Depths of Deceit (5 page)

‘And so—’

‘And so I came down here early this morning. Somebody in King James’s Rents told me that you were going to Carshalton – no, don’t ask me who it was, because I won’t tell you. I got here two hours before you did, Arnold, and made my way out to the Royal Albert Cement Works. Plenty of dry toilers there! I went equipped with a bag of half-crowns, and came away knowing everything about poor Mr Barnes, flighty Mrs Barnes, pathetic Miss Barnes, and ambitious Mr Harper.’

Billy Fiske finished his beer, and set the glass down on the table.

‘And I learnt all about the mercury in the dead man’s mouth, and the little token with the word
corax
engraved on it. That’s Latin for raven. Intriguing, isn’t it?’

Arnold Box retrieved the token from his waistcoat pocket, and laid it in front of the reporter.

‘There it is, Billy. It’s almost identical in shape and size to the one we found in the dead man’s pocket in Clerkenwell. What are you up to? I can’t quite fathom what you’re going to do.’

‘Well, you see, Arnold,’ said Fiske, ‘from a reporter’s point of view two dead men with their heads knocked in are not very newsworthy. Sad, yes, but not big news. But if I weave a sinister tale of slaughter-sites near Roman encampments, or scenes of murder lying on Roman roads, and then link those two murders to ancient rituals of the god Mithras, involving esoteric sacrifices, secret societies, and rumours of hidden vice – well, then I’ve got a really satisfactory story.
The
Graphic
will love it. It’s sensation that sells our kind of paper.’

‘But it’s all tosh, Billy—’

‘Yes, I know it is, but you can see the use of it, can’t you? That’s why you let me see that token just now. Some account of the
Clerkenwell murder has appeared in all today’s morning papers, as you’d expect, but to us gentlemen of the press it’s just another murder. But once someone like me turns these two murders into a press sensation, then people will want to come forward with stories of what they saw, or what they heard; and other parties will try to hide their connection with either of the dead men, and make their suspicious motives only too obvious in doing so.’

‘You’re a clever, man, Billy,’ said Box. ‘I’ve never thought
otherwise
. I’m inclined to give you a free rein on this matter. I’m catching the two-seventeen to Victoria, so I can’t stay to talk further. It’s a peculiar affair altogether. First honey, and now mercury – I’m going to need all the help I can get to make head or tail of this business.’

In the ground-floor study of his house in Lowndes Square, Sir Charles Wayneflete waited for his chess opponent to make a move. Josh Baverstock always took his time, stroking his chin intelligently with his left hand, while his right hovered over the pieces on the board. Such gestures apparently compensated for his lack of skill. Poor Josh! He was as much an old crock as he was himself, but they’d both been dashing young fellows forty years ago. In this modern world of fair-weather friends and declining incomes, Josh was as true as steel.

Josh’s evening clothes were decidedly rusty, and stained with snuff, and there was no doubt that his laundress had begun to neglect his linen. His own housekeeper, Mrs Craddock, had only last week remarked on the fact in her no-nonsense, practical way. ‘Major Baverstock’s being neglected, sir,’ she’d said. ‘You should tell him to do something about it. It’s not right for a gentleman to be treated like that.’

Old Josh scowled at the board, and ventured a remark.

‘You shan’t get the better of me tonight, Charles,’ said Baverstock. ‘I’m going to checkmate you for once, no matter how long it takes.’

Wayneflete recalled the occasion when he had bought that set of chess men. It had been in Vienna, in 1856. They were carved from malachite, and had belonged to a seventeenth-century bishop of Cologne. A pity that the original board had been lost. That’s why he’d got the whole set cheap.

Major Baverstock made his move, and sat back in his chair, squinting defiantly at his friend from bright old eyes hooded by white bushy brows. Sir Charles leaned forward in his chair, and conducted a series of moves which first removed his opponent’s queen from the board, and then imprisoned his king in a gaol from which there was no hope of escape.

‘Check,’ said Sir Charles Wayneflete, ‘and also mate!’

He listened to his friend’s rueful laughter as he rose stiffly to pour them both a glass of port. Poor old Josh! He was hopeless at chess, but insisted on playing once or twice a week. He lived in a suite of rented rooms in a street off Cadogan Square, and came over by cab.

‘I read in the paper today that they’d found the murdered corpse of a young man in that Mithraeum place of Ainsworth’s,’ said Josh, gratefully accepting his glass of port. ‘What do you make of it?’

‘You can’t have a murdered corpse, Josh: it’s a contradiction in terms. I did read something about it in the
Morning
Post.
I expect it was some poor fellow who ran down into the place to escape an assailant, and was cornered there. Still, it’s Ainsworth’s affair, not mine. Much good may it do him!’

‘A man who lives next door to me in Cadogan Square says that the dead man was an analytical chemist.’

‘Really? Well, that’s very interesting. I expect his death was some private affair. Nothing to do with Ainsworth, obviously. In any case, he’s up in Edinburgh at the moment, making a public spectacle of himself with one of his never-ending lectures on the “Clerkenwell Mithraeum”, as he likes to call that crypt of his in Priory Gate Street.’

‘Why, what would
you
call it?’ asked Major Baverstock. There was a sudden shrewd light in his eyes that Wayneflete didn’t much care for. Josh had always been a bit of a mind-reader.

He smiled and shook his head, at the same time retrieving his friend’s empty glass, and going over to the decanters which reposed on top of a bookcase beneath an old faded mirror. He was not a vain man, but he could not help comparing his own smart appearance with that of his old friend. Mrs Craddock bullied him – he admitted that – but she was an excellent housekeeper. Times were not as affluent as they had been, and a stroke two years earlier had made him a virtual recluse, more or less confined to the house; but they managed very well.

He looked at his own frail, narrow face, with its fringe of white whiskers. His eyes looked steadily back at him, as much as to say, ‘Well done, Charles, you’re telling lies very convincingly tonight!’ He didn’t know that young man personally – what was his name? Gregory Walsh – but he knew where he’d come from, and who must have sent him. And now he was dead. He also knew why that had been inevitable – poor young Walsh was no match for his elders and betters….

How much did Ainsworth know about Walsh and his mission? Best not to enquire. Best to pretend ignorance of the whole
frightening
business, because in ignorance lay safety. Say nothing. Still, the haunting question would remain to torment him: How much does Ainsworth know?

The door opened, and Mrs Craddock entered. Thin and grim, she looked at the two men, baronet and retired army officer, as though they were two little boys.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘it’s a quarter past eleven. The major’s cab is at the door, and your chamber candlestick’s lit, and standing in the hall.’

Time to do as he was told, and go to bed. He accompanied his guest to the door, and watched as the driver settled him into the cab. Then he returned to the hall, and picked up the candlestick
that would light him up to his bedchamber. As he mounted the stairs, the flickering light threw unsettling shadows on to the
staircase
wall.

Yes, it was a question to which he would love to know the answer.

How much did Ainsworth know?

Professor Roderick Ainsworth, having exchanged some civilities with the guard, settled himself in his compartment on the night sleeper from Edinburgh’s Waverley Station to far-off Euston. It was nearly ten minutes past eleven.

His brief visit to Scotland’s capital had been a brilliant success. He would certainly repeat his lecture on the following Monday in London, as planned. He had brought late editions of several Scottish newspapers, and scanned them for information about the murder in his Mithraeum, having listened to a garbled account of it from one of his Scottish friends. Yes, here it was. The
sensationalists
were already building it up into a vulgar mystery, but that was to be expected.

It was vexing, to say the least. The discovery of the Mithraeum had been a triumphant public success, enhancing his reputation as an archaeologist of unusual flair. The Marquess of Lome had visited the site, thus setting the Royal seal of approval on the enterprise. And then, some weeks later, perhaps, there would have been yet another sensation in Clerkenwell to tickle the ears of the general public….

Would that happen now, in view of that young man’s demise? That remained to be seen.

What was Wayneflete thinking about the business? Indigent old fool – no, he wasn’t that. He was no fool, even though half the antiquities in his wretched house were of decidedly doubtful provenance – second-rate stuff was all that he could afford. It would be better to keep out of his way. Distant civility would be in order, but no communication of any kind. Wayneflete’s star was
almost set, in any case, and the general public had never heard of him. Let sleeping dogs lie….

But was Wayneflete sleeping? Was he a man to be cowed into inaction by a brutal slaying? No, Sir Charles Wayneflete was a dangerous man, a man to be watched.

Professor Ainsworth climbed into his bunk, and turned the little oil lamp down to a glimmer. Presently there came a triumphant emission of steam from the great engine, and the carriage began to move slowly along the platform. Ainsworth lay back on the pillow. It had been a full, rather tiring day, and he was ready to sleep. Just as he was dropping off, some lingering fragment of anxiety jerked him awake, and made him ask himself a silent question.

How much does Wayneflete know?

5

The Clerkenwell Chemist

D
etective Sergeant Knollys stood for a moment on the
pavement
in front of 5 Hayward’s Court, a gaunt, three-storeyed house in an enclave of liver-brick dwellings leading off St John Street in Clerkenwell. A brass plate beside the front door told him that this was the premises of Raymond Walsh & Son, Assayers and Samplers, established 1836.

As Knollys mounted the steps from the street, the front door was opened, and a young woman came out on to the top step to greet him.

‘Sergeant Knollys?’ she asked. ‘We were given notice that you were coming. Please come upstairs.’

Knollys recognized the young woman immediately: he had seen her smiling out of the photograph that Gregory Walsh had kept in his wallet. ‘To Greg, with love from Thelma’, it had said on the reverse. He saw the flash of a diamond engagement ring as she placed her left hand on the lintel of the door.

Thelma was not smiling now, but although her eyes were red with weeping, she was clearly in full control of herself. Neatly and carefully dressed, she had drawn back her fair hair from her
forehead
, and tied it into a bun. As Jack Knollys stepped over the threshold, he saw her glance at the bulky valise that he was carrying. Fresh tears started to her eyes. No doubt she had
realized
that it contained her fiancé’s clothes and effects.

He followed her up a steep and narrow staircase, its walls papered with dark brown anaglypta. She opened a door on the top landing, and as they entered a long room overlooking the court, Knollys saw an old gentleman rise from his chair to greet him. He was very tall and thin, clad in a dark-grey suit, and with a wide mourning band on his arm. When he spoke, his voice quavered a little, but that, Knollys decided, was the effect of age rather than emotion. Old or not, this gentleman conveyed a strong air of command and control.

‘Detective Sergeant Knollys,’ said the old man. ‘I am Raymond Walsh, Gregory’s father. This young lady is Miss Thelma Thompson, who is staying in the house both at my request, and out of the kindness of her generous heart. Until yesterday, she was my son’s fiancée. Sit down, Mr Knollys.’

Knollys did as he was bid, and Thelma Thompson followed suit. The room was homely and comfortable, and was evidently the main living area of the house. Without more ado, the sergeant unfastened the valise and silently withdrew Gregory Walsh’s clothing, which he handed, item by item, to Thelma. Trousers, jacket, cap; a discreet cloth bag containing his shirt and undergarments – all the violated relics of what had once been a living man. How he hated this
particular
task! Silver watch and leather guard, signet ring; an official envelope containing one sovereign, two half-crowns, four shillings, and one and sevenpence in copper. One chemical spatula.

Old Mr Walsh, who had sat silently in his chair, watching the solemn production of his dead son’s effects, suddenly spoke.

‘A Sergeant French came here yesterday, to break the news of Gregory’s death. He couldn’t tell us much, but he did say that my son had been murdered. That was true, was it?’

‘It was, sir. Mr Walsh died from a single blow to the back of the head, delivered by an axe or adze— I’m sorry, Miss Thompson. Do you want to leave us alone for a while?’

‘No, no! I want to stay!’ cried Thelma, angrily dashing away her sudden tears. ‘Let me hear what happened to my fiancé.’

‘Very well, miss. Death would have been instantaneous, if that’s any consolation. The weapon has not yet been found.’ Knollys delved once more into the valise. ‘This handkerchief,’ he said, ‘had been used by Mr Gregory Walsh to wipe paint from his hand. I mean artists’ paint, the powdered kind, that you mix with water. Could that action have any connection with his work as an assayer and sampler?’

‘It could well be a part of Gregory’s work,’ said old Mr Walsh. ‘He may have been handling a sample of paint for analysis, and stained his hands. Like many analytical chemists, his fingers got stained with chemicals and burned with acids – occupational hazards, you might say. He was a wonderfully skilful man in his profession, you know. He was only twenty-six. I handed the
business
over to him last year, and was looking forward to Thelma here becoming his wife. But there, it was not to be.’

His old eyes filled with tears, and he looked away, so as to hide them from his visitor.

‘Mr Knollys,’ said Thelma, ‘why not look at the books
downstairs
in the laboratory? You’ll be able to see whether any of the jobs going forward yesterday would have involved the handling of paint. Mr Craven, the chief assistant, will be able to tell you.’

‘Thank you, miss, I’ll do that, presently. And now, here are Mr Walsh’s reading glasses, folded in their tin case.’

‘Glasses? No, they’re not Greg’s,’ said Thelma. ‘Greg had perfect sight. He never wore glasses.’

‘Never,’ said Gregory Walsh’s father. ‘If those glasses were in Gregory’s pocket, then they must have been put there.’

‘Well, that’s possible, sir,’ said Knollys, ‘though there are other explanations.’

He rummaged through the valise, and withdrew Gregory Walsh’s wallet. Thelma gave vent to a stifled sob, and held out her hand, but Knollys seemed unwilling for the moment to relinquish the wallet.

‘I found the cancelled halves of two tickets for the Alhambra in
Mr Walsh’s wallet,’ he said. ‘They were dated the 14 July, which was a Saturday. Returning the stubs of tickets to his wallet suggests to me that Mr Gregory Walsh was a meticulous young man – a man concerned with detail.’

‘That was clever of you, Sergeant,’ said the elder Mr Walsh. ‘Gregory always paid great attention to detail. He noticed when things were awry, and would put them right.’

‘The 14 July – that was the night Greg took me to the music hall,’ said Thelma. ‘Hetty Miller was on, and the Santini Brothers. When we came out into Leicester Square, the heavens opened, and we were both drenched. It was all such fun, you know. But now …’

The girl shook her head sadly. Knollys glanced at her, and then turned his attention once more to the murdered man’s father.

‘Did your son live with you, Mr Walsh?’

‘He did, and if things had gone as planned, he would have married Thelma, as I told you, and they would have taken over the top floor. Who could have wished him any harm? He hadn’t an enemy in the world…. Gregory was born in this house, and will be buried from it. When shall we – when…?’

‘The body will be released from Horseferry Road Police Mortuary tomorrow, Mr Walsh, so you can begin making arrangements immediately. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, sir, to be plaguing you with all these questions at this time. As your son lived in Clerkenwell, did he ever visit the Mithraeum in Priory Gate Street?’

‘Yes, he did. He’d made several visits there, when they were still admitting the public. They stopped doing that about a fortnight ago. I don’t know why. It was something to do with replacing the wooden stairs leading down into the chamber, I think.’

The old man moved in his chair, and a light of animation came to his old eyes.

‘I wonder, Sergeant, whether poor Gregory went to look at the site yesterday, and was attacked by a vagrant? That would explain
it all. As I said, Gregory was no stranger to the Mithraeum, and I know for a fact that he’d been allowed in there despite its being closed for the duration.’

‘It could be as you say, sir,’ said Knollys, though privately he thought it a very remote possibility. Murderous vagrants didn’t go round with pots of honey in their pockets. ‘Did your son know Professor Ainsworth, the man who discovered the Mithraeum? Did he ever mention having met the professor?’

The old man glanced at Thelma, who shook her head.

‘No, Sergeant,’ said Mr Walsh, ‘I’m sure Gregory didn’t know this professor. He’d have mentioned it if he’d known him. I must confess that I’ve never heard of him. I’m not much interested in ancient things. Are there any further questions that you want to ask? I’m a little tired, you know. I’d like to lie down soon.’

‘Of course, sir. There is one other question I’d like to ask you, and it’s this: was Mr Gregory Walsh fond of honey? Or did he ever mention honey in any particular context?’

‘
Honey
?’
Thelma exclaimed. ‘I’ve no idea whether he liked it or not. What can honey have to do with my fiancé’s violent death?’

‘Is honey kept in the house?’ Knollys persisted. ‘Mr Walsh, sir—’

‘No, Sergeant!’ cried the old man. ‘I do not eat honey. And there’s none in the house. I detest the wretched stuff. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my bed. Thelma will show you the way down to the laboratory, and you can talk to Craven.’

Old Mr Walsh left the room, closing the door behind him. Jack Knollys took the amulet from his pocket, and showed it to Thelma. She looked at it curiously, but it was clear to Knollys that it meant nothing to her.

‘It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A little lion on one side, and a seated man on the other.’

‘It was found in Mr Gregory Walsh’s pocket.’

‘Maybe he picked it up in the street,’ Thelma suggested. ‘It certainly wasn’t something that he had before he was killed. He’d have shown it to me, otherwise.’

As they descended the narrow staircase to the ground floor, Knollys felt compelled to ask Thelma Thompson a question.

‘Will you be all right here, Miss Thompson? Haven’t you got a woman friend who could keep you company?’

Thelma paused on the stairs, and smiled. She placed a hand lightly on Jack Knollys’ arm.

‘How kind of you, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m quite content to stay here in the house for a few days in order to look after Greg’s father. He married and became a father very late in life, which makes Greg’s loss even more cruel. Greg was his only child, you see. His wife – Greg’s mother – died three years ago. He and I always got along well. My parents know where I am, and they don’t live far away. In a week’s time, Mr Walsh’s widowed sister will arrive to live with him. She’s years younger than he is, so he’ll be well cared for.’

Thelma paused for a moment, as though making up her mind to speak further. ‘Greg’s dead,’ she said at last, ‘and nothing can bring him back. But I do have another friend – a gentleman friend – who has already called to see me, and once things are settled here, I’ll start walking out with him. Life must go on. Just go down that little flight of stairs, Mr Knollys, and through the glazed door. That’ll take you into the laboratory.’

The laboratory proved to be a large, square room occupying most of the ground floor at the rear of the house. Stone-flagged and with a low, stained ceiling, it received daylight from a row of frosted glass windows giving on to a narrow passage which divided 5 Hayward’s Court from its neighbour. The room held the characteristic tang of hot metal and coal-gas. An acrid vapour smarted Knollys’ eyes.

Three laboratory benches, each equipped with a ceramic sink, piped water and gas, and a professional microscope, filled the centre space, and at one of these benches a man stood working. He was somewhere between fifty and sixty, and wore a long, brown laboratory coat, which concealed all but his stiff white
collar and sober tie. He was holding a test tube by means of a special holder, and was gently moving it across the flame of a Bunsen burner. He looked up as Jack Knollys entered, and smiled; but it was a world-weary, cynical kind of smile, which did nothing to animate the man’s pale face.

‘Mr Craven? I’m Detective Sergeant Knollys of Scotland Yard. I’d like to have a word with you, if I may.’

‘Bear with me a little while, Sergeant,’ said Craven. ‘I need to finish this test without interruption. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

Still holding the test tube in its clamp, Craven poured the contents into a small glass dish, and put the test tube safely into a little wooden rack. He turned out the Bunsen burner, and wiped his hands on a cloth.

‘Now, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said, ‘I’m all attention. I expect you’re here in connection with the death of Mr Gregory. Well, I know nothing about it. On the day he was killed in Priory Gate Street, I came in here to work as usual at eight o’clock. Mr Gregory never turned up until ten, which was his agreed
starting-time.
So he wasn’t
here
,
and I wasn’t
there
.’

This man, thought Knollys, didn’t like the late Mr Gregory Walsh, or at least, resented him. Perhaps it would be wise to find out why.

‘Mr Walsh was only twenty-six, so I’ve been told,’ he said. ‘Was he a qualified chemist? Was he skilled in the craft? These are not idle questions, Mr Craven.’

‘Skilled? Oh, he was skilled enough. And he was well qualified, I’ll grant him that.’

The man’s voice was grudging, and held an undertone of angered disappointment, but it was clear to Knollys that Craven would never tell a lie. He might begrudge telling the truth, but he’d tell it, nonetheless.

Craven picked up the small glass dish and peered at the liquid. Evidently, the result was satisfactory. His mind was clearly more on the day’s work than the cruel fate of his employer’s son.