Inspector Abberline and the Gods of Rome

by Simon Clark

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the railway industry almost collapsed in the 1840s – nearly all construction was halted.’

  ‘My father had already realized that many railway companies had over-stretched themselves and would go bankrupt.’

  ‘So, he invested in country estates, which you and your brothers ran for him?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘But he didn’t buy them outright. He merely rented properties, which would then be reclaimed by the owners when the term of the lease expired.’

  ‘That’s hardly relevant to the death of my brother.’

  ‘For a man of such keen business instincts, the fact that your father acquired large country estates for such a short term seems …’ – Abberline tilted his head – ‘Dare I say, shortsighted?’

  ‘My father was a man of vision, sir. I won’t have you speak ill of him.’

  ‘I would not insult a dead man, Mr Denby. I am merely trying to understand why your father invested so much money in country estates that would, one day, have to be surrendered to those who owned the freehold.’

  Denby clearly wished to dismiss this line of questioning. Even so, he must have realized that Abberline would persist. ‘My father had developed a perfectly well-thought out plan. He bought the leases of six country estates at a comparatively low price. His intention was to make the estates more profitable; then, as a sitting tenant, buy the mansions and the farmland outright when the leases expired. Unfortunately, my father died before he could bring his plan to fruition.’

  ‘Did your oldest brother inherit everything?’

  ‘He did.’ The man’s nostrils flared angrily. ‘My brother, Hubert, had no interest in continuing in my father’s footsteps. He inherited every penny, every brick, every blade of grass, but he preferred to take himself off to Africa to engage in missionary work. Hubert hasn’t set foot in England in more than thirty years. His solicitor has overall authority of the remaining estates and purse strings. I, and my surviving brothers, are permitted the role of consultants.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Abberline said. ‘You have been most helpful.’

  ‘I want you to catch the blasted devil who killed my brother.’ Even though Denby could hardly be described as friendly, he was no longer hostile toward his visitors from London. ‘My apologies, gentlemen, for sending the cart to collect you from the station. Certain circumstances prevent the use of my carriage. Is that everything, gentlemen?’

  ‘Just one more question, Mr Denby. What happened to the contents of this workshop?’

  ‘Oh, that was all blown to smithereens. I had the gardeners clear everything out. It was dumped in the old quarry over yonder.’

  ‘Do I have your permission to search through what’s left?’

  ‘By all means – you’ll find nothing but bits, though. The explosion left nothing intact. Least of all, my …’. He gave a regretful sigh. ‘To find the quarry, all you need do is use the white gate on the far side of the lawn. A path will take you directly to it. Now, gentlemen, I must return to my work.’

  With that, the man hurried back indoors, repeatedly glancing this way and that as he went – a frightened rabbit of a man.

  *

  Thomas Lloyd closed the white gate behind him. Inspector Abberline waited for him to catch up before they continued along the path toward the quarry.

  Abberline asked, ‘Do you think you will have enough material for your newspaper story?’

  ‘Yes, but I must confess I didn’t understand the purpose of many of your questions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The significance of why Sir Alfred’s bedroom overlooked the workshop.’

  ‘I couldn’t help but wonder why the man chose what would be a chilly bedroom on the north side of the house, with the least attractive view of the grounds. What it suggests to me is that he wanted to keep an eye on the workshop at night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re not asking an old policeman to make wild guesses, are you, Thomas?’

  ‘And why were you so interested in the Denby family history? Surely all this about the brothers being given country estates to manage has no connection with Sir Alfred being killed?’

  ‘Looking in depth at a family’s history and present circumstances can be vital. It allowed me to see the family’s emotional bedrock, as it were. By emotional bedrock, I mean is the prevailing mood of the family happy? Are they content? Optimistic or pessimistic? Secure or fearful?’

  ‘I’d say that Victor Denby is an extremely disgruntled man, as well as being frightened.’

  They headed along a path lined with hawthorn. A deer paused to look at them before bounding away through the bushes.

  Abberline watched the deer vanish into the distance. When he spoke again it was in a thoughtful tone. ‘Let’s try and form a clear picture of the Denby family. The grandfather was a village blacksmith – a hardworking, prudent man by all accounts. He owned a small factory that produced buckles and stirrups, and so on. Then along came his son. The son was ambitious and used the family’s wealth to set up a foundry that produced railway track. The blacksmith’s son became rich and acquired power and status, too. The man was called Iron Road Denby by the Press and he was suddenly part of the industrial elite. Several years later, there’s a slump in demand for railway track. Therefore, he diverted his capital elsewhere and invested in big country estates, no doubt intending to become even richer.’

  ‘But it didn’t work out that way?’

  Abberline nodded. ‘He died before he could complete his strategy, which was to buy the country estates outright. His sons have been left managing land that will soon be taken back by their landlords when the leases expire.’

  ‘I noticed that you were particularly interested in the hammer and nails on a windowsill in the workshop.’

  ‘You noticed them, too? They sent out quite a message, didn’t they?’

  ‘The nails were rusty and the hammer was covered in spider’s web. It suggests that Victor Denby isn’t especially interested in repairing the workshop.’

  ‘And the other matter?’

  ‘What other matter?’

  ‘He couldn’t afford to use a builder. His gardener had been replacing panes that had been shattered by the explosion. Now that spring’s here the gardener is too busy to continue the repairs.’

  ‘Good heavens, how do you know that?’

  ‘The nails were in a packet that originally contained flower seeds, night scented stock to be precise – that was the description printed on the packet. It must have been the first suitable thing that came to hand when the gardener was told to begin repairing the workshop. Quite simply, the man needed something to carry the nails in.’

  ‘Therefore, Denby isn’t as wealthy as he seems.’

  ‘Which brings us back to the importance of gauging the emotional bedrock of a family. The Denby clan were once rich. They are now on their way to becoming poor. This means the sons of the incredibly successful Iron Road Denby won’t be happy men. I haven’t met the other surviving brothers yet, but I’m inclined to believe that they brood over the family’s dwindling fortune and are extremely pessimistic about their future.’

  ‘They might even believe that their decline is attributable to the curse of the Gods of Rome.’

  ‘Quite possibly so. Even modern men can be superstitious about such things.’

  ‘And men can feel a great degree of guilt if their achievements are substantially inferior to those of their fathers.’

  ‘Well put, Thomas. I dare say that Victor Denby and his brothers have dreamt that their father’s ghost berates them for permitting the family fortune to dribble away to the point where the gardener ends up having to take on the duties of coachman, builder and goodness knows what else.’

  Thomas glanced back at Fairfax Manor. Despite its size, the building’s grandeur appeared faded. One of its chimney pots was missing. Rampant ivy covered some of its windows. More evidence of creeping neglect?
Undoubtedly so.

  Thomas couldn’t help but speculate. ‘Then the sons of Iron Road Denby might take desperate measures to restore their wealth?’

  ‘And such desperate measures could have crossed over into illegality. What’s more, the brothers might have made enemies.’

  ‘You think that one of those enemies planted a bomb that killed Sir Alfred?’

  ‘We shall see, Thomas, we shall see.’

  The path reached a slope that led down into an overgrown quarry that was clearly no longer used to obtain stone.

  ‘Hmm …’ Abberline’s eyes twinkled. ‘This is the interesting part. We get to sift debris from the workshop: we’ll be getting our hands dirty – gloriously dirty.’

  Inspector Abberline worked methodically. A large door lying at the bottom of the quarry served as a ‘finds’ table. For a while, he sifted through detritus that domestic staff must have tossed into this huge hole in the ground, along with all the other refuse from Fairfax Manor. Workshop debris was, thankfully, easy to differentiate from food jars, tins and bottles.

  Abberline picked a workman’s boot from the smelly heap, carefully scrutinized it before setting it down on a pile of empty food tins. ‘The gunpowder that Sir Alfred stored in the workshop was, according the police report, kept in a large wall cupboard made from a dark coloured wood.’

  ‘Which means anyone could have looked through a window and discovered that he stored explosive there.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘But there were plenty of windows in the workshop.’

  ‘What do you notice about the broken glass around your feet?’

  ‘Ah. It’s been whitewashed.’

  ‘All the glass fragments are covered with paint, so that suggests all the windows in the workshop were whitewashed.’

  ‘Meaning that nobody could see in. Sir Alfred could do whatever he wanted there in secrecy.’

  ‘Which is altogether mysterious in its own right. Why should collecting a small quantity of gunpowder require such a cloak of secrecy? Why didn’t Sir Alfred want people to see what he did in his workshop?’

  ‘A workshop that he could keep watch over at night.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ Abberline’s eyes blazed. ‘You are starting to think like a policeman. Clues are stepping stones to the truth.’

  ‘Are you sure all this broken glass came from the workshop?’

  ‘Pick up a piece; examine it. You’ll see black speckles – the black speckles are gunpowder residue.’

  ‘What are we looking for? The remains of a bomb?’

  ‘We’re searching for something that suggests Sir Alfred didn’t die, because he carelessly placed a candle near a keg of gunpowder. What that “something” might be …’ He shrugged. ‘I hope, I’ll know it when I see it.’

  Abberline stood items of potential interest on the door that he’d laid flat on the ground. These items consisted of such things as a mangled lantern, fragments of a mechanical instrument, and curving pieces of wood that were badly charred. When he lifted a piece of sack to reveal a shoe he gave it close inspection.

  ‘Ah, a high quality piece of footwear; no doubt it belonged to the deceased.’ His sharp eyes fixed on the shoe. ‘The leather on the upper part has been burnt.’

  ‘Sir Alfred was wearing the shoe when the bomb exploded?’

  ‘The shoe may have come off when the gunpowder detonated – often people are rendered completely naked if they are caught up in an explosion. Or the shoe may have slipped off when the body was dragged from the wreckage.’

  ‘A burnt shoe belonging to a dead man wouldn’t be of value to anyone; hence it being dumped here.’

  ‘On the contrary, Thomas, it is immensely valuable to us.’ Abberline fixed his attention on the toe of the shoe. ‘Look at that.’ Using his finger and thumb, he pinched a gleaming fragment from the shoe.

  ‘What is it?’ Thomas felt tingles run down his spine. He realized that this search excited him. He felt that, bit by bit, they were getting closer to solving a mystery. And, perhaps, they were nearer to identifying a shadowy figure who’d claimed the life of Sir Alfred Denby. Thomas examined the tiny piece of metal that Abberline handed to him. It appeared to be made from brass. Whatever it was had been twisted out of shape by a huge force. ‘And this was embedded in the shoe?’ Thomas asked. ‘By the force of the blast?’

  ‘Indeed so. See the hole it made in the thick leather at the toe?’

  ‘It’s from some mechanism. Part of the bomb?’

  Abberline shook his head. ‘A part of a lock, I should say.’ He walked a few feet to where the smashed remains of a cupboard lay in a bed of nettles. Its door was missing. The hinges had been torn clean out of the woodwork. The oak carcass had been gouged, split, blackened. ‘This must be the cupboard where Sir Alfred stored his gunpowder; the powder itself was contained in a small barrel. If he’d opened the cupboard door, and accidentally ignited the gunpowder the blast would have erupted into his face.’

  ‘Killing him instantly.’

  ‘However, the cupboard door must have been shut, or partly shut when the gunpowder detonated. The fragment of lock mechanism in the shoe points to the fact that the explosion occurred as he stood facing this cupboard. Possibly he was in the process of opening the door at the time.’

  ‘You’re saying if the door was fully open then the lock mechanism wouldn’t have been hurled down into his shoe?’

  Abberline gave a single nod.’

  Thomas wasn’t so sure. ‘But he could have opened the doors and inadvertently held the candle too close to the gunpowder.’

  ‘Granted, he might have. However, it seems that Sir Alfred couldn’t open the door fully.’ He picked up pieces of the cupboard door that had been shattered by the explosion. He carefully arranged the fragments on the ground, so that the pieces were at least roughly in the shape of the door. ‘See the small hook that’s been screwed into the inside of the door? There’s a piece of twine tied to it.’

  Thomas frowned. ‘So an intruder knows about Sir Alfred collecting gunpowder for the cannon. And they have gone to elaborate lengths to devise a means of detonating the gunpowder when Sir Alfred opened the cupboard. But what mechanism caused the stuff to explode in the man’s face?’

  Abberline pulled an object out of the grass. ‘Possibly this.’

  ‘A pistol?’

  ‘Or what remains of one. And lo-and-behold.’ Abberline held up the broken firearm for Thomas to see. ‘See what’s tied around the trigger?’

  ‘A piece of twine.’

  ‘Twine that exactly matches the other twine tied around the hook that held the cupboard door shut.’

  Thomas gazed at the blackened string neatly tied around the trigger. He never got chance to utter what he planned to say next, because a voice thundered down into the quarry, ‘You two! If you move so much as an inch, I’ll shoot you dead.’

  They looked up to see the silhouette of a man holding a rifle. The glare of the sun meant that Thomas couldn’t see his face. Thomas lifted his hand to shield his eyes. That’s when the stranger took aim and fired.

  CHAPTER 8

  The bullet struck the ground close to Thomas, sending a shower of dirt into the air.

  The gunman shouted, ‘I blithering well told you not to move! Next time you do that I’ll put a round through your skull!’

  Abberline adopted a glacial calm. ‘Then may we talk?’

  ‘I’m going to bring the police here; you can talk to them!’

  ‘I am a police officer. Mr Denby invited me here.’

  Even though the sun’s glare made it difficult to see, Thomas saw that the man lowered the rifle. ‘My master said that a detective would be coming down from London.’

  ‘This is Inspector Abberline of Scotland Yard.’ Thomas felt anger now rather than fear. ‘Be sure to point that damn gun away from us. Do you hear?’

  ‘It’s all right, Thomas.’ Abberline’s voice was soothing. ‘The man was merely doing his duty.�
��

  ‘His duty? He nearly put a bullet in me.’

  ‘If he’d intended to do that, I’m sure he’d have had no trouble in hitting you between the eyes.’

  Thomas intended to reply sharply to that statement, but his mouth had turned dry as dust. He saw how close the bullet had come.

  The man with the rifle marched briskly down the slope. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He seemed genuinely regretful. ‘I was told to expect visitors calling on my master, only I didn’t expect to find them in the quarry.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Brown, sir. The gamekeeper.’

  ‘An ex-army man?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Twenty years in the Devonshire Regiment.’

  ‘Ah, the Bloody Eleven, first-rate men with a heroic tradition,’ Abberline said. ‘Very well, you know my name. This is Mr Thomas Lloyd. He’s assisting me.’

  ‘My master has been most particular in telling me to watch out for trespassers. After his brother was killed he’s taken to worrying that he might be next.’

  Thomas appraised the gamekeeper. He was a tall, powerfully built man, clean shaven and still possessed the erect bearing of a soldier. He would be an especially formidable bodyguard. Especially so with that rifle.

  Abberline spoke conversationally. ‘Mr Brown, have you worked for Mr Denby long?’

  ‘Eighteen months. I was on his estate in Devon.’

  ‘Then the lease expired on the property and you eventually found yourself here?’

  ‘That’s true, sir.’

  ‘Did Mr Denby seem apprehensive or particularly anxious before the death of his brother?’

  ‘Not that I noticed, sir.’

  ‘Have you heard talk about Sir Alfred’s death?’

  ‘About him being blown up? Local folk have ridiculous tales about a curse and Roman gods and some such tomfoolery.’

  ‘You don’t believe in curses?’

  ‘No, sir, I do not,’ Brown said firmly. ‘Would you like me to help you search the quarry?’

  ‘Thank you, but no, Mr Brown. We’ve found what we were looking for.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Brown, the dyed-in-the-wool military man, even saluted albeit in a relaxed manner. ‘Then I’ll continue my rounds, if I may?’