The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  “You want to kill the baby. That’s right, isn’t it? That is what you’re suggesting.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This is murder you’re talking about, Mr Forrester.”

  “Well, I... I am merely looking at all the options which are available to us, Mrs Drew. Do you have any other suggestions?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t have any other suggestions. I just think we should call a spade a spade, that’s all, so that we know exactly what we’re talking about. Killing the baby is our only option, Mr Forrester, and I’m glad you agree.”

  I looked at her surprised.

  “I suggest that you go to London and get me a whole stack of those pills and do so quickly before her tummy starts growing and the whole village finds out what state she’s in!”

  I got some diachylon pills from my pharmacist. Janie was supposed to take two a day for a number of weeks. It would make her ill enough to cause an abortion, but not ill enough to kill her. However, Janie proved too sturdy a girl and, when after a couple of weeks there were still no signs of any ill health, her mother increased her dosage to five pills a day. Janie soon started becoming weaker after that. She eventually became bed-bound and complained about pain in her muscles and her face. At one point she wasn’t even able to move her arms. But the baby was still there, and growing. So the dosage had to be increased again.

  Sebastian was overwrought. He wrote to me nearly every week, especially during the last stages of Janie’s illness, describing in lurid detail the manner in which the poison was affecting her. There was a vindictive tone to his letters. I think he wanted to punish me. To confront me with the consequences of my decision. To make me feel guilty. And I did feel guilty. I was afraid that a doctor might be called in at some point and that our misdeed would be exposed, so I urged Sebastian to prevent that.

  Janie miscarried in her fourth month and lost a lot of blood in the process. Considering her already frail condition, this eventually led to her death. The coroner rightly attributed her death and miscarriage to lead poisoning, but believed her to be contaminated by the water from the outdoor tap in Wycliffe Hall’s courtyard, which was still connected to the old pipes and wasn’t meant for drinking. We were in the clear, but Sebastian was heartbroken.

  It had never occurred to me that he might really have been in love with the girl – or perhaps it was the loss of the unborn child he lamented. Either way, he was inconsolable. And he blamed me. His letters became more and more vicious and hostile (I burnt them all, of course. Cecilia still doesn’t know anything about this). He refused to take any responsibility for the course of events and went into a depression. In his letters he wrote about running away; about escaping the world and all its horrors; about getting rid of all his possessions so as never to have to lose anything again; about starting over and being reborn.

  I wasn’t surprised when I heard that he had run away. I even thought it might do him good, which is why I took no measures to recover him. I thought he’d be able to heal himself and that he’d return to Oxford a stronger and more capable man, but it wasn’t to be. Sebastian never was a fighter. He never took control of anything. All this talk of doing God’s will! It wasn’t out of piety or religious conviction. It was just an excuse not to take responsibility for his own life!

  8. The Deptford Jewels

  None of the clerks were at work yet when Billings arrived at the office. That was the way he had planned it. He climbed the stairs in the empty building and, checking one more time that he hadn’t been seen, he slipped into the filing room. He opened up the ‘L’ drawer and flicked through the files until he found the document he was searching for. He took out the piece of paper, walked towards the window and started reading it.

  Lochrane’s confession had been typed, probably by Jacobs himself, and it was signed at the bottom by the suspect. Billings was surprised by the signature. It was elegantly written, with large bold curls and a confident dash which underlined the name. This isn’t the signature of a simple and uneducated man, thought Billings. It is made by someone who is used to writing.

  Lochrane confessed ‘by his own free will and without enticement’ that on the 21st of November 1890, ’he did attack Lord Palmer in the woods of his estate with a hatchet, creating deep wounds to the shoulders and the back of the head, thereby causing his death.’ It was an unremarkable confession, short and to the point, but it didn’t shed any light on the life of the culprit or what might have led him to commit the crime. In short, it did nothing to set Billings’s mind at ease. He returned the confession to the filing cabinet and was about to leave the room when suddenly he saw Jacobs coming up the stairs, wearing his greatcoat and carrying his umbrella.

  “Good morning, Billings,” he said, then stopped to glance at him suspiciously. “What are you are doing in the filing room?”

  “I... um... I was checking on something for a case I’m working on.”

  “Really? What case is that?”

  “It’s... um...”

  “That wasn’t Brendan Lochrane’s file you just put back, was it?”

  “I just wanted to read his confession.”

  “Why?”

  “I was curious.”

  “Curious?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jacobs paused and looked him up and down suspiciously. “We had an eventful day yesterday, Billings.”

  “Did you, sir?”

  “We found the Russian counterfeiters. That is to say, we found their workshop. An abandoned warehouse in Deptford. The Russians managed to escape and took all the money with them, but they did leave behind a stash of stolen jewels.”

  “Jewels, sir?”

  “Yes, a box full of golden rings and diamond brooches and such. It’s in the safe now. Clarkson is collating all the reports we’ve received of jewels stolen in the Metropolitan area. There should be a nice reward for us when we return the jewels to their rightful owners.”

  “That’s good news, sir.”

  “How are you feeling, by the way?”

  “Much better, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good. Good.” Jacobs took off his hat and greatcoat and hung them on the hatstand next to the filing room. “I’d like to see you in my office in ten minutes,” he added, then turned away from Billings and continued down the corridor.

  *

  “You’re a good detective, Billings,” said Jacobs, pacing up and down the office as Billings stood in the doorway watching. “You’re meticulous, conscientious, responsible. But you do have a weakness.” He suddenly stopped pacing and looked Billings straight in the eyes. “And we both know what that is, don’t we?”

  Billings wasn’t sure what he was talking about and looked confused.

  “You have problems letting go,” Jacobs continued. “We are here to deter and prevent, Billings. Deter and prevent. That’s our job.”

  “I know,” Billings said, still not sure what the conversation was about.

  “It is not our job to set injustices straight – legal, moral or otherwise. We have other people to do that for us. Judges and vicars and philosophers. They’re our moral crusaders. We’re just here to catch criminals.”

  “I know,” Billings repeated.

  “What were you doing in the filing room just now?”

  “I told you. I was reading through Lochrane’s confession.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not convinced he really killed Lord Palmer.”

  “But he confessed, Billings.”

  “I know, but...”

  “It was his axe which was pulled out of Lord Palmer’s shoulder blades. Nobody else was spotted in the vicinity. And he confessed. Do you think that that is enough evidence for a judge to convict him?”

  “I do, but...”

  “Well, then your job is done. You’ve got the evidence, the case is closed.”

  Billings didn’t know what to say and remained quiet.

  “You care for people, Billings, and that’s a good and
admirable quality to have. But we mustn’t let it get out of hand.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m talking about Saturday. About you being ill.”

  “But you told me to take the day off.”

  “Because you were ill.”

  “It was the soup, sir. I had some fish soup at the station which...”

  “Fish soup, my arse! I’ve seen your hand tremble more than once, Billings!”

  Billings was dumbfounded and didn’t know where to look.

  “I’ve seen enough opium dens and dope fiends in my time to recognize the signs.”

  Billings looked horrified.

  Jacobs must have felt sympathy for him as he put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Billings. We all have our poison – brandy’s mine – but the thing is not to let it interfere with your life.”

  “I just missed a dose on Friday, sir. That’s all. It won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Billings. This is not a telling-off. You’re a good detective. I told you that. And I have great plans for you.”

  “Plans, sir?”

  “Yes. You’ve got gifts, Billings. Why do you think you’ve been promoted? There aren’t many twenty-eight year old detectives in Scotland Yard.”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “It’s because you’ve been well brought up. Because you speak properly and write eloquently. That’s a rarity in the Metropolitan Police Force. And you’re educated. How many languages do you speak, Billings?”

  “Some French, some Malagasy.”

  “There you go. They need people like you in the Special Branch. That’s your future. Fighting terrorism, protecting foreign dignitaries, international liaisons. In a couple of years time, Billings, I’m sure I can arrange a transfer for you. But you’ll need to be in control of yourself.”

  “I assure you, sir, I am in control.”

  “Perhaps you should take some more time off.”

  “Time off? What for?”

  “Take a holiday. Enjoy yourself. Get yourself a woman. A woman, mind. Not a wife,” he added as an afterthought. “Whatever you do, Billings, be sure never to marry. Women can not be trusted with money. They buy everything they see and before you know it, you’re financially ruined.” He laughed bitterly. This must’ve been another reference to his current money problems, Billings thought. “But do get yourself a woman, Billings,” he continued. “You can do with a good fuck.”

  Billings was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, really Billings, I’m serious. Nothing like a good fuck to release some of that tension. Works much better than whatever opiate you’re taking. There’s plenty of places you can go to, some of which are perfectly hygienic.”

  Billings could feel the blood rushing to his face and he didn’t know where to look.

  Jacobs laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed, Billings,” he said. “We’re both men of the world, aren’t we?”

  “I’m not embarrassed, sir.”

  “You should look upon me as a father, Billings. I know you haven’t got one, and as a father I tell you to get yourself a woman once in a while.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” Billings was desperately trying to control the rush of blood to his head.

  “No, Billings,” Jacobs was still laughing. “You can go now. But think about the holiday.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.” And he quickly left the room.

  *

  “’Ere, Billings! Have you heard about the jewels?”

  Clarkson was sitting at his desk as Billings came into the room. He was sifting through piles of reports with a broad grin on his face.

  “It’s a treasure trove, Billings!” he said. “Jacobs says it was my shadowing of the suspect that helped them locate the warehouse. That means I qualify for a percentage of the reward. And it’s going to be a big one, believe you me! Look at this.” He picked up a report and started reading out loud. “‘A twenty pound reward is offered to anyone who helps retrieve a diamond, ruby and pearl locket which was snatched off the collar of Miss Constance Paxton-Wright outside St James Theatre on the evening of February 6, 1890.’ I bet that locket’s in there somewhere. Them Russians have been doing nothing here but stealing our jewellery and making fake roubles.”

  Suddenly Billings saw an opened copy of The Illustrated Police News lying on his desk. It featured a large drawing of a wild, drooling man with crazed eyes and a long beard attacking a defenceless old gentleman with an axe in a dark wood. The heading read: ‘Will the Wild Beast of Sutton Courtenay strike again?’ Beside that article ran a parallel story with the following heading: ‘Is There Any Room In The Metropolitan Police Force For A Quaker Detective?’

  “Who put this here?” he asked Clarkson as he rushed to his desk to pick it up.

  “One of the clerks put it there. There’s an article about you in it.”

  Billings opened the paper and started reading the article.

  Detective Sergeant John Billings is a well scrubbed, clean faced young man with a soft, gentle voice and a tidy, but dull appearance. He wears a black suit, with a black waistcoat and a white shirt buttoned up to the collar, but no neck tie or cravat. This would not be in keeping with his puritan faith. A dash of colour to his attire would be considered extravagant and unnecessary.

  He heard some snickering in the corridor. He turned around and saw a couple of clerks in the doorway, looking and laughing at him. They quickly moved on as Billings scowled at them. He continued reading.

  Detective Sergeant Billings, you see, is a Quaker. He sees God in everything and everyone and doesn’t believe evil exists. This, ladies and gentleman, is the man Scotland Yard has put in charge of the Lord Palmer case. Lord Palmer was murdered in his own woods by a ferocious mad man who hacked him to death with an axe. It is a crime which has shocked the nation and has made us wonder whether anyone is safe in this country. We all know about the succession of murderous atrocities the poor of Whitechapel have had to contend with, but it would seem now that even the aristocracy in the home counties aren’t safe in their own houses. Unlike the Ripper, Lord Palmer’s murderer is known and has been caught. The diligent PC Henries found the vile, beastly man (who’d been nicknamed ‘The Wild Man Of Sutton Courtenay’) hiding in the bushes in Battersea Park, no doubt waiting to pounce on his next hapless victim. When I asked DS Billings to give me a description of this ferocious villain, he became quiet, turned to look reflectively at the sky and with a tear welling up in his eye he said: “The man I saw yesterday was meek, tired and docile. He was confused and scared and I felt pity for him.” Well, I ask you! I have no doubt that Detective Sergeant John Billings, with his love and sympathy for all humanity, would have made an exemplary tutor or nanny to my children, but what the country needs right now is a police force which is as tough and ruthless as the murderous lunatics it is supposed to catch. It didn’t appear to me when I spoke to this lily faced young man, that he really had the strength, wile and cunning to outsmart the very criminals we are paying him to catch. Which made me wonder, dear readers, whether there really is any room in the Metropolitan Police Force for a Quaker detective.

  “That’s your name in the papers, Billings,” said Clarkson, after Billings finished reading. “How about that then, eh?”

  “What a ridiculous article!” Billings folded the paper and threw it in the waste bin. “When are they finally going to close down that blessed paper!”

  Clarkson didn’t know how to respond and smiled at him with sympathy.

  Still fuming, Billings sat down at his desk and tried desperately to control the trembling in his hand which had started up again.

  There was a knock on the door and a timid voice gently called out his name.

  “Detective Sergeant Billings?”

  “What!” cried Billings, turning around and scowling at the door.

  Jack was standing nervously in the doorway. “There’s a man at the reception desk asking for you.
”

  “For me? Who is it?”

  “He says his name is Clement Percy.”

  *

  As Billings came down the stairs, he saw two men standing at the reception desk. One was a bespectacled young man with a brown jacket and trousers which were a few sizes too short. The other was a frail old man with a long, grey beard which reached down to his navel. A thick woollen cape was draped over his shoulders. They were both looking at him as he approached.

  “Are you Detective Sergeant Billings?” the young man asked angrily.

  “Yes.”

  “Then will you please explain, Mr Billings, why you have been slandering me all over Oxford!”

  Billings was taken aback by the sudden vitriol and paused temporarily. He was half-expecting to bump into Sebastian Forrester after hearing the name Clement Percy, and he was still recovering from the disappointment.

  “Slandering you?” he asked, confused.

  “I come back from visiting my uncle in Wales yesterday only to find my landlady screaming blue murder at me from the stairwell! She changed the lock to my room and has confiscated my clothes and my books! Now, what in the devil’s name have you been telling her about me!”

  The young man’s face had become bright red with indignation and his hands were trembling with rage.

  “There has clearly been a misunderstanding, Mr Percy,” said Billings, as he lay his hand calmly on the young man’s back and tried to lead him to one of the offices. “Please, will you accompany me to…”

  The young man, however, would not be placated that easily. “There certainly has been a misunderstanding!” he said, shaking the detective’s hand off his back. “I read about Lord Palmer’s death in The Morning Post and came straight over here to assert my innocence! Lord Palmer and I may have had a disagreement, but I would never resort to committing murder! I am a gentle and peace-loving man,” he screamed, “and I resent being implicated in this atrocious deed!”

  Billings became aware of the attention the commotion was attracting. He looked around the reception area with concern. He saw various officers, clerks and visitors staring back at them. He even noticed that some of clerks from the first floor had been drawn out of their offices and were now standing in the stairwell looking down at the spectacle.