Watchers of the Dead

by Simon Beaufort

  ‘Wells?’ asked Lonsdale of Hulda. ‘Could he be the sly mastermind?’

  She spread her hands in a shrug. ‘How could a mere inspector compel the commissioner to ignore a series of murders?’

  ‘Very easily,’ replied Lonsdale soberly, ‘if the culprit is as clever as we suspect.’

  They reached the station, where their train sat wheezing and blowing, ready to leave. Orange jerked the cart to a standstill, and his passengers clambered out. Hulda raced for the platform, but Lonsdale turned back to Ashe and Orange.

  ‘What happens when you get back? Norris will be waiting.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us,’ said Orange. ‘There are more loyal wardens than corrupt ones, and there are only so many crimes Norris will commit for the sake of his ambition. He could’ve killed you the moment he had you locked away, but he’s a coward and he hesitated. He’ll surrender when I confront him.’

  Despite Orange’s assurances, Lonsdale still had misgivings about leaving him and Ashe while Norris was still in a position to do them harm. He flung himself on the train just as it was pulling out of the station, Hulda howling at him to hurry, and glanced back to see another trap clattering to a standstill next to theirs. Norris and a pair of guards jumped out.

  Lonsdale gripped the window hard, debating whether to leap off the train and go to their aid, but the last thing he saw before trees obscured his view was Orange felling his deputy with a punch and Norris’s henchmen taking to their heels. Clearly, Orange could deal with the vipers in his midst.

  ‘It’ll be dark by the time we get home,’ said Lonsdale. ‘And I have no idea where to start looking for Maclean – other than the Garraway, perhaps.’

  ‘Why would he be there?’ asked Hulda sceptically.

  ‘Because it lies at the heart of everything.’

  ‘We’d do better going straight to Peters and telling him what we’ve learned. Then he can get us an interview with Commissioner Henderson, and we can confront him with what we know of his role in the affair. He’ll confess and provide us with information to answer all our other questions.’

  Lonsdale doubted it would be that easy, but agreed that Peters should be their first port of call. He sank down on the seat, relishing its softness after the stone floor in the asylum and the wooden sides of the trap.

  ‘The false Voules,’ said Hulda after a while. ‘Slim, short, poor but neat clothes. Does that sound like anyone you know?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Lonsdale, too tired and fraught to play guessing games.

  ‘Burnside,’ replied Hulda. ‘A man who’s a member of the Garraway, who’s a Watcher, who tells lies, who appears at unexpected moments, as if he’s been following us …’

  ‘He isn’t …’ began Lonsdale, and trailed off, recalling that he had bumped into the photographer more often than would normally be expected in a city of four million people – at the Natural History Museum twice, in the haberdasher’s shop, and then in the Garraway. ‘He saved the Queen’s life.’

  ‘Yes, from Maclean,’ Hulda pointed out. ‘And he feels slighted, because the Palace refuses to be suitably grateful. He’s impoverished, bitter and angry.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Lonsdale. ‘So we’ll talk to him when we go to the Garraway.’

  Although Lonsdale and Hulda were exhausted, neither slept on the journey home. Once on the train from Reading, they sat in the dining car drinking cups of railway tea that tasted like nectar. Lonsdale kept looking at his watch, willing the train on, but it hurried for no one, and was an hour late when it finally steamed into Paddington, stopping so abruptly that all its passengers were sent staggering forward.

  Lonsdale grabbed Hulda’s hand, and hurried her off the platform, aiming to reach the waiting hansoms before they were claimed by others. As they went, it occurred to him that he had held her hand a lot over the last few days, and that it had become a very natural thing to do. He wondered what Anne would make of it. Then he recalled that Anne would be angry with him for missing their appointment the previous evening. He hoped she would let him explain before making any precipitous decisions.

  Traffic was heavy as their hansom eased out of the station and along Praed Street, stopping so often that Lonsdale itched to jump out and run. Only the sight of Hulda’s exhausted face kept him in place, although it did nothing to prevent him from muttering under his breath at delay after delay.

  ‘London is pretty,’ said Hulda, staring out of the window. ‘Even in the drizzle, on a dark December night. The lights and Christmas decorations …’

  Her words only reminded him that it would be Christmas Eve the following day, at which point the Watchers’ plan would swing into action.

  They reached Scotland Yard eventually, where Lonsdale would have stormed inside and demanded to see Peters at once. Hulda stopped him.

  ‘If you race in like Attila the Hun, someone is sure to notice and tell Wells or Henderson – and if one of them did plan to have us dispatched at Broadmoor, they may decide to do it here instead. Moreover, it’ll draw attention to the fact that Peters is investigating matters he’s been ordered to leave alone.’

  ‘I imagine everyone knows that anyway,’ Lonsdale pointed out impatiently. ‘He made no secret of the fact that he aims to catch Hayes’s killer.’

  ‘That was three days ago,’ said Hulda bleakly. ‘Who knows how the situation might have changed since?’

  ‘Then we’ll demand an interview with Henderson immediately,’ determined Lonsdale. ‘We’ll tell him we know what Wells has been—’

  ‘We will, but only if Peters is in a position to come with us,’ interrupted Hulda. ‘If we do it alone, Henderson will deny everything, and then what’ll we do? Call him a liar? Henderson will order us to be arrested, and that will be that.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’ demanded Lonsdale tautly. ‘Sit back and wait for the Watchers to strike?’

  ‘Of course not. We’ll send Peters a message that only he’ll understand. Asking him to meet us at your house will be best – a place where we know there won’t be unwanted ears flapping.’

  Lonsdale clenched his fists, hating the notion of yet another delay, but Hulda was right. Three days was a long time, and if Henderson had any sense, he would have taken measures against one of his best detectives meddling in a case that might bring him down. Peters might not even be in London any longer, or he might – and the prospect sent a chill down Lonsdale’s spine – have been dispatched like Hayes.

  ‘I know what to write,’ said Hulda. ‘It occurred to me on the train that getting hold of Peters might be a problem, so I mulled it over all the way from Reading. Do you have a pencil and a scrap of paper?’

  Lonsdale handed them over, and she went to lean on a wall to write. He read over her shoulder, marvelling at the cleverly cryptic nature of her words. She phrased the message in such a way that no one but Peters would know she was the sender, or that she wanted him to hasten to Cleveland Square at his earliest opportunity. When she had finished, she saw the admiration on his face and smiled rather smugly.

  ‘I’m a professional writer, Lonsdale. What did you expect?’

  She handed it to a uniformed constable and informed him that he would lose his post unless he handed it to the inspector personally and immediately.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Lonsdale, when the man had hurried away.

  ‘We go to your house,’ replied Hulda. ‘Fun though it would be to burgle the Garraway again, it would be a mistake. They’ll have taken steps to prevent it, especially now the day of their atrocity is to hand. All we can do is hope Peters comes soon.’

  They took a hansom, alighting before they reached Cleveland Square, so they could make sure it was not being watched. They entered through the back door, startling Sybil, who was drinking Jack’s best port next to a roaring fire.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she told him accusingly and rather fearfully. ‘Mr Voules, I mean. He hasn’t been round since Wednesday. What did you say to him?’

  Lonsdale
mumbled something noncommittal, but his thoughts tumbled. Had Voules fled because Ingram no longer needed him to spy? Or was there a more sinister reason for his disappearance – such as that he was involved in whatever was unfolding at the Garraway?

  He hurried to the dining room, where Jack took one look at their grey, exhausted faces, and hastened to pour them large brandies.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve bad news,’ he said. ‘Emelia came to tell me that Anne no longer wishes to marry you. I suspect Humbage poisoned her against you. Ever since he started hobnobbing with courtiers, he’s been an unbearable snob. He’d rather she married a lord.’

  ‘Then it’s her loss,’ declared Hulda stoutly. ‘One day, she’ll regret it bitterly.’

  Lonsdale rather suspected Anne would think she had had a narrow escape. So had he, because he was not nearly as dismayed as he should have been.

  FOURTEEN

  Although Lonsdale paced like a caged lion while they waited for Peters, Hulda made good use of the time. She bathed and went to bed, announcing that they would need all their wits about them if they aimed to thwart the Watchers the following day. At midnight, it became clear that Peters was not coming, so Lonsdale sat at the table and wrote out all they had learned since discovering Dickerson’s body in the museum. When he had finished, he slept fitfully, waking a dozen times because he thought he heard someone at the door.

  Christmas Eve – a Sunday – dawned dull and grey. Lonsdale rolled out of bed, thinking how different this one was to others in his past, when he had been full of excited anticipation. All he felt that day was a sense of impending doom.

  He went to the morning room, and found Hulda already there, looking neat and fresh in clothes that had been laundered by Sybil overnight – a service given in exchange for news about Voules when it became available. He sat and drank a cup of coffee that was so strong he feared for his teeth. He was not surprised to hear that Hulda had made it.

  ‘Your brother has gone to see his fiancée,’ reported Hulda. ‘He’s afraid Emelia will follow Anne’s example, and decide she can do better for herself.’

  ‘I’m surprised he’d do that this early, and before church,’ mused Lonsdale. ‘He must be very agitated.’

  ‘Not unlike you, then,’ observed Hulda dryly, as Lonsdale paced.

  ‘Peters should have come,’ he said worriedly. ‘Do you think something has happened to him? What if he never appears? Do we just sit here and let the Watchers get on with it?’

  Hulda opened her mouth to reply, but faltered when there was a loud, important rap on the front door – too loud and important for any normal caller. They were silent as they heard Sybil go to answer it. There was a murmur of voices, then footsteps thumped down the hall. The door was thrown open …

  ‘Peters!’ exclaimed Lonsdale in relief. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Addington Palace,’ replied the inspector. ‘To talk to Tait’s daughter. Afterwards, I went straight home, so only received your message this morning – from a constable who spent the night in my office, too frightened to leave. More importantly, where have you been? I was worried.’

  Hulda opened her mouth to reply, but Lonsdale cut across her. ‘Has anyone tried to stop you from investigating? Or followed you?’

  Peters’s moustache twitched. ‘Both, but not successfully. Today’s shadow will be fuming on the train to Clapham as we speak.’

  ‘What have you learned since we’ve been gone?’ demanded Lonsdale urgently. ‘Do you know the identity of the killer?’

  Peters grimaced. ‘No, but I sense you’ve been more successful. Tell me.’

  Hulda did, because Lonsdale was too restless for talking. As she finished her tale of their escape, he abruptly stopped pacing. ‘What about the Khoikhoi?’ he interjected. ‘You said last time we saw you that they weren’t safe. Are they still at Monkey Hornby’s house?’

  ‘They’re on a ship to the Cape with Roth,’ replied Peters. ‘Wells may not be the brightest star in the sky, but he’s not stupid – the groundsmen saw Hornby popping in and out, and he would’ve made the association eventually. So I arranged for your cannibals to leave the country.’

  ‘So you agree that they didn’t kill Dickerson?’

  ‘I only thought that before I knew there were other victims – men your Khoikhoi had no reason to harm. Wells refused to see it, though. He leaked information to The Echo, aiming to whip London into a frenzy of fear, so they’d be caught the moment they left their hiding place. He would’ve seen them hang, so I decided it was best to remove temptation from his reach.’

  ‘Because their only real link to the murders is that they knew Dickerson and happened to leave the museum on the day he was killed,’ said Lonsdale. ‘We have to go to the Garraway – that’s where answers lie.’

  Peters stood. ‘But first, we must confront Commissioner Henderson. As long as he’s under the sway of this “higher authority”, he’ll counter our every move. We need to make him desist.’

  ‘He’ll refuse,’ predicted Lonsdale. ‘Or arrange for all three of us to be murdered. This is the man who looked the other way while his best officer was dispatched. Why would he listen to us?’

  ‘Because you two are from The Pall Mall Gazette. I assume you’ve written everything down? Good! The press terrifies him – he’ll crumple the moment he knows he’s about to be exposed. We’ll see what he has to say for himself after we deliver your report to Stead.’

  ‘Not Stead – he doesn’t work on the Sabbath. Nor Mr Morley, as he’s too preoccupied with events in Ireland. It’ll have to be Milner – he doesn’t live too far away, thank God!’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ said Peters.

  There was sleet in the air as Lonsdale, Hulda and Peters hurried through a city that could think of nothing but Christmas. Despite being closed, almost every shop boasted some kind of decoration, and carol singers warbled by the dozen. It made Lonsdale feel like an outsider – he was not in the mood for celebrating.

  When they arrived at 54 Claverton Street, Pimlico, they had to wait several minutes before Milner was ready to receive them – he was fastidious and refused to let himself be seen in a state of undress. Lonsdale shoved the report into his hands and asked him to make copies and lodge them with as many friends as he could – their insurance against death by panga. Sensing the urgency of the situation, Milner took it and began writing immediately, waving one hand to tell them to leave him to it.

  ‘Will Henderson be at work today?’ Lonsdale asked, as he, Hulda and Peters headed for Scotland Yard. ‘A Sunday and Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Probably not,’ replied Peters. ‘But next door to headquarters, he has an office with living quarters attached. He’ll be there alone, as his wife and daughters have gone to Kent for Christmas.’

  The commissioner’s apartment comprised a handsome, spacious suite of rooms on the first floor, overlooking a pretty courtyard. A sergeant shot to his feet as Peters walked towards the door.

  ‘He’s not available, sir,’ the sergeant said, moving to intercept him. ‘He’s taking the day off.’

  ‘He’ll see me,’ said Peters, shoving past the man, and opening the door without knocking. While the sergeant gaped his disbelief, Peters ushered Lonsdale and Hulda inside and closed the door behind them.

  The sitting room was obsessively neat and smelled of wax polish. Several beautiful uniforms hung on a rack against one wall, while a glass cupboard held Henderson’s collection of antique truncheons. The commissioner himself was in front of a mirror combing his moustache. He whipped around in surprise when Peters surged in.

  ‘How dare you burst in to my private residence!’ he bellowed indignantly. ‘Leave at once! I’m getting ready to go to church with the Lord Mayor.’

  ‘Then I’ll be brief,’ said Peters. ‘We’re here about the murder of Superintendent Hayes.’

  ‘A terrible tragedy,’ said Henderson shortly, ‘but Wells informs me that he’ll have the cannibals locked up by the end of the day. Now kindly r
emove yourselves—’

  ‘The “cannibals” have alibis for Hayes’s murder,’ interrupted Peters. ‘If Wells charges them, he’ll be making a serious mistake.’

  ‘Nonsense! Their so-called alibi will be a lie. Regardless, it’s nothing to do with you, Peters. You were reassigned.’

  Peters smiled coldly. ‘And who told you to do that, Commissioner? Who’s so important that you’re willing to ignore the murder of one of your own men to curry his favour?’

  The blood drained from Henderson’s face. ‘Get out! And take these people with you.’

  ‘Fine, but they’re reporters. And their story will appear in all the major papers tomorrow: how you prevented your best detective – the famous Superintendent Hayes – from solving a series of vicious murders.’

  ‘I never—’

  ‘And when Hayes demanded to know why, you arranged for him to be dispatched, too,’ Peters went on coldly. ‘Your own officer, Henderson! Don’t deny it – there’s proof.’

  Stunned, Henderson groped for a chair and sank into it, while Lonsdale wondered how he would react when he discovered that Peters was bluffing. Suspicions weren’t evidence, and The PMG could not go to press with what they had.

  ‘I don’t know what …’ began Henderson. ‘There can’t be …’

  ‘You were afraid that Hayes and I would investigate anyway, so you ordered colleagues to spy on us,’ Peters forged on. ‘They dogged our movements day and night, when they should’ve been hunting the lunatic with the panga.’

  ‘Because you couldn’t be trusted to do what you were told,’ bleated Henderson. ‘I was right – you both disobeyed me and continued to meddle. However, I did it to protect you – to prevent you from swimming in dangerous waters. Can’t you see this is bigger than all of us? My orders came from the very highest authority.’

  ‘A higher authority than the law?’ asked Peters archly. ‘We’re police officers, Henderson – we don’t turn a blind eye to crime, no matter who asks.’