Lonsdale leafed through them. ‘So all three were killed with what each surgeon thought – independently – to be some kind of machete-type weapon. Dickerson’s makes four identical murders.’
‘Bradwell asked to examine the other bodies, to compare wounds, but permission was denied by Commissioner Henderson himself, who informed him that all three died of natural causes. Besides, Tait and Haldane have already been buried.’
‘This is nasty,’ said Jack, looking from one to the other in distaste. ‘I thought you’d have had your fill of violent death, and yet here you are, meddling again. Are you insane? It could be dangerous – like it was the last time you tried to show the police how to do their jobs.’
‘He’s right, you know,’ said Lonsdale, after suggesting that Jack might sleep easier if he listened to no more of the conversation; Jack went with alacrity. ‘Burnside thought someone was following me at the Thurloe Square market. Not Voules, but someone slight, dark and bowler-hatted. Four murders and an attempted arson … we aren’t dealing with angels here.’
Hulda was sombre. ‘Peters came to the office to say that while he was glad we were ready to swim in waters that have been forbidden to him, he won’t condone us putting ourselves at risk. He wants us to be extremely careful, and if there’s any hint of danger, we’re to desist immediately.’
‘Why didn’t he say that in the mortuary?’
‘Because he didn’t know then that I was followed as well – by a short, thin man with a moustache and a bowler hat, who sounds remarkably similar to the person Burnside saw trailing you. Peters went on to remark that Maclean is small, slender, moustachioed, and favours bowlers.’
Lonsdale blinked. ‘Maclean and half of London! Peters can’t possibly think that Maclean is following us based on that sort of description.’
‘Well, my account was more detailed than Burnside’s,’ said Hulda. ‘Personally, though, I’m inclined to believe that Maclean has more pressing matters to concern him than a pair of reporters.’
Lonsdale was not sure what to think. ‘Commissioner Henderson is a weakling, who bends with the political wind. He won’t have decided to cover up these murders on his own, so who’s been talking to him?’
‘The Church?’ asked Hulda. ‘Although Peters didn’t think so, and religion seems to have played no major role in the lives of the other three.’
‘On the contrary, Haldane ran a newspaper for Evangelicals, Bowyer was a Catholic who paid for a church in Great Ormond Street, and Dickerson was a committed High Anglican. Ergo, religion was important to all four, although as Bowyer was a Catholic and Haldane a non-conformist, I’m not sure we can blame the Church of England.’
‘Then what about the government?’ asked Hulda.
‘If so, then the person I chased must’ve been a hireling. I didn’t see him clearly, but there was nothing in his demeanour that suggested high political office.’
‘A hireling who could’ve led us to his master,’ said Hulda pointedly.
Lonsdale rubbed his chin. ‘His master won’t be Maclean. I don’t care what Peters or The Echo says – Maclean isn’t some cunning genius who can manipulate high-ranking police officers into overlooking his crimes. If Maclean has been following us, then he’ll have been hired, too.’
‘You may be right. We’ll find out on Monday.’
‘Monday? Why not tomorrow?’
‘Because I’m going to archery practice, and you’re booked to entertain your prickly wife-to-be and her fearsome sister.’
Lonsdale was sorely tempted to point out that Hulda was more fearsome than Emelia could ever be. ‘The Christmas cracker exhibition at the South Kensington Museum.’ He brightened. ‘That’s not far from Selwood Terrace, where Dickerson lived. I wonder …’
‘You’re thinking of leaving them to powder their pretty noses for an hour, while you see what might be learned from the professor’s humble abode,’ mused Hulda. ‘I suppose I could join you there. My targets won’t object.’
‘Then we’ll do it,’ determined Lonsdale. ‘We won’t solve the case by Christmas Eve unless we make some sacrifices.’
‘True,’ said Hulda. ‘I’ll meet you at Selwood Terrace at ten o’clock.’
‘Two o’clock,’ countered Lonsdale. ‘Some of us have to go to church in the morning. The Humbages have taken to worshipping at Christ Church of Lancaster Gate with Jack and me, and my absence would be noted. I don’t want Humbage and Emelia condemning me as a godless heathen, on top of all my other flaws.’
Hulda regarded him oddly. ‘You shouldn’t let them bully you, Alec. They aren’t better than you, no matter what they think.’
Lonsdale was taken aback, not only by the vague compliment – she was not in the habit of dispensing those – but by her use of his first name. It happened so rarely that he was inclined to take note when it did.
‘Perhaps I should stand up to them,’ he acknowledged.
Hulda went to collect her hat. ‘Until two o’clock then. And if you need an excuse to satisfy your ladies, tell them you’re going to collect their Christmas presents. That’ll shut them up.’
FIVE
Although Lonsdale was not especially devout, going to church was something he had always done – his father was a vicar, and Sunday services had been the highlight of the week in the Lonsdale household. Christ Church of Lancaster Gate lay just across Bayswater from Kensington Gardens, so was a convenient place to attend. Its vicar was also noted for his concise sermons, which was another point in its favour. The church was a handsome Gothic affair with a needle spire and was once known as ‘the thousand pound church’, because of the huge sums the wealthy Bayswater congregation put into the collection plate each week.
It was another grey day, but at least it was not raining. Lonsdale and Jack were slightly late because Lonsdale had overslept, while Jack had been unable to find the cufflinks Emelia had given him, which she had asked him to wear that day. As they hurried along, Jack talked about Haldane and Bowyer.
‘Good men,’ he said, ‘although Sir George had a sharp tongue and Haldane never paid for anything if he could help it. They were both devoted to the law, and how it must ensure fairness for all, regardless of social status. They’ll be missed.’
‘What was that?’ said Lonsdale, turning suddenly at a movement that flickered at the corner of his eye. He thought he saw a small figure dart away, but when he looked harder, he only saw the portly silhouette of Voules.
‘Him!’ said Jack, wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘Still, at least there’s no Sunday edition of The Echo, so we don’t have to worry about the servants sending it up while we’re entertaining the Humbages. I can’t see Sir Gervais being impressed with that.’
‘We’d better hurry,’ said Lonsdale as the clock struck ten. ‘We’re late.’
They arrived to find the whole Humbage family – with the exception of Lady Gertrude, who had recently declared herself an agnostic as an excuse to stay in bed – waiting outside the church with barely concealed irritation. Humbage and his wife Agatha muttered crossly to each other, while Emelia’s face was as black as thunder. The only one to smile was Anne.
‘We were beginning to think you weren’t coming,’ said Emelia pointedly. ‘The service is already starting.’
‘Of course we were coming – there are no religious sceptics in our family,’ retorted Lonsdale, unable to help himself. He offered his arm to Anne and led her inside before Emelia could think of a rejoinder.
The others followed, Emelia speaking in a furiously hissing voice to her mother, no doubt about Lonsdale’s surly rejoinder. Meanwhile, Humbage was regaling Jack with what he and his dear friend Lord Carlingford thought of cannibals rampaging around London, not to mention dangerous lunatics absconding from Broadmoor. Lonsdale smothered a smile when Jack guilelessly remarked that Carlingford had told him that he had no opinion one way or the other about either.
‘There should be an enquiry into both, though,’ said Humbage, floundering for a way
to save face. ‘It would be a better use of public funds than poking about in the private affairs of prominent people. I refer, of course, to Superintendent Hayes’s irritating insistence on exploring what happened to Haldane in the Royal Courts of Justice.’
‘Of course he should insist,’ said Jack, startled. ‘Haldane was chopped to pieces, and as a conscientious officer, he’s naturally keen to catch the person who did it.’
‘It was suicide,’ came Humbage’s astonishing response. ‘He was a bankrupt, which is why he never paid for anything. He killed himself because he couldn’t bear the shame.’
Lonsdale stopped walking and turned to Jack. ‘Is it true? Haldane was in debt?’
Jack raised his hands in a shrug. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘My friend Sir Algernon told me,’ said Humbage smugly. ‘So of course it’s true.’
‘Fleetwood-Pelham is a notorious tattle-mouth,’ said Jack curtly. ‘And you can never trust a gossip to tell the truth.’
‘Sir Algernon is a gossip, but I trust anything he tells me,’ returned Humbage sharply. ‘Haldane’s death was self-murder. Ask Commissioner Henderson if you don’t believe me.’
There was no time for further debate, as the choir was already processing into the chancel, signalling the start of the service. Lonsdale would have sat at the back to conceal the fact that they were late, but Humbage marched to ‘his’ pew at the front, his entourage trailing at his heels. Lonsdale winced as Humbage bulled his way through the last of the choristers in order to get there, and a whole verse of ‘Lo! He comes with clouds descending’ was without its basses.
The church looked pretty, decked out with holly ready for Christmas, and the third of the four Advent candles was already lit. There was an atmosphere of joyous anticipation among the congregation, and Lonsdale enjoyed singing the carols he remembered so well from his happy youth. He tried not to dwell on the murders, or the fact that he had very little time to solve them and would waste a day with Emelia and Anne. Then it occurred to him that if he thought spending a day with his betrothed was ‘wasting’ it, perhaps he should not be engaged at all.
After the service, everyone was in a better mood, and there were no snipes or arguments until they arrived at Jack’s house, where Emelia sniffed the scent of the cooking dinner and angrily declared that Jack should have remembered how she hated lamb.
‘It’s beef,’ said Jack. ‘At least, that’s what the cook told me.’
‘It’s lamb,’ declared Emelia sulkily. ‘And your cook would be better employed brewing up vats of broth in a workhouse. I won’t have her here when we’re married.’
‘You will,’ said Jack firmly. ‘She’s been with me for years, and I won’t oust her.’ He smiled to take the sting from his words. ‘We can always eat out a lot – you like that. But let’s talk about this afternoon. Are you looking forward to the exhibition?’
‘Not really,’ said Emelia petulantly. ‘Who cares about Christmas crackers?’
‘Perhaps you should stay home then,’ suggested Lonsdale at once, thinking how much more pleasant the excursion would be without her.
She glared at him. ‘Anne can’t go without a chaperone. It would be improper.’
Lonsdale thought of all the times he and Hulda had been alone together. Why was it acceptable for one woman, but not another? Or did Emelia feel Hulda was not worthy of the same degree of consideration as Anne? The notion made Lonsdale dislike her even more.
‘I don’t think Anne’s reputation will suffer an irredeemable stain by being seen with me at a public exhibition,’ he said. ‘You and Jack can do something else if you like.’
‘No!’ said Emelia quickly, when Anne started to agree. ‘I must come; it’s my duty.’
When they sat at the table, Emelia declared that two of her forks were filthy and must be replaced, then complained about a hole in the tablecloth. Desperate to discuss something other than his domestic shortcomings, Jack rashly mentioned that Lonsdale would be looking into the murder of Professor Dickerson. Lonsdale shot him an irritable glance.
‘You should’ve refused,’ said Humbage immediately. ‘Morley declines to dabble in such low matters, and you should strive to emulate him. I deplore your fascination with the dangerous and disreputable.’
‘So do I,’ put in Emelia haughtily. ‘It should be beneath your dignity, and you should leave it to the police. Besides, I can’t imagine his bereaved family will want the gutter press prying into their private lives.’
Lonsdale bristled. ‘The Pall Mall Gazette is not the gutter press!’
‘Morley isn’t,’ acknowledged Humbage. ‘But Stead is a different kettle of fish. If you’re to be my son-in-law, I’d sooner you stopped working for him.’
There was silence around the table, as everyone waited to see how Lonsdale would react to being told to abandon his chosen career. Jack held his breath, Anne looked stricken, while Emelia and her mother’s expressions were gloating. Lonsdale struggled to control his temper, not about to give Emelia the satisfaction of letting her father have a piece of his mind for such pompous presumption.
‘I’ll bear your concerns in mind,’ he managed to say mildly. ‘But shall we send for pudding? The cook’s made Jack’s favourite – semolina. He once told me that he’d never marry any woman who didn’t share his passion for semolina.’
It was wholly untrue, as Jack didn’t much like it, but Lonsdale had the satisfaction of watching Emelia force down her helping of the glutinous mass – which he ensured was a large one – in an effort to win her future husband’s approbation.
The exchanges with Humbage and Emelia had left Lonsdale more irritated than they should have done, and he spent much of the journey to the South Kensington Museum quietly fuming. He was conscious that Emelia was gratified to have annoyed him, and she chatted merrily to Anne, who kept glancing at Lonsdale, trying to gauge his mood.
Eventually, he realized he was ruining his afternoon with the woman who would be his wife, and made an effort to snap out of his funk. He forced a smile as he, Jack, Emelia and Anne alighted from the carriage, and was politely solicitous when Emelia misjudged the distance to the kerb and stumbled in a puddle. Anne instantly endeared herself to him by bursting into laughter. Emelia snatched her arm away from Lonsdale and stalked inside.
‘She means no harm, Alec,’ Anne whispered as she and Lonsdale followed. ‘She’s only trying to do what’s expected of a proper Victorian lady. Don’t let it bother you.’
The clocks were just striking two o’clock as they entered the South Kensington Museum, which meant that Lonsdale would be late for his meeting with Hulda. He tried to recall what shops were nearby, which might have a suitable present. He remembered a fishmonger, although that was hardly helpful. Then he recalled Garrard in Albemarle Street. It was a good twenty minutes’ walk, which would explain why he needed an hour to run his errand.
Feeling it would be suspicious – and rude – to disappear immediately, he fussed about buying tickets, escorting the ladies to the cloakroom to divest themselves of their winter coats, and then strolling around the main exhibition room.
Christmas crackers had been introduced to the country some thirty years earlier, and were twists of paper containing sweets. They had grown increasingly popular and elaborate, and some now cost a fortune, as they were filled with jewellery or were painted with gold leaf. Lonsdale gaped his disbelief at some, wondering who would spend such vast sums of money on something so utterly frivolous.
The exhibition was not particularly busy, despite its seasonal nature, and Lonsdale supposed most of the crowds had gone to the Natural History Museum, where they could see dinosaurs. Thus it was easy to spot a familiar figure among the browsers.
‘For heaven’s sake, Voules,’ he snapped. ‘Can’t you even let me have a Sunday without dogging my every move?’
‘Lonsdale!’ exclaimed Voules in unconvincing surprise. ‘Fancy seeing you here! I adore crackers, and this is the third time I’ve be
en to look around. Lovely things, crackers.’
‘Then who designed the first one?’ demanded Lonsdale, who had read the answer on the ticket, where it had been presented as a fact that anyone remotely intelligent should already know.
‘Tom Smith of Finsbury Square,’ replied Voules promptly. ‘Although the paper hats, little gifts and pretty designs were innovations introduced by his son Walter.’
Lonsdale blinked, sure Voules could not have known such details unless he really had been there before. Just then, Anne, Jack and Emelia approached. Polite greetings were exchanged, then Lonsdale told Anne he was going to collect her Christmas gift. She was gratifyingly dismayed to lose his company but smiled sweetly anyway.
‘But Mr Voules is an authority on crackers,’ he added airily. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to answer any questions you might have.’
‘I will,’ said Voules graciously, and Lonsdale was under the impression that he meant it; he smiled at the ladies. ‘I aim to write a piece about crackers for The Echo tomorrow. The editor never puts a paper to bed without a contribution from me, so the presses won’t start up until I oblige him.’
‘Then how about a story on the Natural History Museum?’ asked Lonsdale wickedly. ‘And the fact that Richard Owen is going to use electricity on his fossils, which will bring them to life. Forget the escaped cannibals – resurrected dinosaurs will be much more terrifying.’
‘They would,’ agreed Voules, his eyes so bright with interest that Lonsdale experienced a twinge of conscience. It was like stealing sweets from a baby – easy but hardly fair.
‘Just a moment,’ said Emelia, raising her hand when Lonsdale began to back away. ‘It’s Sunday. No shops are open, so how can you collect a parcel?’
‘By special arrangement,’ replied Lonsdale loftily, daring her to challenge him further and experiencing a flash of unreasonable annoyance at Hulda for devising an excuse that was so glaringly flawed.
‘With Garrard, the official Crown jewellers?’ persisted Emelia in brazen disbelief. ‘They will open on the Sabbath for you?’
Watchers of the Dead Page 11
