13. Bashun
Billings was standing outside the Forresters’ home, waiting for the door to be opened. He had arrived back in London late the previous night and hadn’t had much sleep. The painful revelations of the preceding days had once again deprived him of his rest. He was about to break out into a yawn when the maid finally opened the door.
“Good morning, Nancy,” he said, stifling his yawn. “Is Mrs Forrester in?”
He noticed that the maid looked even more haggard than he did. She beckoned him in without responding and led him towards the drawing room. Billings looked around the hallway as he followed her. The place was a mess. A basket filled with dirty sheets was standing in the middle of the floor next to a pair of empty bed pans; a cabinet against the wall was stacked full with medicine bottles; a dinner tray with a half-eaten bowl of gruel on it had been laid on the ground just outside the drawing room door. It became clear to Billings that Mr Forrester’s illness had taken its toll on the household.
Nancy knocked on the drawing room door then popped her head in to announce the visitor.
“It’s the detective, ma’am.”
Billings peeped over the maid’s shoulder and saw Mr Forrester sleeping in his bed. His wife was sitting beside him, with some needlework resting on her lap.
“Oh John, you’re back!” Mrs Forrester said, putting the needlework on the floor and getting up from her chair.
She looked thin and dishevelled, thought Billings. She rushed towards him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
“Did you find anything out?” she whispered in his ear.
“I have some news,” he replied softly. He broke away from her embrace then turned his gaze towards Mr Forrester, who was lying motionless in his bed. He was as thin as a skeleton, his eyes were closed and his jaw had dropped open. Billings thought for a minute that he was dead, but then he suddenly saw his hand jerk and a weak groan escape his lips.
Mrs Forrester caught him looking. “He’s deteriorating rapidly,” she said, still whispering. “Keeps slipping in and out of consciousness. It won’t be long now. What is your news?”
“Perhaps you should sit down.”
“Sit down?” Her face went pale. “Why? Is it bad news?”
“Sit down, Mrs Forrester, and I’ll tell you.”
She staggered backwards, feeling behind her until she found her chair. She didn’t take her eyes off Billings for a moment.
“I have a list of items I’d like to read out to you,” Billings said and took a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Please tell me if you recognize any of these items of clothing.” He held the note before him and began reading out loud. “A pair of striped woollen trousers with five black buttons; a white cotton shirt with a stand collar; a plain, light brown waistcoat with satin lining and velvet collar; a pair of black leather ankle boots with round toe; a pair of white cotton drawers labelled with the following letters – B.A.S.H.U.N...”
“Bashun!” Mrs Forrester suddenly called out.
“Do you recognize it?”
“That was Sebastian’s nickname. When he was little he couldn’t pronounce his own name. Bashun was all he could come up with. The servants have labelled his clothes with that name ever since.”
“These clothes were found discarded in a field just outside of Whitehaven.”
“Whitehaven? But what does it mean? Do you think that he...” She fell silent and suddenly started breathing heavily.
“I think he’s still alive, Mrs Forrester,” Billings said quickly, hoping to reassure her. “And I think I know where he might be.”
*
As they stepped out of the cab, Billings observed how Mrs Forrester seemed to be completely unfazed by the revelation. He was afraid that she’d be overcome with fear and shame at the prospect of seeing her son in prison, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t deterred by the sight of the heavy iron doors which led into Newgate Prison. She wasn’t shaken by the jangling keys on the chain of the guard who led them to Sebastian’s cell, or by the clanging echo of their footsteps over the metal corridor. She kept her head held high all the time they were in prison, staring straight ahead of her, doing her best to block away all distractions. There was no look of fear or shame in her eyes. There was just an icy determination to be reunited with her son.
The prison guard suddenly stopped at one of the cells and started unlocking the door. Billings felt butterflies in his stomach. He wasn’t as calm as Mrs Forrester seemed to be. He was still disturbed by the notion that Lochrane and Sebastian were one and the same. Secretly he hoped that he’d been mistaken.
“I think I should go in alone at first,” he whispered quietly to Mrs Forrester. “I have to prepare him. He doesn’t know we’re here.”
Mrs Forrester understood and nodded quietly.
“You ready, Sergeant?” the prison guard asked.
Billings nodded and the prison guard opened the door.
A strong smell hit Billings’s nostrils as he entered. It was that same putrid smell which he encountered when he visited Lochrane in the holding cell. The prisoner was standing at the end of the room, his back towards the door. His back was slouched and there was a slight tremble in his right hand. The sun was shining through the high barred window and he was basking in its light. He was wearing a grey uniform, which was a few sizes too big for him. His trousers were slowly slipping from his waist, but he didn’t seem to have the energy or care to pull them back up. His prison cap lay on the bed. His head had been completely shaved. He hadn’t moved since Billings entered the cell and he seemed to be completely unaware of his visitor. He didn’t even react when the door was slammed shut and the lock turned. Billings wondered if he was deaf.
“Brendan?” he said softly.
The prisoner ignored him.
“Sebastian?” Billings tried.
Suddenly the prisoner’s ears pricked up and he turned his head towards the door. Billings could now see that his beard had been shaven off, which completely altered his appearance and made his eyes stand out. He recognized him immediately. It really was Sebastian. His face was jaded and craggy, his skin had been tanned and beaten by the weather, but his eyes – those blue, penetrating, melancholy eyes – remained the same. How could he not have recognized him before? His heart pounded in his chest as Sebastian continued to look at him, curious and confused.
“It’s John,” he said quietly. “John Billings.”
Sebastian still didn’t show signs of recognition.
“Gideon Billings’s son. Don’t you remember? Your parents looked after me for a few years.” Still no reaction. “You used to call me ‘ward’. ‘Numbskull’,” Billings added with a smile, but it was of no use. Sebastian clearly didn’t know who he was. Sebastian lost all interest in his visitor and turned back to face the wall. Billings wondered whether perhaps he was suffering from amnesia.
“I’m a police detective now. I’ve come to help you,” he continued. “I don’t believe you killed Lord Palmer. You were only one month away from claiming your reward. You had nothing to gain from his death, but you had everything to lose. Nor is there any real evidence against you, except for your own confession.”
Sebastian’s back was still turned towards the door and there were no signs that he’d heard anything Billings had said.
“I don’t know why you signed that confession,” Billings persevered. “Perhaps you were confused, or you thought that there was no hope, but you can still retract it. It won’t count as evidence if you do.”
It was hopeless. His words just seemed to bounce off the prisoner’s back. And yet he had reacted when he called out his name.
“Sebastian?” he called again. “Bashun?” he tried. Still nothing. Then a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Your mother is here,” he added.
Finally a reaction. Billings could see Sebastian’s hands tighten.
“She’s standing outside. She’s longing to see you.”
Sebastian turned his face to
wards the door again. There was a pained and expectant look in his eyes now.
Could it be that he just doesn’t remember me? Billings wondered, a little wounded, but he quickly collected himself. “She doesn’t want to see you hanged,” he said. “But that is what will happen if you don’t retract your confession.” He took a notepad and pencil out of his satchel. “You can write your story down on this. Write down exactly what happened, explain that your confession was made at a time of confusion and despair, but that it was false. Then give the letter to the guard and ask him to give it to the magistrate.”
He held the notepad out to him, but Sebastian gave no indication that he was going to take it.
“Your mother will employ a lawyer, but it is crucial that you retract your confession within the next few days before the trial date is set.”
Sebastian kept looking past him at the door. He wasn’t listening. He just wanted to see his mother.
“I’ll leave this here,” Billings said, disappointed, as he put the notepad and the pencil on the bed. He then went towards the door and knocked on it. “Will you let her in please, officer.”
Sebastian tilted his head sideways to get a better view as the cell door opened slowly. Billings could see the lapel of his prison shirt beating with his heart.
Mrs Forrester entered slowly and stopped just one step away from the door. The door slammed shut again and made her jump. Mother and son now stared at each other for a few seconds. He eyed her up and down. He looked with interest at her grey hair; her wrinkled, gloveless hands; her black dress and woollen shawl.
Mrs Forrester stared back, but her façade soon cracked. All the tension of the last few hours, the last few years, was finally released. She put her hands to her face and stood shuddering and sobbing, desperately trying to suppress the sounds of her wails.
Billings thought of comforting her. Of going towards her and putting his arm around her. But he didn’t. He simply remained leaning against the wall, staring at the ground, feeling awkward and unsure.
Then, quite unexpectedly, Sebastian went towards her, wrapped his arms around her, lay his head on her shoulder and sobbed along with her.
Billings knocked on the door and asked the guard to let him out. He felt uncomfortable with this much emotion. He waited outside the cell for a few minutes, watching the prison guard pace up and down the corridor impatiently, jingling the keys on his chain. He could hear a lot of sobs inside the cell, but there was no talking. Not a single word was uttered.
After only three minutes, the guard suddenly stopped pacing, walked towards the cell and opened the door abruptly.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave now, ma’am. Please will you let go of the prisoner.”
Mrs Forrester and Sebastian reluctantly let go of one another and started drying their eyes. He with his sleeves, she with a handkerchief.
“I will arrange a lawyer for you, my dear,” Mrs Forrester said as she exited the cell. “We’ll get you out of here, my darling. We’ll do everything we can. We’ll have you back home soon so you can see your father before he...” She stopped herself just in time. Sebastian was still drying his eyes on his sleeve and didn’t appear to have registered the gaffe.
*
“Hey, look who’s back! ’Ow were the lakes?”
Clarkson was sitting at his desk when Billings entered the office. His desk was stacked with paperwork.
“I’ve been going through these bloomin’ reports all week, Billings. I’m all beady-eyed.” He rubbed his eyes with his hands. “But I tell you what, it’ll be worth it. I took all the reports which offered a reward for the retrieval of stolen jewels then tried to match them with the stash we found in Deptford. There’s gonna be an ’andsome reward at the end of this. Jacobs says we might get up to ten pounds all together. Out of which twelve shillings will go to me. Think of that, Billings! Will come in handy for Christmas, eh? I could get myself a nice big goose out of that.”
Billings smiled and made his way to his desk.
“Now I just need to match the remaining jewels. It’s bloody tedious work, Billings. Especially as some of them don’t seem to have been reported stolen. Take a look at these, for instance.” He picked up a report and read out loud. “’A leather pouch containing a gold cameo ring with a picture of a Greek warrior and a gold pocket watch engraved with two date palms.’ Sound pretty fancy to me. Why would you not report these?”
The description of the items rang a bell in Billings’s mind, but he couldn’t place them, then.
“’Ere, Billings, what are you doing for Christmas? You should come over.”
Billings smiled politely and brushed the notion away with his hand.
“No really, you should. There’ll be enough goose to go round. They’ve got a big one at this goose farm in Clapham Common. A big brute of a beast. I’ve named him Mr Boogledug. I’m gonna tell the chap to reserve him for me.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience your wife.”
“It’s no inconvenience. She’ll love to meet you. So, that’s settled then. You’re spending Christmas with us.”
Clarkson turned back to his report and Billings smiled politely, hoping Clarkson would forget about the invitation closer to the time.
“Oh, by the way. Jacobs wants to see you,” Clarkson added suddenly as he leafed through his reports. “He’s in a foul mood today.”
*
Jacobs was pacing about restlessly when Billings walked into his office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Billings said, stopping in the doorway and tapping gently against the door.
Jacobs stopped pacing and turned to face him. There was an angry look on his face. “Had a nice time in the Lake District, did you?” There was a hostile tone to his question, but Billings wasn’t sure whether it was intentional, so he ignored it.
“Thank you, yes.”
“Relaxing, was it?”
“Yes, sir. It was.”
“Good! Good!” Jacobs walked towards his desk which was once again cluttered with bills and invoices. He picked up a letter. “I just received this from the magistrate.” He held the letter up and looked angrily at Billings.
“What is it?”
“You know perfectly well what this is, Billings! Lochrane has retracted his confession!”
Billings wasn’t sure why this would anger Jacobs, but it seemed tactless to smile, so he tried desperately to conceal his satisfaction.
“I believe you’ve had a hand in this?” Jacobs asked, still fuming.
“I visited him in Newgate yesterday and I gave him some advice.” Billings looked at the letter in Jacobs’s hand. It was a long letter. Five or six pages, tightly packed with Sebastian’s elegant writing. He was desperate to find out what it contained. “May I see the letter?” he asked.
“No, you may not!” Immediately, Jacobs started locking the letter up in his desk drawer. “Why did you talk him into retracting his confession?” he asked.
“I am convinced he’s innocent, sir.”
“And what evidence do you have to support this?”
“None yet, sir, but I’m sure if we look hard enough, we can...”
“He’s an acquaintance of yours, it seems.”
“Yes, sir. His real name is Sebastian Forrester and he’s the son of a family friend. I hadn’t seen him in over ten years, but when I was in Whitehaven, I...”
“Ah yes, Whitehaven,” Jacobs interrupted. “I’ve heard about your adventures in Whitehaven.”
Billings looked confused.
“The Whitehaven police contacted us to verify that you were a Scotland Yard detective. It seems this little trip to the Lake District wasn’t as relaxing as you made it out to be, was it, Billings?”
“I... um...” Billings was taken aback by Jacobs’s anger and he started stuttering. “I was working on a personal case.”
“A personal case?”
“Mr Forrester asked me to help him locate his son who went missing ten years ago.”
“I had no reason to tell you, sir. I didn’t know at the time that the cases were connected. I only recently found out that Sebastian Forrester and Brendan Lochrane were one and the same.”
Jacobs stared at him silently for a while, wondering whether or not he was telling the truth. Could this be the reason for his anger? Billings wondered. That he had not confided in him?
“I assure you, sir. I had no reason at the time to suspect a connection.”
“The trial was set for Friday, but it has been postponed,” Jacobs said, after a short pause. “We’ve been given two more days to come up with the evidence or he’ll be released. We do not have time for this nonsense, Billings! The case was closed and now you’ve gone and...” Jacobs threw the magistrate’s letter back on to his desk and sat down on his chair.
“Maybe if I go back to Abingdon and look through the evidence with the Berkshire Constabulary. The gardener did mention that they had a lot of poachers, so perhaps...”
“I’ve already sent Inspector Flynt.”
“Inspector Flynt? But wouldn’t it make more sense to send me?”
“You’re off the case, Billings. You’re personally involved.”
“But...” This came as a veritable shock and Billings was dumbfounded.
“I’m sending you to Norfolk.”
“Norfolk?”
“The Prince of Wales is holding a Christmas reception at Sandringham House. I’m transferring you to the Security Service.”
“Security Service?”
“It’s only temporary. They need more people. But if you play your cards right, there’ll be a promotion in it for you. This is Special Branch, Billings. This is where you belong.”
“But I’d far rather...”
“This isn’t a proposition, Billings. This is an order. Your train leaves this evening at five, so you’d better get back home and start packing your bags.”
*
“’Ere, why you back so early?” asked Mrs Appleby as Billings entered the house.
Billings frowned. “I’m off to Norfolk,” he mumbled tersely, taking off his coat and hat and hanging them on the hatstand. “I’ve just came to pack my bags.”
The Ornamental Hermit Page 16
