Depths of Deceit (10 page)

‘Zena, come and meet Inspector Box of Scotland Yard, and Sergeant Knollys. Gentlemen, this is Mrs Ainsworth, a lady known more widely by her professional name of Zena Copley. She’s the rising sculptress of the moment, you know – they’re saying she’s a second Rodin.’

‘How do you do, Inspector?’ Zena Copley’s voice was as powerful and resonating as that of her husband. ‘I don’t suppose you’re interested in sculpture? Or you, Sergeant Knollys – I say, aren’t you the Rugby-playing Knollys? Thought you were. I suppose you’re here about that young man who was killed in my husband’s temple? Anyway, welcome to Ardleigh Manor.’

She turned to Professor Ainsworth, who was sitting back in his chair, openly admiring her.

‘By the way, Ainsworth,’ she said, ‘I’m going down to Leatherhead to see Imogene tomorrow. I’ll be leaving early, so I thought I’d tell you, in case you wondered what had happened to me later in the day. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Did Margery tell you she’s met a young man? Well, she will, I expect. She met him last week at Brighton.’

‘Brighton? So that’s where she went. When did she come back?’

‘Don’t know. She was here at breakfast this morning. That’s when she told me about this young man. I must get back to my work. I’m doing a massive clay figure called “The Sleeper”. I think it’s going to be a success.’

Before anyone could reply, Mrs Ainsworth had disappeared among the ferns.

‘A wonderful woman!’ Ainsworth exclaimed. ‘She does these massive sculptures in clay, and when they’re finished, they’re cast in bronze. Marvellous work! Sit down, gentlemen. Don’t hover! It makes me uncomfortable.’

‘Sir,’ said Box, ‘about the two men who were killed – I asked you whether you knew either of them, but you had no
opportunity
to reply—’

‘I knew neither of them, Inspector. The younger man, Walsh – I’d never heard of him until I read an account of the discovery of his body in
The
Scotsman.
I was in Edinburgh by then. Barnes I knew by reputation: he’s a very prominent businessman in this part of the world. I saw him a number of times at public functions, but I never knew him personally.’

Box thought to himself: Shall I tell him about the mysterious samples of mortar that I found in Abraham Barnes’s desk? No. Keep that to yourself, for the moment.

From somewhere in the house the noise of a piano being played very lustily came to their ears. Ainsworth woke out of a reverie, and sat up in his chair.

‘That’s my daughter, Margery,’ he cried. ‘She’s just got back from Brighton, apparently. Just listen to her! That’s Chopin she’s playing. Very difficult, I’m told. Ties your fingers in knots. I think we’ll see Margery on the concert platform one of these days. I’ve not much ear for music, unfortunately, but my wife tells me Margery’s a second Clara Schumann.’

I hope this Clara Schumann has a lighter touch than Margery, thought Box. She’ll break something if she goes on like that.

At one o’clock the footman reappeared, accompanied by a
housemaid
. They laid a snow-white cloth on the table, and the footman deftly set it out with silver and glass. Between them they served a meal of clear soup, followed by chicken salad. The footman had brought in a silver wine bucket containing a bottle of chilled hock, which Ainsworth poured out for himself and his guests.

All the time that they were eating, Professor Ainsworth talked about archaeology. He proved to be as fascinating at the table as he had been in the lecture hall. He told Box and Knollys at length about his celebrated discovery of the Clerkenwell Treasure, and
about his unearthing of many important Roman sites in London and beyond, culminating in his excavation of the Temple of Mithras.

‘That, gentlemen,’ he said, waving his fork at them, ‘was the crowning point of my active career. Of course, I’ve been Professor of Antiquities at London for nearly ten years, but that post involves a great deal of theoretical work, and not a little tedious administration. But uncovering the Mithraeum – well, it’s
detective
work in the true meaning of that word, and it was filled with an excitement that is necessarily lacking in the lecture hall.’

‘I think you enjoy lecturing, though, don’t you, sir?’ asked Box. ‘That was very evident to both of us when we listened to you at Exeter Hall the other night.’

‘Lecturing? Yes, I’ll confess to you, gentlemen, that I’m a showman at heart. That’s why I’m prepared to travel all over the country to give those lantern lectures of mine. That’s what I was doing when that poor young man met his death in the Mithraeum. In fact, I left for Scotland that very morning – Tuesday, the
fourteenth
, it was. I caught the nine-five from Euston. The station was very crowded, and I was relieved to find that there were only three of us in my compartment. It’s a long haul to Scotland – five hours, if you’re lucky. We got there some time after two. This hock’s just right. Pour yourselves some more, won’t you?’

When they had finished the main course, the footman
reappeared
, bringing them portions of summer pudding. The housemaid soon followed with coffee. It had been a perfect meal for a hot August day.

‘I travelled up that day with Canon Arthur Venables of St Paul’s, who was one of the scholars concerned with the Revised Version of the Bible in ’85. Do you know him? Well, he’s a very erudite man, and a bit of a dandy. He dresses very smartly, although, as he remarked to me rather ruefully, there wasn’t much you can do to ring the changes on clerical dress.’

Ainsworth laughed. ‘I was decked out in all my finery for that
journey, and he admired my morning coat, and the pearl-grey stock that I was wearing. It was all I could do to take the good man’s mind off tailoring and on to Biblical criticism! He got off at Carlisle, and I dropped off to sleep. I was more or less comatose until we arrived at Waverley Station in Edinburgh.’

Box thought: This whole business of Professor Ainsworth is a mare’s nest. There are many other things I could be doing than enjoying this gentleman’s open-handed hospitality. In a moment I’ll give Jack the wink, and we’ll make our excuses.

As though on cue, Jack Knollys suddenly asked a question. It was the first time that he had spoken since they had started their meal.

‘You mentioned a “dreaded rival” earlier, sir,’ said Knollys. ‘Sir Charles Wayneflete, I think you said his name was. Would you care to tell us something about him?’

Professor Ainsworth scowled, and threw his napkin down on the table.

‘Wayneflete? Yes, I’ll tell you about him, but not in here. It’s getting very hot under all this glass. Come into my study and smoke a cigar. We’ll talk about Wayneflete there.’

Ainsworth sprang up from his chair and strode through the ferns. The two detectives followed him out of the vast
conservatory
, along a carpeted corridor, and into a spacious, book-lined study, where they settled themselves in enormous leather chairs.

The professor stood by the fireplace, and pointed to a large oil painting that hung above the mantelpiece. It showed part of a busy shipyard, with the iron hull of a warship under construction. Tall steam-cranes stood at the dockside, which seemed to be alive with hundreds of shipwrights.

‘Do you see that picture?’ said Ainsworth. ‘It shows part of the great yards of Ainsworth & Company at Newcastle. It’s from that yard, and that great town, that my wealth is derived. That’s where my family came from, the area known as Tyneside. Others manage that shipyard now, supervising the building of naval
frigates, in which we excel. With the wealth of the yard behind me, I have been able to devote my whole professional life to archaeology.’

Professor Ainsworth sat down in his vast leather armchair. He drew on his cigar, frowning the while. Then he suddenly laughed.

‘My “dreaded rival”, Sir Charles Wayneflete, is a baronet. He bears an inherited title, but the land and estates that once went with it have long vanished, and he scrapes a living from writing in the popular art magazines, supplementing that income with the proceeds of a modest annuity. In his earlier years he amassed quite a creditable collection of bits and pieces which he displays in that gloomy house of his in Lowndes Square – a house that is
mortgaged
to the hilt. I could buy the man up, lock, stock and barrel, with my small change, and he knows it.’

‘In what way is he your rival, sir?’ asked Knollys.

‘Well, I call him that, but of course it’s not true. Wayneflete is a dabbler, a kind of jack of all trades, with no professional training of any kind. He hates me because of my success, and because I can combine the active and passive approaches to revealing the past that get results – I can pursue a line of academic research, and then pick up a spade to prove its validity.’

‘And Sir Charles Wayneflete—’

‘Sir Charles Wayneflete sits in that house of his, weaving plots, and thinking up ways of undermining my reputation. His whole life centres around jealousy of others. Have you seen him? He’s a thin, attenuated man with little beady eyes and a twisted,
discontented
mouth. He used poor Crale as little more than a slave, paying him less than I pay one of my servants. He’s mean in mind, and mean in spirit.’

Professor Ainsworth suddenly blushed.

‘There,’ he said, ‘I’ve perhaps said more than I should about Wayneflete. Not very charitable, and rather petty, I suppose. But you see, he has the entrée to all echelons of society, because his is an ancient family, and while he moves in those exalted circles,
cadging a dinner here and a luncheon there, he creates his subtle slanders and metaphorically drops them where people who matter can find them. What was it that Pope said of Joseph Addison?

That’s what Wayneflete’s like.

‘But, gentlemen, let me tell you something that at the moment is a close secret. Her Majesty the Queen, on the advice of Mr Gladstone, has graciously agreed to bestow upon me the dignity of a knighthood, some time in the coming autumn. As though to supplement this honour, I heard only this morning that I am to be elected a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries. That’s been in the wind for some time, but today’s letter confirmed it. Wayneflete can boast of his inherited title, but mine will be bestowed upon me by our beloved Queen Victoria, in recognition of my many achievements, of which the discovery of the Mithraeum in Clerkenwell was the crowning triumph. Let Charles Wayneflete equal
that
!’

‘My congratulations, sir,’ said Box. ‘Sir Charles Wayneflete’s jealousy will know no bounds once those two honours are made public. Do you think, sir, that Wayneflete would ever contemplate doing you an injury? I don’t mean assaulting you, of course—’

‘I don’t want to say too much about that, Mr Box, because I’m obviously prejudiced against the man. But yes, I could imagine him plotting to damage or destroy my work, if only out of spite. I’ve no proof, of course, but I know from Crale that he hated my discovery of the Mithraeum, and said once, in Crale’s presence, that he wished the whole place would collapse and be buried for good. Jealousy, you see. I think he sensed Crale’s disapproval, and dismissed him on some trumped-up excuse or other. I can tell you, I snapped the man up at once.’

Box glanced at Knollys, and the two men stood up.

‘Professor,’ said Box, ‘I’d like to thank you for your exceptional hospitality to Sergeant Knollys and me. Really, you have treated us like honoured guests in your home. It’s time for us to get back to London. Would you like me to keep you informed of any further developments in our investigation of these curious murders?’

‘I would, Inspector Box. How very kind of you. If ever you want to escape from London, in order to do a bit of quiet thinking, come down here to Epsom again, and make yourselves free of the house.’

When Box and Knollys had gone, Professor Ainsworth wandered back into the conservatory. At the far end of the great glazed area there was a washroom, containing watering cans, vases, and other items connected with the maintenance of the many plants and ferns. It was a cool place, with a floor of brown and blue encaustic tiles.

Ainsworth walked over to a row of sinks fixed to the far wall beneath a long mirror. Selecting one of the sinks, he carefully balanced his still glowing cigar on the edge of a long wooden shelf running just under the mirror, and turned on the taps. With the aid of a block of fragrant lavender soap, he washed his hands in order to remove from them the lingering smells of chicken and mayonnaise. He must curb his inclination to eat chicken legs with his hands!

While he dried his hands on a rough towel, he regarded his reflection in the mirror. He still had his abundant curly hair, which was only now showing incipient hints of grey. His eyes were as bright and alert as they had ever been. He smiled, and his image in the glass smiled back at him. Whatever reasons Wayneflete had for hating him, he, Roderick Ainsworth, had reached the peak of his career. A knighthood beckoned – an honour infinitely more worthwhile than a beggar’s inherited title.

Suddenly, unbidden and unwelcome memories flooded his
consciousness, recollections of things too frightful to bear, and when he next glanced in the mirror, he saw looking back at him the face of a man who was racked with a spasm of bleak anguish and despair.

10

Wet Night for a Murder

A
rnold Box stood on the cramped foredeck of the police launch and blinked the rain out of his eyes. There was an awning above his head, but it was no protection against the
seemingly
endless downpour. It had been close and humid all day, and minutes after he had received a summons by telegraph at the Rents, just before nine o’clock, the summer tempest had begun.

What a night to be out in a flimsy launch on the busy Thames! He would have used the train, but, as fate would have it, one of the locomotives out of Liverpool Street had broken down in the Thames Tunnel. Some yards off their port side the penny steam ferry from Wapping to Rotherhithe was toiling through the mist. Should he have swallowed his pride and travelled on that? No. The police launch would take him direct to Beaver’s Dock Ladders, where this Sergeant Lambton would be waiting for him.

Was it only yesterday that he and Jack Knollys had been guests in a country house? That had been a curious day, a day in some
ways detached from the everyday realities of police work, but it had determined him to start looking elsewhere for the Mithras murderer. Roderick Ainsworth was not the stuff of which vicious killers were made.

He’d known earlier in the evening that the Wapping Tunnel was blocked, and had telegraphed back to tell this Sergeant Lambton that he would arrive by way of Beaver’s Dock Ladders. Perhaps this new ritual killing would give him a fresh lead.

Despite the driving rain and mist, the river was alive with vessels, lamps glinting high on their masts. As they came nearer to the vast expanse of the Surrey Commercial Docks they found themselves weaving their way through a score of trading vessels lying at anchor.

Presently, Box discerned the high and intimidating river wall at Beaver’s Dock rising above the churning waters of the Thames. There were figures standing on the dock wall, and he could see the fitful glow of a rain-battered gas standard, which had defied the wrath of the summer storm, and remained alight.

The launch shut off steam, and the pilot manoeuvred it
alongside
the massive slime-covered stone wall, where it bobbed up and down uneasily on the choppy waters. Box looked up through the rain at the four iron ladders rising vertically above him to the men waiting on the quay above. Standing on the gunwale, he stretched gingerly from the launch, secured his footing on the iron rungs of one of the ladders, and began to climb. Don’t look down, people said; but it was impossible to look upwards in this blinding rain. Clinging grimly to the cold iron rails, he made his way slowly up the twenty feet to the rim of the quay.

Within a foot of the ladder’s top he ventured to squint up through the rain, and saw a bearded face half-hidden by an oilskin hood looking down at him. A pair of stout arms reached down to haul him up on to the flags of Beaver’s Wharf.

‘I thought you’d better come straight away, Inspector,’ said the man with the beard, ‘seeing as how you’re the expert in these
heathen murders. I’m Sergeant Lambton, of “P” Division, sir, out of Peckham High Street. I’ll take you to Gas Street straight away, if that’s in order.’ As he spoke, other policemen, clad in dripping cloaks, appeared out of the rain, and moved into the circle of light cast by the single valiant gas standard.

Sergeant Lambton set his face away from the river, and Box followed him, clutching his rain-sodden overcoat around him. What a night! What a benighted place! The eight to eight night shift at the Rents was usually a quiet affair, with plenty of time to catch up with paperwork. Evidently, this particular Thursday night shift was to be an exception.

Gas Street lay among a huddle of crowded lanes and alleys in one of the most neglected and desperate areas of Rotherhithe. Thick, acrid smoke rolled down from hundreds of chimneys to lie as choking mist in the streets. What street lights there were had long ago been smashed, and Gas Street was lit that night by portable gas flares, brought in by the police to illuminate the scene of a minor riot that had culminated in murder.

The carriageway was strewn with broken bricks and uprooted cobbles, and a crowd of women, moaning, and clutching thin shawls to their bodies, stood on the pavements, seemingly
impervious
to the rain. Halfway along one side of the road a house stood burning, the flames from its rafters so fierce as to set the relentless rain at defiance. A fire engine stood in the middle of the street and, as they looked, men in brass helmets emerged from an alley, carrying an inert form on a stretcher.

The women in shawls began screaming, holding their arms up to the heavens. Sergeant Lambton looked at them without emotion.

‘So there’s the physical proof that poor Tommy Bassano is dead,’ he muttered, ‘and they know that one or other of their brutes of husbands will hang for it, unless I’m very much mistaken. This is the aftermath of the disturbance I told you about in my message, Inspector. “Riot” would be too strong a word to
describe it, but it was bad enough to lead to a second murder here tonight – for murder it is, in my book. I’ll tell you all about that later, Inspector, if I may. That’s just
our
murder, as you might say;
your
murder took place further down the street.’

They moved away from the burning house and the keening women, and came to a mean little pawn-shop on the corner of the street. The inscription
JOHN CORNISH, PLEDGES
, was painted on a board above the single shuttered window. Sergeant Lambton hammered on the door, which was immediately opened by a thin, frantic man with wide haunted eyes staring from a narrow, unshaven face. The man seized Lambton by the sleeve.

‘He’s not dead, too, is he? Poor Tommy Bassano? He isn’t – he didn’t—’

‘Get back into the kitchen, will you,’ said Sergeant Lambton roughly, ‘and sit there quietly with PC Glover until I’m ready to talk to you again. As for Tommy, he’s dead right enough. But that wasn’t your fault, so stop that caterwauling and do as I tell you.’

They had entered a dim, cluttered shop, lit by a couple of candles standing in the necks of beer bottles and placed on the counter. The walls were shelved from floor to ceiling, and the shelves were crammed with ticketed pledges waiting to be redeemed. Piles of garments, labelled and done up into bundles, were heaped up on the floor. A few sets of fire-irons and a couple of steel fenders were propped up against the wall behind the door.

The frantic man retreated through a door at the far end of the room, shading his face with a hand as he passed the inert figure of an elderly man lying half hidden behind the counter. Box could detect the sickening smell of the abattoir, and saw that the dead man was lying in a pool of his own congealing blood.

‘He was killed no later than eight o’clock, Inspector,’ said Lambton. ‘That’s what the local doctor said. He’s been and gone this half-hour. This is the body of John Cornish, licensed
pawnbroker
, aged seventy. He’s run this shop for nigh on twenty years. That frantic scarecrow of a man that you’ve just seen was his
assistant. Victor Freestone, his name is, and it was he who found him dead, and ran down to us at the police station. When I saw the honey around Cornish’s mouth, and the little piece of slate with a raven scratched on it, I thought I’d better send for you.’

‘You don’t much care for the people round here, do you, Sergeant?’ asked Box.

The burly, bearded police officer looked at him with something like reproach.

‘It’s no bed of roses working round here, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘and a man can get cynical in his way of speaking about folks. We’ve got a lot of mindless brutes and merciless thugs on our patch, sir, but there are many very good, decent people living here as well. They’re the ones that don’t cause trouble.’

Arnold Box nodded his understanding, and then knelt down beside the dead man. A sudden wave of nausea made him shudder. How long were these foul murders going to continue? Was there a plan to immolate all the members of this unknown coven? Who were they? Who was their leader? Could this aged man, with the stubble beard and a disfiguring growth on his right cheek, be a devotee of Mithras? It sounded too silly for words, but murder wasn’t silly at all.

He raised the dead man’s head from the pool of congealing blood, and examined the site of a fatal blow which had caved in the right side of his skull. Whatever had been used to inflict the wound, it had not been an adze. The indentation was too wide, and too shallow to have been caused by a sharpened blade. Something heavy and round had made that fatal, crushing wound.

Yes, there it was: the pool of honey beside the dead man’s head, formed there as it had oozed out of his mouth. Box smeared some of it on his finger, and tasted it. He recalled the sticky patch of honey, no bigger than a penny, which he had found beside the body of Gregory Walsh in the Mithraeum. Here, beside the corpse of the pawnbroker, the honey formed a little pool. It was as though—

He was suddenly alert to the danger of drawing facile
conclusions
from the physical traces of a crime. The case of John Cornish, pawnbroker, had unique qualities of its own. He sat back on his heels, and looked at the sergeant, who was standing quite still near the counter, watching him.

‘Have you got the little piece of slate with the raven carved on it, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to see it, now, if I may.’

The sergeant unbuttoned one of his jacket pockets and produced a piece of slate, no more than an inch square. Its edges had been smoothed with a file, and on one side of it had been scratched the figure of a bird, with the word ‘corax’ written beneath it. Box’s mind reverted to the scenes of the two previous ritual murders. On those two occasions costly lapis lazuli had been used to fashion the tokens, and he had assumed, probably rightly, that they had been antique. The images, too, the lion and the raven, had been artistically depicted, with the care that one would expect where some kind of devotion, however misplaced, had guided the hand of the devotee.

But this, he could see, was part of an ordinary roofing slate, bought for sixpence a dozen at any builder’s merchants. The drawing was little more than crude scratching. An idea began to form in his mind.

‘Did you check the till, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Just for form’s sake, I mean?’

‘The till, sir? Why, no, I—’

‘Do it now, will you?’

Sergeant Lambton pulled upon the drawer in the desk which served as a till.

‘Empty, sir! There’s nothing in it but three halfpennies. So it was murder in the pursuit of theft…. Or maybe poor Cornish emptied it himself, sir, and put the takings away for the night in his
strong-box
—’

‘His strong-box? Do you know for certain that he had one?’

‘He showed it to me once, sir, after we’d had a spate of
burglaries
round here. Poor old chap, he wasn’t exactly rich, but I do remember a roll of sovereigns wrapped in greaseproof paper. I told him to bank it, but, of course, people like him don’t trust banks.’

‘And where is this strong-box?’

Sergeant Lambton lowered his voice, and glanced at the closed door of the back room, where the wretched assistant Victor Freestone could be heard lamenting the death of his master.

‘It’s under this loose board in the corner, sir. You see, it just lifts out, like so – and here’s the box. Hello! The lock’s been forced – it’s empty!’

‘Yes, it’s empty, Sergeant,’ said Box, sitting down on one of two rickety chairs that stood in the room. Lambton watched him slip the piece of slate into one of the pockets of his overcoat. ‘It’s empty, as I thought it would be, and in a minute I’ll explain to you what that means, and what you and I will do. But first, you’d better tell me about this disturbance in the street earlier tonight.’

‘Well, sir, Victor Freestone – him that’s moaning and snuffling in the back room there – came into the police station at a quarter to nine, as I told you. He’d found poor Cornish dead, and had noticed the pool of honey near his mouth. Everybody knows what that signifies now, sir. The papers have been full of these Mithras murders for the last ten days.’

‘I know, Sergeant, and it’s a pity, because the Press accounts are becoming more and more sensational. I’m beginning to believe them myself. So what happened next?’

‘Before he came to us, sir, Freestone had run into the public bar at the Vasa Arms in Sweden Street and told his mates what had happened. They were all blind drunk by that time, and they looked to the leader of the pack to tell them what to do. Patrick Brannigan – that’s the leader of the pack – told them that poor Tommy Bassano was behind it—’