Depths of Deceit (4 page)

‘What did you do when you started to examine the body?’

‘I put my hands around the dead man’s neck, and pulled him upright. I was able to see the wound in the back of his head. After that, I turned him right over on to his front, so that I could examine the wound more closely. And then, from his mouth …’

The inspector stopped to compose himself. The initial rage that had suffused his honest face had still not abated. Box hazarded a guess.

‘You found that his mouth had been filled with honey?’

Perrivale looked at him as though he was mad.

‘
Honey
? In God’s name, man, what are you talking about?’ he cried. ‘I turned him over to look more closely at the head wound, and
a
stream
of
quicksilver
flowed
from
his
mouth
on
to
the
tiled
floor.’

‘Quicksilver? That’s another name for mercury, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Who could have done such a wicked thing? What’s the point of it? Here was a man who killed his victim with a savage blow, turned him on his back – unless, of course, he fell down on to his back – and poured a bottle of quicksilver down his throat. It stayed down in his stomach, or at the back of his throat, perhaps, until I turned him over, and then it flowed out on to the tiles.’

It was very humid in the conservatory. For a moment it seemed to Box like a savage jungle, and beyond the overgrown palms he fancied that he could see the shadow of a pagan face in a leathern cap, and hear the dying bellows of a sacrificed bull…. Not honey this time, but mercury. It was insane.

‘After that,’ Perrivale continued, ‘I sent my sergeant to fetch our local doctor, who arrived about twenty minutes later. He
examined
the body, and concluded that poor Barnes must have been killed between three and four in the morning.’

‘Was Mr Barnes in his nightgown?’

‘No, Mr Box, he was fully dressed. Later, I found that his bed had not been slept in. Without wishing to be indelicate, I must mention the fact that Mr Barnes and Mrs Barnes occupied
separate
rooms. The fact that his bed hadn’t been slept in makes me think that he was keeping a rendezvous with someone he knew.’

‘That sounds more than likely, Mr Perrivale,’ said Box. ‘Did you find anything odd in Mr Barnes’s pockets?’

‘Now, what made you ask that, Mr Box? As a matter of fact, I did. And I still have it here, in my own pocket.’

Inspector Perrivale placed something in Box’s hand. It was a lapis lazuli token, the size of a halfpenny. On one side was depicted a carved representation of a bird, and underneath it the word
Corax.
On the reverse was a familiar seated figure, adorned with a garland, beneath which was engraved the words
Diu
Pater.
Jupiter. It looked very much as though the obscene mysteries of Mithras had not confined themselves to Clerkenwell. They were here, in the attractive little Anglo-Saxon town of Carshalton.

‘There’s nothing more of interest here, Mr Perrivale,’ said Box. ‘This murder may be connected with a similar case I’m
investigating
in Clerkenwell. In both cases, a token with the words
Diu
Pater
written on it was found on the body, and something had been put into the victim’s mouth. In this case it was mercury; in the other, it was honey.’

‘It’s certainly no coincidence, Mr Box. If you ask me, there’s an insane killer on the loose. You know the kind of thing I mean. Someone with a twisted concept of justice, imagining wrongs to be righted by arcane rituals – a mad brain in a killer’s body—’

‘Or it might be the work of someone who’s very sane, very cunning, and very wicked. I’d like to speak to the family, now, Mr Perrivale.’

‘They know you’re here, Mr Box, and they’ve assembled in the drawing-room. There’s the widow, Mrs Laura Barnes, and Mr Barnes’s unmarried daughter, Hetty. It was poor Hetty who found
the body. Oh, and Mr James Harper is there. He’s the resident manager of the works. He’s only just come in from the yard.’

Perrivale led Box out of the conservatory and into the main house. It was a gloomy kind of place, thought Box. It was quite luxuriously furnished in the heavy styles of the 1870s, but there was a faded air about it, and the costly wallpaper was stained and peeling in places. The works buildings at the back of the house, too, had looked in need of repair and refurbishment. Maybe the late Mr Barnes had been tight-fisted. Or maybe he was on the brink of Queer Street.

They walked along a dim passage and emerged into a wide hallway. Perrivale knocked on a door to his left, and ushered Box into the drawing-room of Wellington House.

Three people stood before the fireplace, a handsome woman, with well-coiffured blonde hair, an older, thinner woman with a pale, tear-stained face, and a good-looking man of thirty or so. They turned to face the door when it opened, and created the
illusion
that they were three figures in a wax tableau: the elegant daughter, the grieving widow, and the loyal employee.

‘Inspector Box,’ said Perrivale, ‘let me present Mrs Barnes, Miss Barnes, and Mr James Harper.’

The thin-faced tearful woman suddenly broke ranks, rushed forward, and seized Box’s hand. Fresh tears gushed from her swollen eyes.

‘You must bring them to justice, Mr Box!’ she cried in anguish. ‘What fiends could have done such a terrible thing? They poured quicksilver down his throat!’

‘Hetty!’ The single word, uttered with chilling authority by the handsome younger woman, told Box that he had confused the identity of the two ladies in the family. The tearful mourner still holding his hand was Abraham Barnes’s daughter. It was the younger blonde woman who had been the cement manufacturer’s wife.

Hetty suddenly released Box’s hand, and rejoined the others in
front of the fireplace. She appeared both confused and humiliated. Mrs Barnes threw her a look of unconcealed dislike. Box saw immediately what he had to do.

‘Ladies,’ he said, ‘and you, Mr Harper, I’m sure that my colleague Inspector Perrivale has already asked all the questions that needed answers, and he and I will consult together later. At the moment, though, I want to interview each of you again, as my kind of questions will be different from those asked by Inspector Perrivale.

‘Miss Barnes,’ he said, turning towards the still tearful daughter of the house, ‘I’d like to hear from you how you came to discover your father’s body yesterday— There, now, miss, there’s no need to take on so! You must try to be brave. The more I know, the quicker I’ll be able to bring your father’s murderer to justice.’

Box found his eyes drawn involuntarily to a full-length portrait hanging above the fireplace. It showed a proud, heavily
moustached
but balding man in his late fifties, his hands clutching his lapels, his dark eyes glaring balefully from his pale face. This, surely, was the late Mr Abraham Barnes. The handsome young Mrs Laura Barnes must have been his second wife.

‘Take Inspector Box into your father’s office, Hetty,’ said Mrs Barnes. Her voice now held unconcealed contempt for the other woman. ‘James and I will remain here until we’re called for. Mr Perrivale, will you stay with us?’

The faded Miss Henrietta Barnes made no reply to her
stepmother
’s
command, but she obeyed it nonetheless. Leaving the room, she led Box across the hall and into a small office near the main door of the house. It contained a roll-top desk bulging with papers and bundles of letters, a small round table, and a few upright chairs. Box opened his notebook, and put it down on the table.

‘Now, Miss Barnes,’ he said, ‘tell me exactly what happened yesterday morning which, as you know, was the fourteenth of August.’

‘My alarum-clock woke me as usual at six,’ said Hetty
nervously
. ‘After I had washed and dressed, I came downstairs. My stepmother, I knew, was already stirring, but it was too early for her to be down. Mary, our maid, had made a cup of tea for me in the kitchen, and while I drank it we chatted about various things—’

‘What did you chat about, Miss Barnes? I need to know
everything
, you see.’

‘Well, we talked about the forthcoming marriage of the vicar’s younger daughter. We were both excited about it, because she was going to marry a foreigner, a man she met on holiday last year in Florence. We wondered whether she’d go out with him to live in Italy, or stay here. Oh, dear, it was such a normal, happy morning!’ Hetty produced a handkerchief from her sleeve, and began to dab her eyes.

‘What happened next?’ asked Box gently.

‘When I’d finished the tea, I filled the watering-can at the sink and made my way into the conservatory. It was a favourite place of my mother’s, and I try to keep the plants alive in her memory. I’m not much interested in plants myself. Neither is Laura – Mrs Barnes.

‘I stepped over the threshold, and there was Papa, lying on his back, with his head in a pool of blood. He was fully dressed, in his day clothes. The garden door was wide open. The world seemed to stop turning. I just clutched the watering-can and stared down at him. I knew he was dead. And that’s all.’

‘What time was it when you discovered your Papa’s body?’

‘It would have been about a quarter to seven. Suddenly I seemed to come back to life. I screamed, and Mary came running out of the kitchen to see what was the matter. I told her to run out into the works, and fetch Mr Harper in. Then I ran upstairs to break the news to Laura.’

Box scribbled rapidly in his notebook, and then looked at the young woman sitting opposite him. How old was she? No more
than thirty-five, but she dressed like a woman twenty years older than that. She rose at six, while young Mrs Barnes luxuriated in bed. She chatted to the maid, no doubt, because the maid was her only friend. Miss Henrietta Barnes was evidently treated as a skivvy.

‘You did very well, Miss Barnes,’ said Box. ‘Did you by any chance touch your father’s body?’

‘Oh, no!’ The horror in Hetty’s voice was all too genuine.

‘And you sent for Mr Harper…. Surely he must be an early riser if he was out at the works before seven?’

‘James Harper is always out of the house before six o’clock. He’s a very conscientious man, who works very hard.’

‘Do you like Mr James Harper?’ It was a curious question, and totally unexpected. Hetty blushed. She looked suddenly both confused and resentful.

‘I neither like nor dislike him. He works hard, but he’s fickle and changeable. You can see how handsome he is, and Laura – well, I’ll say no more. In fact, I think I’ve said more than I should. If that’s all, Mr Box, I’ll go, now.’

4

The Power of the Press

A
fter Hetty Barnes had left the office, Arnold Box sat for a while in thought. He had sensed the tension in the family as soon as he had seen them, standing in front of the drawing-room fireplace like so many waxworks. There had been no feeling of unity in the face of a common ordeal. And now the daughter of the house had hinted at what he’d already suspected: the
handsome
works manager and the attractive young widow had already come to some kind of understanding.

Had that understanding between Laura Barnes and the works manager included murder? Had Abraham Barnes been lured to the conservatory at an early hour by Harper, and then
slaughtered
? It was possible. But then, what about the mercury, and the pagan amulet? He would have to tread very carefully.

The door was flung open, and Mrs Laura Barnes came into the room. Dry eyed, and in full control of herself, she exuded an air of invincible triumph. Without waiting for Box to say a word, she launched into speech.

‘I don’t know what that mewling cat has said to you, Mr Box, but now I’m going to tell you a few home truths. It’s time that somebody cleared the air. Abraham Barnes, my late husband, was a mean, grasping hypocrite. Mr Perrivale will have told you that Abraham Barnes was a pillar of the community, without an enemy in the world. True, he was an elder in the Methodist Church, and
one of the vice-chairmen of the Board of Guardians. But he was a penny-pincher, although he could always find money for whisky and cigars, which he’d consume alone in this vile den of his. Oh, yes: plenty of money for drink.’

‘You mean—’

‘Why don’t you listen to what I’m saying? He drove his first wife to the grave by his meanness and his little cruelties. That fool Hetty adored him in spite of it all, and look at her now – a
dried-up
spinster, with no prospect of marriage. “Poor Papa!” she cries. Well, “poor Papa” can’t help her now, and very soon she’ll have to strike out for herself.’

Mrs Barnes seemed to be working herself into a passion. Her face flushed with anger, and she glanced around the stuffy little office as though wondering how best to commence its
demolition
.

‘And the business, which is basically sound, is being run on a shoe-string. Nothing’s invested back into the plant. James – Mr Harper – had pleaded with him to release money from the family trusts to shore up the works before it collapses. But no. My husband had all but retired. He wasn’t interested. So here’s what I’m going to do. After I’ve buried Abraham, and the will’s been proven, I’m going to marry James Harper, and together we’ll develop this business until it’s a leader in this particular trade. I expect that Abraham has left Hetty a small competence, so she can make her own way in the world as she thinks best. This is
my
house now, Mr Box, and
my
works, and in a few months’ time, James Harper will be
my
husband!’

Box brought his fist down angrily on to the table. Mrs Barnes’s flow of words ceased.

‘Do you understand, madam,’ he cried, ‘that your husband has been murdered? Your family arrangements are none of my concern, but you may be quite sure that I will track down and seize your husband’s killer without favour, and without fear.’

Laura Barnes had turned pale, and for the first time since his
arrival at Wellington House Box saw tears standing in the woman’s eyes. She suddenly sat down opposite him at the table.

‘I married him for his money,’ she whispered, ‘and when he was found dead yesterday, I was terrified in case poor James or myself were accused. I was only twenty-six when I married him. It was awful! But I’m sorry that he’s dead, and I hope you’ll catch the killer, and hang him. Do you want to question James – Mr Harper?’

‘I do. Please ask him to come here, now. Was your late husband interested in archaeology? Did he read any books about Roman religion?’

Laura Barnes looked at Box as though he had lost his senses. For a brief moment, she forgot her seething resentments, and her frightened attempt to apologize for her heartlessness.

‘Roman religion? I told you he was a Methodist. He didn’t hold with Roman Catholics. And as for archaeology – well, the only thing my husband was interested in was cement!’

When Mrs Barnes had gone, Box swiftly examined the murdered man’s desk. There were many receipts, all stamped as paid, and a number of carelessly arranged business letters, mainly requests for the supply of what seemed to Box to be enormous quantities of cement.

In one pigeon-hole of the roll-top desk Box found four small brown manila envelopes, each of which was secured at the flap by a paper-clip. Each envelope contained what looked to Box like dark, coarse sand. Possibly, they were samples of mortar scraped from between bricks. Each envelope was numbered, and inscribed with a few words in a neat copperplate hand. Opening a fresh page in his notebook, Box copied the inscriptions.

1. Definitely Ancient Roman. Lime, Sand, Water.
   
2. Modern, i.e. this century. Bonner has trade analysis.
   
3. Definitely Ancient Roman, Lime, Sand, Water.
   
4. Not Roman. Probably 17th century.
   

So, Mrs Laura Barnes, thought Box, you weren’t entirely right about your husband’s interests. He knew something about the ancient Romans, if it was only about what they put in their mortar.

He carefully resealed the envelopes with the paperclips, and slipped them into the inside pocket of his coat. But what was this? Really, poor old Barnes had been very untidy! Two notes, pinned together, one evidently the projected answer to the other.

The second note was written in the same neat copperplate hand as the inscriptions on the four envelopes.

‘Garrick Flags?’ said Box, aloud. ‘I know where that is: just off St Martin’s Lane. Perhaps a call on this person called Bonner would be in order. I’d better take those notes, as well as the samples. I’m beginning to think—’

He stopped speaking as a discreet tap on the door announced the coming of Mr James Harper.

‘Inspector Box,’ said Harper smoothly, and without preamble, ‘I’m sure you’ll make allowances for poor Laura. She doesn’t mean half she says, you know. It’s her excitable nature. We neither of us had anything to do with poor Abraham’s death. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is.’

Box looked at the handsome young man standing awkwardly in front of him. He was obviously nervous, and seemed to be making an effort not to lick his dry lips.

‘And how do you know what Mrs Barnes has been saying to me, Mr Harper? Did she tell you, just now? If so, it wasn’t a very wise thing for her to do.’

‘What? No, she said nothing. But I know how she reacts when she’s upset. I don’t want you thinking that either of us killed Abraham Barnes, that’s all. You’re an experienced man, Mr Box. It’s a madman you’re looking for, not a respectable widow and a hardworking manager.’

Box closed his notebook and stood up. He looked at the
handsome
young man with unconcealed distaste. Those two, James and Laura, deserved each other. They were both ruthless and heartless. God help the wretched stepdaughter once Laura came into the property!

‘I
am
an experienced man, Mr Harper,’ said Box, ‘and so I don’t need you to tell me who to suspect. Mr Perrivale has called me in to help him, and I can assure you that between us we’ll apprehend the murderer – or murderers – of Mr Abraham Barnes. It’s only a matter of time.’

It was quiet in Carshalton High Street, where the homely but attractive buildings seemed to be dozing in the strong August sun. The road was dry and dusty, reminding Box that he was getting very thirsty. His interviews concluded, he c at the front gate of Wellington House, before setting out on foot for the town centre.

He had suggested to Perrivale that the murder of Abraham Barnes was part of a crime that had its origins in London. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea if he watched Mrs Barnes and the manager Harper closely. Neither of them would have batted an eyelid about committing murder if it had suited them.

Nestling in the shadow of a fine church with a square tower Box found The Coach and Horses, a very comfortable and restful public house. He walked into the public bar, and asked the man behind the bar for a glass of India Pale Ale. Slipping on to a bar
stool, he extracted his cigar case from an inside pocket. Soon, he was puffing away at a thin cheroot.

The ale proved to be very cool and refreshing. Box recalled the countless occasions when he and his sergeant, Jack Knollys, had downed similar glasses in his favourite public house, the King Lud in Ludgate Circus. He wished that Jack was with him now: he’d got into the habit of testing out his sometimes wild theories on his thoughtful sergeant.

Suddenly, a cheerily powerful voice broke in upon his thoughts.

‘Is that the great Inspector Box? Well, what brings you down here to Carshalton this fine morning? Bring your drink round here, into the snug, and talk to me.’

The voice came from a little room leading off the public bar. Box knew that voice. It belonged to Billy Fiske, chief reporter of
The
Graphic
,
an old ally of his, with whom it was possible to strike discreet little bargains beneficial to them both. What on earth was Billy Fiske doing in Carshalton?

Box picked up his glass, and walked into the snug. Yes, there he was, sitting at a corner table, upon which he had placed a couple of books, his spring-bound notebook, and a copy of the previous day’s
Graphic.
A pint glass of dark mild ale stood at his elbow, together with a plate containing the remains of a cold beef pie. As always, Fiske was flamboyantly dressed. For his visit to Carshalton he had chosen a capacious light blue overcoat, which he wore open to reveal his sage-green suit. A high-crowned hat lay on the table beside his notebook.

‘Sit down there, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, pointing to a chair
opposite
him at the table, ‘and tell me to what we owe this honour? It’s not like you to stray so far afield.’

‘You cheeky man!’ Box laughed, and accepted the indicated chair. ‘If Fiske of
The
Graphic’
s in Carshalton today, then he must have been trailing Box of the Yard. What are you up to, Billy?’

‘Me? I’m just looking up a bit of local history for an article I’m writing.’ He picked up a slim book from the table, and turned over
a few pages. ‘Did you know that, in ancient times, Carshalton stood on one of the lesser-known Roman roads? Apparently it was a staging-post for the legions on their way south. Or north. I can’t quite make out which.’

‘No, Billy, I didn’t know that. But I
do
know that you’ve followed me down here for nefarious purposes of your own. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’

The famous reporter threw Box a shrewd glance, swallowed a mouthful of mild, and carefully wiped his jet-black moustache with a handkerchief. He picked up another book from the table, and waved it vaguely in Box’s direction.

‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that there was a big Roman fort buried under the ground just south of Cripplegate? Did you know that there’s a first-century Roman bath within a stone’s-throw of St Paul’s? Did you know that there’s a Roman Mithraeum in Clerkenwell? Did you—?’

‘Strewth! What are you up to, you devious man? You’re up to something—’

‘Listen, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, throwing the book down. ‘You were called out to investigate a murder at the Roman ruins in Priory Gate Street yesterday. Well, I was out and about in Clerkenwell, because that’s how I work: hovering around places where things are likely to happen. So when you’d gone, I went and found my own sources of information, and got the whole story out of them.’

‘What sources?’

Billy Fiske smiled, and laid an index finger on the side of his nose. He gave Box a knowing wink.

‘The toilers and labourers of this great nation, Mr Box, the workmen sweltering in those huts beside the excavation. Covered in dust, they were, and dried up with the heat. Well, I sent over the way to the Harvester, for a gallon of beer. The dry toilers were ever so grateful, Mr Box. They told me all about the poor young man with his head bashed in, and they told me about the honey –
oh, yes, they told me about that. And they told me about the token, and what had been engraved on it. Very interesting, that was. Apparently a constable left on duty there had shared a can of tea with them earlier, and told them the whole story.’