by Jim Eldridge
‘Maybe he didn’t go directly to India. He could have got any ship across the Channel and gone from France or Belgium.’
‘Yes, sir, I thought of that, so I had Sergeant Cribbens check the passenger lists of all ships leaving Britain for the last three days. No Mason Radley anywhere.’
‘He could have used a false name.’
‘He could, although my hunch is that he’s still somewhere in England.’
‘Where?’
Feather gave a sigh. ‘If we knew that, sir—’
‘Yes, all right,’ scowled Armstrong. ‘It’s not good enough, Feather. If the commissioner asks me for an update and the best I can say is that he’s out there somewhere in hiding and we just have to wait till we can lay hands on him, he’s not going to be pleased.’
‘No, sir,’ agreed Feather.
‘We need to be doing something while we search for Radley. Something that shows we’re looking into it properly and not letting the grass grow under our feet.’
‘What do you suggest, sir?’
Armstrong look thoughtful, then he announced: ‘I’m still sure there’s something in this connected with Wilde.’
Feather looked doubtful. ‘With respect, sir, I feel that looking for this Mason Radley would be a better use of our energies.’
‘Yes, but it gets us nowhere if we don’t find him. We need to be seen to be doing something. Something else. Looking at another avenue of the investigation. We know that Simpson tried to blackmail Wilde.’
‘He blackmailed other people as well, sir, including Mason Radley.’
‘And who’s to say he didn’t blackmail some other people who were associated with Wilde?’
‘He may well have done, sir, but—’
‘No buts, Inspector. If I’m asked by the commissioner, I need to tell him something. Yes, we’re looking for this Mason Radley, but we’re also pursuing our investigations into other possible blackmail victims. We know Simpson was involved with the circle who hung around Wilde, not just because of Wilde himself but the one who killed himself.’
‘Tom Tilly.’
‘Exactly. Revenge could be a motive, as well as getting rid of a blackmailer. That’s the other area I shall tell the commissioner we’re exploring.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We need to see Wilde. Get some names off him. Men in his circle who Simpson might have been blackmailing.’
‘I can’t see him giving us any of those sort of names, sir.’
‘He will if we make it worth his while. By all accounts, he’s having a bad time of it in prison. Where is he? Still in Pentonville?’
‘Wandsworth, sir. He was moved there in July.’
Armstrong nodded. ‘Conditions there are just as harsh. Hard labour. Picking oakum. The treadmill. I’ve even heard a rumour he may not last his term if his health keeps failing the way it is. Offer him something. Go and see him and tell him we’ll make his time in prison more comfortable if he gives us a name or two.’
‘Me, sir?’
Armstrong scowled. ‘He won’t talk to me. He doesn’t like me. I think he’d rather die than give me anything. But you, Inspector, he had a different attitude to you. He might talk to you.’
‘But, sir—’ began Feather.
‘Wilde,’ repeated Armstrong, firmly. ‘Get some names off him. They may not add up to anything, but we’ll be seen to be doing something rather than just waiting.’
Feather headed back to his office, a feeling of gloom hanging over him. They were getting nowhere, and this business of going to see Wilde was just window dressing. His gloom lifted slightly as he saw Daniel and Abigail standing outside his office, obviously waiting for him.
‘Morning, John,’ Daniel greeted him. ‘We were informed that you were seen going into the superintendent’s office, so we thought we’d wait. Have you got a moment?’
‘I have,’ said Feather. ‘Come in.’
He opened the door, and they followed him in.
‘No Sergeant Cribbens and his infamous pipe tobacco today?’ asked Abigail.
‘He’s in Paddington looking for Benny and Billy Wardle.’
‘I thought they were in prison,’ said Daniel.
‘Released yesterday.’ Feather sighed. ‘I went looking for them earlier after this latest letter came to light.’
‘The one about the Bone Company. Yes, that’s why we’re here. Miss Scott told us about it.’
Feather took the letter from his pocket and handed it to Daniel, who read it and then passed it to Abigail.
‘It’s very strange,’ said Daniel, thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t say who it’s from. There’s no name and address, just the mention of Petter and Wardle, and the Bone Company. If they were asking for money, there’s no way it can be paid to them, not with the offices of Petter and Wardle shut up. So, what’s the point of it?’
‘Which is why I wanted to have a word with Benny Wardle, see if he could throw any light on it,’ said Feather. ‘As far as I know, according to Miss Scott, the only people who knew about the original threatening letter from Petter and Wardle apart from yourselves were her and her secretary, and Erskine Petter himself. Benny Wardle claimed to know nothing about it when I first saw him. So, whoever sent this letter has inside knowledge.’
‘It could be Erskine Petter behind it,’ suggested Daniel. ‘If he’s in hiding somewhere he’ll need money, and maybe he’s setting something up. Perhaps he’s got someone else involved on his behalf on a promise of them sharing the money, but remembering what happened to him before with the police turning up at his office, he’s keeping this partner’s name and address under wraps for the moment.’
‘That’s possible,’ said Feather, thoughtfully.
‘Any news on Mason Radley?’ asked Abigail.
Feather let out a heavy sigh. ‘The superintendent just asked me the same. The short answer is no. We’ve checked the passenger lists for sailings in the last few days to India, and there’s no Mason Radley,’ said Feather.
‘He could be using a false name,’ said Daniel. ‘Or have gone somewhere else before travelling on to India.’
‘Yes, we’ve thought of that, but so far nothing pops up.’ He looked at Daniel unhappily. ‘Which brings me to the superintendent’s latest instruction: Oscar Wilde.’
‘What about him?’ asked Daniel.
‘He wants me to go and see him, to ask him to give up the names of people he knows who might have been blackmailed by Raymond Simpson.’
Abigail and Daniel stared at him.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Abigail. ‘Raymond Simpson must have been killed by someone who was at the museum early that morning, and so far the person who best fits the bill because he was there at that time, and who we know was being blackmailed by Simpson, is Mason Radley.’
‘Agreed,’ said Feather. ‘But the superintendent has got the commissioner on his back and says we can’t just wait for Radley to be found, we have to be seen to be doing something active. And that’s to go and see Wilde in prison.’ He looked at Daniel, and then appealed to him: ‘But I can’t see him talking to me. I’m still the police, whatever Armstrong says. But you, Daniel, he might talk to you. You have a way of getting people to talk.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘I can’t see him talking to me, either, to be honest, John. Why would he?’
‘Armstrong wants to offer him inducements. Make his life in prison easier if he gives us names.’
‘I don’t think Wilde is that sort of person,’ said Daniel. ‘For all his aesthetic posing, he’s tougher than people give him credit for.’
‘There is one person he might talk to,’ put in Abigail. ‘Bram Stoker.’
‘Stoker?’ Feather shook his head. ‘He won’t do it, and even if he did, he wouldn’t pass on to the police whatever Wilde says. He’s angry.’
‘He was all right with us,’ said Abigail. ‘In fact, he was quite complimentary about Daniel.’
‘Then why don’t we try that?’ asked Feather.
‘You ask Stoker if he’d go with us to talk to Wilde. I’d have to be part of it so we can get admission to him. He can’t just get visitors willy-nilly, he’s doing hard labour, remember.’
‘What about Abigail?’ asked Daniel. ‘Stoker seemed very impressed with her. He might do it if she comes.’
Feather shook his head. ‘She won’t be allowed in. Sorry, Daniel.’
‘So, you’re suggesting you, me and Stoker go.’
‘I have to be there to get us in. Wilde won’t talk to me, and I have my doubts if he’ll talk to you. He’ll definitely talk to Stoker. But Stoker won’t come as part of a police party unless you ask him and tell him you’ll be there. And, emphatically, that Superintendent Armstrong won’t be.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
William Watling lay between the silk sheets and from his bed admired Elizabeth Fortescue as she pulled on her clothes, the bright daylight sun streaming through the gap in the curtains illuminating her body. God, she was a handsome woman. And ferocious in bed. No wonder her husband had shot himself. Impotent. Couldn’t get it up. That’s what Elizabeth had told him their first time. He thought he’d been the one doing the seducing, but she’d been an equal party to it. More than equal. On reflection he wasn’t sure if it hadn’t been her who’d taken the initiative, but in a clever way, making him think she was responding to his overtures. But he couldn’t recall making any overtures to her. He’d fancied her, of course, and fantasised about taking her to bed. But then he did that with nearly every woman he met, though most never became reality. But Elizabeth had been real. Seriously, amorously, ferociously so.
Watling had become alarmed when he discovered that her husband, Lord Fortescue, had learnt about their affair. Who’d told him? He suspected Elizabeth herself had done the deed to rub her husband’s nose in the fact that he was a failure as a husband. He remembered thinking: Was that why he’d killed himself?
Officially, it had been an accident while cleaning his rifle. Poppycock, of course, because Fortescue knew more about guns than almost any man alive; he’d have treated them with respect. More respect than he showed his wife, certainly. But everyone had done the decent thing, had accepted it was an accident.
And then had come the chilling moment when Elizabeth had murmured to him while they were in bed: ‘Well, I’ve got rid of mine, now it’s up to you to get rid of yours.’
At first, he thought she’d meant that she was free as a result of her husband’s suicide, but then, as her hints became more outspoken, he began to realise it hadn’t been suicide at all. Elizabeth had pulled the trigger that had ended her husband’s life. And now she expected him to do the same with Mirabel. Not shoot her, that would never be believed to be a suicide, but some way that wouldn’t be suspect.
‘I can’t do it,’ he’d told her.
‘I did,’ she said. ‘I did it for you, so that we could be together. You said you wanted that.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘But—’
‘The “but”,’ she told him, firmly, ‘is that if people suspect that my husband didn’t shoot himself, then they will be looking at someone else as the culprit. And that someone else won’t be me. After all, I’m just a woman, someone who doesn’t understand firearms. But you, William, you are known to be a good shot. My husband used to tell me what a good shot you were. I wonder if he said it to other people?’ She’d smiled. ‘So much easier if people didn’t ask those questions. And they won’t ask them of a man who’s grieving because he’s just lost his wife.’
And so, it had been done. He hadn’t needed to pretend at being bereft when Mirabel had died; he’d always thought well of her, in her way. She’d been a useful companion. Not very exciting, but she’d never demanded anything of him. She tolerated his activities outside of their marriage. And now he was to have a new wife, once the decent interval had passed after the deaths of their respective spouses. And providing no one started poking around in their affairs. Which is why he needed to tell Elizabeth about the visit from this Wilson chap and that Fenton woman. She’d need to be on her guard as well.
‘I had a visit from that interfering pair Miss Scott has hired to investigate the murder of the attendant,’ he said. ‘Former policeman, Daniel Wilson, and that arrogant woman who calls herself an archaeologist, Fenton.’
‘Abigail Fenton,’ said Fortescue as she examined her face in the dressing-table mirror.
‘Yes, that’s her.’ His face darkened as he almost spat out the words: ‘They had the nerve to accuse me of being involved in the death of Danvers Hardwicke.’
‘No.’ Lady Fortescue stopped her ministrations and stared at him, horrified. ‘They actually accused you?’
‘Not in so many words. They said it was possible his death was deliberate, then added the word “suicide”. But I knew what they meant.’
‘You should sue them for slander. They mustn’t be allowed to get away with this. I shall see Miss Scott and register a complaint. I shall insist she dismiss them.’
‘No,’ said Watling, quickly. ‘The police know there’s nothing in it. That it was an accident. But the last thing we need is someone stirring things up. Mud sticks, and I can’t afford to have people gossiping about me. Especially if we can get rid of Miss Scott. I don’t want anything standing in my way when the curator’s post becomes free.’
‘But we must do something,’ Lady Fortescue appealed to him. ‘We can’t allow these dreadful people to get away with this. Who knows who else they may have talked to? And who knows what they might start digging up?’
Watling nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I will do something.’
‘What?’ asked Fortescue.
Watling smiled at her. ‘Leave that to me, my dear. But I will take action that will stop their filthy, slanderous tongues.’
Bram Stoker studied Daniel from the other side of his desk in his office at the Lyceum, and Daniel could see from his scowl of outrage the indignation the theatre’s business manager felt at what he’d just been asked.
‘Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,’ he said, his eyes boring into Daniel’s. ‘You want me to come with you to Wandsworth Prison as part of a police plot to try and force Oscar to give you the names of other people that Simpson may have been blackmailing.’
‘Not force,’ clarified Daniel, ‘ask if he has any ideas as to the murderer.’
Stoker shook his head, firmly. ‘Your suggestion is not only outrageous, it is an insult. You want me to join you and bigots like Superintendent Armstrong—’
‘Superintendent Armstrong will not be there,’ said Daniel. ‘He will have no part in this. It will be just you, me and Inspector Feather.’
‘Why do you feel you need me there?’
‘Because we consider it more likely that Mr Wilde will agree to talk to us if there is someone there he trusts.’
‘So, you want me to betray my friend. Act as Judas for you.’
‘We have been advised that we can offer Mr Wilde better conditions while he is in prison if he is able to help us. You have met both me and Inspector Feather, and we hope you agree that we are honourable men who will make sure any promises made are kept.’
‘Oscar won’t give you any names.’
‘That’s quite likely,’ agreed Daniel. ‘But we have been tasked with asking him. The decision whether he helps us will be his. Our hope is that your presence will help to create a less hostile atmosphere between us. You have no need to endorse what we say. In fact, we will be happy for you to make your position clear to him that you opposed the idea of the meeting. He will then know he has at least one ally in the room.’
Stoker studied Daniel, exploring his face for signs of hypocrisy or deviousness. Finally, appearing close to relenting, he asked: ‘Can you give me one reason why I should help the police, especially when one considers the way they persecuted Oscar?’
‘Because it will give you a chance to visit your friend,’ said Daniel. ‘I believe tickets granting visitation rights to him aren’t read
ily available. I understand there is a waiting list.’
Stoker fell silent, his eyes fixed on Daniel. Then he nodded. ‘You are right, Mr Wilson,’ he acknowledged. ‘I should have made an effort to visit Oscar, but the idea of seeing him in those surroundings is something I’ve found difficult to cope with. And I’ve used the fact that others have already arranged to visit him as an excuse, because – as you rightly say – he is only permitted a very limited number of visitors, and even then at tragically long intervals. I shall accompany you and Inspector Feather.’ Then, to clarify, he asked: ‘You are certain that Superintendent Armstrong will not be there?’
‘I can assure you that he definitely will not be there with us. As I said before it’ll be just you, me and Inspector Feather.’
‘When do you intend to go?’
‘This afternoon. I suggest that we pick you up here at the Lyceum and travel there together. Is that acceptable to you?’
‘It’s inconvenient because we have a matinee performance this afternoon,’ said Stoker. ‘Saturdays, you know. However, this way it will save me having to explain my presence to some bloody-minded and obstructive warder if I arrived at the prison on my own. I understand some are being obstructive about letting Wilde see his visitors.’
‘Thank you, Mr Stoker,’ said Daniel. He stood up. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon.’
Nora Simpson stood in the empty living room. It wasn’t just the living room that was empty, the whole house was bare. Well, that would change as soon as the carters arrived today with her furniture. And if they didn’t, she’d go round to Alf Dobbs’s house and give him a piece of her mind he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
It was a terrible thing, to be forced out of the home she’d lived in for so many years. It was all the fault of her late husband, George, dying like that and leaving her penniless. It had been fortunate for her that Raymond had been in work at the time and had brought in some money, though only enough for them to get by; there had been no money for little extras. Until one day, Raymond had arrived home with a five-pound note. ‘A bonus’, he’d called it.