by Giles Ekins
‘Did Sinistrari purchase any other properties apart from Blackwater House?’ asked Collingwood.
‘I repeat, Inspector, I cannot break bank confidentiality.’
Even though, as you’ve just stated, the customer is dead?’
‘Even though the customer is dead.’
‘So Sinistrari was a customer?’ Flanagan said quickly.
‘I was speaking hypothetically.’ Sir Montague snapped,.
‘Hypothetically, did Edward Sinistrari hold an account here?
And if so, what became of it?’ persisted Flanagan.
‘I find you impertinent sir, but then what else could one expect from the Irish. Scum and dregs the lot of you.’
‘Even though Sir Mortimer Portman’s father came originally from County Wexford,’ re-joined Flanagan with a smile, not in the least abashed. As usual, his research had been thorough.
‘Even so, my ancestors were granted land in Ireland by Oliver Cromwell for services rendered and so my line, my ancestral line is pure English. Not that this is any concern of yours.
‘Indeed not,’ said Collingwood as Flanagan muttered something about ‘absentee landlords’ under his breath. ‘Sir Montague, as much as I appreciate your desire to uphold the noble standards of the bank, it is most vital that I ascertain whether Edward Sinistrari did hold an account here … and more especially whether he purchased any other property besides Blackwater House?’
‘And my answer will remain the same. I will not tell you.’
‘I can readily obtain a warrant compelling you to supply the information,’ Collingwood said; irritation and frustration beginning to course through him like corrosive fluids.
‘I very much doubt that, Collingwood, and even if you did manage to obtain such an injunction I would ignore it and very quickly get it annulled.’
‘Friends in high places, eh?’ Flanagan remarked, heavy with sarcasm.
‘So high it would make you dizzy,’ sneered Sir Montague. ‘The importance and power of those who entrust their affairs with this bank go right to the very pinnacle of royalty, government, commerce and the judiciary.’
‘You refuse to assist, Sir Montague, even though, I repeat, the information we seek goes right to the … very pinnacle of a murder enquiry?’ asked Collingwood with a heavy sense of disappointment, the interview had been an ignominious fiasco from start to finish.
‘I do so refuse, sir, and now you will leave.’
‘We can still question Mister Pritchard-James,’ responded Flanagan, equally frustrated, ‘He may not have such high placed connections.’
‘Mister Pritchard-James will follow my instructions.’
‘Even though we could charge him with obstruction?’ Collingwood asked, but even as he spoke he knew the threat was futile. Portman’s Bank was simply too well connected and he remembered Flanagan’s comments about the influence wielded by the Catholic Church and the inability to take any action to curtail the abuses at the Mary Magdalene Home for Waifs and Orphans. The wealthy and influential truly were above the power of the law and he could sense that Sir Montague’s confidence and sense of invincibility had fully returned. The shock of being discovered in a compromising situation with Lord Arthur Malvern had worn off and Portman knew his position and influence would safeguard him from any consequences.
‘That threat is meaningless, Pritchard-James will do as I say and any charge or arrest will be quashed within the hour.’
With an inner sigh of defeat, Collingwood knew he was beaten. No information would be forthcoming from Portman’s, nevertheless he tried one last time.
‘Sir Montague, cannot I appeal to you? To allow your sense of natural justice to overcome the principle of confidentiality? Sinistrari is dead, what possible harm would it do to assist us, to help solve a brutal murder enquiry and possibly prevent the deaths of other innocents?’
‘I repeat, sir. I will not break confidentiality. To do so would destroy the reputation of this bank built up over more than 150 years. Good day, sir. Goodley will show you out. Do not return or else I will crush you and do not imagine that whatever you imagined you saw is any sort of threat. Goodley and Numbles and most certainly Lord Arthur will deny any impropriety and their word and mine will significantly outweigh anything that you or this Irish peasant can say.’
And Collingwood knew this to be true. Wearily he got to his feet and beckoned Flanagan to join him. ‘This Irish peasant, as you so crudely put it, is Detective. Sergeant Flanagan, formerly of the Irish Special Branch and a finer policeman you will never find. I do hope Sir Montague, that your conscience will enable you to sleep soundly, knowing that information you hold could prevent a murder. Good day.’
Collingwood turned on his heel and marched out, feeling his humiliation cast over him like a pall.
‘I do assure you Collingwood that my conscience is entirely at ease,’ Sir Montague’s mocking riposte followed them out through the doors.
COLLINGWOOD WAS STILL SEETHING WITH ANGER and mortification when he returned to his office at Scotland Yard convinced that if only he had handled Sir Montague Portman with more tact and humility he might have achieved something but his bullish arrogance had ruined any chance of co-operation. What did he possibly think he was going to achieve by marching straight into his office in that way? Perhaps Sir Charles Warren was right, perhaps he was no longer fitted to serve in the police force and should tender his resignation now rather than wait until November 9th?
He felt like smashing something, frustrated and angry at his own inadequacies. Flanagan watched him, feeling the same frustrations and uncertainties surging through his own body. Had he, Flanagan, overreacted to Sir Montague Portman’s jibes about the Irish, possibly, but when he thought about the interview with the banker, when he ran it back through his mind, he sensed that the man’s bluster was simply that; bluster – camouflage – Portman knew something and was trying to obfuscate behind a cloud of bluster and threat.
Collingwood’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Sorry, sir, I was deep in thought.’
‘Thinking no doubt about how badly I handled the whole affair.’
‘No sir, quite the contrary. Sir Montague knows something, I’m sure of it.’
‘How so?’ Collingwood asked, somewhere in the back is his mind was a similar thought but he was so angry with himself that he could not bring it to the forefront.
Flanagan thought for a moment or two to marshal his thoughts and then nodded to himself as pieces fell into place.
‘His reaction sir, when you mentioned name Sinistrari. He pretended he had to think about whom it was you were talking about. That does not make any sense. The name of Edward James Sinistrari was the most notorious name in the entire country some three or four months ago, his trial and subsequent hanging were on the lips of everyone. It was the most sensational case of the century. A man in his position could not possibly been unaware of his name, especially when we know that Sinistrari did have some dealings with Portman’s Bank over the purchase of Blackwater House. It is not as though you were asking about a Mister John Smith. Sinistrari’s notoriety and his highly unusual name mean that Sir Montague had to have known whom you were talking about but he pretended to think about it before he could recollect the name. Why sir?’
‘I do believe you are right, Flanagan. There was something about that interview that ran less than true but I have been so busy castigating myself for the way I handled the affair that I’ve not been able to see it. Thank you.’
‘No sir, it is I who should thank you, for supporting me when Portman was displaying his bigotry towards the Irish.’
Collingwood smiled, ‘My grandfather, on my mother’s side, came from County Sligo. I am in part Irish myself.’
Flanagan smiled in his turn. ‘I knew that as well, sir.’ Collingwood spread his arms to encompass the Flanagan evidence boards. ‘Sir Montague Portman knows more about Edward James Sinistrari than he is letting on. But where does that take us. Quite obviously, he is not
going to tell us and we cannot pressurise him to tell us. He is too well protected for that.’
‘Aye, sir, friends in high places!’ Flanagan added bitterly.
‘At the very pinnacle of royalty, government, commerce and the judiciary.’ Collingwood answered in a surprisingly good impersonation of Sir Montague’s pompous tones.
The two officers briefly grinned at each other before the realities of their frustrations sank in once more. With a sigh, Collingwood reached for his pipe and tobacco pouch and Flanagan turned back again once more to his notes.
Chapter 29
OCTOBER 28TH, 1888
LUCY COLLINGWOOD PLUCKED THE DEAD ROSES AND MAIDENHAIR FERN FROM THE SLENDER blue and cream ceramic Turkish vase, a vase her father had carried back from Constantinople on his return from the Crimean War. It was one of her favourite pieces; she caressed the slender curves of the vases, tracing her fingers over the patterns, loving the subtlety of the blue and turquoise hand painted flowers, the delicacy of the brush strokes and the rich lustre of the glaze.
A thorn from one of the roses pricked her finger, a bright pinpoint of blood blooming on her fingertip like a spring bud. She sucked away the blood, the taste of it salt and coppery on her tongue. Red petals, fragile but still firm in shape and colour fell away from the head of the dead roses onto the carpet like a tribute strewn before the feet of a conquering hero. She knelt down to pick them up. One by one she picked up the fragile petals, smelling at each one in turn, sad that most of the scent of the flowers had gone, sad that the house would now be bare of flowers until the first blooms of spring; crocuses, snowdrops and early daffodils, shyly raised their heads to bask in the thin sun.
A knock on the door of the dining room startled her. ‘Scuse me, Miss Lucy,’ said Tillie, the parlour maid, ‘but there is a gentleman to see you,’
‘A gentleman? Does he give a name? Did he present his card?’
‘No Miss, but he said it was most urgent he saw you. In connection with your father, he said.’
‘Papa? Is there something wrong?’ she exclaimed, a sudden cold dread in her heart.
‘No Miss Lucy, he said nothing like that.’ ‘Very well, I’ll come through.’
‘I put him in the drawing room, Miss.’
Slowly Lucy got to her feet and brushed down the front of her dress where one or two errant petals clung to the velvet of
her skirt. Lucy Collingwood, now eighteen years old was tall and slender, much like her mother whom she had never known but her father could see it. Every day as Lucy grew into confident womanhood, Collingwood could see his dear dead wife, also called Lucy, reflected in his daughter like a mirror image. The bright cornflower blue eye, the lustrous golden hair, her carriage and demeanour provoking such a longing in Collingwood for his long dead love that it was almost painful to look upon his beautiful, dutiful, loving daughter. Sometimes he thought his heart would burst with the love he felt for Lucy – for both of his Lucy’s.
Slowly Lucy made her way down the hallway from the dining room into the drawing room.
When Lucy entered the room, the mysterious visitor had his back to her, his hands clasped behind him, looking out of the window. Shafts of morning sunlight burst about his head like the dawn of creation.
‘Good morning, sir. I am Lucy Collingwood You wished to see me? About my father?’
The tall stranger turned around, the sun still blazing around his features so that his face was in heavy shadow.
‘How very pleased I am to meet you Miss Collingwood. I have waited for some time for this opportunity to make your acquaintance.’ The man’s voice was deep and melodious, washing over Lucy like a wave of rich honey.
‘You told my maid sir, that you wished to see me in connection with my father. Please be so good as to tell me.’
‘I do so greatly admire your father, Miss Collingwood. Resourceful to a degree not often encountered.’
The man suddenly moved closer, moving with a feline grace so that he was alongside her before she realised that it. Flustered she took a step back. She suddenly shivered, an instinctive dread clawing at her stomach.
‘I don’t believe that Tillie passed on your name, sir.’
‘I did not give it.’
Lucy drew herself up tall. ‘Perhaps then sir, you would care to give your name now and state your business,’ she said resolutely, even though the rat of unease still gnawed at her innards.
Sinistrari, for indeed it was he, smiled admiringly but the smile did not reach his eyes. ‘I see your father’s spirit has been passed on to his daughter.’
‘Perhaps, but you have not answered my question, sir. Who are you and what do you want? Is it to do with my father, please be so good as to tell me?’
‘My name is … of little import, Miss Collingwood, although your father knows it well.
‘Sir, what is this about?’ Lucy asked sharply.
‘Ah, that is the eternal question, is it not?’ Sinistrari answered, raising his finger as though making a point in a debating society discussion.
‘As you continue to play these games sir, I believe that there is little more to be said. I must ask you to leave.’
‘All in good time, Miss Lucy, all in good time.’
‘There is a policeman stationed outside, if you do not leave at once I shall have him summoned and he will escort you off the premises.’
‘Oh yes, Police Constable Albert Mullins, no doubt an admirable fellow, but alas …’ Sinistrari raised his arms in mock regret, his hands outstretched and his eyes locked suddenly into Lucy’s. She tried to drag her gaze away, but the hooded black eyes bore remorselessly into her visual cortex, unblinking, penetrating deep into her mind, she felt her legs tremble and weaken beneath her, the fear hammering at her heart like the frenzied pounding of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. Her arms fell limply to her sides, drained of strength. She tried, with all the desperate last strength she could summon, to tear her eyes away, straining, straining to move her head, but she could not; all she could see, all the she could feel, was the burning soul-sapping intensity of his glaring eyes.
Her eyelids fluttered as she felt her resolve fading, her head rolled, searing bright lights flashed across her eyes sending bolts of coloured agony into her skull. ‘Listen to my words, Lucy,’ she heard him say through the fog of torment, ‘We will walk together to the door and out into the street. There is a carriage waiting for us. The door will open and you will climb inside. If your maid asks, you are going to see your father who has been taken ill. Do you understand?’
Through her dislocating agony, Lucy nodded but still she knew, deep inside the remotest depths of her psyche, layered inside the arcing nerve endings of the primeval instinct for survival, that to climb inside the carriage was to mean catastrophe and death. Still she fought the pain, the searing eyes that bore into her like super-heated needles. She let her body slump, her legs gave way and she fell away, breaking his gaze.
She screamed, screamed as though the slavering fangs of the hounds of hell were at her throat. Screaming, screaming, screaming but no sound, no shrieks of terror emerged from her vocal cords, her cries strangled at birth. She felt him take her by the arm and led her along. Her legs felt dislocated from her body, detached from her free will, as if she were floating in viscous liquid. Her vision was hazy, blurred, scarred with coruscating yellow light. Out into the hallway, remote footsteps echoed on the oak parquet flooring.
‘Everything all right Miss Lucy?’ a disembodied voice asked.
‘Yes, Tillie,’ she heard herself say, but it was not her voice, it was an alien voice but it came from her own mouth, in her own tones and inflections. ‘Everything is in order, this gentleman is taking me to my father; he’s been taken ill.’
‘Oh my good lord. I do so hope he’s alright.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ she heard her captor say, ‘it is just a minor turn, an excess of brittle blood,’ or at least that is what she thought he said.
‘What’s going
on? Miss Lucy.’ It was Maitland, the footman although much more of a manservant now that she had persuaded her father to terminate the obsequious Jenkins. Lucy felt her head revolving about on her shoulders as her eyes rolled back into the top of her skull. She felt sick, faint, and so very distant from the events around her.
‘Stand aside, Miss Collingwood is going to see her father.’
‘No sir, I don’t think so. Something is not quite right here. You just wait on, sir, until I find out what’s about. Miss Lucy is obviously not herself.’ It was a cold October day, Miss Lucy was not wearing a cloak or hat, carried no reticule and most telling of all, wore no gloves. No lady, no respectable lady, whatever the weather would ever, ever , leave home without gloves; even on the hottest summer a lady wore gloves
. ‘Miss Lucy, is everything all right, is this gentleman known to us?’
‘Stand aside, man. Don’t meddle in affairs that don’t concern you.’
‘Miss Lucy is my concern and nobody is going anywhere ‘til I get to the bottom of this.’
The hand on her arm tightened its grip, sending another pain shooting up her arm, but the pain helped clear her mind. ‘Maitland.’ she gasped, ‘Don’t let him take me.’
Sinistrari hissed in anger, his grip on her arm squeezed ever more tightly so that she thought his fingers had crushed though to the marrow of her bones. Maitland strode forward. ‘You get your hands off her. Do as I say, now. Tillie, you run outside and fetch Mullins.’
‘Pitiful fool,’ snarled Sinistrari and lifting his hand, pointed stiffened fingers at Maitland. A. burst of black smoke; then a swarm, like a swarm of angry gnats on a summer’s day. Maitland fell back clutching at his throat and with a surge of such horror Lucy saw … something … something shapeless and evil beyond description inside Maitland’s screaming mouth, a writhing tearing thing; claws and teeth ravaging it’s hellish way into Maitland’s throat. Maitland fell backwards onto the hallway floor, blood spouted in torrents as the imp, if that is what it was, tore apart Maitland’s carotid artery, ripping out his throat from inside. Lucy vaguely heard Tillie’s shrieking screams of terror, Sinistrari turned to Tillie and gave her a baleful stare burning in intensity and she was silent. Lucy could not tear her eyes away from the convulsing body of her faithful servant, his heels thrashed and drummed across the floors, his chest heaved as the foul creature worked its way deeper into his body. Blood soaked his shirt and waistcoat in crimson rose petals and finally he slumped back still, the life drained away in darkening pools.