‘Let’s just say I like helping people. And I happen to be good at it, if I may say so.’
‘I see. But you do work for the police—’
‘On occasion. The police have used female investigators for decades, not that it is generally known to the public. It is very simple, really. I discovered early on that I had an ability for finding lost people and objects, for “clearing up” little matters.’
Helena saw him considering her with curiosity. She hated this part; she hated being ‘perceived’ or ‘assessed’ in a particular manner just because of her accent, her looks, her age, her gender. But she knew quite well what the general public thought: everyone admired how policemen, or anyone who worked for the safety of the public, endured the brutal streets, their chaos and smells, the fetid humidity that simmered up from the river. How could they imagine those activities as woman’s work? Surely no one in their sane mind imagined that someone ‘like’ her—again, assumptions—could cope with bone-chills and uncomfortable waits in the cold and the rain and the snow. She knew that he was curious, that he was wondering whether she had to do all those things.
‘Can you tell me what happened in Oxford?’ she asked. ‘Why are you investigating Sam?’
In short order, Jim detailed the main elements of his cousin’s fate, how an outing in the river with Sam had led to tragedy. She had only cheated death by inches, it seemed; Sam, who had got lost briefly after the accident, had emerged apparently convinced that Viola was dead. This had rung alarm bells with the young woman’s family, who had not set him right; in fact, they had allowed him to believe in her demise, in an effort to put as much space as possible between the two.
‘I see.’
Helena shared the Matthews case, and was surprised to discover that Jim had stumbled upon the incident when looking at Sam’s past.
‘I have my own ideas about it.’
Helena’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Mr Woodhouse,’ she said, trying to smile, ‘I admit it has been very perceptive of you to connect whatever you are investigating with the Matthews case. It is obvious that Samuel is a… person of interest in it. But I would please ask you not to pry much into it. The Matthews case is decidedly complex. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if the external interference of an amateur could help or hinder my investigation. The first steps one takes in a case are fundamentally important, you see. They have to be worked out properly, methodically. A good many things could be lost otherwise.’
‘I apologise. It wasn’t my intention to— I was hoping to be helpful.’
‘Besides, I am sure you will not tell me anything I didn’t know already.’
She could see her words had stung him a little more than she had intended.
‘Is Sam a suspect? He was…’
‘A baby, I know. But, as you yourself have noticed, two… unexplainable events have happened, occurrences that seem to fall outside of a rational explanation. And they both involved Samuel somehow. Or at least, he was present in both.’ She stopped talking, seemed to weigh her next words. ‘Our common friend, Samuel Moncrieff,’ she explained at last, ‘is a complete mystery. I have found no records of his being born, in Norfolk or elsewhere. I have no idea where he comes from. It is as if he materialised out of thin air.’
‘Perhaps he did.’
‘Yes, perhaps he did.’
They both sipped their wine, and a silence fell on the table.
‘And Charles Bale?’
‘Lady Matthews seems to trust him implicitly, even to the extent of sharing her affairs and plans with him. They both belonged to a very close circle of friends who tried to bring the Industrial Revolution to the Norfolk coast. They were partners in setting up a factory manufacturing steam engines. A failed enterprise, I’m afraid,’ she explained. And then she added: ‘Still, I should not rule anyone out just yet. And it is obvious that he, and perhaps Lady Matthews as well, both know more about Sam than they care to share with the rest of the world.’
At this point one of the servers re-entered the room. She bent her head low to murmur something in Helena’s ear.
‘I see. Well, I’ll have to see him, of course. Can you show him in here, please?’
Jim was curious at this new development. Helena explained:
‘Someone has requested to see me. It is, in fact, in connection to the Matthews case. I put out an advert looking for a man who used to work in Lady Matthews’s stables in 1881. One of his co-workers was killed in strange circumstances. It seems that the police did not have the time or the inclination to occupy themselves with this, in the middle of the girls’ disappearances.’
‘Indeed.’
Helena seemed to weigh up what to do about him. Eventually, she said:
‘This is the moment to decide, Mr Woodhouse. If you truly wish to make yourself useful, you are very welcome to stay. Otherwise, and I do not intend to be rude, but I shall have to ask you to leave this moment.’
He had not yet replied when there was a knock at the door, and the same server came in, this time leading a man. He was dressed in coarse working clothes, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders against the cold, and he held his cap in his gloved hands. He greeted them awkwardly, looking left and right.
‘Please have a seat, Mr Friars.’ Helena indicated one of the cushioned chaise longues closer to the fire, but Mr Friars perched himself awkwardly on the edge of the one closest to the door. ‘I am Helena Walton, and this is Mr James Woodhouse. How did you know to find me here?’
‘Your housekeeper was kind enough as to inform me of where you usually take your lunch, miss.’
‘My housekeeper? You went all the way out to my house today? That is a long way, both there and back.’
‘Once the missus and I decided I had to see you, better get it done with, miss.’
‘Did you walk, Mr Friars?’
‘I’m used to walking, miss.’
Miss Walton rung the bell, and asked the server who responded to bring refreshments for Mr Friars.
‘You must have remembered something very awful if you decided to cross the city in this weather looking for me, Mr Friars.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Whatever for?’ Miss Walton asked, lighting a cigarette. She offered one to Mr Friars. ‘You worked on Lady Matthews’s estate at the time of the disappearances, and saw something odd at the time, perhaps connected with your friend’s death, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘That is right, miss; I’m sorry if—’
‘Excuse me for interrupting you, sir, but I take it that you need to tell me something, so please stop apologising. Better out with it, at once. You are shaking, Mr Friars. You are white as a piece of paper. And you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ As she spoke, Helena walked over to a cabinet in the corner of the room whose panelled double doors opened to reveal a number of bottles. ‘I often find it is better to leave that to the professionals.’
‘To leave what to the professionals?’
‘Seeing ghosts, Mr Friars.’
The server entered the room with a tray, and the comforting smells of coffee and eggs filled the room. Helena poured three large brandies.
‘Sorry. I am not a drinking man, Miss Walton.’
‘I apologise, Mr Friars. Why don’t you try the eggs? And let’s get to the point, shall we? On the weekend of the events in question, did you see something alarming, unexpected, unusual?’
‘Yes, miss, all of that.’
‘Why don’t you try to explain it to me, in your own words?’
‘Well, miss, I thought for a long time if this would be a useful thing to say or not. It was the dreams, miss.’
‘The dreams, Mr Friars?’
‘I’ve contracted a dream illness, and was in quite a bad way. At first I thought there was nothing the matter with me, but then the dreams came, and he was in them, and so was Mr Chapman, and—!’
‘Very well, Mr Friars,’ Miss Walton interrupted. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. You
were telling us that you saw something unusual the night Mr Chapman died. How did this happen?’
‘Not something, miss. Someone.’
‘Can you remember the circumstances of your friend’s death?’
‘He had an apoplexy.’
‘Well, nothing odd in that!’ put in Jim. Helena shot a look at him.
‘He was barely twenty-two, Mr Woodhouse. And by all accounts in excellent health,’ she explained.
‘That’s right, miss! He looked strangely old somehow, as if he had rotted… Oh, poor lad. That is when I started seeing the creature around, all the time.’
The creature, as Mr Friars insisted on calling him, seemed to be followed by his own secret pool of darkness, so dark that the street lamps, the light pouring from a distant window, even the moon, made hardly any impression on the obscurity he carried within him, turning his surroundings into some black abyss. That he was accompanied by his own dusk was what Mr Friars had noticed first. And then the shapeless mass of robes and bags, which seemed to possess the quality of moving of their own accord, no matter which way the wind blew, as though they heaved with their own dark life.
The apparition had been there that night, when Mr Friars went out to the back of the stables. He had seen it before; something told him that it was there waiting.
‘I saw him in other places around the estate, miss. He seemed to follow me around! As if he knew that I knew what he had done!’
No matter where he went, he had the notion that the accursed thing would not lose sight of him. As if he could fly, or materialise anywhere he wanted. As if the creature were able to perform some kind of magic, to follow him all the way to his grave.
‘I realise this sounds silly, miss. Then one day I didn’t see him anymore. But things didn’t get better.’
It was then that the dreams came. They were vivid and strange and confusing. In them, Mr Friars seemed to be inside the cunning-man’s head.
‘Cunning-man?’ Jim interrupted.
‘Yes, sir. He is a cunning-man, one of the last few that remain in England. The dreams told me.’
‘A cunning-man is a kind of rural wizard, Mr Woodhouse,’ said Miss Walton. ‘I’ll explain later. If you would be so kind, Mr Friars, please continue.’
‘He was in some sort of ruined place, imagining it all, replaying it in his head, once and again. It gave him pleasure to do so.’
‘Replaying what exactly, Mr Friars?’
‘Why, Mr Chapman’s death, miss! I woke up feverish each morning, my blanket soaked through! I could not take it! It was as if each night I went into this creature’s head! I could not take it, miss! I am not mad! I know I was inside his head! You don’t think I’m mad, do you?’
‘Calm down, Mr Friars, I beg you. I assure you I do not think you are mad, and I have to thank you for answering my advert. May I ask, why didn’t you tell the police?’
‘I would prefer not to deal with the police, miss. They’ll send me to Bedlam, likely as not.’
‘You have done the correct thing, and I am grateful to you.’ Jim noticed how her voice was soft, understanding. The man shook himself, mumbled his thanks, and got up to leave, not before Miss Walton had coerced him into accepting some money, ostensibly for a cab fare.
Before going out he turned and said:
‘There is something else, miss.’
‘Yes, Mr Friars?’
It seemed that the places where he had seen the creature standing appeared to oddly change shape after he was standing there.
‘Change shape? I’m afraid I do not follow, sir. Could you please try to be more precise?’
The old man sighed.
‘Well, miss. It was as if those corners had—rotted. Everywhere he passed through, ruin and decay came after him.’
‘Rotted?’
‘It was all dirty, and old and… there was fungus everywhere—’ the man noted her eyebrows shooting up and stopped talking. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know if I dreamt it all—’
‘Not at all, Mr Friars. I truly thank you for coming today.’
Mr Friars nodded, and left. Miss Walton sat down with a worried expression.
‘This is acquiring layers of meaning that escape me… I need to sort out my ideas properly before travelling to Norfolk. Can I ask something of you?’
‘Please.’
‘Samuel—I trust that you will keep an eye on him?’
‘That was my intention.’
She was considering something else. Eventually she said:
‘I am wondering, have you ever considered what would happen if you facilitated a meeting between young Samuel and your cousin?’
‘My God! To what purpose?’
‘The particulars we are dealing with require… alternative methods. I am positive we will learn something.’
‘But Sam thinks Viola died!’
‘Then maybe he ought to be told the truth, don’t you think?’ Jim didn’t reply. ‘Think about it, please. Good day.’
* * *
Helena went back home and changed quickly, for she had an important task ahead of her that night. Her informants had finally given her an address. This was a still open case, one she had been working on for months, the abduction of children all over the capital.
She arrived with her coachman, a reliable ally in similar situations. What a horrid place that church was. How imposing its tower, how desolate its setting. No one had been able to give her its accurate history, when all she wanted to understand was why it had been made so big and self-important, so out of place in a borough like this, distant and to the south of the city, where the dung of the cows and the overpowering stench of the nearby marshes thickened the air. At the end of her vision, the estuary. Ahead of her, a brief square. The only lamp to be seen poured its sad yellow light over the pavement. It did not perform a good job, and some of the corners sat in darkness. They inspected the building. It was a square thing, deceptively solid, with a tower lifting up from the middle of it, half destroyed by fire. To the right there was a graveyard, filled to bursting, to judge from the sickly-sweet smell. The other buildings were a brief row of small cottages, a barber-and-dentistry shop, a baker, all of them seemingly abandoned. A stray dog crossed their path, unsure where to turn.
Doors and windows were inaccessible, with planks of wood nailed over them. A sign read condemned for demolition. As they circled the building, they saw a derelict hut set at the back of the churchyard. She indicated by gestures that they should approach the little structure. Her coachman followed. They found a small space between the planks covering the window. A small boy was chained to the wall, lying on a heap of straw in a corner. He was not moving. There was a man asleep next to the door, with the remains of a pie at his feet, alongside several empty bottles of ale.
Once they were inside, Helena lost no time in approaching the child, and tried gently to wake him up. He was either very small or dangerously thin. As carefully as he could, her coachman took the keys from the drunk man, who was far enough lost in his alcoholic dream to do no more than move one hand a little, as if he was pushing away a fly. He soon resumed his drugged sleep. They opened the cuff on the boy’s ankle, and the child softly mumbled something in his dream. There was a strong stench of urine, of wet straw, of fear.
‘Come on, we have to go,’ Helena said gently in the boy’s ear. He opened his eyes as wide as they would go. Beaten to submission by his captors, he knew better than to argue. He simply did what he was told. With sleepy eyes he got up and let himself be lifted by her embrace, and the little group headed for the door.
But it wasn’t going to be that easy.
There was a disturbance in the air. Someone, a man, appeared out of nowhere. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a very old overcoat, stained and falling to pieces. The child wriggled in her arms, intent on advancing towards him.
Helena made a sign to her companion to hold him back, while she took out her revolver.
‘Hey!’ she shouted in the direct
ion of the man. ‘You! Leave him!’
‘Miss! Look!’
In the dim, flat, early morning light, she could not see the man’s eyes. He began jerking around, describing circles. Then he stopped, and turned to look at them, extending his huge hands in the group’s direction. The child moved more wildly, as if a powerful grip was pulling him.
‘No!’
They both grabbed him at once, two adults almost incapable to contain the will of a small and weak child, holding him with all the strength that they were capable of summoning.
‘I will not let you take him!’ Helena shouted.
The man smiled through pointy teeth and crossed through green light. On the other side, he transformed into a bearded gentleman, holding a cane and with an expensive suit. But the same horrible smirk. Helena wished that they had been spared that gesture. Then the weak morning light exploded into an unnatural whiteness that filled the world.
The boy fell dead on the floor.
* * *
Helena was shaken, uncomprehending. Scotland Yard took charge of the situation. There would be an autopsy, reports to compose, ideas to thread, more places to look into.
She woke up the next day to a realisation: there was still another angle to pursue. The thugs in charge of the boy were known to her; they were members of The True Dawn. She didn’t need to make any enquiries to know that it was the group that had recently accepted the leadership of the mysterious Count Bévcar, author of the new Spiritualist bestseller Towards a Science of Immortality. All of London seemed to have fallen under the spell of the gentleman who promised eternal life by an as yet unknown method.
She penned a preliminary report to Scotland Yard, and made her way to the club in Pall Mall that had been put by its members at the disposal of the Count’s circle. She was wearing a plain black dress with a subtle white frill, with the idea of passing for a maid if needed. When she arrived, she found the tradesmen’s door open, and a great deal of comings and goings, which allowed her to make her way through the kitchen and pantry area into the building undetected. She found herself among the considerable hubbub of a large place preparing itself for a big party. What could they be celebrating? On a table there were a group of trays ready for transporting champagne glasses into one of the dining rooms. She took one of those, and grabbed also a plain white apron that she tied over her dress. Head down, walking with the resolution of those who know what they are doing, she exited the kitchen into the main area of the building, part of a flow of servers. As soon as she was able to she took a turn and separated herself from the group.
The Golden Key Page 10