Depths of Deceit (18 page)

The girl now began to sob quietly, hiding her face in her hands. Here was the witness I should have interviewed at the outset of this case, thought Box. She was here when I first visited the house, but I never thought to speak to her. She witnessed her master’s murder, but fear made her keep her own counsel. What had made her tell him the truth now?

‘I was terrified, sir,’ Mary continued, ‘and told nobody about what I’d seen, not even Miss Hetty, as she was then. I tried to forget it, and pretend that it had been all a dream. But when Miss Hetty became mistress of the house, and married Mr Harper from the works yard, I told her the whole story. She and I had been good friends, in spite of our different stations, and the time had come for her to know the whole truth. When she received your letter, saying that you were coming to see her again, she said that I had to tell you everything.’

So, thought Box, Ainsworth hid in the darkened room, and used Crale as his bait to lure his victim within striking-distance of his murderous adze. Had he used Crale in the same way at the Mithraeum? Crale could had made an appointment to meet young Gregory Walsh there, and Ainsworth could had been waiting, concealed in the vault, until Crale had left. Was Crale, then, privy to the two murders? It didn’t necessarily follow. Crale was a mean-spirited, treacherous sneak, not the kind of man who would have the stomach for murder. What was the girl saying?

‘I won’t go to gaol, will I, sir? I was ever so frightened, and I’d
no business to be out of my room in the attic when Master went downstairs to meet that detective man.’

‘You should have told Inspector Perrivale at once, Mary,’ said Box, ‘and then you should have told
me.
It was very wrong of you to withhold evidence, and if you do anything like that again, you’ll be in real trouble. But for this time we’ll forget all about it. You see, I know who the detective man is, and I also know who the shadow-man is. You told your story very well, Mary, which makes me suspect that you went to a good school. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir. I was educated at Epsom Church of England School for Girls. They wanted me to go on to train as a board-school teacher, but Mother couldn’t afford to let me go. So I went into service. And you won’t send me to gaol?’

‘I will not, Mary. You’d take up a place there that someone more “deserving” could occupy! It’s time I caught a train to Epsom. There’s more work waiting for me there.’

Box found Mr Crale sitting on one of several basket chairs set out in the garden of a rustic brick cottage, part of Professor Ainsworth’s estate of Ardleigh Manor. He was wearing his
well-fitting
suit of sober grey, and on the grass beside him he had deposited a black bowler hat and a pair of dark gloves. He was smoking a cigarette, and looking across the garden hedge to the neighbouring garden, where his new house was rising. He caught sight of Box, half rose from his chair, and then apparently thought better of it.

‘Why, Detective Inspector Box!’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again, sir. I’m afraid Professor Ainsworth is in London today. He’s attending a meeting of the Senate at London University. Won’t you sit down?’

‘Thank you very much, Mr Crale,’ said Box. ‘So the professor’s in Town today, is he? Well, it can’t be helped.’

He knew perfectly well that Ainsworth would not be at home that morning. But then, it wasn’t the professor he’d come to see.

‘Having half an hour to spare, Mr Box,’ said Crale, ‘I thought I’d come out here and view the progress of my new house. It was originally intended for the head groom, but the poor fellow died in a fall last May, and when I came into the professor’s
employment
, he very kindly offered the house to me. So very kind, you know, but then Professor Ainsworth is a very kind man.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Box, settling himself beside the secretary in one of the basket chairs. ‘Well, if the professor’s not here today, I’ll while away the time by telling you a story. Once upon a time, there was a man who worked for an elderly, crippled baronet, who was something of an invalid. The man proved very useful to his employer, and the old baronet made the mistake of thinking him trustworthy.

‘One day, the old baronet told this man to engage an analytical chemist to examine the pigments used on a depiction of an old Roman god, which had been discovered by his rival, a famous archaeologist, in what was supposed to be an ancient Mithraeum. He suspected, you see, Mr Crale, that the depiction, and the monument containing it, were both fakes.’

‘This man – who are you talking about, Mr Box? I fail to
understand
the purpose of this “story”, as you call it.’

Box watched the secretary as he licked his dry lips before venturing these few words. He’s like that man in
The
Ancient
Mariner
,
he thought. He’d like to cut and run, but he cannot choose but hear.

‘Bear with me, Mr Crale,’ said Box, ‘and you’ll see where all this is leading. The man – he was the old baronet’s secretary – did as he was told, and contrived to meet a young man called Gregory Walsh in The Lord Nelson public house on the corner of St John Street in Clerkenwell. Acting as though for himself, the man arranged for Walsh to secure the paint samples on Thursday, 26 July.’

‘Mr Box,’ said Crale, ‘there’s no need to present all this as a story. “The man”, as you call him, was myself. I make no secret
of the fact. Sir Charles Wayneflete told me to make those
arrangements
, keeping his name out of the matter if possible, and I did so.’

‘Very commendable of you, Mr Crale,’ said Box, ‘no doubt they’ll engrave those well-known words, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant”, on your gravestone – if you ever have one. It’s possible, you know, that you’ll end up under a prison
flags-stone
, packed in quicklime. But you were not good and faithful, were you? You arranged to have yourself accused of a
non-existent
theft, so that you could resign with honour, and allow yourself to be lured away from Sir Charles and into the employ of his arch-enemy, Professor Roderick Ainsworth—’

‘This is too much!’ cried Crale, springing to his feet. ‘I have no need to stay here listening to your insulting innuendoes. I shall make a complaint to Professor Ainsworth when he returns from London. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you here to indulge your fantasies by yourself.’

‘Sit down, Crale;’ said Box quietly, ‘bluster won’t work here, my lad. Once in the professor’s employ, you revealed all Sir Charles Wayneflete’s secrets and suspicions to him. It was then that Ainsworth, realizing that exposure would mean the loss of his impending knighthood, and fellowship of the Society of Antiquaries, determined to silence the two men who could prove his frauds – Gregory Walsh, and a man living further up the line from here, at Carshalton, a man called Abraham Barnes. He decided to
murder
them, Mr Crale, and in you, his new secretary, he found a willing accomplice.’

‘It’s not true!’ Crale’s voice rose to a scream, and his face became drained of all colour. ‘I knew nothing about murder!’

‘Really? Do you think I’m naïve enough to think that Ainsworth gave you a brand new house out of the goodness of his heart? He knew that you’d do anything he asked for money, and decided to make you a down-payment of a desirable residence. Although you began to work openly for Ainsworth in August,
you’d approached him earlier, and soon after you’d engaged Gregory Walsh to go to the Mithraeum on the 26 July, you saw the poor young man again in The Lord Nelson, and cancelled that appointment, knowing that your new master would be pleased that you’d forestalled Wayneflete in the exposure of his frauds. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘You and Ainsworth put your heads together, and chose the
fourteenth
August, which was a Tuesday, as the day on which, together, you would kill two birds with one stone. It was a well-laid plan. First, you went down to Carshalton, and posed as a detective, in order to deceive Mr Barnes, who had incriminating evidence against Ainsworth in his possession, into thinking that his new wife was being unfaithful. You said that you would furnish him with living proof if he would present himself in the conservatory of his house at three o’clock on the morning of the fifteenth August—’

‘Yes, yes, it’s all true!’ cried the terrified secretary. ‘But I tell you I knew nothing about murder. Ainsworth told me nothing. He just gave me orders, and I carried them out.’

‘I see,’ said Box, ‘so you’ve now decided that Ainsworth is to take all the blame! I suspect that you were always a sneak and a toady, so it’s no surprise that you’re going to become a Judas as well. Did you know, that when you met poor Abraham Barnes in the conservatory of his house on that fatal night, there was a witness, watching you? That witness
saw
you do the deed—’

‘It’s a lie! Ainsworth told me to say a few words to Barnes, and then leave the house immediately and return to Epsom. It wasn’t me that felled him with the adze!’

‘Who was it, then, if it wasn’t you? You must have known that Ainsworth had concealed himself somewhere in that conservatory. My witness saw you quite clearly, and heard you exclaim as you realized that there was someone else there. The witness saw a shadow rise up and strike poor Abraham Barnes down. Whose was that shadow? Was it yours, or Ainsworth’s?’

‘It’s not true,’ moaned the terrified secretary. ‘I knew nothing about murder.’

‘I think otherwise, Crale, and so will any jury, when they’ve heard all the evidence. The two of you travelled by train to London immediately after Barnes’s murder, and lay in wait for Gregory Walsh in the Mithraeum at Clerkenwell. It doesn’t much matter which one of you committed that second murder, either. One of you was accessory to the other. You’ll both hang.’

The ashen-faced man seized Box by the sleeve.

‘What can I say to convince you that you’re wrong?’ he
whispered
. ‘I admit that I carried out all Ainsworth’s orders, and that I wasn’t too particular about their consequences. I admit that I was in the conservatory of the house in Carshalton that night, because that was part of the pose of a detective that I had been told to adopt. But I swear to you that I thought the conservatory was empty. I fancied I heard a noise, but was convinced that I was mistaken. I came to that house alone. How was I to know that Professor Ainsworth was concealed there, bent on murder? I tell you, I knew nothing about murder! A servant does as he is told; he doesn’t ask his master for reasons.’

‘And what about your presence in the Mithraeum?’ asked Box.

‘I tell you, I was never there on that fatal morning! I can prove it. I was back here in Ashleigh Manor, and Mason, the butler, can vouch for the fact that I was here. He saw me at six o’clock, and I was here, in sight, all that morning.’

The man suddenly began to wring his hands in anguish. He looked the picture of despair. What a wretched, cringing fellow he is! thought Box. I never believed for one moment that he’d have the courage to commit murder, but I wanted to see him squirm. When Ainsworth tries to enlist his aid again, he’ll find himself up against a brick wall.

‘Very well, Crale,’ said Box, standing up. ‘I’m prepared to believe you. But you must take it from me that Professor Ainsworth is a double murderer, and that when he’s brought to
trial, it will be very difficult for you to claim that you weren’t his accomplice. You’ll be called as a witness, you see. I’ll do what I can, but until then, do nothing more than your duties as a
secretary
here. If you as much as listen to any further confidences from Professor Ainsworth, you’ll make yourself an accessory after the fact of murder.’

16

Depths of Deceit

T
he Subterranean Pipe Office of the London County Council occupied premises in Spring Gardens, within a
stone’s-throw
of Whitehall Place. In a long room on the first floor, Inspector Box and Sergeant Knollys stood at a draughtsman’s table, examining a plan that the deputy engineer, a smart young man who had introduced himself as Percy Phelps, had just laid out for their inspection.

‘It’s very good of you, Mr Phelps,’ said Box, ‘to come in on a Saturday morning like this. It’s much appreciated.’

‘Not at all, Inspector,’ said Phelps, ‘I’m always happy to explain the fascinating business of public drainage. It’s one of the great unsung triumphs of the late nineteenth century! We inherited boxes of these plans from the old Metropolitan Board of Works, and only a fraction of them have been freshly mapped. This one, as you can see, is one of our own devising, made earlier this year. It shows the area of Clerkenwell lying between Priory Gate Street – here, on the right of the plan – and Catherine Lane, at the bottom.

‘Priory Gardens, which were laid out in 1890, are at the top. Below the gardens is the large area of slum clearance, which was done by the council between 1893 and 1894. The site contains the entrance to the Mithraeum, and abuts on to the derelict Miller’s Court. At the bottom of the plan, in Catherine Lane, you can see
the premises of Mr Gold, the wholesale jeweller, and the building known as Hatchard’s Furniture Repository.’

‘What is this little red square marked “Flagstone”, Mr Phelps?’ asked Box. ‘It has been drawn in the middle of the rectangle
representing
the premises of Hatchard’s.’

‘That flagstone can be found in many plans of this area,’ Phelps replied. ‘It was the entrance to the vaults of the old Church of St Catherine that used to stand on this site. It was situated on the south side of the nave floor. The church was burned down in the Great Fire of 1666, and never rebuilt. The present basement floor of Hatchard’s is actually the cleared pavement of the old church’s nave. Planners need to know about entrances to subterranean cavities, especially when contemplating the construction of new sewers.’

‘And these thin lines in red, blue and green, criss-crossing the plan—’

‘They are the various service pipes, Mr Box. The blue lines are water mains, and the red lines are live sewers. The green lines show sewers and water mains that have been closed off and sealed. As you can see, the whole upper area of the plan contains very little in the way of water and drainage. The whole area is due for redevelopment, you see. All the water pipes and sewers serving the buildings in Catherine Lane have been redirected to meet the new mains and deep sewer laid two years ago to the east of the site, beneath Phoenix Place.’

Phelps stopped speaking, and in the ensuing silence – for Mr Phelps was rather fond of his own voice – Box studied the plan. The whole area from behind the premises in Catherine Lane to Priory Gardens was a mass of green lines, each line bearing a reference number. It was, in effect, an arid desert, with minimal water and sewage.

‘What can you tell me about the Mithraeum site itself, Mr Phelps?’ asked Box. ‘I mean from your own professional point of view. I know all I need to know about the archaeological aspect.’

‘Well, Inspector, that particular site is not only derelict but dangerous, and in the next six months it will be filled in,
landscaped
, and planted as an extension of Priory Gardens. Professor Ainsworth knew that the site could remain open for no longer than six months at the most. I believe he has planned to remove the antiquities from the old Roman vault, and present them to the British Museum.’

‘He knew all along that the Mithraeum would have to be destroyed?’ Box exclaimed. ‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Yes, indeed, Inspector. You sound as though you don’t believe me. I told the professor myself. He came here, you see, to ask about the nature of the site, and whether it would be suitable for preservation. Very responsible of him, I thought. I told him that the exhibition of the antiquities could only be temporary.’

‘And was he put out when you told him that?’ asked Box.

‘No, not really. He took the matter philosophically, and we parted in great amity.’

‘Why do you say that the site is dangerous, Mr Phelps?’

For answer, Phelps produced another, much older, plan, which he laid on top of the first. It was dated 1854, and showed the clear outline of a medieval church lying beneath what was now Hatchard’s Furniture Repository. A series of dotted lines
delineated
the long nave of the church, and its semi-circular apse. Once again, a little red square marked ‘Flagstone’ had been drawn at a particular spot in the floor of the nave.

‘I’m showing you this plan, Mr Box,’ said Phelps, ‘to explain why the whole area around the Mithraeum is dangerous. The original burial vaults of that long-demolished church, although cleared of human remains in the seventeenth century, are still there, great empty spaces beneath the earth. Parts of them are represented by the basement area of Hatchard’s, but there’s another, unseen section, long sealed off. Nearby, but six feet lower down, is the Roman Mithraeum, another empty space.

‘More important, though, is the presence now – I mean in
September 1894 – of twelve vast empty sewer tunnels which are in a poor state of preservation. They had, in fact, been condemned for years by the Metropolitan Board of Works. The danger of collapse is very great, Mr Box, which is why the area of the Mithraeum will be shored up, filled in, and levelled as a public garden. There’s talk, I believe, of turning that upper section of the site into a pleasant
residential
square. When the time comes, we’ll tell Professor Ainsworth to remove his Roman monument to the British Museum.’

Box, looking at the young engineer, made a sudden decision. The time to act in this matter of the so-called Mithraeum was now, and Mr Percy Phelps should play his part in this, the last stage of the murderous drama.

‘Mr Phelps,’ he said, ‘I have already obtained a search warrant to investigate the premises in Catherine Lane, Clerkenwell, known as Hatchard’s Furniture Repository. I can assemble my
search-party
within the hour, and my search would take us down beneath that mysterious flagstone marked in red on these plans. Would you agree to join the party as its specialist guide?’

The young man gave Box a broad smile. His eyes danced with excitement.

‘I’d be delighted, Inspector Box,’ he said. ‘Myself – and the London County Council – are at your service!’

The morning of Saturday, 1 September, began with a bright mist, through which the sun’s disc rose to assume that brazen hue so typical of those deceptively hot days that often presage the onset of autumn. Rising from the dining-room table, where he had breakfasted alone, Professor Roderick Ainsworth stepped out through the open French window and on to the rear terrace of Ashleigh Manor.

Zena would be in her studio by now, earnestly addressing the various challenges of kneading clay. He could hear Margery playing something slow and pensive on the Bechstein grand piano in the music room.

How horrible – damnable – those murders had been! At first, he had tried to rationalize his deeds by telling himself that fear of exposure as a fraud had temporarily unhinged him. But that was not true. As soon as Crale had told him of Wayneflete’s attempts to have the mortars and the pigments analysed, he had yielded to an overwhelming surge of anger. This had been followed by a long period of deadly calm, during which he had meticulously and dispassionately plotted the destruction of the two men who had posed an immediate danger to his public reputation. With Crale’s unwitting help, all had gone well.

Professor Ainsworth descended some steps that took him on to a sunken garden, where some late roses still bloomed valiantly in their well-tended beds. He lit a cigar, and walked thoughtfully along the paths.

Had Abraham Barnes ever done anything about those mortar samples? Certainly, nothing had been heard of them since Barnes’s death. Perhaps his executors, or his family, had thrown them away? It was of no matter, now.

He hadn’t minded about Barnes. For one thing, he had struck in the dark, and had seen little but an agitated shadow as his prey. There had been just enough light to do the devilish business with the mercury, and leave the lapis lazuli token behind…. But young Gregory Walsh – that had been different.

He, Ainsworth, had arrived, unseen, at the Mithraeum, and concealed himself in the darkness of the vault. Walsh had come down the wooden steps, brisk and businesslike, just before seven o’clock. By that time, light was pouring down from the open entrance, and he could see the man quite clearly. Seeing Walsh’s youthful face from his place of concealment, his determination had almost failed him. But then, Walsh had produced a spatula, and had begun to scrape the scarlet pigment off the figure of Mithras, pausing to wipe his hands on a handkerchief before turning his attention once again to his work of desecration by flaking some more paint off the monument with his fingernail. He
had applied those specially chosen pigments carefully and subtly, to heighten the shadowy traces of the original, long faded over the countless centuries. And now, this philistine was destroying his work of restoration…. A blinding anger had consumed him.

He had hurtled out of the darkness like a Fury, and had struck the young man dead with a single blow of the adze.

Spooning the honey into the dead man’s mouth had almost driven him mad, but it had been necessary. How low he had sunk as a man and a scholar in that moment!

What was he to do? Could he bear the guilt much longer? Could he live with the ghosts of his innocent victims for ever present in his mind? Perhaps not. But at any rate, he would try to survive as long as he could. If the time came for confession, then he would seek out that young detective inspector, and confess to him. A remote possibility of escape through suicide he had dismissed with revulsion and contempt.

He’d never intended the Mithraeum to exist for more than a month or two. He knew that the fabric was unsound, and that the whole area was riddled with tunnels and chambers. After all, he had explored it all, at leisure and unseen, ever since he had
discovered
the Clerkenwell Treasure nearby, in 1887.

Within minutes of Walsh’s death, so he had been told, a great stone slab had fallen from the roof of the crypt, forming a kind of canopy over the poor young man’s dead body. Curse Wayneflete! Why couldn’t he have curbed his jealous desire for revenge? What a mean, sneaking fellow he was! All this business was
his
fault.

He would go up to London now, this very day, and move slightly out of true some of the pit-props that supported the roof. There were already hidden cords attached to the bases, which he could pull from a concealed position beyond the Roman vault. If he could bring the roof down, then he could appear later with some of the site workmen, and remove the shattered remains of the reredos. The great image of Mithras could disappear for good, and with it all fear of exposure as a fraud.

Ainsworth found Zena in her studio. She was wearing a
flowered
smock, and her hair was tied back with a black ribbon. She paused, her hands caked with clay, and dragged her eyes away from the massive clay figure that she called
The
Sleeper.

‘What is it, Ainsworth?’ she asked. ‘I’m frightfully busy this morning. I thought you were going to write up those new lecture notes?’

‘I’ve changed my mind, Zena. I’m going up to London today, to have another look at the Mithraeum. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Have you seen Crale this morning?’

‘Crale? Yes. I saw him hurrying down the drive towards the main road about half an hour ago. I assumed you’d sent him on an errand. That man Box was here, yesterday. He had quite a long chat with Crale, so Mason told me. Why, you’ve gone quite pale! You’re liverish, that’s what’s the matter. It’s those foul cigars. Goodbye, I’ll see you this evening, I expect.’

When her husband had gone, Mrs Ainsworth – Zena Copley, the rising sculptress – returned to the serious business of
The
Sleeper.
Her hands moved skilfully across the figure, kneading the clay, and giving physical form to what she had conceived as an image in her fertile mind.

She heard the crunch of the carriage wheels on the gravel, left her work, and crossed to the window. Her husband was climbing up into the vehicle, a stout canvas bag in his hand. There: the groom had closed the door, and the coachman was moving away along the drive that would take them to Epsom Station.

A sudden fear clutched at her heart. What was wrong? What had ailed the man for these last few weeks? He was moving away from her through the heavy haze of the late summer day, moving away from her…. ‘Goodbye’, she’d said. Zena Copley stood motionless at the window, heedless of the clay drying on her hands. This house, and her husband’s fortune would all pass to her if anything happened to Ainsworth. Margery had better settle upon which young man to marry, and do it as quickly as was decent….