The Haunted Martyr

by Kenneth Cameron

  Reaching his own house, he didn’t ring for Atkins but shoved his key into the lock as if he were disembowelling an enemy. He slammed the door behind him; the whole house shuddered. Atkins’ surprised face appeared. Denton was already taking the stairs two at a time.

  ‘I say—General—’

  ‘Shut up!’

  He tore open the upstairs door and then slammed it behind him even harder than he had the front, hoping it would break, hoping something would break. He raised the stick over his head and threw it down the long room, where it crashed against a wall and then the floor and bounced; there was a sound of breaking glass. Denton ripped off the overcoat and threw it at the grate, then took the hat and smashed it as hard as he could to the floor. When it settled, apparently still in good condition, he kicked it, followed it, and stamped on it. He stamped on it again to make sure it was crushed, then did it once more because his anger was still at red heat. Then he had to stand in the middle of his sitting room and look around to see what else he could smash.

  His eyes met Maltby’s. The young man had been standing by the window behind him. Aware that he’d been noticed, Maltby said, ‘Uh, uh, I’ll leave. Just leaving.’

  ‘No, stay!’ Some dreg of courtesy, perhaps nothing more than shared maleness after all those women, asserted itself. Maltby had shaved off his whiskers, looked young and vulnerable; the sight steadied Denton. ‘No.’ He started for the stairs. ‘I’ll be right down—change these God-awful clothes—’ From the stair, he shouted, ‘Don’t go!’

  In his bedroom, he tore the clothes off, saying to himself, Never again. She said she’d been good, well, she doesn’t know how good I’ve been, at her beck and call, always, always doing what she wants, fucking when she wants, sleeping with her when I’m allowed, living where she wants, putting up with her goddam insipid girls! I’m through with it. Harnessed to her minge and made to gee and haw like an ox! No more! By Christ, she can spend the rest of her life with women! I’ll sell this house; let her keep hers. I’ll go back to Naples. Live in Naples. Or the States—!

  He pounded down the stairs, dressed now in a dark sack suit with the first necktie he’d seen on the rack, brown brogues that Atkins would disapprove of, but he didn’t care. Coming down into the sitting room, he saw Maltby precisely where he’d left him, but the funeral hat and coat and stick were gone; some broken glass lay below the dumb-waiter door, shoved there, he thought, by Atkins’ foot. He said, ‘I’m sorry for the performance. I’ve had a shock.’

  Maltby waved a hand weakly. ‘I’m sure—quite all right. I didn’t notice.’

  Denton barked out a harsh laugh. ‘Have you gone blind and deaf, Maltby?’ He grabbed the whisky decanter from the table beside his chair and poured a glass, drank it off, and poured another. ‘Want some?’

  ‘No, thank you. I really must go.’

  ‘Stay!’ Denton put the glass down on the mantel and rubbed his forehead. He found that he cared what Maltby thought. Why was that? ‘I’m sorry. Something happened.’ He flashed a rueful smile. ‘It isn’t you.’ He pulled the bell, which he normally hated to do, hated the idea of summoning a human being with a bell. Atkins appeared at the top of his own stairs as if he’d been waiting. Denton said as gently as he could manage, ‘Please pack up my things. I’m going back to Naples tonight.’

  Atkins looked at him, waited for three seconds as if hoping for more instructions, and went up the stairs towards Denton’s bedroom.

  Thinking aloud, Denton said, ‘I’ll have to send a note to Lord Easleigh to tell him I’m not coming.’ He looked at Maltby, said, ‘I was supposed to see Lord Easleigh this afternoon. Waste of time.’ He turned away. ‘Most things are a waste of time.’ He took a sip of the whisky, rubbed his forehead again. ‘You wanted to see me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It must matter, or you wouldn’t have written.’

  ‘I, uh—it’s nothing. Just a little thing. You’ve got other things on your mind.’

  Denton laughed unpleasantly. ‘You could say that. Well, I’d like to get those things off my mind. I hear you’re joining the police.’

  ‘Yes. That was one of the things I wanted to tell you. To express my thanks.’

  Denton waved a hand without looking at him.

  ‘I’m taking a course at University College in criminal law. Sitting in, that is. Came in too late to take the whole course, but they’re letting me sit in. Thought it might…’ His voice ran down; he forced it into life again. ‘Help me.’

  ‘Good idea. Shows the right spirit.’ Denton turned towards him. His own face, he knew, was probably frightening; certainly, Maltby looked frightened. ‘You’ll make a good copper.’

  Maltby flushed, shook his head. He hesitated, looked at Denton again. ‘The other thing…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It isn’t anything much, maybe nothing, but I thought you’d be…’ Again his voice ran down. This time, he hardly managed to drag it back to a whisper. ‘Interested.’

  Denton sipped the whisky. He was trying to drive Janet out of his mind. He had thought Maltby could help, but Maltby was being no more distracting than Atkins, who was bumping about softly in the bedroom overhead. He said wearily, ‘I’m interested, yes, tell me.’

  ‘It’s about that private detective. Cherry?’

  Denton had to think about who Cherry was. All of that seemed so distant. Like people he had known in his childhood. Cherry. Yes. And the old man and DiNapoli. That name caused him a twinge of shame. ‘Yes. Cherry?’

  ‘Well, you remember that Dago poof from the Carabinieri? Donati? Rather childish ass, very full of himself—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Well, you’ll remember I caught him stealing from the private detective’s case. He took one of his glass phials and some of his bloodstain fluid. I told you at the time—when we were in the house—’

  ‘I remember.’ He controlled his irritation. Maltby was proving a trial.

  ‘Well, I just had a letter from him—Donati. It came by way of the consulate. I suppose he was trying to butter me up so’s I wouldn’t tell anybody what he’d done. As if I would. He’s had Cherry’s fluid analysed and he shared the results with me—because, he said, he thought the British authorities should know the facts. The long and the short of it is, Cherry’s fluid is no good.’

  Denton raised his head. Finally, Maltby had got to him. Janet receded.

  ‘That’s what the analysis showed—the claim that he could find hidden bloodstains just isn’t in it. Imagine! Unless somehow he believed it himself. People are remarkable when it comes to their own hobby-horses. He was convincing, I thought. Didn’t you? It just shows you what sort of world it is. He seemed such a respectable sort of fellow—rather low-class and certainly uncultured, but trustworthy, didn’t you think? And why would he invite us all to see something that’s no good? Why such a show?’

  ‘How does Donati know it was no good?’

  ‘He had the fluid analysed. I told you. He says it’s nothing but a mixture of water and common vinegar and permanganate something-or-other. Donati said his people tried it on bloodstains and it did nothing. Nothing. They did some sort of analysis in a laboratory; I don’t understand that stuff, couldn’t stand chemistry except for the set I got once for Christmas, then it was fun making smells and so on, but I didn’t know what I was doing. Donati says you could make the foamy reaction if you poured the fluid on common soda, but they couldn’t make anything turn pink with it. The only way it could be done, according to Donati, who has a very cynical mind, I think, is if you performed some sort of sleight of hand and sprinkled soda and a bit of red dye where you poured the fluid, but I’m sure Cherry didn’t do that because we were watching the whole time. Weren’t we?’

  Janet had vanished. Denton was staring at Maltby as if he meant to kill him. ‘If Cherry’s fluid was a sham, there weren’t any bloodstains on the stairs!’

  ‘Well, exactly. What a cheap trick—just, suppose, to inflate our
idea of him. I expect people to behave honourably, but really—’

  But Denton had walked away from him and was rattling the hook of the telephone that leaned from the wall next to the dumb-waiter. He shouted a number into the mouthpiece and then pointed at Maltby and bellowed, ‘Don’t you go away!’

  Denton waited. He fidgeted. He pounded twice on the wall. A rough voice shouted from the earpiece, ‘CID, Plackett here!’

  ‘Give me Munro! Inspector Munro! Can you hear me?’

  ‘They can hear you in bloody China.’ Denton heard the voice calling for Munro. He pictured the big, noisy, swirling CID room, Munro’s desk at the far end from the telephones. The first voice said, ‘Coming,’ and then he waited some more, and then Munro was there, sounding irritated.

  ‘It’s Denton.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That man, Cherry. You said you’d check again with Birmingham—’

  ‘Well, I haven’t. Don’t get your dander up; there’s other cases than yours. And lots more important.’

  Denton’s anger flared, displaced from Janet to Munro. He stepped back from it, made himself at least seem quiet. ‘What about the death in the underground? I sent you the details.’

  ‘Nothing yet. No time, Denton. Cripes, man, it’s only been hours.’

  ‘Right. Well, anything you hear—’

  ‘Right, right—when I’ve a minute—you’re in a long queue.’

  When Denton turned from the telephone, Atkins was coming down with his bag. Atkins said, ‘Lower hall?’

  ‘Yes. Atkins!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you. It was…her.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’ But he didn’t seem mollified.

  Denton strode back to Maltby, who started to say something, but Denton stopped him by putting a finger in his face. ‘If Cherry’s fluid was a try-on, then so was Cherry himself.’

  ‘Oh, but, see here—’

  But Denton wasn’t listening. He went to the mantel and addressed the amber fluid in the glass that sat there. ‘If Cherry’s a sell, then what was the plan? To make it appear that the old man had hit his head as he fell? Where does that get us?’

  ‘I thought all this was over and done with.’

  ‘Where it gets us is that if he fell and rolled or bounced like a ball, then he probably wasn’t thrown. But either way, there wasn’t a lot of blood. Even Cherry’s magic liquid couldn’t produce a lot of blood.’ Denton looked at his watch. ‘What are you doing from now until four o’clock?’

  ‘Oh.’ Maltby shrugged. He looked embarrassed. ‘I often walk about at this time. Look at the shops. Things.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t have many friends yet in London.’

  ‘Good. You up to spending two hours with me?’

  ‘Oh.’ Maltby blushed, apparently with pleasure, or at least satisfaction. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The Albany.’ Denton picked the glass from the mantel and threw the contents into the grate. He put the glass down and went to the box that held his ancient derringer, took it out and put it into his jacket pocket; it felt comfortable there after weeks of absence. ‘Wait here.’

  He went down the stairs to Atkins’ quarters, calling ahead because he knew he was going where he wasn’t much wanted. Rupert appeared, then Atkins; neither looked pleased.

  ‘I’m going out.’ That at least didn’t seem to displease Atkins. ‘How are you fixed for a soft cap and an old scarf?’

  ‘What’s on, General?’

  ‘Going to a masquerade.’

  Atkins eyed him. He pushed out his lips as if he were going to kiss something—not Denton—and raised his eyebrows and went into his sitting room. ‘Have a seat.’ He disappeared, Rupert behind him. Minutes later, he was back with a small Gladstone bag, much scuffed. ‘Sending this stuff to the Salvation Army, but you’re welcome to go through it. Please don’t throw any of it out.’

  ‘Sorry about all that. She—’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’

  ‘No, it’s better you know. She made it pretty clear we’re… She didn’t want me around.’

  ‘Figured it was something like that. Nevertheless, you don’t want to go off the handle, General.’

  ‘I already have.’

  He was going through the handbag. He selected a cloth cap and a stained trilby. ‘No scarf.’

  ‘I ain’t the Old Curiosity Shop. What’s wrong with your own?’

  ‘Not ratty enough.’

  ‘Oh, but mine would be. Flattering.’ Atkins went to his bedroom and came back with a length of dark cloth that hung from his hand like a dead snake. ‘Ratty enough?’

  ‘It’ll have to be.’

  ‘Rupert likes to chew on it. Might smell a bit doggy.’

  Denton took it and thanked him and started for the stairs. Atkins said, ‘General?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She’s one in ten thousand.’

  He stopped. ‘Not today, she isn’t.’ He went on up.

  He draped the scarf around Maltby’s neck and put the cloth cap on his head, which Maltby ducked to escape, but Denton insisted. He tucked the ends of the scarf into Maltby’s jacket. ‘Cigarette,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t indulge. Very bad for the wind.’

  Denton got a cigarette from a box on his table and broke it in half and stuck an end in Maltby’s mouth. He stepped back. ‘Slouch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Slouch. Look unhappy.’

  This was never hard for Maltby. Denton looked him over. ‘You’ll do.’ He went upstairs and got one of his own old overcoats. ‘Put that stuff in your pockets for now. Don’t lose the cigarette.’

  ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘The game’s afoot, as our pal Cherry put it.’

  They watched the two entrances of the Albany for more than an hour, Denton at a peephole behind a first-storey window on Piccadilly, and Maltby in the less likely Burlington Gardens. Maltby had been put in the shadow of a pillar by an empty house where a leafless plane tree gave a little cover; he was wearing the cap and scarf and half-cigarette. He objected that he was sure he looked foolish.

  ‘You’re practising police work, aren’t you? Think of yourself as an undercover narc. Hop to it.’

  Denton had tried moving back and forth between the entrance to Burlington Arcade and the Albany wearing Atkins’ old hat and his own old overcoat. Policemen twice tried to move him on, but each time he took them to the art dealer Geddys in the Arcade and got his assurance that Denton was a respectable person. After the second time, the always irascible Geddys said he was tired of Denton’s bothering him.

  ‘“Allus movin’ on,”’ Denton said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s the police keep bringing me to you, not my choice.’

  It was then that Geddys telephoned a friend across Piccadilly and got permission for Denton to sit on a hard chair behind the little door that allowed a tailor to put examples of his work—best gentlemen’s suitings, by appointment—on display one storey above the street.

  When they were only ten minutes away from the appointment with Lord Easleigh, Denton walked around to Burlington Gardens and told Maltby to pack it in.

  ‘But I just saw him. I couldn’t leave my post to tell you, but I saw him—Cherry!’

  ‘He didn’t recognise you? What did he look like?’

  ‘Like somebody’s gent’s gent—black jacket, striped pants, bowler. He went into the Albany and he hasn’t come out. Not my way, anyway.’

  Denton took off Maltby’s cap and scarf and dropped the cigarette in the gutter, then led the way to Geddys’ shop, where they had left their own outer clothes. Geddys—small-goateed, twist-backed—gave one of his malevolent looks when Denton said he wanted to leave the soft cap and other old clothes there.

  ‘This isn’t a rubbish tip; it’s an art shop!’

  ‘I told you, if you accommodated us, I’d let you buy my Scottish cows at a good price.’

  ‘They’re a drug
on the market.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll give you the cows.’

  As they walked down Piccadilly towards the front entrance to the Albany, Maltby said, ‘I saw you put a gun in your pocket. Is there going to be trouble?’

  ‘Habit. I’m not looking for trouble, if that’s what you mean.’ He glanced at the young man’s puckered face. ‘If you want to get out of it, now’s the time.’

  The old man who served as Cerberus at the main gate to the Albany was the same one whom Denton remembered from a couple of years before. He didn’t remember Denton. He checked a list and said that, yes, Lord Easleigh was expecting him, but not the other gentleman, so would they please both sign the book? Denton, who had seen at least a dozen people go by the old man’s booth while he apparently napped, said nothing.

  Inside, Maltby said, ‘Funny place.’

  ‘Very tony. Doesn’t look it, I know, but it is. Men only.’ He thought bitterly that it might suit him now. ‘Not a block of flats at all—more like a small street.’

  Maltby said, ‘Undercover work is boring.’

  ‘The better crime novelists don’t tell you about that part.’

  Number 12C was on the second floor of a small detached building. Denton went ahead. At the top of the stairs, he murmured to Maltby, ‘Let me do the talking.’

  ‘You already told me!’

  ‘No inventions—no inspirations. Just think of yourself as a plodding, silent, apprentice copper. And witness.’

  He twisted the bell set into the middle of the door. Almost too quickly, the door opened, apparently pulled with a lot of force from inside. The young Lord Easleigh himself appeared in the opening, mouth open, face rather red. He wore a somewhat startling afternoon suit of a blue that Atkins wouldn’t have approved. His long hair, ringletted, hung almost to his shoulders. He looked about fourteen.

  ‘Mr Denton, to see Lord Easleigh.’

  ‘Phh! Oh, of course. I’m Paul Murie—Easleigh, that is. My man is off today. Answering the door myself. Rather—rather…’ He seemed unable to say rather what.