Towards Christmas-time of that year – I cannot be certain of the date – my brother Hector called upon me at Saxony Square. He told me that he and Arabella had left Mayfield Court for good, but when I asked him where they were living, he became vague and confused. I knew without having to ask him that he was too afraid of his wife to divulge what was evidently a secret matter. He seemed very pale and fevered, a shadow of what he had been, but when I asked him what ailed him, he became very agitated, and looked not at me, but over my shoulder, as though he could see something frightful there.
‘What ails me?’ he cried. ‘It is nothing to do with the body, it is a disease of the soul! You cannot imagine what diabolical things she has made me do…. I shall not see you again, Maximilian, and so I must tell you that she and I connived to make away with Gabriel Forshaw, and gave out that he had sailed for Africa. It was I who did the deed – can there be any forgiveness in the next life? Her brother, a missionary clergyman, was deceived into saying that he had indeed died in Africa – but I, of all men the most wretched – knew better than that.’
I was horrified, as you can imagine, but I held my peace.
‘Not long since,’ Hector continued, ‘Arabella, too, added murder – with my connivance – to her catalogue of wicked deeds. She— Ah! It was a child! What’s to become of us? And recently, I have seen her eyeing me with a horrible speculation, as though I am to be next. Why? What is she contemplating now?’
He grew more and more agitated. I urged him to stay the night, but he refused. For a while he grew calmer, and was able to tell me that he had hidden a cache of documents at Mayfield Court, in which I would find a Deed of Release, drawn up by Henry Forshaw’s solicitor in 1861, which Gabriel Forshaw had endorsed before his supposed embarkation for Africa. The whole of his inherited fortune was held in trust at Hoare’s Bank in London, and could only legally be released, and the trust broken, by production of this document. It had been duly produced and endorsed when the estate passed to Cecily, but Hector told me that he had managed to get it into his possession, and had hidden it at Mayfield Court. He saw it as a kind of insurance policy to prevent his wife from acting any further without his knowledge.
It was that document you saw me searching for when we were at Mayfield Court. I found it, and will in due course give it to Arabella. She can enjoy her ill-gotten gains in peace, with no interference from me. She will probably destroy it, though there will most assuredly be copies of it elsewhere.
My brother left the house, and from that time forward I never set eyes on him again. It was only in July of this year that I heard that he had died, and had left me Mayfield Court in his will. You remember that country lawyer who called on me? He was the bearer of the news. That man knew more than was good for him, so I shall not mention his name. He told me that the Forshaw fortune, now grown to one million pounds, was almost in Arabella’s grasp. You see, she had killed all those who stood in the way of her inheriting: Gabriel was dead, and Arabella’s sister Cecily had died suddenly, as had her second husband, John Walsh. Were those deaths from natural causes? Who knows? Who dares to know?
In 1864, only the child Helen stood between Arabella and unimaginable wealth. I know what she did, and that Maximilian connived at it. I remain terrified of Arabella, and it is for that reason that I will not tell you where she is now. I will ensure that she receives the Deed of Release, and have written to tell her that I want no part of the inheritance. I hope and pray that she believes me.
And so, dearest Catherine, I stand revealed to you as an accessory after the fact of murder. I remained silent when I should have spoken out; but had I brought Arabella to justice, I would most likely have gone to the gallows with her. And I could never have betrayed my poor brother.
I am resigned to my fate, and deserve whatever is coming to me. Farewell, dear Catherine. Try not to think too harshly of your old uncle. I hope with all my heart that you will marry Michael Danvers, and start out on a new life of happiness and fulfilment.
Your loving uncle,
Maximilian Paget.
10
The House in Barbary Court
‘I’m one of seventeen inspectors here, Mr Jackson, and we’ve got thirty-seven sergeants and – let me see, how many just now? – three hundred and eighty-six constables, and it’s still all we can do to stem the tide of crime here in St James’s Division.’
Inspector Jackson looked at the smart, uniformed officer who stood, one arm resting on the mantelpiece, before the unlit grate in his office at Little Vine Street police station. He was a tall, commanding figure, with a red face and thick, silvery hair, but his voice was quiet and thoughtful. He could have been a bully, had he so wished, but it was clear that that kind of stance was not in his nature.
‘I can see how busy you must be, Mr Blade. And this police station is a regular warren! But then, it’s a divisional headquarters…. So can you see your way clear to helping us? This Mayfield Court affair is obviously linked with the murder in Saxony Square.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll certainly help you in this matter – Sergeant Bottomley, why don’t you sit down? You’re making me uncomfortable hovering there by the door like a daddy longlegs. Sit down!’
Herbert Bottomley did as he was bid. He didn’t like these big London places. It was all very well for the guvnor, but he preferred the quiet obscurity of little county police offices.
‘Tell me again about this clergyman,’ said Inspector Blade, ‘the one you think you saw in a cab turning into Bread Street.’
‘The more I think about it, Mr Blade, the more convinced I am that it really was the Reverend Walter Hindle. He is quite a striking old man, and I’m good at faces. He turned up in the churchyard at Upton Carteret, where all and sundry tried to persuade me that I was dreaming. Well, I wasn’t. I found the straw hat that he’d been wearing hidden in a hedge. I want to interview this gentleman. He as good as told me that a young man called Gabriel Forshaw had been murdered.’
Inspector Blade thought for a moment, and then said, ‘Was it a hackney carriage the old gentleman was in, or a four-wheeler – a “growler”, as people call them?’
‘It was a four-wheeler. He was accompanied by another man, strong, thick-set, in his forties.’
Inspector Blade left the office abruptly, and the two detectives could hear him talking to someone in the corridor.
‘Sergeant Parker, suppose you wanted to go somewhere leading off Bread Street, and particularly wanted to hire a four-wheeler? Where would you go to find one?’
‘There’s a cab rank in St Martin’s Le Grand—’
‘You’re not listening to me, Sergeant. I want a growler. Where would you go?’
‘Well, there’s a little bit of pavement halfway along Poultry where you’ll get a growler, sir. It’s one of old Abe Thompson’s franchises.’
Inspector Blade returned.
‘We’ll follow up this business now, Mr Jackson, if that’s all right with you. We can take an omnibus as far as Cheapside, and walk from there.’
Sergeant Bottomley, who had maintained a respectful silence for the last half hour, suddenly spoke. Inspector Blade jumped in alarm.
‘Inspector Blade, sir,’ he said, ‘how is the young lady in Saxony Square bearing up to all this? Losing her uncle, I mean. Begging pardon, sir, for speaking out of turn.’
‘Miss Catherine Paget? She’s away from Town at the moment, Sergeant. She’s gone to stay for a week in a hotel in Bournemouth. She’s taken a friend of hers, a Miss Danvers, to keep her company. I rather think that she’s returning home today. But come, let’s not waste time talking. It’s time we went to this franchise rank in Poultry.’
‘Yes, I remember him, guvnor. An old parson. And the man with him was one of those well-dressed thugs you see chucking drunks downstairs at the music hall. That’s why I remember them pertickler. Maybe the old gent was going to convert him.’
They had found four old-fashioned growlers standing in a strip of cobbled thoroughfare
halfway along Poultry. The second cabbie they questioned, a hard-bitten, almost toothless man wearing an old overcoat tied round the waist with string, had recognized the fare that Jackson had described.
‘And can you recall where you took them to?’ asked Inspector Blade. ‘This old clergyman and his minder?’
‘Minder, hey? So that’s the way of it….’ The cabbie treated the three officers to a smile, revealing his few remaining crooked and yellow teeth. ‘I may remember, guv, if I give my mind to it. Now where was it I took them?’
Inspector Blade took a shilling piece from his pocket, and gave it to the cabbie.
‘Maybe that’ll jog your memory,’ he said.
‘It does, sir, it does! I was returning empty from dropping a fare, and the well-dressed thug hailed me halfway down Cannon Street. He told me to take them to Barbary Court, behind Pewterers’ Hall. Number 3, Barbary Court. I charged him one and seven, and he gave me a two shilling piece.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘What happened? Well, nothing happened, did it? I helped him to get the old clergyman up the steps to the house, and then took myself back to the rank.’
‘And if I was to give you a florin, would you take the three of us there, now?’
‘I would, sir. Climb in, gentlemen.’
‘When you get there, cabbie,’ said Inspector Blade, ‘stop somewhere behind Pewterers’ Hall. Wait for us there. We’ll go to this Barbary Court on foot.’
‘I don’t like the look of this, Mr Jackson. I think I know who lives in that house.’ The three officers stood on the side of the road opposite number 3, which seemed to be a well-kept house with a smart painted door at the top of a flight of four deep steps.
‘It’s a private nursing home run by a Dr Morrison. People go there to recover from attacks of nerves, others go there because they’re becoming absent-minded, and can’t be trusted to be alone.’
‘And why don’t you like it?’ asked Jackson.
‘Because people – particularly awkward people – have been known to disappear from that establishment. Morrison’s a smooth-talking customer, Mr Jackson, and he always has an explanation. This one’s gone abroad, that one’s been reclaimed by a relative – here’s a letter to prove it. I don’t like him, and I don’t like his nursing home. I expect your old clergyman – what did you say his name was? – the Reverend Walter Hindle – I expect he’s in there, now. I’ve got a general warrant here, though I won’t show it unless I have to. Let’s go and find out.’
‘You want to see the Reverend Mr Hindle? Certainly. I do hope he has not committed some foolish indiscretion. He’s not always in full possession of his faculties, you see.’
Inspector Blade eyed Dr Morrison with barely concealed distaste. What a humbug the man was! Stout to the point of grossness, with steely eyes behind his pince-nez, his cheery demeanour and ready smile could not deceive a man skilled in the reading of criminal character.
‘Mr Hindle has done nothing untoward, to my knowledge, Doctor,’ said Blade. ‘But we need to speak to him on a private matter. Where is he?’
‘He’s here, Inspector. I’ll summon the nurse, who will take you to him.’
Morrison rang a small hand-bell, and in a moment a stern woman in nurse’s uniform came into his office.
‘Nurse,’ said Dr Morrison, ‘would you please take these gentlemen to see Mr Hindle in his room?’
‘Mr Hindle?’ said the nurse. ‘Oh, he went out for a walk, Doctor, about half an hour ago. I expect he’ll go as far as St Botolph’s, and sit in the churchyard for a while.’
‘You must understand, Inspector,’ said Dr Morrison, ‘that our patients are not prisoners! They’re free to go out whenever they wish. All we ask is that they inform us first.’
Inspector Blade glanced briefly at Jackson, and saw from his expression that he, too, did not believe a word of the bland physician’s statements.
‘Well, Doctor,’ said Blade, ‘I’m sorry to have missed the reverend gentleman. Perhaps we can call again at a more convenient time. Meanwhile, it would be an idea if you would show me your fire certificate for these premises. One can’t be too careful where old, frail people are concerned.’
They saw the surly suspicion break through the cheery mask.
‘Fire certificate? I don’t think—’
‘Well, no matter. We’ll just make a quick inspection of the premises, and let you know if we find anything that contravenes the fire regulations. No, it’s no bother, I assure you. Inspector Jackson, will you accompany me?’ Lowering his voice, he whispered to Herbert Bottomley, ‘Sergeant, there’s a large garden to the rear of these premises. I saw it from that window, and there’s a kind of summer house and a number of sheds. Have a look there, will you?’
Doctor Morrison had regained his cheerful persona, but the two inspectors could sense that the man was now consumed by fear. They asked him to accompany them on their round of inspection, and he was obliged to comply. The house was well furnished, and the patients’ rooms held nothing remotely sinister. The Reverend Walter Hindle’s room was tidy and comfortable, and various religious magazines were strewn around on tables and chairs.
There were only six resident patients, five of whom were assembled in a pleasant dining room, where morning coffee was being served. They were all very old and frail, but they were clearly well looked after. At the back of the house a modern iron fire escape led down from the first floor to the garden.
‘Excellent, Doctor,’ said Blade. ‘A very well-run establishment, with a responsible approach to the dangers of fire. Ask your staff to find that fire certificate, and post it to me at Little Vine Street. I’ll arrange for it to receive an updated endorsement.’
They had reached a little terrace at the back of the house, bordering on a well-tended garden. Sergeant Bottomley came towards them, walking rather jauntily across the grass. Ignoring his superior officers, he addressed himself to Dr Morrison.
‘Well, fancy that, Doctor!’ he said. ‘Mr Hindle hadn’t gone out for a walk after all. I found him sitting in that little potting shed beside the summer house. I could see him through the window. He looked very comfortable, surrounded by hoes and spades, sitting on a backless chair all among the spiders. And guess what? Somebody had padlocked the door! A mistake, I’m sure. Perhaps you could find the key?’
Doctor Morrison had gone very pale, and began to stammer some kind of denial, but Inspector Blade had decided to play Bottomley’s game. He held up his hand to stem the doctor’s attempts to explain the unexplainable.
‘These things happen, Dr Morrison,’ he said. ‘You can’t have eyes everywhere. I expect you’ve plenty to do, so we’ll not detain you. Meanwhile, we’ll go and have a talk with Mr Hindle. I don’t suppose you’ll mind if we break your padlock.’
‘Well, well,’ said the Reverend Walter Hindle, ‘this is very nice! I remember you, of course, Mr Jackson. We had a talk about murders in a churchyard – I think it may have been at Exeter, though I’m not quite sure of that. Have you seen the cathedral there? It’s very fine of its type.’
Saul Jackson looked at the old clergyman, smiling contentedly as he sat on the broken chair. Somebody had brought him here, and locked him away from prying eyes until the police had left the house. It would be fruitless to ask him who had imprisoned him, because he had almost certainly forgotten. He was a Congregational minister, which was why he had not appeared in Crockford’s Clerical Directory. That worthy tome did not recognize the existence of clergy who were not of the Church of England.
‘And these are your friends? Mr Blade, I can see from your uniform that you are a police officer. And Mr Bottomley – I didn’t quite catch—’
‘Mr Bottomley’s a detective sergeant,’ Jackson explained. The old clergyman looked doubtful.
‘You don’t look like a detective,’ he said, ‘but if Mr Jackson says you are, then I suppose he must know. And, of course, it would be part of your vocation not to look like a detective, so…. Y
es. There you are.’
‘That graveyard, sir,’ said Jackson, ‘was in a place called Upton Carteret, in Warwickshire. And when we met, you told me that a young man who had once lived there, a man called Gabriel Forshaw, had not died in Africa, but had, in fact, been murdered.’
The Reverend Walter Hindle smiled, and nodded his agreement.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was assistant at a small chapel in Exeter, many, many years ago, before I went out as a missionary to Bonny. Yes, indeed. I was there, in Bonny, you know, when Gabriel supposedly arrived to join the regiment. We were told he was coming, but I knew that couldn’t have been so. He was supposed to have been stricken down with fever the moment he arrived, and to have died the same night. A sealed coffin was produced, and a death certificate issued. I wrote to my sister and told her what was being said. And later, the commanding officer there posted Gabriel’s death as official. It was probably some poor native’s body that had been passed off as Gabriel’s. But I knew that it could not have been he. At one time I thought of retiring to Exeter, but I don’t suppose I ever shall.’
‘You said that Gabriel Forshaw had been murdered,’ Jackson persisted. ‘How do you know that? Who told you? And if you know how he was murdered, Mr Hindle, do you then know where his body is to be found?’
Tears sprang to the old man’s eyes. He was silent for over a minute, while he recollected what it was that he wanted to say.
‘Even in those days, when I was only in my fifties, my mind was failing. Not my intellect, you know, but – but my mind. Upton Carteret, yes, that’s right. I was staying there, as I often did, and one night – I cannot recall the date, but it was a little while before Gabriel was supposed to have embarked for Africa. I was restless, having been unwell for some months, and I went out for a night walk through the lanes. As I approached the gates of Waterloo House, where Gabriel lived, I saw him running down the drive towards the road. It was dark, but there was just enough moonlight to make out what was happening. And – they are very kind here, you know. Very attentive.’
Ghosts of Mayfield Court Page 13