by Jack Murray
The mention of the Elephant Boys reminded Kit of something else that had irked him.
‘How did Eva Kerr know of the death of Enid Blake?’
It was Kell who spoke. There was no denying the sadness in his voice.
‘Miss Blake was one of ours. We have, shall we say, placed people in various organisations to keep a check on who they are associating with. I’m not terribly worried by racecourse bully boys in the normal way of things but if they were to connect with foreign agents or ORCA, then it is clearly a problem. Miss Blake saw something at a house which she thought we should know about. Her note said it was connected to the killings. We didn’t get to her on time so know nothing of who or what she saw.’
‘And Eva Kerr?’
‘The agent running Miss Blake found her dead in the room she was occupying. Naturally this was distressing. Once we knew what had happened, we had to be practical. We contacted the police. Eva Kerr immediately travelled down from York to claim knowledge of the whereabouts of the body.’
Kit could see Smith-Cumming nodding in agreement.
‘And you can’t or won’t tell me where Miss Kerr is now?’
Smith-Cumming looked at Kell. Kell barely moved his head but this still seemed to be enough by way of communication for Smith-Cumming to speak.
‘Miss Kerr remains involved in the investigation. Whatever one may think of necromancy, she can still help us in a number of ways. For the moment we see her working independently of your investigation.’
This was far from satisfactory, but Kit guessed the two men had their reasons. He had long since given up on trying to comprehend the mindset of high command.
‘Did your manservant and Hadleigh find anything connecting Hertwood to ORCA or Satanic cults?’ asked Smith-Cumming.
Kit looked at Smith-Cumming quizzically. He judged that the spymaster really had no idea about where Hertwood’s interests lay.
‘I don’t believe Hertwood is connected to these crimes. Gresham either, but I was not speaking to him about spiritualism because I knew none of what you’ve just told me.’
‘Why do you believe Hertwood is not part of this.’
To the amusement of both men, Kit told them why.
24
‘It was good of you to come here at such short notice, Lady Mary.’
The ‘here’ in question was a church hall near the south bank just a few hundred yards from Waterloo Station. Mary looked at Isabelle Rosling and smiled. There was something compelling about the older woman. Her wide-set eyes suggested an intelligence that was confirmed every time she spoke. The words rarely came quickly. Instead, they were evenly-paced and obliged the listener to follow them on a journey which weaved ideas and facts together in a narrative which engaged the heart as much as they fed the mind.
Mary realised that the older woman was becoming her guide in the world of women’s suffrage. Perhaps even more than that. Being with such a powerful personality was inspiring. Even liberating.
As fanciful as it seemed to Mary, it felt like Mrs Rosling saw her not only as a kindred spirit, but also, potentially, as someone who would carry the fight forward in the future. Mary realised she was a little in awe of this woman. As much as she did not want to admit this to herself, Mrs Rosling was beginning to fill a gap that had lain empty since the passing of her mother.
The two women rose from their seats in the small office and stepped outside into the hall. All around them were women from the streets: homeless, on the run from abusive husbands, prostitutes and thieves. There were young children running around screaming, crying and laughing. The centre was a playground, a refuge, and a safe haven. Sanctuary for women who needed protection from the elements, from men and from themselves.
Mary looked around the room almost paralysed with shock.
‘I didn’t realise places like this existed.’
‘They don’t,’ replied Mrs Rosling grimly.
‘What can I do?’ asked Mary as she felt tears sting her eyes and fear slowly engulf her heart. She felt desolate and inadequate in equal measure. Incapable of answering the questions posed by her presence among the abandoned, the abused and the abhorred.
‘Help us,’ said Mrs Rosling, simply.
‘These women, children need medical help,’ said Mary looking around, her feelings of helplessness growing.
‘We have a doctor who helps us out from time to time. I’ll introduce you if he comes later. But Lady Mary, I seem to remember you’ve had some experience in these matters.’
Mary reddened and looked at Isabelle Rosling in surprise. The surprise was not that this lady knew of what she had done during the War. Rather it was the feeling of pride that she had mentioned it. It was the surprise she felt that it mattered to her what this woman thought.
Mary nodded to Mrs Rosling. A moment later her coat and hat were off. A quick survey of the scene identified who was most in need of immediate attention. Then she left Mrs Rosling and went into the Hogarthian scene in front of her.
-
When Mary returned to the house in Grosvenor Square later that afternoon, she found a large bouquet of flowers in the entrance hallway. She raised her eyebrows in a question to Natalie. She desperately hoped they were not from Bobby Andrews. In the background there was music, but she barely noticed the sound of it now. It had become a permanent and welcome addition to the madness of living with Aunt Agatha. Natalie, meanwhile, tried and almost succeeded in hiding her smile.
‘They are from Monsieur Lewis. He delivered them personally.’
‘Xander,’ exclaimed Mary with a laugh. ‘My goodness, he’s persistent. I’ll give him that. Has Lady Esther seen them?’
‘No, mademoiselle. She went out with Monsieur Bright earlier,’ replied Natalie in a tone of voice that suggested it had been a close shave.
Mary grinned at the maid conspiratorially. Then she went over to the flowers and inhaled deeply.
‘They’re beautiful. Pity to see them thrown out. I’m not sure that Lady Esther needs to know about them and certainly Richard doesn’t. I dread to think what he might do to Xander. Why don’t you take them down to your room, Natalie?’
This was an eminently sensible solution to an awkward problem of the heart that, frankly, only a member of the practical sex could have conceived. Natalie smiled. She was genuinely grateful to be considered in this way. Naturally she was not so unromantic, which is to say, French, that she would not have preferred flowers intended for her. Perhaps one day a young man…
Natalie thanked Mary and curtsied. Moments later she had removed them from the vase and was hurrying downstairs. Mary watched her go before entering the drawing room. Agatha and Betty were deep in conversation.
‘What have I missed?’ asked Mary.
The two ladies looked up from their conference. In front of them, taking up a goodly portion of the table, was the large scrap book used by Betty to capture cuttings from the newspapers.
‘Well, you missed that ridiculous young man attempting to court Esther. I hope you’ve both learned a lesson from this,’ replied Agatha, tartly.
Betty rolled her eyes, however. In the oft expressed worldview of Betty Simpson, anything that helped advance a case was within the rules. Rule number one, of course, was not to endanger yourself. That was out of bounds. Everything after that was in play. You could go for the green or lay-up. Your choice. The object was still to sink the putt in as few strokes as possible. It would be fair to say that Agatha had long since lost patience with the comparison between sleuthing and golf.
Both ladies listened to Mary’s recounting of her morning’s activity. Agatha nodded her approval. Was that a moistness in her eye, wondered Mary? Betty, meanwhile, gave her a hearty pat on the back which nearly knocked Mary clear across the table.
‘Well, we’re waiting to hear from that young man of yours. In the meantime, Doyle has struck gold for us,’ announced Betty.
‘Really? How so?
‘This weekend, he’s organised for us t
o attend three séances. Imagine! One in Kensington, one in Knightsbridge and one in Sloane Square.’ said Betty excitedly. ‘Isn’t that near where that banker lives where you pretended to be the maid?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘That’s the Mrs Rosling I was with today.’
Agatha seemed less overwhelmed by the news.
‘More opportunity to spend time with the feckless, the foolish and the fatheaded if our first two séances were any guide.’
‘Ignore your aunt’s cynicism,’ replied Betty.
Mary wondered for a second if ‘your aunt’ was appropriate. But only for a moment. Aunt Agatha was becoming as much her aunt as Kit’s. Only the humbleness of Mary would have caused her surprise had she realised to what extent those feelings were reciprocated.
‘They are being preyed upon, I agree,’ said Mary, wisely taking a middle course.
‘My point exactly,’ said the two older women in unison, therefore confirming in each of their minds that they were right.
-
Kit arrived at that point in the afternoon when it’s trying to decide to become evening. All three women listened eagerly to the latest developments and with dismay at the news of another murder.
‘I didn’t see anything in the morning newspaper,’ said Agatha.
‘The police won’t release any details until they find out the name of the poor victim.’
‘That’s the second murder in a week. I wonder why?’ said Mary.
‘It does seem strange,’ agreed Kit. ‘The date has no significance. According to Father Vaughan this could be because she found out about the activities of the killers. It’s a ghastly thought, but it may have been part of either an initiation into their circle or some sort of repulsive graduation to a higher level of enlightenment.’
Mary shook her head, but Kit could see the anger in her eyes. Only through the abuse or violence against women could these men acquire power. Mary felt Kit take her hand.
‘It’s repugnant, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘And this Eva Kerr is really with the police?’ asked Agatha.
‘Well, certainly with MI5. I have the feeling, though, they think there is something to her. Don’t ask me to define what that something is. Neither Kell nor Smith-Cumming were prepared to declare her a fake.’
Agatha had already made up her mind on that score and rolled her eyes. Mary merely smiled at Agatha’s reaction.
‘How was your morning with Mrs Rosling?’ asked Kit.
‘Sad and inspiring, I would say. She took me to a refuge for women near Waterloo Station. I tried to help. They need so much though. It’s difficult to know where to start. These women have escaped bad marriages or families. They’ve nowhere to go. And then there were the children. What hope have they?’
There was silence in the room as she spoke. All felt her pain because they were all feeling it too.
‘We should do more to protect vulnerable people in our society,’ said Mary at the end.
There was no argument from anyone in the room nor any answer to the problem. For Mary the heartbreak of her morning was not eased by returning to the privilege that formed her everyday life. She wanted to enjoy the adventure of being a detective, but reality had an annoying habit of butting in and leaving her with a feeling of guilt rather than elation.
‘The books make it so much more glamorous. Thrilling even,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s not always so.’ Her voice trailed off. Her mind drifted to another country, a lifetime ago.
The arrival of Esther and Bright towards the end of the afternoon picked everyone’s mood up. They agreed that any discussion of the case would cease for one evening. Kit felt relief at this. For the moment there was nothing that could be done, at least by Kit and Mary. The baton was very much with the police on following up on the movements and the people who associated with the last two victims. Aunt Agatha and Betty would not be able to move forward with their attendance at the séances for a couple of days. Kit wondered what progress was being made by, quite literally, their partners in crime.
25
A couple evenings previously, two men met at the site of a former prison. At least this is what Wag McDonald told Sergeant Wellbeloved. The sergeant looked around at the paintings on the wall and assumed that the head of the Elephant Boys was pulling his leg. He expressed this rather forcibly which caused McDonald, who was telling the truth, to laugh so loudly that it caused one elderly lady to shush him. The gangland leader and the policeman looked at one another like naughty schoolboys.
The National Galley, situated on Millbank, was home to a collection bequeathed to the nation by Henry Tate. They were not to the taste of Scotland Yard’s finest, although McDonald professed liking a George Clausen painting of a melancholic young woman staring at the viewer. Life was hard. Why pretend otherwise? The muted colours in the painting and the expression of the young woman reflected a truth McDonald had learned long before he reached Flanders. He rose from the seat facing the painting and walked over to read its name.
‘The Girl at the Gate,’ said McDonald. ‘Bloody good.’
Wellbeloved seemed less impressed, but, then again, he never was. The sergeant went through life with the permanent expression of a carnivore who has discovered a sprout beside his steak. He was one of those men whose chief characteristic was distrust.
McDonald’s praise of the painting merely provoked the sergeant into eye-rolling impatience. He was keen to get back to the reason for the meeting. McDonald returned to his seat. Neither man looked like they should be there. Around them were school children and a teacher, a few elderly women and a man of an artistic disposition.
‘Have you got it then?’ asked McDonald.
Wellbeloved handed him a piece of paper.
‘These are the names and current addresses of all the people known to have been part of this Order. The ones still alive that is.’
‘Maybe we can get in touch with the ones that have passed to the other side through your friend Miss Kerr,’ said McDonald. Wellbeloved began to cackle. It was not the most attractive of sounds. Nor was the hacking cough that followed it. Moments later, the teacher corralled her children away from the detective towards the next room. She turned around and looked pointedly at Wellbeloved as she went through the exit.
McDonald looked at the list. There were at least twenty names on it. The addresses were all in the parts of town where neither he nor Wellbeloved would make dinner party guest lists. The paper was folded neatly and placed inside McDonald’s wallet. There were a lot of other notes. Pound notes. This caused the policeman’s eyebrows to rise a notch or two. The leader of the Elephant Boys noticed Wellbeloved’s reaction which caused him to smile.
‘Who says crime doesn’t pay?’
‘Not me,’ said Wellbeloved rising to his feet. The meeting was over. The men parted. There were no farewells. Each went down the steps of the Tate building and headed off in different directions; just two art lovers after their trip to the gallery.
-
Sir Watkyn Snodgrass didn’t like to answer his door at the best of times. Why else does one have staff? This not unreasonable thought struck him as he went to the door of his townhouse in Fitzroy Square. For some reason Bean, his butler, had asked for an hour off duty to attend to an urgent matter. The matter in question was the serendipitous news that he’d won a competition. That he, for the life of him, could not remember entering this competition was not a matter to trouble him when the princely sum of £500 was his for the asking. To collect his prize, Bean had to be at the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus at no later than nine thirty in the morning, and say to a policeman, ‘You are Drew P. Dilberry and I demand my prize’.
Bean would soon find out that he had been duped by a wholly fictitious letter which had arrived in the first post. It would result not only in his arrest but also in the arrest of butlers all around the city who had been deceived in a similar manner.
Sir Watkyn was wholly unaware of what lay in store for his unfortunate b
utler as he opened the door to a rather short man and a very tall woman. They were an odd looking couple to say the least. In fact, it had been a long time since he’d seen anyone so peculiar.
The man was in his forties. His grey pallor emphasised the dark rings under his eyes. The man’s mouth was even less promising. It did not seem to be large enough to cope with his teeth. The movements of the man’s jaw were compelling. It looked like he was trying to polish off a tough steak. Equally unprepossessing was his dress. The brown coat had patches on the arms and stains that did not stand further investigation.
The man doffed his hat and smiled. Ye gods. The smile revealed a set of poorly fitted dentures. This explained the odd contortions his mouth broke into when he smiled. The lady standing with him beamed amiably in his direction. It was most disconcerting.
‘Yes?’ said Sir Watkyn with ill-disguised irritation.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ said the peculiar-looking man. ‘My name is Reverend Henry Threepwood.’
The enunciation was like nothing Sir Watkyn had ever heard before. The provenance was geographically hard to pin down. It started out in West Kensington but appeared to end somewhere in the North Australian outback. The accent temporarily distracted Sir Watkyn long enough for the Reverend to seize the initiative.
‘We’re collecting for Poor Relief. We want to improve the condition of their lives. Could we have a few moments of your time to tell you more.’
Sir Watkyn certainly did not have time to hear more. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding the lower orders in society and he was damned if he cared a jot about their condition. He recoiled as the Reverend smiled again. It was diabolically compelling. Then there was the overly-vigorous nodding of his head at each point made. The movement of the Threepwood’s head was so hypnotic that before he knew what he was doing, the knight of the realm and fourth son of Viscount Spiers Snodgrass found himself nodding, too.