by T E Kinsey
‘In a what?’
‘He said it was the only vehicle available,’ said Skins.
‘Good lord,’ said Sunderland. ‘It’s not exactly the best way to get someone in to ask them a favour, is it? I’m really very sorry.’
Grine knocked and entered with the tea tray, then left without saying a word.
‘You want a favour?’ said Skins as Sunderland poured the tea.
‘From us?’ said Dunn.
‘I do, indeed,’ said Sunderland. ‘It’s a bit of an imposition – a bit of a damned cheek, if I’m brutally honest – but I think it’ll be “right up your alley”, as they say nowadays.’
‘How’s that, then?’ said Skins. ‘You need a band for the Met Police Summer Ball?’
‘As a matter of fact I think we probably do, but that’s not it, no. This is altogether more interesting. More intriguing. More the sort of thing you used to get involved in with our mutual pal.’
‘Lady H?’ said Dunn. ‘Not sure it’s fair to say we were ever “involved” in any of her cases. We just happened to be nearby a couple of times.’
Sunderland smiled. ‘Even so, I imagine you’ll find this one a – how did she put it? – “a bit of a lark”.’
‘Lady Hardcastle said that?’ said Skins.
‘Sounds like the sort of thing she’d say,’ said Dunn.
‘It does,’ agreed Skins, ‘but why did our names come up in a conversation between you and Lady H?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sunderland. ‘I’m getting ahead of myself. Sugar?’
Skins grinned. ‘Six lumps for me.’
Dunn tutted. ‘Just two, please.’
‘I burn a lot of energy,’ said Skins.
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Sunderland. ‘It’s not really my thing, I’m afraid, but I imagine this new jazz music is quite energetic.’
‘It can be if you’re doing it right. Oh, ta.’
Sunderland handed him his cup of tea.
‘Lady H,’ said Dunn as he accepted his own tea with a nod of thanks. ‘Favour. Bit of a lark.’
‘Yes, quite right,’ said Sunderland. ‘My apologies. So easy to get sidetracked by tea. Let me see . . . How to begin . . . ? I suppose it’s simplest to say a couple of my cases seem to have merged into one and I need a hand with some surveillance. And possibly a bit of discreet snooping.’
‘From us?’ said Skins.
‘From you, yes. I have a squad of men of my own here, but only a small one – we’re not at the top of the pecking order, crime-wise, so I have to make do.’
‘And what is it you do?’ said Skins. ‘You and your team, I mean.’
‘We deal with . . . older cases. Quite specific older cases,’ said Sunderland.
‘Burglaries? Fraud? Murder?’
‘No, not quite. Although sometimes. Let’s take a step back . . . How was your war?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Skins. ‘My war?’
‘Yes. How did you get on? You served?’
‘Middlesex Regiment. Both of us. Joined up together.’
‘Right,’ said Sunderland. ‘You got through it unscathed, I trust?’
‘I got walloped on the head near the end,’ said Skins. ‘But Barty here didn’t get so much as a hangnail.’
‘To be fair, we spent a lot of time behind the lines entertaining the troops,’ said Dunn. ‘Concert parties and the like. We did our time in the trenches, obviously. A few assaults. But nothing like what a lot of the boys went through.’
‘Quite. Takes guts,’ said Sunderland.
‘Don’t know about that,’ said Skins. ‘Stubbornness and ignorance’ll get you through most of it.’
Sunderland laughed. ‘I’m sure you’re making light of a terrible time. You know there were deserters, of course. Men who weren’t blessed with your . . . stubbornness and ignorance, who took it upon themselves to bugger off and leave their mates to it.’
‘We lost a few, yes,’ said Dunn. ‘Saw a couple shot “for cowardice”. Not sure that was right, if I’m honest.’
Skins shook his head. ‘Not young Bernie Butcher, at any rate. He was in a right state, that poor lad. He didn’t know if he was coming, going, or been by the time they court-martialled him. Shell shock. Lost his mind. Terrible thing.’
Sunderland sipped his tea. ‘There were some . . . Look, between these four walls, there were some appalling miscarriages of justice. But there were some among them whose minds hadn’t been messed up, who just took off. And some of those used the whole thing as an opportunity to get away with some pretty serious crimes. And I’ve been given the unenviable task of trying to find them.’
‘Rather you than me,’ said Skins.
Sunderland smiled. ‘It’s not the glamorous end of policing, I grant you – very few dawn raids and pavement arrests. But I like to think I’m doing important work and it comes with occasional glimmers of excitement. Like now, for instance. I’ve got a lead on a missing deserter who could well be hiding out under your very noses. And his is a very interesting case indeed.’
‘Under our noses?’ said Dunn. ‘One of the band?’
‘Oh, good lord, no,’ said Sunderland, quickly. ‘My sources tell me you’ve been booked to play for dance lessons at the Aristippus Club in Mayfair. Is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Dunn.
‘That is right,’ said Skins. ‘You’re better-informed than I am. I thought we were just Tipsy Harry’s regular dance band. But like you say, we’re booked to play for their dance lessons, an’ all.’
‘Who’s Tipsy Harry?’ asked Sunderland.
‘It’s what the members call the Aristippus Club,’ said Skins. ‘Don’t ask me why.’
‘Tipsy Harry . . .’ said Dunn. ‘Arri-stippus . . . ? Surely you can hear it.’
They looked blankly at him.
Dunn sighed. ‘So, anyway, Aristippus was a Greek philosopher. He believed in taking pleasure, but not being controlled by it. He was very keen on control in general, actually. He liked the idea of adapting circumstances to suit himself, not adapting himself to his circumstances. Pupil of Socrates. Liked a drink. So “Tipsy Harry” seems like a good name for him. A Good Time Charlie if ever there was one. Or a Good Time Harry, in this case.’
The other two men simply stared at him.
‘What?’ he said. ‘I live alone. I read.’
‘Well, that explains the club’s nickname, then,’ said Sunderland. ‘But anyway. There’s a rumour of an inkling of a suspicion of a possibility that someone might have reported overhearing something that led us to surmise that it might just be imaginable that one of the men on our list, one Arthur Grant, is living it up in London.’
‘Good solid lead, then,’ said Dunn.
‘It’s the sort of flimsy gossip and hearsay I work with all the time, I’m afraid,’ said Sunderland. ‘The thing is, the name “Aristippus” has come up a couple of times, both as part of a missing deserter case and something altogether more baffling, and I can’t ignore it. But neither do I have the manpower to investigate it properly. My little group redefines the notion of being “spread a bit thin”. So I need a couple of likely lads on the inside who can do a bit of snooping on the QT and report back. And when I mentioned the case to Lady Hardcastle she suggested you two at once. Said you’d be perfect for the job.’
‘Did she now?’ said Skins. ‘I can’t say I’m not a bit disappointed she didn’t come to us direct. You’d have thought Flo would have told Ellie, at least.’
‘I’m so sorry, I assumed she had. Your wife’s name came up in conversation, actually. It seems she already knows about the case.’
‘Ellie knows about the case? The deserter?’
‘Well, part of the case, anyway,’ said Sunderland. ‘It was in the papers when she was in France during the war. She told Flo about it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.’
‘So it’s more than just rounding up a deserter,’ said Dunn. ‘What, exactly, is it you want us to do?’
‘As I said, just a bit of snooping. Eyes and ears open around the club, and let me know if anyone strikes you as a bit dodgy. Nothing dangerous.’
‘What’s this bloke Grant supposed to have done,’ asked Skins, ‘if he’s not just your common or garden deserter?’
Sunderland took a moment to compose his thoughts. ‘In 1917, around the time he disappeared, so did about twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of rough diamonds that had been smuggled out of Antwerp and across the German lines. They were on their way to Calais but they never made it.’
Skins whistled. ‘Oh, so that’s it. I do remember Ellie talking about that one. The whole area was buzzing with it, she said. She thought it was probably just a rumour, though. But it was real? And you reckon Grant pinched them?’
‘It was and we do.’
‘Whose were they?’ said Dunn.
‘Not his, that’s for certain,’ said Sunderland. ‘To be honest, I’ve never managed to find out the full details. Obviously some well-to-do Belgian trying to get his wealth out of the country in case the Germans were there to stay after all – probably had it in mind to follow the gems to safety at a later date – but it’s all been very hush-hush.’
‘What happens when you catch him?’
‘Grant? He goes on trial for desertion and theft.’
‘How will we know him if we see him?’ asked Skins. ‘Presumably he’s not calling himself Grant any more or you’d have him already.’
‘His army record says he’s five foot seven, brown hair, brown eyes, and wears a size eight boot,’ said Sunderland. ‘He was born in ’95, so he’s thirty years old.’
‘So if we see someone who looks exactly like every other bloke who served in the war, he’s our man.’
‘In a nutshell, yes. But I’m hoping you’ll spot someone who doesn’t fit in. This man was a private, conscripted in 1916. Norfolk Regiment. He was a near-penniless farm labourer when he was called up, but now he’s palling about with the toffs at “Tipsy Harry’s”. Or so the rumour goes. He must be pretty good to have gone unnoticed so far, but I doubt anyone’s been looking too hard as long as he wears the right jacket to dinner and settles his bar bill.’
‘It’s quite a big club, Tipsy Harry’s,’ said Dunn. ‘Lots of members. Lots and lots.’
‘The official register says there are two hundred and thirty-six. We had a word with the secretary – very helpful chap. But there are fewer than four dozen of what he called “active members” – the sort who are there more than a few times a year – and just a handful of real regulars. And of them, just one small group of about the right age, all of whom joined within the past twelve months. Now we’ve linked Grant to the club, we’re assuming he’s one of this core of new regulars. It makes sense to me, at least, for reasons I’ll come to in a minute.’
‘Why now?’ said Skins. ‘If you know where he is – or where you think he is – why not just keep an eye on the place and take a closer look yourselves when you’ve got the manpower? Why do you need us at all?’
‘I knew you were the men for the job,’ said Sunderland. ‘Straight to the heart of it. There’s another side to all this, and time is very much not on my side. Our source first came to us – well, came to my colleagues in the Flying Squad, in fact – because he’d got word of a possible theft from the club. The Flying Squad passed it on to C Division CID, saying it was nothing to do with them. Not a robbery, you see? The Sweeney are only interested in armed blags, not burglaries. C Division smiled politely and filed it away, but a pal of mine there passed me the file when I sent round a memo asking if anyone had any intelligence on Arthur Grant and the Aristippus Club.’
‘How is time against you, then?’ asked Dunn.
‘There’s a dance contest coming up on the twelfth of June – a little over three weeks from now.’
‘Which must be why they want us for their lessons,’ said Skins. ‘Getting ready for the big day.’
‘That’s my assumption,’ said Sunderland. ‘But that’s not the interesting part. Not from a criminal point of view, at least.’
‘You’ve not seen them dancing,’ said Skins. ‘We’ve played their Friday Night Bash – some of them ought to be locked up for crimes against the goddess Terpsichore.’
‘She was a Muse,’ said Dunn.
‘What?’
‘Terpsichore wasn’t just any old goddess, she was one of the nine Muses.’
‘I live and learn,’ said Skins. ‘But what’s interesting about it, then?’
Sunderland chuckled. ‘This is a Lady Hardcastle kind of interesting. There’s a rumour . . . Actually, to be fair, this one is more of a legend. Or perhaps a myth. What do you know of the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer?’
‘Not a thing,’ said Skins. ‘Barty? Sounds like the sort of thing you’d have read about in your lonely Wood Green garret.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ said Dunn.
‘Shame,’ said Sunderland. ‘I hoped it might fire your imaginations. In 1805, the president of the Aristippus Club – one of its founder members – was hanged for the murder of a Hatton Garden diamond merchant. He had tunnelled into the merchant’s premises from the cellar of the house next door and was helping himself to the contents of the safe when the merchant interrupted him. A scuffle ensued and the merchant was stabbed through the heart with an ornamental dagger—’
‘Ornamental dagger?’ interrupted Dunn. ‘You’re making this up, surely.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? No, it was an actual engraved ceremonial dagger – part of the official regalia of the Master at Arms of the Aristippus Club. That’s how they caught him and how Sir Dionisius Fitzwarren-Garvie became known as “the Mayfair Murderer” – a lot more romantic than “the Hatton Garden Stabber”. His trial was the talk of the town, partly because the robber was a toff from a posh club who turned out to be the most notorious jewel thief of his day, obviously. But what really got people gossiping and speculating was that the gems he stole from the merchant’s safe were never recovered. His London home, his country estate, his accomplices’ homes . . . even his beloved Aristippus Club were all turned upside down. They never found a trace. And so began the legend of the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer. Now, the smart money was always on one of his associates passing it to some unknown party – it was probably smuggled out of the country never to be seen again.’
‘But?’ said Skins.
‘But legend has it that it’s concealed in a secret vault at the Aristippus Club.’
‘Now I know you’re making it up,’ said Dunn. ‘Ornamental daggers and secret vaults? Pull the other one.’
Sunderland chuckled again. ‘You’re going to love the next part. For a hundred and twenty years people have searched the club looking for the treasure. Members, staff, private detectives, adventurers – they’ve all explored every corner of the club looking for the secret entrance to the vault. After Howard Carter found Tutankhamun’s tomb, they even had a couple of Egyptologists poking around using “techniques learned from exploring the ancient pyramids”. They’ve never found it.’
‘Because it’s not there,’ said Dunn.
‘So you’d think. But the legend persists. And it draws out all the chancers—’
‘And loonies.’
‘Them, too. But they all come sniffing round the Aristippus sooner or later. More so now there’s a new rumour for them to work on. The latest scuttlebutt is that the clue to the treasure vault’s location is in the club regalia. Some item in the garb or paraphernalia of the club officials holds the key, so they say, to the secret. The trouble is that the regalia itself is locked in its own impenetrable vault – actually, it’s a rather ordinary safe in the club president’s room, but they like to say “vault”. Anyway, it’s locked up tight and only brought out on high days and holidays.’
‘Like, say, annual dance competitions?’ suggested Skins.
‘Exactly like that, yes, Skins old lad. The secretary has confirmed that the dance contest most defini
tely warrants a formal club ritual. So on go the robes, out come the daggers and the sceptres and the orbs and who knows what else, and they parade around at the opening ceremony like it was a coronation or the investiture of an archbishop.’
Skins was shaking his head. ‘Let me see if I’ve understood. A bloke who deserted in France eight years ago, in 1917, might or might not have broken his cover to join a gentlemen’s club in Mayfair, because he’s worked out what a hundred and twenty years of detectives and archaeologists couldn’t fathom.’
‘And he needs access to the club regalia,’ said Dunn, ‘so he’s joined in with the dance contest because that event guarantees all the club bigwigs will be out in their . . . in their big wigs, and that means he’ll finally get access to the secret vault and the Mayfair treasure—’
‘Which he doesn’t need because he’s got thousands of pounds’ worth of uncut diamonds of his own already,’ interrupted Skins.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ said Sunderland.
‘Why not just put a few of your blokes in the club on the night?’ said Skins.
‘I could have a dozen men on duty at the dance and they’d never spot our man – we’ve no idea who we’re looking for. That’s why we need you two to go in and see if you can find out a little more about these new chaps so we can narrow it down. And I couldn’t afford it, anyway – I’d need a wheelbarrow-load of cash to pay the overtime. My little squad doesn’t get handed that sort of money except on a dead cert. And probably not even then.’
Skins and Dunn laughed.
‘Well, we’re certainly cheap,’ said Skins.
‘But will you do it?’ said Sunderland. ‘You’ll be there anyway, so it’ll not cost you anything. And there’s no danger. All I need is eyes and ears.’
‘So you want us to look out from the stage and . . . and do what, exactly?’ said Skins.
‘Well, your view from the stage would be a good place to start. But then, just, you know, chat to them. Get to know them a little. See what’s what.’
‘And report back to you.’
‘Just so,’ said Sunderland. ‘We’ll nab the chap if needs be – there’ll be no danger. Like I say, I just need eyes and ears inside the club.’