding address. But that is all. Go now. And do not darken my door again!”

  Brooke bares his teeth in a grimace. “You will regret this, Rosalind. By God, you will regret it! As for the rest of you … you … bunch of …” words fail him. Brooke gives them all a venomous glare, then marches back into the house.

  “Well done, ladies,” Lucy says quietly, as the conservatory door bangs shut after him. “You have seen off a craven liar and a cheating rogue.”

  “It does seem a shame that he will be at liberty to repeat his behaviour, though,” Rosalind remarks. “I wonder how many other poor women will be caught in his snares?”

  “He won’t be going far, don’t you worry,” Leonora Brooke says grimly. “I took the liberty of arriving with a couple of local constables. They are waiting in the street to apprehend him as soon as he leaves the house. I have laid charges with a magistrate, and I will see him in court, you see if I don’t! He abandoned me, he robbed me, and he has made me suffer. Now I will turn the tables on him. Seven years, I think you said, Miss Landseer?”

  “Well done, Mrs Brooke!” Lucy claps her hands. “Nicely played. I congratulate you. And you too, Miss Ferry ~ you have played your part to perfection as well; thank you both for coming here today.”

  “Oh, my heart, my heart ~ it beats so fast,” Miss Ferry gasps, laying a trembling hand to her bosom.

  “Then let me give you a refreshing cup of tea at once,” Rosalind says, picking up the silver teapot. She fills four cups. Adds cream and sugar, and hands them round. “But before we tuck into this lovely spread, I wish to propose a toast. Ladies ~ I invite you to raise your teacups and join me in saluting Miss Lucy Landseer ~ the best private consulting detective in London!”

  Blushing, Lucy bows her head modestly as the three women toast her success in best Indian tea. Then, cloths are removed, plates are passed round, and the celebratory feasting begins.

  ****

  A Sunday morning. The Replacement has grown to hate Sundays. The city closes around him: shops, businesses, everything is shut and quiet. The streets are depopulated. London is like some ruined city, or a city under curfew ~ as if an old plague has risen from its earthy bed and come back to stalk mankind.

  Time is measured in church bells. In women hurrying from cookhouses with covered basins. He eats his own meagre luncheon, purchased the night before and pores over his diary, in which he has written down various imaginary scenarios, all leading ultimately to the death of his employer, Thomas Langland MP. Most of them are composed in the white-hot fury of desperation in the small hours of the morning. In the cold light of day, none of them look viable.

  The Replacement sits in his room, watching the light fade, searching for a way forward. His mind turns over possibilities and alternatives, sifting them like a panhandler, waiting for that one sudden glint of gold. He hears the rattle of a lone cab going by. Horses’ hooves strike the cobbles. He listens intently, until the sound fades to nothing. He waits until the nothing is less than nothing. His face doesn’t change, but something shifts inside him. He takes his coat and hat, places a couple of items from the table into his pockets. The Replacement crosses the room. Then he reaches for the handle of his door and goes out, closing the door behind him.

  ****

  The August night is warm ~ not as warm as heretofore, but still warm enough for the upstairs window of Thomas Langland’s first floor bedroom to be open. He lies on his bed, at the front of the house, sleeping peacefully. In her room at the back of the house, his wife sleeps. Next door, also at the back, the children and their governess sleep. In the attics overhead, the servants sleep.

  Outside, a pale crescent moon shines down upon the carp pond, the sundial, the apple orchard, the maze, and the black-clad figure crossing the lawn. The figure makes its way round to the side of the house, where the racehorse is stabled. Arriving there, it stops and whistles softly. Inside the loose box, the bay stallion gets to his feet and wickers in response.

  The figure quietly eases back the stable bolts and enters the loose box. A few seconds later, the stallion emerges, and trots off into the distance. The night wears on. Then someone sets up a cry just under Langland’s window: “Fire! Fire! The stable is on fire! Help!” Thomas Langland wakes, grabs his dressing gown, and rushes from the
house in blind panic, heading for the stable where his precious racehorse is housed.

  He reaches the loose box. Smoke is billowing out. The door is open, but fearing the worst, Langland steps over the threshold, peering forward into the dark, smoke-filled stable and calling the horse’s name. Someone steps silently up behind him and gives him a sharp push. Someone throws a lighted torch over his head, which lands on the bales of straw that have been piled up in the centre of the stable floor. Finally, someone closes the stable doors and slides the double bolt across.

  Next day, the damage done in the night is revealed. The fire has destroyed the entire stable block, loose box, and tack room. Luckily, none of the carriage horses, or the children’s riding ponies, which are all housed in a different part of the grounds, have been touched. The racehorse, who is at first assumed to have perished in the flames, is subsequently discovered a short distance away in a field, peacefully cropping the grass. Nobody has a clue how he got out of the blazing inferno that completely destroyed his stable. All that remains of his owner, alas, are some charred and blackened bones, from which it is assumed he perished trying to put out the flames.

  The fire will, of course, be duly investigated by the local constabulary, but no conclusive evidence will ever be discovered as to what exactly occurred on that tragic night. It was known that Mr Langland sometimes liked to walk round the estate after dark, and enjoyed smoking a cigar before retiring, so it is assumed that a spark from a match, carelessly tossed, must have started the blaze that trapped him. The coroner will therefore conclude that the death of Thomas Langland, MP was the result of an extremely unfortunate accident.

  Sadly, the unfortunate accident will result in wider repercussions. Also unfortunate. For some. For without its illustrious figurehead to promote it and give it the validity needed in a competitive business environment, the Boxland Joint Stock Railway Company will eventually hit the buffers, causing the failure of a private City bank, and flinging into ruin the major shareholders who invested all they had, or all they thought they might have, along with it.