Depths of Deceit (7 page)
Authors: Norman Russell
The ale was strong and cool, and the beef pies flavoursome and garnished with jelly. Box sighed, and sat back in his chair. Around the two of them the other customers continued to mutter their professional secrets to each other. Although it was hot and stuffy in the back bar, it was a welcome change from the Rents.
‘And there was a note from Dr Miller at Horseferry Road,’ Box said. ‘He’s had the honey from young Walsh’s mouth analysed. It was just ordinary honey, he said, the kind you could buy at any grocer’s. So that’s that.’
‘What are you going to do now, sir?’
‘I propose that you and I, Jack, pay a visit to this other chemist, the one who had business dealings with Abraham Barnes at Carshalton. What was his name?’
Box produced his notebook, and rapidly flicked over the pages.
‘Yes, here it is. When I searched through Barnes’s desk, I found four little envelopes containing small quantities of what looked like sand or mortar. There was also a note – or the copy of a note – saying that the contents of the envelopes had been analysed by someone called Bonner, whose premises were in Garrick Flags, which is just behind Charing Cross Road. Let’s call upon this Mr Bonner this afternoon, and show him those envelopes. They’re bound to mean something to him.’
*
Inspector Perrivale knocked on the door of Mr Stanley’s
boarding-house
in Queen’s Lane. His feet were hurting him, because it was years since he’d pounded so many pavements as he’d done that day. He’d visited six of the seven small hotels and boarding-houses in the Hackbridge area of Carshalton, to no avail. No one had accommodated a burly, bearded workman in a black jacket, accompanied by a large carpet bag. Mr Stanley’s establishment was the last of the seven.
The door was opened by Mr Stanley himself. He was in his shirt sleeves, and had evidently been polishing cutlery, as he still held a fork in one hand and an ample cloth in the other.
‘Mr Perrivale! Come in. What can I do for you? Is it about the man with the carpet bag?’
‘It is, Mr Stanley,’ said Perrivale, entering a narrow hallway containing an enormous hall stand and an aspidistra growing in a glazed pot on a stand. There was a strong smell of cabbage emanating from some unseen quarter of the house behind the stairs.
‘He came here on Monday,’ said Mr Stanley, a genial, balding man in his fifties. ‘He said he wanted a room for the night, and offered to pay cash in advance. Well, that was fine, of course, so I took him upstairs and showed him one of the little attic rooms at the back. He said he didn’t want a meal, and that he’d be out quite late. I gave him a latch key, and left him to his own devices.’
‘How did you know that I was trying to find where this man had stayed?’
‘Joe Straddling’s wife told
my
wife. I don’t know who told Mrs Straddling. Do you think he was the man who murdered poor Mr Barnes? Just think! We might have all been murdered in our beds!’
‘What was he like, this bearded man?’
‘He seemed very respectable to me. Well set up, if you know what I mean. His cap and coat were obviously brand new, and so was his carpet bag. I offered to carry it upstairs for him, but he said to let well alone. He spoke quietly, and I got the impression
he’d been well educated. He was probably a skilled tradesman of some sort. He was the kind of man who didn’t encourage
questions
, and I never asked him any.’
‘When did he leave, Mr Stanley? Did you see him go?’
‘No, I didn’t see him go. He’d left the house long before I got up. In fact, I’m not sure that he ever returned from going out late that evening. His bed hadn’t been slept in, though he’d evidently lain on the top of it for a while. He’d left the latch key on the edge of the wash-stand, together with a florin gratuity, which was very handsome of him, since I’d done nothing for him but provide him with a room and bed.’
‘I supposed he signed your register? What name did he give?’
‘Michael Shane, living at 4 Cobb’s Buildings, Hackney. He asked me to write it for him, as his wrist was strained.’
‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Stanley,’ said Perrivale, ‘you’ve been a great help.’
‘Will you go after this Michael Shane?’ asked Mr Stanley. ‘Do you think it was he who murdered poor Mr Barnes?’
Inspector Perrivale smiled, but refused to be drawn. As he walked away from Mr Stanley’s boarding-house, he thought: there’ll be no such man as Michael Shane, and no such place as Cobb’s Buildings, unless I’m very much mistaken. I’ll telegraph the name and address to Mr Box at Scotland Yard, but it’s
information
that will lead nowhere.
Box and Knollys saw the premises of the man called Bonner as soon as they walked into Garrick Flags from St Martin’s Lane. A tall, three storeyed warehouse was topped by a long painted sign, telling them that this was the place of business of William Bonner and Company, Assayers to the Building Trade and Mineral Merchants’ Samplers.
Bonner’s was a much larger undertaking than Walsh’s
laboratory
in Clerkenwell. In a cobbled yard at the side of the building they could see several wagons drawn up at a loading platform. A
long, open-sided shed revealed rows of demijohns and carboys containing what Box judged to be deadly acids. A number of men were busy in the yard, and when the two policemen entered the building, they found themselves in a kind of open office, where a smartly dressed clerk rose from a desk to receive them.
Yes, Mr Bonner was available, and could see them straight away. It was a busy day, and Mr Bonner was in the main
laboratory
. Would they please walk this way?
When the clerk threw open a glazed door at the end of a passage, Box and Knollys could hardly contain a gasp of surprise. The laboratory was a room of vast proportions, containing an array of ten long chemical benches, at which a number of men in brown coats were working. Box was familiar with the delicate glass apparatus of chemical laboratories, but some of the devices set out in Bonner’s vast room were quite unknown to him.
‘Inspector Box? I thought you’d pay a call on us after what happened to Abraham Barnes. I’m William Bonner.’
Bonner, a tall, quiet man with silver hair, had emerged from somewhere at the rear of the laboratory. Like his employees, he wore a long brown laboratory coat buttoned up to the collar. He looked slightly vexed at having the routine of his laboratory disrupted, but his courteous voice held no tone of reproach. He stood for a moment observing his visitors with steady, unblinking eyes, and then essayed a slight smile.
‘In a moment, Inspector,’ said Bonner at last, ‘one of my
assistants
will be testing the compressive strength of a suspect mortar, using that device over there.’ He pointed to a machine that looked like a combination of book-press and anvil. ‘It measures the torque at the moment of compression, and once the test starts it can be very noisy. You and I had better talk elsewhere.’
They followed Bonner out of the laboratory and into a
well-furnished
office on the same floor. Bonner motioned to a couple of chairs, and sat behind a cluttered desk.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ he asked. ‘I was astounded to
read of poor Barnes’s violent demise. It must surely have been the work of a demented tramp or vagrant.’
Arnold Box saw Knollys hide a smile behind his hand. It was amazing how the public tried to foist off every violent crime on a mythical army of dangerous beggars.
‘First, sir, I’d like to know what connection you had with the dead man. Was he just a client, or would you have counted him among the number of your friends?’
‘Abraham Barnes, Inspector, ran a very old-established cement works. He was, perhaps, a trifle old-fashioned in his industrial processes, but he was meticulous in submitting all his batches to us for sampling. Cement— I suppose you know what cement
is
, don’t you?’
‘Well, sir, it’s—’
‘Cement, Inspector, or Portland cement, which is what we’re talking about in relation to Abraham Barnes’s works, is a finely ground powder of cement clinker, gypsum, and certain other materials. It’s the basic ingredient of concrete, mortar and stucco. Our company provides analytical and testing services to the cement industry in general. Abraham Barnes was one of my clients. I knew him well, but I’d not have called him a friend. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was no stranger to me.’
From the laboratory beyond, a tremendous banging and crashing commenced. The two policemen winced. Mr Bonner smiled.
‘Sir,’ said Box, reaching into his inner pocket, ‘I have some samples here that I’d like you to look at. I found them in the late Mr Barnes’s office.’
A gleam of interest came to the steady eyes of the analytical chemist. He stretched out his hand, and Box gave him the four manila envelopes that he had found in Abraham Barnes’s desk, together with the two notes that he had discovered with them.
‘Oh, yes, Inspector,’ said Bonner, ‘these were very interesting.
They were all specimens of mortar. Barnes wouldn’t tell me where he got them from, but he asked me to analyse them to determine which were ancient Roman, and which were modern. He came in here with them about a month ago, as I remember, on business to do with the works, and when we’d finished that, he produced these samples, and asked me to tell him what they were.’
‘Would such a task be part of your normal business?’
‘Well, no, Mr Box, and I would normally have sub-contacted work of this type to people like poor young Gregory Walsh, at Clerkenwell. But Barnes was insistent that I should do the work myself, so I did. That’s my writing on the envelopes. I sent them back to him a week later. I’ve got the full analyses here, in the office, but what’s written on the envelopes is all that Barnes needed to know.’
‘Could you briefly explain what your comments mean?’
‘Well, the first sample was of a mortar made from freshly burnt lime, sharp sand, and water, used for slaking. It was indubitably ancient Roman mortar. The same applied to sample number three: undoubtedly Roman. Number two was modern mortar: I mean late nineteenth century. It contained neat Portland cement,
something
unknown to the Romans, and typical quantities of alumina. It was modern mortar. I did a full trade analysis on that one.’
‘And the last sample?’
‘I wasn’t too sure about that one. Some of the constituents suggest that it was made about 1660. But it was most definitely not Roman mortar.’
Somewhere in the deep recesses of Arnold Box’s mind a picture was forming. It was a picture that he did not much care for.
‘You’ve been of enormous help, Mr Bonner,’ he said. ‘I must say, it’s all very fascinating. And you charged him a guinea?’
Bonner laughed, and his sober face broke into a charming smile.
‘He was always very keen on money and receipts, was poor Barnes. Yes, I charged him a guinea, and he sent me a cheque
through the post by return. He was old-fashioned in his approach to production, but he was a careful businessman.’
‘That other note, sir: it seems to be from a third party. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘“Barnes, can I trouble you to get these four done? I’m nearly there, and these four, if they show what I think they’ll show, will be the final proof.” Well, it obviously applies to these samples, and evidently Barnes had been asked by the writer to have them analysed.’
‘That note is signed with the initials CW. Do they convey anything to you, sir?’
‘Not a thing, Inspector. Evidently, CW was one of Barnes’s friends, and he was engaged on some kind of research into building-materials. He could be a scientist, I suppose. Abraham Barnes was a Methodist, you know, so maybe this CW was one of his co-religionists. Perhaps it would be a good idea to check up on that aspect of his life.’
What sounded like a thunderous explosion shook the wall of the office. Mr Bonner rose to his feet.
‘I must go back to the laboratory, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘They’re testing the tensile strength of a batch of cement briquettes – you may have heard the sound just now. I’m always here at your service if you want me, and all records of my dealings with Abraham Barnes are at your disposal. I
must
go. Let me bid you good day.’
I
n the large front room of her neat semi-detached villa in one of the spacious new avenues in Finchley, Louise Whittaker was busy setting out the tea-things on a round table near the fireplace. In half an hour’s time, her little maid Ethel would bring in the teapot, and then she and her friend Mary Westerham, a renowned epigraphist, and a fellow lecturer at Maybury College in Gower Street, would settle down to an hour of refreshment and, possibly, enlightenment.
Mary Westerham always dressed in black, even in high summer. Her grey hair was drawn back from her forehead, and secured at the nape of her neck in a severe bun. But she was a woman of ready wit and genuine compassion, not just well respected, but well liked.
Miss Westerham’s sight was not of the best, and she was sitting at Louise’s paper-strewn working-table in the wide bay window, reading
The
Graphic
newspaper with the aid of strong pince-nez.
‘I say, Louise,’ cried Mary Westerham suddenly, ‘have you read this report of the so-called Mithras murders in this paper? Where on earth did their reporter find all this detail? He certainly gives the impression of knowing quite a lot about Mithraism. I wonder whether he’s read Franz Cumont’s monograph on the subject? Incidentally, I didn’t know you read this kind of popular print. I thought you were a
Morning
Post
woman.’
‘Why, so I am.’ Louise laughed. ‘My little maid Ethel brought me that, because she knew I’d be interested in it. The lady next door gives it to her when she’s finished with it, so that she can look at the pictures. Of course, anthropology’s not my subject – I’m more at home with Anglo-Saxon manuscripts – but it’s certainly intriguing.’
‘He asks a lot of questions,’ said Mary, ‘to all of which the sensible answer would be “no”. “Are pagan rites still celebrated in modern London?” etcetera. “Were these two unfortunate men adepts of some secret cult?” Well, I suppose that’s possible…. I wonder who wrote this? There’s no name attached to it.’
‘It was written by a man called Fiske,’ said Louise. ‘He’s one of their chief reporters, and very highly regarded in newspaper circles.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Somebody told me. This Mithraism, Mary – it was an ancient Roman religion, wasn’t it? I should have thought that it was dead and buried long ago. Do tell me about it. I know that you once made a special study of ancient pagan cults.’
‘It began in Persia,’ said Mary Westerham, ‘and spread throughout the early Greek empire. Then the Romans got hold of it. It was being practised in the Roman Empire by 100
BC
. It was one of those shadowy mystery religions that appealed to soldiers, and slaves. To some extent, of course, so was Christianity, when you think of it.’
Louise Whittaker frowned. When this kind of thing’s taken
seriously
in the papers, she thought, it was as though the Enlightenment had never happened. Most people outside the academic world seemed quite incapable of thinking rationally.
‘I could imagine a certain kind of silly exhibitionist reinventing something like that in our own time,’ said Louise, ‘a made-up
religion
or philosophy, like Freemasonry, you know, or spiritualism.’
‘Well, hardly Freemasonry, dear,’ said Mary, regarding Louise severely over her pince-nez. ‘Freemasons are more given to arcane
rituals and solid charity than bizarre murders. Boy’s stuff, of course, but hardly murderous! And apropos of that article in the paper, I note that Detective Inspector Box is on the case. Isn’t he your tame sleuth at Scotland Yard?’
Louise Whittaker found herself blushing. It was her friend Arnold Box who had told her that Fiske was writing a series of articles about the Mithras affair for
The
Graphic
,
but some instinct had warned her not to acquaint Mary with that fact.
‘He’s rather more than that, Mary,’ she said quietly. ‘And – oh, dear! I see that I must tell you the whole truth about this
afternoon’s
proceedings.’
‘How intriguing! And what, pray, is the “whole truth”?’
‘I’ve invited Inspector Box to join us here for tea this afternoon. You see, I always try to help him all I can, and as you’re an expert in ancient Roman cults, I’m sure that there are things that you could tell him to smooth his path during this investigation. Do you mind terribly, Mary?’
Mary Westerham laughed, and looked fondly at her younger colleague.
‘Well, of course I don’t mind. How splendid! In any case, I suspected something of the sort when I saw that you’d set out three cups and saucers for tea. But you should have told me, Louise, and then I could have brought some notes with me. When is he coming?’
‘He’ll be here any minute now, I expect.’
Louise Whittaker crossed to the window bay, and looked out into the quiet avenue. Her mind reverted to Mary Westerham’s half-humorous remark about Arnold Box: ‘Isn’t he your tame sleuth at Scotland Yard?’
No, he was more than that. Much more. They had met a few years earlier when she had been called as an expert witness in a forgery case, and from that time Arnold Box had conducted a long, discreet and diffident courtship that had gradually won her heart. He was a renowned detective with a public reputation, but
whenever he was with her, he seemed confused and tongue-tied, and she could never resist making him the butt of her deadly wit. She had never had much time for men – the self-appointed Lords of Creation – but she had plenty of time for her friend Arnold Box.
He would come out to Finchley in order to get what he called ‘a female slant’ on aspects of a case, and from this front window she would watch him walking rather self-consciously around the corner into the avenue. He would have caught one of the Light Green Atlas omnibuses from town as far as the Finchley terminus at Church End. Well, when he came today, he would find that she had provided him with an expert consultant on matters Mithraic. Dear, diffident man, he would appreciate that.
Here he was, now!
Louise withdrew from the window, and waited for Arnold Box’s sprightly knock on the front door. There was a brief murmur of voices in the hall, and then Ethel entered the room.
‘Detective Inspector Box to see you, ma’am,’ she said, and stood aside for Box to come in. He looked very smart and spruce and, as always, a trifle nervous. What would he make of Mary Westerham?
‘Thank you, Ethel,’ said Louise, ‘you can bring tea in, now. This is my friend Miss Westerham. Mary, this is Detective Inspector Box.’
She was surprised how quickly her two friends accepted each other. She had anticipated a certain awkwardness as her diffident detective friend tried to adjust to another female academic. But no: they seemed to accept each other immediately.
The door opened, and little Ethel, a pretty, cheerful girl of fifteen, came in with the silver teapot on a tray. She smiled shyly at Box, and then, recollecting the rather stern lady sitting in the window, she assumed an expression of profound seriousness,
curtsied
, and left the room. Soon, the three of them had settled themselves around the tea table. Louise poured tea for them into
thin, patterned china cups. There were plates of ham and cucumber sandwiches, a plum cake on a stand, and some freshly baked scones.
‘Mary,’ said Louise, ‘as you know, Mr Box is investigating two murders, both of which seem to be connected with a modern cult of Mithras. It’s a strange and frightening business. Now, you’re an expert in these matters. I’m sure he’d want to hear what you can tell him about this bizarre worship of an ancient god.’
Mary Westerham put down her cup, and regarded Box
appraisingly
for a few moments through her pince-nez.
‘Mr Box,’ she said, ‘if I’d known that you were coming here today, I would have prepared some notes covering most of what you might want to learn about Mithras and his devotees. As it is, I’ll have to rely on memory. If I seem to go off at a tangent, don’t be afraid to recall me to the business in hand. And for goodness’ sake, interrupt with questions when you need to. So let me talk to you first about the worshippers – the devotees of this god.
‘As I told Louise earlier, the religion of Mithras is Persian in origin. It spread throughout the Greek empire, and was being practised in the Roman Empire by 100
BC
. It was very popular, and very persistent, and was still being practised both in Europe, and here in Britain, as the Roman Empire was beginning to
disintegrate
.
‘There were seven grades of initiation into the cult of Mithras,’ Mary continued, ‘and each grade was associated with a particular sign, and also with one of the ancient Roman gods. Has anyone mentioned to you the case of Alfredo Bertoni in Naples?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I have heard of it. I believe he was some kind of fanatic who was exposed in 1874.’
‘That’s right. Well, he offered human sacrifices – and, by the way, they were
voluntary
sacrifices. Each slaughtered victim was found with the sign of his initiation about him. One man was clutching a lapis lazuli token depicting a horned moon: that was the sign of the fifth grade, known as “The Persian”. A second man
was found with silver rings fashioned from twisted wire in his mouth, a sign that he had achieved the second grade, that of “The Bridegroom”, associated with the goddess Venus. Another victim had around his neck a token suspended on a gold chain, upon which was depicted the sun in majesty. That man had reached the sixth grade, called Heliodromus, the “Runner of the Sun”.’
Louise Whittaker moved uneasily. She hated this kind of occult business. It was all mumbo jumbo, but none the less lethal for that.
‘When I examined the body of young Mr Gregory Walsh in the Clerkenwell Mithraeum,’ said Box, ‘I found honey spooned into his mouth, and in his pocket a lapis lazuli token depicting a lion. Can you explain what that meant?’
‘It suggests that Mr Walsh had achieved the fourth grade, that of Leo, the Lion, associated with Jupiter. Now, it’s thought that each aspirant had to undergo an ordeal, either by heat, cold, or hunger. Those who achieved the grade of Lion were, in theory, to undergo the ordeal by fire, but because their grade was associated with Jupiter, the father of the gods, honey was used instead. Honey also betokened purity and cleanness of speech. I think I’ve got that right.’
All three were silent for a while, giving their attention to the business of enjoying their afternoon tea. Arnold Box glanced at Louise, and saw that she had fallen into a reverie. She sat with her hands in her lap, clutching her teacup, and with her mind evidently far away. And this friend of hers, Miss Mary Westerham, was a much nicer lady than she chose to suggest with all that funeral black, and pulled-back hair. If was fascinating to listen to her.
So Gregory Walsh could have been a willing sacrifice, a man who crept out early from his own house in order to be slaughtered with an adze, as an offering to Mithras, or to Jupiter, or to any other of those obscene creations of a diseased imagination.
And then there was Abraham Barnes….
‘And what about the second victim, Miss Westerham?’ asked Box. ‘A man called Abraham Barnes? He was found with mercury in his throat and stomach, and a little plaque of a bird marked “Corax” found about his person.’
‘That means that Mr Barnes was a recent member of the cult, who had achieved only the first stage of initiation, that of the Raven, which was associated with the god Mercury. That was why the poor man had had mercury poured down his throat. Not a pleasant thought, but then, this is not a pleasant business.’
No, indeed…. Had Abraham Barnes, cement manufacturer, tiptoed downstairs on that fatal morning, to be offered as a
sacrifice
to Mithras?
‘There’s a hideous logic to it all, you see, Mr Box,’ said Mary. ‘These are modern people abandoning themselves to an ancient superstition, but they are doing it in an informed manner, adhering faithfully to the old rituals. Rather fearsome, I should have thought.’
The topic of Mithras seemed to have exhausted itself, and the conversation turned to more mundane matters. When tea was done, Louise Whittaker declared that she had to see how Ethel was coping in the kitchen, and left the room. Mary Westerham removed her pince-nez, leaned back in her chair, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
‘I expect you come here for the same reason as I do,’ she said, glancing at Box. ‘There’s something cool and serene about Louise’s house that makes it a kind of sanctuary from the cares of the world. Don’t you find it so?’
‘I do, ma’am,’ said Box. ‘It’s all because of Louise – Miss Whittaker. She’s what you might call the genius of the place.’
‘The
genius
loci
,’
said Mary, nodding her agreement, ‘that’s what the old Romans used to call it. And you’re right. Louise is a serene person by nature and inclination, and she can impart that serenity to her friends. She and I are colleagues at Maybury College, in Gower Street, and she invites me out here to Finchley
once a month. I live in college accommodation in a little dark street behind University College, so you can imagine how wonderful it is to come out this far, and enjoy the calm and sanity of Louise’s house. Incidentally, I have a hansom cab calling by appointment in a quarter of an hour’s time to take me to Gower Street. Would you care to share it with me?’