Blackstone and the Rendezvous With Death (The Blackstone Detective Series Book 1

by Sally Spencer

  ‘One day when I was dustin’ the staircase, Mr Charles come up to me an’ asked me where he might buy some second-hand clothes.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Must ’ave been about three weeks ago now.’

  ‘And did he say why he wanted them?’

  ‘No, my Lord.’

  ‘Not even a hint?’

  The maid shrugged. ‘No, ’e just asked me where ’e could buy them, an’ I said down at the market.’

  Charles Montcliffe must have felt as out of place in my world as I do in his, Blackstone thought. Imagine having lived such a privileged existence that you’d have no idea where to buy second-hand clothes.

  Yet he had obtained them—and had been wearing them when he met his death.

  ‘Does anyone else have anything to add?’ Lord Dalton asked.

  Blackstone quickly scanned the table. Most of the servants were either looking at him or at each other, but one of the footmen seemed to be fascinated with the scrubbed tabletop.

  ‘You!’ the Inspector said, pointing.

  Reluctantly, the man looked up. ‘Me?’

  Blackstone nodded. ‘Why don’t you tell us what’s on your mind?’

  The footman looked appealingly at Dalton. It’s a family matter, my Lord,’ he said.

  Lord Dalton shook his head. ‘I’ve already explained that you should tell the Inspector anything which might help him to find Mr Charles, and that no one will be punished for doing so. However, if I learn that any of you have been holding useful information back...’

  He left the rest of the threat unstated, but the footman did not miss the implication.

  ‘A...a few days ago I was standing on the first-floor main corridor waiting for Lady Margaret and...and...’ he stuttered.

  ‘Well, come on, man—spit it out!’ Lord Dalton said exasperatedly.

  ‘I heard the sound of raised voices. It was coming from the Viscount’s sitting room.’

  ‘You heard an argument, you mean?’

  ‘That’s...that’s what it sounded like to me,’ the footman admitted reluctantly.

  ‘And do you happen to know who was involved in this argument?’

  ‘The Viscount and Mr Charles.’

  ‘How can you be so sure of that?’

  ‘Because while I was still standing there, the door opened and Mr Charles came out.’

  ‘What was this argument about?’ Blackstone interjected.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the footman told him. ‘The doors are too solid for you to hear what’s actually being said.’ A look of panic flashed across his face. ‘Not that I’d have listened, anyway,’ he added hastily.

  He was still holding something back—Blackstone was willing to swear to it. And he had a pretty good idea of what that something was. He pictured the corpse of Charles Montcliffe lying at the top of Battle Bridge Stairs. His throat had been cut and he had received multiple stab wounds only a few hours earlier. But there was another injury that had been inflicted much earlier than that!

  ‘How did Mr Charles seem when he came out of his brother’s sitting room?’ Blackstone asked the footman. ‘Seem?’ the other man stalled.

  ‘What was his state of mind?’

  ‘He...he looked a bit shaken.’

  ‘And, of course, he had a black eye, didn’t he?’

  The footman jumped as if he’d just been given a totally unexpected electric shock.

  ‘There...there was a slight swelling under the eye,’ he admitted. ‘He must have seen me looking at it, because he said he’d walked into a door.’

  Blackstone hardly heard the last few words. Long ago—in Afghanistan—he had developed an instinct for when he was being watched or overheard, and he felt that instinct tingling now.

  The Inspector rose quickly to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste. He flung open the door of the servants’ hall and stepped out into the corridor just in time to see a broad back retreating down it.

  Blackstone closed the door, cutting himself off from the servants’ world, and said—in a loud voice—‘Can I help you, my Lord?’

  Viscount Montcliffe stopped, and slowly turned around. ‘Just wanted to know how much longer you’d be wastin’ the servants’ time, Blackstone,’ he said defensively.

  ‘And you came yourself, instead of putting any of your lackeys to the trouble,’ Blackstone retorted. ‘How thoughtful.’

  ‘Most of my lackeys—as you call ’em—are already fully occupied in takin’ lessons in insolence from you,’ the Viscount said.

  A good recovery under the circumstances, Blackstone thought—but not quite good enough.

  ‘I expect you know your way to the servants’ hall because you visit every Christmas Day to share in their Yuletide cheer,’ he said.

  The Viscount relaxed a little. ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘Not that it’s any of your damn business.’

  Blackstone looked down at the other man’s right hand.

  ‘But what I don’t understand is why you should bring a glass tumbler with you,’ he said. ‘Unless, of course, you were using it to listen at the door.’

  ‘I think you’re forgettin’ your place, Blackstone,’ the Viscount said, his shoulders tensing again. ‘Don’t see why I should tolerate from you what I wouldn’t tolerate from a second gardener or an assistant groom. Expect to be hearin’ from your superiors.’

  And with that parting shot, the Viscount turned again, and strode furiously towards the servants’ stairs.

  Blackstone returned to the servants’ hall. Lord Dalton gave him a quizzical look, and the Inspector returned one that said he would explain it all later.

  Righting his chair, Blackstone sat down again. ‘Does anyone have anything to add to what’s already been said?’

  Some of the servants shook their heads slightly—others merely gazed blankly at him.

  ‘None of you?’ Blackstone persisted.

  No one spoke.

  ‘Not even Mr Charles’ valet?’

  Suddenly, all the servants were looking uncomfortable—and several pairs of eyes had turned on a pretty blonde parlour maid.

  ‘The valet isn’t here, is he?’ Blackstone guessed.

  The parlour maid coughed nervously. ‘No sir, he...he isn’t.’

  ‘Why not? He can’t be attending to his essential duties, because as long as his master is missing, he doesn’t have any.’

  ‘Thomas is missin’ himself,’ the maid admitted.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Four days ago. He went out on an errand for Mr Charles, an’ never came back.’

  ‘And does the Family know about this?’

  The parlour maid glanced imploringly at Lord Dalton.

  ‘Well? Do they?’ Dalton demanded.

  ‘No. Mr Hoskins said there was no need to bother them with matters like that—leastways, not until Mr Charles turns up again.’

  Then it would be a long time indeed before the Family learned of Thomas’s absence, Blackstone thought.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the parlour maid.

  ‘Molly, sir.’

  Blackstone filed the name in his mind for later use. ‘And what you’re saying is that Thomas disappeared at the same time as his master?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Could you describe him to me?’

  The girl shrugged helplessly. ‘He’s just ordinary.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-four next birthday.’

  ‘Average height?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Black hair?’

  ‘Yes. Almost like coal.’

  ‘No distinguishing marks?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘Any scars?’

  ‘Well, not a scar exactly—but he does have a strawberry birthmark on his forehead.’

  Of course he had, Blackstone thought. Unlike the rest of the servants, Thomas must have guessed that his master had been murdered, and had gone into hiding. But however s
cared he was, he just hadn’t been able to stay away from Charles Montcliffe’s inquest.

  Ten

  The man sitting on the opposite side of the desk to Blackstone was perhaps forty-seven or forty-eight. His hair was thinning and his jaw was starting to sag, but any suggestion that he might be losing his enthusiasm for his trade was soon dispelled by his eyes, which burned with intelligence and enthusiasm.

  This man—Archibald Scott, the founder of The Radical—was the sworn enemy of unearned privilege in any form. Earl Montcliffe hated him with a passion, Blackstone reminded himself. Well, you couldn’t get a better recommendation for a person than that!

  ‘My secretary tells me you have some questions you want to ask me about Charles Montcliffe,’ the journalist said, with an edge of suspicion in both his voice and his eyes. ‘What sort of questions, Mr...?’

  ‘Robertson,’ Blackstone supplied. ‘Josiah Robertson.’

  He despised this, he told himself—despised having to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Yet what choice did he have? If he’d announced himself as a policeman and then started asking questions about Charles Montcliffe, Scott’s journalistic instincts would have immediately told him there was a story in it.

  ‘What sort of questions, Mr Robertson?’ Scott asked, the wariness still there in his tone.

  ‘I’d just like some background information.’

  ‘“Background information” can cover a multitude of sins. You’re not, by any chance, working for the police, are you? Because if you are, you can get out of here right now.’

  Blackstone laughed. ‘Do I look like a policeman?’

  No, Scott thought, you look more like an evangelist. But aloud, all he said was, ‘Policemen come in all shapes and sizes, and whatever their appearance they’re all searching for any excuse to close this place down.’

  ‘The fact of the matter is, I work for a firm of solicitors, who, in turn, work for a client whose name I am not at liberty to reveal,’ Blackstone said.

  Scott nodded gravely. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Charles Montcliffe has asked to look at some confidential papers that our client holds. He claims it would help him with the story he’s working on. The client himself has no objection to showing the papers to a serious journalist, but he must first assure himself that Montcliffe is serious. That’s where I think you might be able to help me—by providing such an assurance.’

  Scott let his eyes wander around the room as he considered what response to make.

  ‘I first met Charles a few months ago,’ he said finally. ‘He turned up on the doorstep and said he wanted to learn how to be a journalist.’

  ‘And you agreed? Just like that?’

  ‘I was a little suspicious at first. We don’t get many people with plummy accents who want to roll around in the gutter with the likes of us. But since he didn’t expect to be paid for his work, I said I’d take him on.’

  ‘What kind of work did...does he do?’

  ‘At first, he was nothing but a glorified office boy. I thought he’d soon get tired of it and give up. To be honest, I have to say I hoped he would.’ The journalist grinned. ‘I don’t like having my prejudices overturned as a rule, but I have to admit that whatever else he is, Charlie’s not one of the idle rich. He really puts his back into a job, however tedious its nature.’

  ‘You said he started out as an office boy,’ Blackstone reminded Scott. ‘But he’s not an office boy now, is he?’

  ‘No. After a few weeks I started to give him bits of writing to do—just the odd paragraph here and there. He made a good job of that too, and I could see he would soon be ready to take the next step. Well, he’s a lad with spirit, isn’t he? Reminds me of myself at his age.’

  ‘So you gave him a proper story to cover?’

  ‘No, he came to me with the idea. He wanted to do an exposé on a child pornography ring.’

  ‘Dangerous work,’ Blackstone said.

  And he was thinking: Dangerous enough to get him killed!

  ‘Yes, I warned him there might be danger, but he said that the truth was a shining beacon, and the only thing in life which really mattered. And, as a matter of fact, I agree with him entirely.’

  ‘When are you expecting him to hand in his article?’

  ‘Oh, he handed it in weeks ago. And a very fine piece of work it was. In fact, it was so good it even convinced the police to get off their big fat backsides and do something.’

  ‘They arrested the pornographers?’ Blackstone asked, feeling another lead in his investigation start to melt away.

  ‘Every single one of them,’ Scott said with satisfaction.

  ‘What else has he worked on?’

  ‘Nothing we’ve actually published, but he’s very excited about his current story. He says it will rock the world. But, of course he’s young, and when you’re young you think every story you produce will rock the world.’

  ‘What’s the story about?’

  ‘He was very scant with the detail, but...’ Scott’s eyes suddenly narrowed and the suspicion was back in them again. ‘I don’t know the name of your client, or the nature of the papers which young Charlie has requested access to,’ he continued, ‘but surely, since you do, you should be perfectly capable of working out the nature of the story yourself.’

  Damn it to hell! Blackstone thought. How am I expected to conduct an inquiry under these conditions?

  ‘I expressed myself badly,’ he said. ‘Of course I know through the client what story Charles Montcliffe is working on. I was just wondering if he was perhaps working on another at the same time.’

  ‘You can rest assured he would never do that. He’s far too single-minded to chase two birds with one net.’

  Blackstone sighed. He could push the conversation no further without revealing the depths of his own ignorance—and once he had done that the journalist would clam up like a ha’penny oyster.

  The Inspector rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘It was very good of you to spare me your time, Mr Scott,’ he said. They shook hands.

  ‘Would you mind answering one question for me, in return for the ones I’ve answered for you?’ the journalist asked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’m curious about who this client of yours might be.’

  Blackstone held up his hands. ‘I’m afraid that under the circumstances I couldn’t possibly...’ he began.

  ‘I know you can’t give me his name,’ Scott said hastily, ‘but—tell me—is he, by any chance, a Russian?’

  Blackstone faked a rueful grin. ‘Clever of you to work it out, Mr Scott,’ he said.

  *

  Anyone seeing the tall man standing on the Embankment and gazing across the river might have guessed that he was deep in thought. And they would have been right. Blackstone had so much on his mind—so many questions buzzing around in there—that it was giving him a headache.

  Was his mythical client a Russian? the journalist had wanted to know.

  Now why had he asked that? There could only be one reason—because the story Charles Montcliffe had been working on when he met his death had involved a Russian in some way.

  Blackstone reached into his pocket and took out the match-box containing the piece of fur he’d found in the hand of Mary Atkins, the murdered prostitute. He’d thought at the time it was from an expensive pelt, and now he was willing to bet that it was sable.

  And there was more—if more were needed.

  There was the sketch map that Emily Montcliffe had found in her brother’s room—a sketch map that was covered with what, to her, were meaningless squiggles, but could just as easily have been Russian writing.

  Even more significant was the fact that Charles Montcliffe had probably been killed on or near Aldermans Stairs. And what lay to the north of those stairs? A triangle of London that was bordered by Whitechapel Road and Commercial Road—and was known throughout the East End as ‘Little Russia’!

  Part Two: Little Russia

  El
even

  It really was like stepping into another world, Blackstone thought, as he made his way along Commercial Road the next morning. It was not just that the shops had strange writing above them—squiggles and backward ‘R’s, probably like the ones Lady Emily had seen on the sketch map. It was not even that the smells which wafted through the doorways were sometimes exotic and sometimes repulsive. It was the people that really surprised him.

  There was nothing remotely English about the features of the folk he passed—yet within their difference there was a great variety. He saw tall, sharp-featured men with long hair and beards; and brutish-featured men with squat bodies and wary, suspicious expressions. He saw women who walked as if they were well aware they were fashionably dressed—though the fashion was not of London—and women wearing the coarse skirts and headscarves of peasants. But however they looked or were dressed, they all moved with the assurance of people on their own territory. They had never really left Russia, Blackstone realized—they had brought Russia to London with them.

  He came to a halt in front of one of the shop-fronts. The writing over the doorway was meaningless to him, but through the window he could see a counter, on top of which sat a steaming samovar. A café restaurant of some sort, then. That seemed as good a place as any to start his investigation. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  There were several scrubbed tables in the room, with a group of people sitting around each one. Some were eating food Blackstone could only begin to guess the origin of. Others were playing cards. There were almost as many women as men, Blackstone estimated. Most of the men were smoking cigars or pipes, as might have been expected, but it came as something of a surprise to see that several of the women were smoking cigarettes.

  The Inspector walked over to the bar counter. The man standing behind it was around thirty-five. He had greying hair and the wiry figure of a man who knows when to fight and when to run.

  ‘I don’t suppose you sell beer, do you?’ Blackstone asked.

  The man gave him a blank stare. ‘Don’ unerstan’.’

  ‘Beer?’ Blackstone said, miming the pulling of a pint. ‘Bitter?’

  ‘Bitte?’ the barman repeated.