The Haunted Martyr

by Kenneth Cameron

  Denton trotted down the stairs, stepping over the broom, then the body, which now lay stretched across the bottom tread. As he neared the bottom, he saw that another man in civilian clothes was down there as well. Tall, cadaverous, he wore evening clothes and looked furious. Somebody pulled out of somewhere he’d rather be to come here. A bigwig.

  Denton reminded Gianaculo that he didn’t understand Italian. The portiere, who was cowering next to a young policeman as if under his protection, murmured something that Denton took to mean that Denton was the man who had found the body. The young policeman slapped him. The tall one in evening clothes said something in a harsh, guttural tone, and the policeman pushed the portiere out the door.

  The second man in civilian clothes, who had been on his knees beside the body, the first policeman’s handkerchief now protecting his trousers from the floor, stood, his joints cracking, and groaned as he straightened his back. He bent again to pick up his hat from the corpse’s groin, where it had replaced the handkerchief, and rather fussed over putting the handkerchief back over the offending nudity. Denton took him to be a doctor. He was in his fifties, overweight, his hair perhaps black more by design than nature. He folded silver-rimmed eyeglasses, then spoke to the man in evening clothes, as if they were the only two in the place. Denton heard the word magistrato. What the hell did that mean? In London, a magistrate presided in the police court, the first level the arrested person encountered. Was it the same here? So far as Denton could tell, this magistrate swung a lot of weight: everybody deferred to him, even Gianaculo.

  Denton got nothing from the rest of the gabble, but the pantomime was clear: the old man had broken his neck. All three men looked up the staircase. The doctor pantomimed sweeping, a sudden loss of balance, then used the same gesture the policeman had—the bouncing ball.

  Like he was made of rubber, Denton thought.

  Dottor Gianaculo indicated Denton and said something. All three men looked at him.

  ‘Non parla italiano,’ Gianaculo said. The magistrate shook his head in disgust. They all looked severe. What sort of fool didn’t speak Italian?

  We’re eating in our rooms,’ Janet said. ‘The Signora doesn’t want us endangering the morals of the other customers. It’s late now, anyway.’ A table had been set up in the sitting room, a rolling cart next to it with serving dishes under imitation-silver covers. ‘I waited for you.’ She had a glass of wine in her hand. An open bottle stood on the table—the rich red from Vesuvius. ‘I waited for you to eat, anyway.’ She laughed, more like a man’s laugh than a woman’s, a laugh he loved; she drank again, said, ‘Let’s get tiddly and commit particularly exotic kinds of sex all over the apartment.’ Her eyes were a little too wide. Rebellion against propriety excited her, made her imaginative, ironic.

  ‘Eat first?’

  ‘I suppose, but it was bad English food to start with, and now it’s cold.’ She threw herself down on a sofa. ‘How was your monk?’

  ‘He was dead.’

  She stared, then broke into laughter again, then began to undo her dress. ‘To hell with eating.’

  She was unabashed by her own naked body: eating in the nude or with only a Liberty shawl for cover seemed to extend her mood of rebelliousness. She was forty but had kept a fine, tight body, small breasted, lean. She was sipping the wine and eating a blood orange. He was eating boiled potatoes with cold gravy.

  She said, ‘One of the girls at Ruth’s used to keep berry conserves so her clients could lick them off. I’ve often wondered if it’s where the expression “She’s the berries” came from. She was very popular. I couldn’t do it. I’d giggle.’

  He lifted the gravy boat. ‘All I can offer is cold gravy.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you doing gamahuche with strawberry conserve, much less cold gravy. It’s your gravitas.’ She thought about it. ‘Gravitas with gravy?’

  He said, ‘We’re all low comedians when it comes to sex. But I couldn’t do it with cold gravy, no.’ He looked under another cover and found zuppa inglese, a sort of sweet custard. He dipped a finger in and held it up.

  She put a hand over her pubis and shook her head. ‘It isn’t quite us, I think. And English soup doesn’t sound very attractive, does it?’ She ate a bit of orange and some of the juice, like watered blood, ran down from the corner of her mouth. She wiped it away with a finger. ‘Tell me about your dead man.’

  ‘Gloomy palazzo, like something out of an East End melodrama. He was lying at the bottom of the stairs. The police think he fell and broke his neck.’

  ‘You don’t?’ She was starting on another orange, cutting a line of longitude around it with a fruit knife.

  ‘I don’t know. There was a broom on the stairs, and signs of sweeping. A man that old could have fallen—swept the landing with his back to the stairs, missed the step.’ He dribbled more of the wine into their glasses. ‘But there wasn’t much blood for somebody who’d taken that kind of fall. And none on the stairs, which I would have expected. I told the police; they shrugged. The police work wasn’t very good, in fact—a magistrate took over—that’s the way they do it here—and he made it clear he wanted to get back to his dinner.’

  ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘You mean, was he hiding something? I don’t think so. I think he just jumped at the obvious to get it over with—old man, broken neck, stairs. Gianaculo didn’t want to move so fast.’ Denton had pulled on his trousers and his shirt without its collar. He stretched his long legs, looked at his big, rather root-like feet. ‘The monk came to me because he was haunted, he said, ghosts trying to kill him. Well, he was loony, of course. But when somebody says something’s trying to kill him and then he turns up dead—’

  ‘Denton the Deadeye Detective.’

  He grunted. ‘What really bothered the cops was that his privates were missing. Done long ago, I mean.’

  ‘No testicles?’

  ‘No anything.’

  ‘Oh, dear. But that’s nothing to do with his death, is it?’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  After more wine, and as much of the cold stodge as they could stand, and the zuppa inglese in its proper place, and more sex, they lay together on an imitation Aubusson and she said, ‘Whatever shall we do?’

  ‘Now or after we’re thrown out?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘Go to a hotel. Go back to London.’ He laughed. ‘Move into a haunted house.’

  ‘What?’ She was using his belly for a pillow; now she raised her head with difficulty and stared at him.

  ‘It’s my funny story. You didn’t give me the chance to tell you this morning. A local slicker told me he has the perfect house for us. Except that it’s haunted. A man I met after I fired Frioni. In the Galleria. The police were looking for me—because I’d beaten up the two pickpockets—and this Neapolitan flim-flam man got me out of there and over to Gambrinus’s. He’s got a haunted house for us. Kind of wonderful character. Maybe a finagler, but—’ Denton said, as if surprised, ‘I kind of liked him.’

  ‘You’re not making much sense. Have I drunk too much wine or have you?’

  Denton looked at the remaining bottle, still half full. ‘Neither of us, I’d say. But he was there, as if he’d materialised from a séance—I’m going to have to go to one of those for my book—and he saved me from the coppers, and he told me this wild tale, so it’s hard to tell it sensibly. It may all be some kind of joke. He knew me. My face, my name. Apparently everybody knows me. “Texas Jack”. I knew the kids say that, but even the cops were looking for “Texas Jack”.’

  ‘Does that make me Texas Jack’s fancy woman?’

  ‘Mrs Jack.’

  ‘I’d sooner you gamahuched me with the cold gravy. I wonder whatever happened to that girl who used the preserves. I wonder that a lot—what happened to girls I knew. All middle aged and fat or dead now. It’s shocking what happens to whores. But no more shocking than what happens to all women.’ She hooked her right hand behind his neck. She was looking at
the ceiling. ‘I feel bad about Lucy. I worry about her. That mother.’

  ‘Seeing yourself?’

  ‘Because my mother sold me, you mean? Yes, maybe it’s that. But mine did it for, she thought, my own good—money, position, a husband—not that it turned it out that way. Mrs Newcombe wants a son-in-law with a title she can show off in Rochester, New York; it isn’t for Lucy at all. She’s only seventeen; she’ll be married off and she won’t know what men are or what a cheat marriage is or—’ She moved impatiently against his chest. ‘At least I suppose she won’t end up in St Ives.’ Janet had spent four years in the St Ives Prison for the Criminally Insane. Her husband had put her there because she was ‘defiant’.

  She stood, snatched the Liberty shawl from the sofa and draped it over her shoulders. Holding out a hand, she said, ‘Sleep in my room tonight.’ He got up, pleased. She opened her mouth to say something that he hoped would please him even more, but what she said was, ‘Poor Lucy.’ She took his hand, shook her head without looking at him and said, ‘A night in a haunted house sounds a wonderful idea. It will clear our brains.’

  CHAPTER

  4

  Midway through the next morning, Lucy flitted in, terrified that her mother would find her, bursting into tears as soon as she saw Janet.

  ‘It’s awful!’ she cried. ‘It’s just awful! Ma’s found a man for me!’

  Denton was banished; he lingered only long enough to learn that Mrs Newcombe was enchanted with a genuine marchese who had happened to sit next to them at the opera. He was young; he was good looking; he had a title; he was unmarried. Lucy was terrified.

  Denton used the smoking room for its supposed purpose, going through three cigarettes and contemplating a cigar to go with his fourth coffee while drafting an advertisement for the Naples newspapers: ‘Author seeks authentic stories of ghosts, spirits, rappings, and supernatural phenomena for use in book’. He would get somebody to translate it for him. He would get a postal box, or whatever they used here, or he’d have every nut in Naples at his door—witness the now dead Fra Geraldo. He was thinking about the old man’s death and the night before when the Signora herself appeared and announced that there was a man. Denton, who had stood, was a foot taller than she but still felt as if he were on his knees. ‘For me?’

  ‘Another policeman. Scandalo!’

  ‘We’re trying as hard as—’ She was gone.

  The man, who followed her by only a few seconds, was young and stylish: not Denton’s sort. He had a walking stick with a gold top, and a remarkably pale grey hat that he was carrying curled back against his left hip as if it were a dragoon’s helmet. His black hair was combed very flat from a central parting and held down with some mixture that made it shine. He had a black moustache that came to two points, undoubtedly waxed, a scant half-inch beyond the ends of his thin lips. His eyes were clear and very bright behind pince-nez that Denton thought had plain glass in them. His skin was almost delicate, his cheeks rosy, his nails buffed. He wore a lounge suit cut to make the best of his slenderness, nipped in at the waist and padded aggressively at the chest. He was, Denton thought, a young man who was mostly vanity and the rest water.

  ‘I,’ the young man said in English, ‘am Capitano Donati of the Carabinieri.’ He smiled with self-satisfaction.

  Denton said, ‘From the questura?’

  ‘The questura!’ The young man laughed. ‘What have I to do with the questura?’ He was posed, right hand forward resting on the walking-stick, left hand (and hat) on hip. ‘The questura is the police post.’

  ‘And you’re the police.’

  ‘I am the Carabinieri!’ He laughed again. ‘My dear sir.’ He cocked his head, swung the tip of the walking-stick towards a chair, and raised his eyebrows in a question. Denton said yes, apologised, said it was remiss of him, put out his hand, waited while the other sat, then stood again, removed a dove-grey glove and they shook hands. ‘Sit down,’ Denton said.

  When he had sat and arranged himself becomingly, the young man said, ‘My dear sir—the Carabinieri are the national police. The military police. Not the local coppers.’ And laughed.

  ‘Your English is very good.’

  ‘The reason I am laden with this case.’ He laid his hat and stick on another chair and dropped the gloves on top of them. ‘I am a student of languages. English, French, German. It is the next step in police work—an international organisation dedicated to law enforcement across Europe. I am ahead of my time.’ He took out a gold cigarette case, offered one to Denton and took one for himself. Like him, it was slim. He lit it with a Crown Vespa from the pensione’s box, drew on it, and exhaled a stream that seemed to have all his attention until he said, ‘I am spending six months in Newcastle-upon-Tyne two years ago, studying English methods.’ He laughed. ‘I had thought to be at Scotland Yard, but they got rid of me.’ He guffawed—not, apparently, at his humiliation but at Scotland Yard’s stupidity—stopped abruptly and looked at Denton. ‘I am here about the late Lord Easleigh.’

  ‘Afraid that doesn’t ring a bell with me.’

  ‘Lord Easleigh? What is mysterious in Lord Easleigh?’ He inhaled again, blew out the stream, then looked sideways at Denton. ‘I am told you found his body.’

  It seemed like a long time ago. Denton had to struggle with it before he got it. ‘Fra Geraldo?’

  ‘Is that what they call him? How very Nnapulitan’.’ He smiled. Nnapulitan’ was the local dialect, object of ridicule and contempt in the north. ‘I am from Torino. I am educated at Bologna. The South is not my cup of tea.’ The English cliché seemed to delight him. Then: ‘Forgive me if I offend your amour propre.’

  ‘I’ve only been here a week. I don’t have an amour propre.’ Denton’s excruciating accent with the French words made Donati smile.

  ‘Ah, then you know nothing of the place. You will learn.’ He cackled softly. He flicked ash into a metal stand. ‘Revenons à nos moutons. You found Lord Easleigh’s body, yes?’

  ‘If he was Fra Geraldo, yes.’

  ‘There have been inquiries from HM’s consulate. A peer of the realm, dead under circumstances, if not mysterious, then not gin-clear, either. A desire for clarification. We are meeting an emissary from the consulate and will go on from there.’

  ‘I’m seeing somebody about a new house today.’

  ‘This takes precedence. I must be back in Roma tonight.’ Denton started to object, but before he could speak the young man said, ‘It is only a matter of an hour. I wish to see the site, hear your account of it, perhaps have a look-see myself at the physical surround. It is a matter of satisfying the British Crown that all has been done properly—not an automatic assumption in the case of the Nnapulitan’ police.’ He smiled without parting his lips. ‘They are not quite Scotland Yard. They are not even Newcastle-on-Tyne CID. If I may say, they are given to dotting their t’s and crossing their i’s.’ He tittered.

  ‘Surely it can wait.’

  ‘Surely I cannot. We need only the addition of the representative of the British consulate.’ He looked at a watch worn on his wrist, to Denton and most of masculine London an effeminate affectation. ‘He is late.’

  ‘Is something wrong? I mean, is there doubt about the old man’s death?’

  ‘No, no doubt at all—he is very dead! Ha-ha!’ Donati laughed happily at his joke. ‘Well, to be serious for a moment, I believe that the consulate wishes to be sure its copybook is unblotted before a peerage changes hands. Lord Easleigh seems to have had no children and perhaps there is a question of succession. Or of a family fortune. Who knows? I am only the chosen agent of the Italian government, helping a friendly state.’ He cocked his head and looked at the doorway. ‘Ah. This will be our Englishman, from the heavy tread.’

  My God, a Sherlock Holmes come to judgement, Denton thought. However, Donati was right: a maid was showing in a beefy young man—almost a boy, in fact—in English brogues that sounded like clogs on the terrazzo floors. He was of the physical type the English called a
‘hearty’, built for a rugby scrum, rather red faced, with a baby’s cheeks and slugger whiskers that tried to hide them, ear to cleft of chin, no moustache. He had a plump mouth, sandy hair already going a little thin on top, although he could hardly have been far into his twenties. He stood looking at them as if it were every Englishman’s right to look at foreigners as curiosities, then chose Denton to speak to. ‘Frederick Maltby, His Majesty’s consulate. You must be Denton.’

  ‘I must.’ Denton felt dislike, thought, John Bull in nappies. The name Frederick didn’t suit him; he should have been a George or even a Buster. And then Denton was ashamed of himself because he saw, too, that this very young man was rude because he was sick at heart with insecurity. Maltby, he guessed, was what his late friend Hench-Rose had once called a ‘manufactured gentleman, cobbled up from middle-class materials to help us run the empire—can’t do without them, though you wouldn’t want to take one home to Mother’. Products of grammar schools and the lowest rung of public schools, their patriotism a slurry boiled down from Boy’s Own and Cicero, they were crammed and scholarshipped and pushed through the Foreign Office examinations like iffy meats through a sausage grinder. The result was Maltby—and his bully’s lack of confidence. Denton wished he could like him, to offset his dislike of Donati’s vanity.

  Maltby had turned to Donati. ‘You’re the police chappie.’

  ‘Donati, Capitano, Carabinieri.’

  ‘Right.’ Maltby sat in a slender chair and hitched it along the floor until the three men made the apexes of an isosceles triangle. ‘Bit late, profuse apologies, press of work always terrific at the shop. I do hope you aren’t going to make any trouble for us.’

  ‘What trouble could we possibly make?’ Donati raised an eyebrow and posed himself rather languidly. He lifted down his pince-nez as if they were heavy and stared at Maltby.