by Simon Clark
Thomas added, ‘The domestic staff believed your late brother came in here, and locked the door behind him in order to collect gunpowder for the cannon – something he did punctually every morning. We suspect that your brother also opened the secret panel, and prayed to the gods represented by these carved figures.’
‘Oh, this too much, gentlemen.’ Denby gulped. ‘Really too much….’
Abberline picked up a knife from the shelf. ‘Your brother’s actions aren’t for my colleague and me to judge. However, one thing you should know: Sir Alfred sacrificed the cockerel to gods which he believed had the power of life and death over him. See the dried blood on the blade?’
Denby pressed a handkerchief to his mouth. ‘Nobody must know about this. Not the newspapers. Not anyone. This blasphemy will bring shame on my family.’
‘I intend to keep my investigations absolutely confidential,’ Abberline told him. ‘For now.’
Denby shook his head, puzzled. ‘These statues? Are they the ones known as the Gods of Rome?’
Abberline replaced the knife on the shelf. ‘No, these are modern replicas carved from stone, and likely to have little monetary value. The original Gods of Rome are cast from gold.’
Denby wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘There was scandal, you know? My brother’s name was linked to the theft of Roman statues twenty years ago. Nothing was proved. My brother swore that he had nothing to do with it.’
Thomas asked, ‘Would he have told you the truth, if he was in possession of the statues?’
‘Of course he would.’
‘But he didn’t tell you about this shrine,’ – Thomas pointed at the stone gods – ‘did he, Mr Denby?’
Victor Denby flinched. The insinuation struck a nerve. ‘I am tired, and I’m not feeling well. Good night, gentlemen.’
Denby fled back to the house.
‘We have stone gods,’ Abberline said softly. ‘Which begs the question: w here are the golden gods of Rome?’
CHAPTER 11
The sun vanished behind the mountains of Wales. The maid saw how the last rays fell upon the tallest peak of all. Snowdon caught the red light – it became a mountain the colour of blood.
An hour had passed since Jake had been beaten in the yard and driven away. Jake had called up to Laura, telling her he loved her, and that he would come back and save her. A maid now entered the room, carrying a mug of warm milk and a piece of bread. The girl seemed frightened of Laura and quickly set the tray down before withdrawing again. Laura heard the key turn in the lock. The sound it made was dreadful. The clunk of the mechanism driving the bolt across signified she was a prisoner.
Night had fallen when she heard raised voices. Suddenly, figures ran across the yard, carrying lanterns. Laura recognized the master, together with men who helped him with his experiments. The figures down in the yard were extremely agitated. She could hear shouts, but no individual words that she could make out. Just then, more figures appeared from the direction of the forest. Four men ran in a tight-knit group. Such a strange way to run, she thought. There was something so unnerving – and so frightening – about this scene. Lamps bobbed as people hurried with them. Splashes of light illuminated outbuildings, trees, and stark, horrified faces. At last, she saw why the four men ran in such a huddle.
They each gripped the handle of a stretcher; the device employed to carry a sick person. On the stretcher lay a figure. She could not see who it was. But it was not moving. It was absolutely still.
Laura pretended to be asleep. The two maids she shared the room with had climbed into bed twenty minutes ago. The pair had worked hard since six o’clock that morning and had fallen fast asleep within moments of their heads touching the pillows. Even so, she’d waited until their breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm.
Laura sat up in bed. ‘Meg? Daisy?’
Neither maid responded to their name, so Laura eased herself out of bed. Earlier, Laura had pretended to be asleep when Meg and Daisy entered the room. Unusually, for such a pair of chatterboxes, neither had spoken, and Laura realized that the incident connected with the figure on the stretcher had left both of them so shocked that they couldn’t bring themselves to speak. Laura had opened her eyes by a tiny fraction. Just enough to see Meg place a key in a drawer beneath her clean lace aprons.
Laura didn’t risk lighting a candle. Instead, she relied on moonlight filtering through the curtains. She didn’t make a sound as she walked barefoot across the floor. Seconds later, she had the key. Silently, she unlocked the door and stepped out into the passageway.
The entire household must have been asleep. There were no sounds whatsoever.
For a moment, she paused. She dreaded what she intended to do, but do it she must. She would prove to everyone that she wasn’t a liar. Laura took a deep breath, straightened her back, then with absolute determination she went downstairs.
The maid only lit a candle when she reached the lower floor. After that, she walked along the gloomy corridor that ran at the back of the house. At this time of night, the corridor resembled the entrance to a tomb. She felt so alone down here. The silence had a menacing air. But Laura kept moving. She had to see what lay in the room at the end of this corridor. Her pride compelled her. When a gardener had suddenly died out on the lawn last year he’d been brought to the very same room. Logic dictated that the figure on the stretcher would be delivered there, too.
She walked faster. The sound of a clock in the distance seemed to acquire almost a savage clicking. Darkness swelled in front of her – a living thing, a monstrous thing. Panic and dread crackled along her nerves. Every instinct told her to turn back; to run to the bedroom where Meg and Daisy lay sleeping.
Laura could not do that, however. Not until she saw what she must see with her own eyes.
The clock chimed – a death knell of a sound. Meanwhile, the candle sputtered and threatened to go out: that little bud of fire on the wick barely had the strength to hold the evil darkness at bay. Laura’s chest tightened.
Suddenly, she was there. The door knob pressed against her hand – as cold and as hard as a child’s skull. She entered a room with white tiles. Cold as a winter’s night in here, she thought with a bone-chilling sense of dread. The candle flame shrank back from the horror on the table – or so it seemed to her.
For there, in the centre of the room, was a table and, lying upon it, an object beneath a white sheet. Her bare feet whispered across the floor. She moved as if some stronger force than her controlled her limbs. Laura’s hand hovered over the shrouded form. Somewhere outdoors, a dog started to howl. The mournful cry filled the room with shimmering, ghostly echoes.
‘Now,’ she hissed. ‘Do it now.’ Her hand quivered above the sheet where the soft material had been moulded by the bump of a nose and deep hollow of the eyes. The shrouded face was still.
But would it remain still? Would the man beneath the sheet react with fury if she disturbed his shroud?
Laura tried to dispel the terrifying image of the dead springing back to life.
‘I know who you are,’ she breathed, ‘and I’m sorry I wasn’t allowed to warn you.’
Pinching the fabric between finger and thumb, she pulled back the sheet. There on the table, lying stretched out, and utterly motionless, was the man she’d seen before. Twenty years of age, dressed in the clothes of a gentleman, he lay flat on his back. The man’s red hair gleamed as bright as copper wire in the candlelight. The mouth remained open, clearly revealing a gap in the front teeth. She remembered his eyes from last time – both when she saw him in her vision, when he fell out of the sky in front of her, and later when the very same man had found her in the forest. His eyes were green – a vivid, emerald green. Those eyes stared at her even though she knew he was dead – really dead this time.
The stranger’s chest gave a single heave and blood spurted from his mouth. She’d seen exactly the same in her vision. The gush of blood – a furious river of crimson, surging and bubbling from lifele
ss jaws.
That’s when the candle went out, and she was alone with the corpse in the darkness.
CHAPTER 12
Victor Denby didn’t come down to breakfast. Thomas knew that the discovery of the pagan shrine concealed in the workshop had shaken the man. Therefore, Thomas and Inspector Abberline ate alone in a large room adorned with paintings of the Denby males. Each face wore an expression of sternness and determination – these portraits were statements of their power.
The weather today was breezy. Sunlight chased away April showers only for the clouds to return moments later to spatter the windows with yet more rain. Inspector Abberline commented that spring was late this year, and that frost had already killed a bed of dahlias he’d planted recently.
A maid invited them to help themselves to food from silver tureens on a table. Abberline lifted the lids in turn. The detective seemed to have trouble identifying the food. The cuisine puzzled Thomas, too.
Thomas wrinkled his nose. ‘Is this what the rich eat for breakfast?’
‘Never dined in a country mansion before?’
‘Never.’
‘Meals tend to reflect the status of the guests. So I wonder what this breakfast says about us?’ Abberline stirred a mound of yellow and green flakes. ‘This, I think … is chopped egg with herb. There’s a very strong smell of oregano. Possibly curry has been added as well.’
Thomas lifted a cover. ‘And pie. Or what remains of a pie.’ He examined the meat beneath its thick, dry-looking crust. ‘That’s very dark flesh. Game pie, do you think?’
Abberline’s moustache bristled as he picked up the plate and sniffed. ‘Ah … a favourite of my grandfather’s. Rook pie.’
‘Rook?’ Thomas glanced outside where black rooks circled trees that contained their nests. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone eating those things.’
‘It’s a rustic dish from yesteryear. The meat is tough and it’s guaranteed to make your jaw muscles ache. Horrible stuff.’
‘Have we been served this food as a joke? Or is this the butler’s revenge because he clearly doesn’t like us?’
Abberline smiled. ‘This might sound ungrateful of me … I suspect we’ve been served the week’s left-overs.’
Thomas persisted in his quest amongst the tureens. At last he was rewarded with the discovery of plain poached eggs, bacon and sausage. ‘Ah, this looks edible.’
Both men sat at the long table in the centre of the room to eat. Thomas glanced out through the windows as raindrops struck the glass. The gardener was out there, raking leaves from under a bush. The gamekeeper, whom they’d met at the quarry, patrolled a path that ran alongside the lawn. Thomas had seen the man earlier and guessed that Victor Denby had ordered the man to circle the house, and to watch for intruders. The gamekeeper carried a rifle in the crook of his arm.
‘We’re well guarded.’ Thomas nodded at the window.
‘I’ll mention to Mr Denby that he consider buying a couple of dogs, too. Hefty brutes with a loud bark should make him feel a little more secure.’ Abberline ate a piece of bacon. ‘Hmm, not bad.’ He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before asking, ‘Have you been able to make any progress writing your article?’
‘I wrote the first instalment last night. I have a feeling my editor will be pleased.’
‘Just remind your editor, if you will, that nothing can be published about the Denby case for the time being.’
‘Of course. You’d have no objection to my writing up a news story about how you identified the pickpocket at the station?’
‘By all means. The reason why Scotland Yard agreed to you accompanying me is so that the public will have the opportunity to read an honest and accurate account of what a policeman actually does.’
Thomas said, ‘Then you will permit me to sit with you when you question the staff?’
‘Of course.’
‘And to question you, if any aspect of your investigation is unclear?’
‘Question me, interrogate, cross-examine. I insist.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, grill me within an inch of my life, just as these sausages have been grilled to within an inch of theirs.’
‘What are your plans for today?’
‘The shrine we found last night should be photographed before the statues are removed. I also need to interview the servants who were here when Sir Alfred was killed.’
‘May I question witnesses myself?’
‘Only when I’m present. Nobody here knows that you’re a reporter, and I have to be careful that your questions don’t prejudice a court trial – if and when the killer is caught.’
‘Understood.’
Abberline pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket. ‘I made this copy for you last night.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a list of the nine Denby males. Victor Denby believes that an individual, or individuals, plans to slay all the brothers.’
Thomas read the list. ‘But the police don’t suspect any of the brothers’ deaths to be suspicious.’
‘No, all are considered to be either fatal accidents or illness. Does anything strike you as odd on that list?’
‘No.’
‘Take another look and let me hear your thoughts.’
Thomas studied the list again. ‘There were nine brothers. Four are still alive. The eldest, Hubert, is a missionary in Africa. Then there is our host, Victor Denby, and Thaddeus, who lives in Scotland, and William, the youngest of the brothers. He’s the balloon aviator based in Wales.’ Thomas sipped his tea. ‘The first to die was Bertram Denby. He fell off a station platform seventeen years ago and was killed by a train.’ Thomas paused as he recalled another fact. ‘The Gods of Rome scandal, which some have linked to Sir Alfred, occurred twenty years ago.’
‘So, the first violent death, even though it’s considered an accident, takes place three years after the scandal that embarrassed the British royal family?’
Thomas nodded. ‘So, there could be a link?’
‘Possibly; however, three years elapse between the theft of Italian treasures and Bertram being struck down by the train.’
Thomas continued, ‘The other deaths occur as follows: John Denby drowns as he takes a walk by a river. That’s ten years ago. Mortlake Denby dies eight years ago when thrown from a horse. Ah, Joshua Denby.’
‘Anything unusual about his death?’
‘So far, he’s the only one to die at home in bed. Three years ago he succumbed to a blood disorder.’
‘Which brings us to the latest death: Sir Alfred Denby, killed by explosion this year.’
‘And he is the only brother whom we can state was murdered.’
‘Probably murdered, to be more accurate. We need to gather more evidence before using the word “murder” with complete confidence.’
‘Do we begin interviewing staff directly after breakfast?’
‘Firstly, I’d like to take another look at Sir Alfred’s shrine. There still might be more to it than meets the eye.’
This was the first opportunity Abberline had to inspect the shrine by daylight. Thomas helped Abberline move the secret door that still lay on the workshop floor after they’d pried it free of the panelling last night.
Abberline wiped his forehead after they stood the formidable slab of oak against a wall. ‘This thing would have shattered my skull if you hadn’t caught hold, Thomas. You saved my life, and that’s a fact.’
Thomas panted from exertion. ‘The explosion not only forced the door inwards by an inch or so, it also snapped the hinges. If you hadn’t noticed a section wasn’t aligned with the rest of the panels, the shrine might have stayed hidden for years.’
Abberline took out his notebook and swiftly sketched the shrine. ‘I’ve asked the butler to bring in a local photographer, but I’d best make a drawing of what’s here. We found the knife just there by the foot of Faunus.’ He indicated the bizarre figure with horns protruding from its wavy hair. ‘I’d also say that blood from the cockerel had been drizzled over th
e statue.’ He pulled a tape measure from his pocket and handed it to Thomas. ‘Would you measure the figures for me, please, and tell me the length of the shelf?’
‘The god, Jupiter, is fourteen inches tall, Venus is eleven inches ….’
At that moment, the butler stepped through the door. He looked just as grey in broad daylight as he did indoors. Whether he was being discrete, or simply uninterested, he paid no attention to the shrine adorned with pagan deities. ‘The maid told me you’d like to send some telegrams, sir?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Once more Abberline reached into his pockets. Thomas wondered if the man had specially deep pockets sewn into the coat, for they seemed to accommodate all the tools of the detective’s trade, including a wad of telegram forms. ‘There is one to Scotland Yard, and also one to the nearest constabulary, if you could tell me where that is?’
The man’s grey lips twitched slightly. ‘That would be East Ferry, sir.’
‘East Ferry,’ Abberline murmured, as he added the destination address to the telegram form. That done, he handed over the forms and coins, which would pay for the sending of the telegrams. ‘Thank you, and please despatch them as quickly as you can.’
‘Very well, sir. Will there be anything else?’
‘If you could arrange for a pot of hot coffee and two cups to be sent out here, that would be most welcome.’
‘I’ll do so immediately, sir.’
Thomas resumed taking measurements of the objects behind the panelling.
Presently, Abberline said, ‘Indulge me, Thomas: what’s your theory regarding the pagan altar?’
Thomas gazed at the shelf of Roman gods. They were modern copies of ones he’d seen in the British Museum. Jupiter stood with a thunderbolt in his hand – no doubt frozen in the act of delivering sudden destruction to an errant mortal. ‘I’d venture that Sir Alfred Denby had this secret compartment built sometime after the 3rd August, 1881.’