by Jack Murray
-
It was after eight in the evening. The lateness of the hour was not something which bothered Watts particularly. He was a nocturnal animal. A bachelor. There was no family waiting for him by the hearth. This meant he could work late into the night quite happily. Afterwards there were a number of places where his society was appreciated.
Rarely did Scotland Yard enjoy his company before ten in the morning. His talent bought him a degree of latitude that his sharp tongue often mortgaged. Despite his diminutive physical stature, it was a point of pride to him that many of the officers lived in fear of his artistic temperament.
He collected his sheaf of drawings into a neat pile and left his office. There was a police photographer who would be able to convert these into photostats for circulation. As he was walking towards the staircase that led to the basement of the building, he encountered a familiar face.
‘Commissioner,’ said Watts with a smile.
‘Working late as ever I see, Rufus,’ replied the Commissioner. ‘How many people was this butler chappie able to remember.’
‘Six in all. One of them looked a bit like me apparently.’
This was greeted with a guffaw from the Commissioner.
‘If you think that’s funny, look at this one.’
Watts turned the papers over so that the Commissioner could see better.
‘Well, well, well.’
They walked together along the corridor. Then the Commissioner turned to Watts, ‘Why don’t I take those to Shepherd. Save you a walk. I’m going in that direction anyway. I left my pipe in French’s office. Might even get the man to get a move on if he’s there. If not, I’ll write him a note. If he sees it’s me, it might expedite matters somewhat.’
Watts handed over the drawings and bid the Commissioner good night. Outside in the night air, Watts considered his options. There were many for a man such as he. And he was not someone who would forego any pleasure available to him.
Commissioner Horwood walked down the stairs to the basement floor. He saw a light on in Shepherd’s office. As he walked towards it a familiar face, he saw a familiar face.
‘Hello William, what brings you down here?’
Commissioner Horwood held up the drawings of the suspects identified by Bentham.
‘I’m Rufus’ errand boy these days.’
The two men had a good laugh at that.
-
Arnold Bentham scanned the hotel room that the police had taken him to. The single bed was unwelcoming. A brief peek at the sheets neither confirmed nor refuted the proposition that they had not been cleaned in a considerable time. The carpet had a distressing combination of holes, cigarette burns and stains that Bentham really did not want to think about. How the mighty had fallen.
Once upon a time, he’d lived in mansions, waited at the tables of lords and ladies. Now he was reduced to this. Staying at a tawdry hotel in Soho. It was almost enough to make a man yell.
Coincidentally this is what he heard in the next room. However, the sound was from a female and did not suggest that anguish was the principal emotion of the moment. Bentham sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. He would find a way back. He had experience. He was capable. He had much to offer an employer of taste and discrimination.
The thought of the future inspired him to look beyond the dismal present. Tomorrow he would return to Scotland Yard. Hopefully this would draw a line under the nightmare he’d experienced with the Countess. The horrible old crone.
As this thought and a few other equally unkind reflections drifted through his mind, he became aware of a gentle knock on the door. Perhaps it was the policeman again with some sandwiches. In all of the clamour to question him, there’d been precious little by way of sustenance. Bentham leapt up from the bed and went to the door. Not the longest of journeys, it must be reported.
He opened the door and was in the process of saying ‘I’m glad you’re back’ when the words froze in his mouth. The man before him was not the policeman who’d accompanied him earlier. By the time he’d registered who the man was, Arnold Bentham was already falling to the floor, his throat cut by a single swipe of an expert hand.
29
‘It was good of you to see us at such short notice, Sir Arthur,’ said Kit, sitting facing Conan Doyle.
They’d set off early in the morning by car with Miller driving. The first stop had been to Scotland Yard to collect the photostats of the people who may have visited séances in Countess Laskov’s apartment.
From there it was a long drive into the heart of Surrey to a village called Windlesham. The journey would have been more pleasant had the weather been better.
‘Stinking day,’ said Agatha giving voice to the thoughts of Kit and Harry. Mary had stayed behind to visit Mrs Rosling. The thought of this slightly perturbed Kit but he avoided thinking about it too much for fear that his reasons were jealousy, or worse, an irrational disquiet about associating with the Rosling family. Sam had joined them on the journey and soon provided a welcome distraction from disquieting thoughts.
An hour and half later they were in the sitting room of Doyle’s residence, Windlesham Manor. It was an impressive country house, very much to Kit’s taste, located in the Surrey village. Inside, it was light, airy and decorated without any particular desire to follow fashion other than the good taste of the owner.
‘Nonsense, Kit, I’m only sorry I couldn’t see you sooner. You don’t mind if I call you Kit? Call it a privilege of old age.’
Kit smiled and replied, ‘Of course, Sir Arthur.’
Agatha shifted uncomfortably.
‘Can we get on with this. Even if Arthur isn’t busy, I certainly have things to do.’
Doyle roared with laughter; a relieved Kit joined him moments later.
‘You haven’t changed, Agatha.’
Kit wasn’t sure this was entirely a good thing. However, he noted that far from being offended, Doyle seemed to enjoy, Kit struggled for a moment to find the right expression before settling for, restless energy.
‘Nor you. You’re too courteous. Always have been,’ said Agatha, although only someone who did not know her would have missed a certain nostalgia in her tone.
‘How can I help you?’ asked Doyle, sensing it was probably time to get down to business.
Kit told him all he knew of the events leading up to the death of the Countess including the departure of both Bentham and Tunstall. There was sadness in the eyes of Doyle as he listened intently. When Kit had finished, Doyle shook his head in sorrow rather than in anger for his friend.
‘And the séances? Have they thrown up anything useful, Agatha?’
‘We’re attending three the day after tomorrow, so we shall see.’
‘Were you aware that the Countess’s interests had moved further towards the occult than before?
Doyle pondered this for a moment. It was clear there was some awareness. Kit had no doubt that Doyle would not lie so he was content to let the great author find the right expression for what was on his mind. He looked down at Sam and picked the little terrier up. Doyle chuckled but Kit sensed the melancholy in the man.
‘I was indirectly aware. I told you when I met you that I had attended one séance at her apartment. We met at a number of others. In fact, Agatha, you will be going to two of them. But I had noticed that she withdrew a few months ago from attending any others. I did ask a friend about this. I remember seeing him shake his head. He said she was mixing with some of the Alpha Omega factions.
Kit leaned forward. He felt his heart beat faster.
‘Sir Arthur, am I right in thinking this group was once part of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?’
Doyle smiled but there was embarrassment in the smile, Kit could see.
‘Yes. I thought they’d been consigned to history.’
‘Sir Arthur, one of the reasons we came here today was to ask you about this Order. We think the killers may once have been part of the Order. Furthermore, t
hey’re responsible for more than just the murder of Miss Tunstall. We believe they have killed as many as thirteen young women over the last twelve years or more.
‘Good lord,’ exclaimed Doyle. ‘But how is this possible? Why haven’t we heard?’
Kit explained how and why the decision had been made to draw a veil over the connection between the killings. The political and social ramifications spanned party politics, social class and issues such as suffrage. The decision to keep secret the murders came from the very top.
‘It would be of value to know about the Order around the time that it broke up and which, if any, of the splinter groups may have had more extreme members.’
Doyle thought for a while. Neither Agatha nor Kit interrupted him. After a minute, Kit was genuinely worried the great man would fall asleep. A minute passed. The only sound to be heard in the room were birds outside before Agatha broke the silence.
‘More tea?’
The two men nodded yes, and Agatha refilled their cups.
‘I am convinced that medical science will one day make a connection between tea and improved brain function,’ said Agatha.
Kit was tempted to point out that his aunt was proof positive there was absolutely no connection between tea and having a patient, easy going disposition. The thought lay unspoken in his mind however as Doyle seemed restored by the imbibing of the miracle elixir.
‘How much do you know about the Order?’ asked Doyle.
‘Anything you can tell us would be useful,’ said Agatha, reaching for an Eccles cake.
‘I would preface my comments by saying two things. It was a long time ago.’
The unspoken truth that one’s memory tends not to improve with age was clear. Kit smiled sympathetically. Agatha finished the Eccles cake.
‘Secondly, I was not part of the Order in the sense that I wanted to rise through the different degrees. For me, it was more a meeting of like-minded individuals keen to understand metaphysics and esoteric philosophy.’
The Eccles cake proved too much of a temptation for Doyle and he followed Agatha’s lead in demolishing one. Then Doyle mopped the side of his mouth with a napkin and continued.
‘The Order was founded by three men: William Woodman, William Westcott and Samuel Mathers. All Masons, of course,’ added Doyle wryly.
‘Westcott came into possession of Cipher Manuscripts which he deciphered and, with the help of Woodman and Mathers, developed them into a curriculum with rituals. The manuscripts themselves were a combination of Hermetic Qabalah and elements of basic astrology, tarot reading, geomancy and alchemy. In those days there was never any talk of Satan or God. I started attending meetings around 1890 usually with people who were very well known. My interest tailed off in the late 1890’s after Westcott left. Woodman, I would add, died a few years previously. This meant that Mathers was very much the leading light in the movement. Was never quite sure of him.’
‘Why not?’ asked Kit.
‘Something. He liked being leader. Anyway, by this time my interest was waning. Spiritualism was becoming a greater part of my life. After I left, I lost contact with many of the members. I heard through some friends that the Order began to break up around 1900. This was brought on by Mathers, I believe. He was high handed. Smart, I’ll give him that. As the nominal leader of the organisation, he claimed to be in touch with the Secret Chiefs. No one knows who they are. They could be supernatural beings or little men from outer space for all we know.’
‘You don’t seem convinced, Arthur,’ suggested Aunt Agatha.
Doyle raised his palms up, unwilling to commit one way or another. It was plain he didn’t believe.
‘After Westcott left, Mathers was the only one in touch with these beings.’
‘Why did Westcott leave? I mean, if he was in touch with these special beings, it seems to me he would want to stay the course.’
Doyle smiled, ‘One would think so. But life has a way of throwing pebbles at the window while you’re trying to sleep. He lost some important documents that revealed his involvement with the Order. I would add Westcott was a Crown Coroner. Naturally his employers were none too happy. So, he left. I say, left, I think he was still involved. You don’t ever stop believing,’ said Doyle, more dismissively this time. He finished tea before looking back up at his guests.
‘What became of him?’ asked Agatha.
‘He retired long before the War from his role as Coroner and went to live in South Africa. Still alive for all I know.
Kit and Agatha looked at one another.
‘To finish off on the breakup of the organisation, Mathers fell in with a very odd chap named Aleister Crowley.
Doyle looked at Kit when he said this. Kit nodded; he was familiar with him.
‘He was an occultist. Heard he was in the Secret Intelligence Service.’
Or Germany’s, thought Kit. Spunky could never confirm which.
‘Many of the members apparently objected to the manner in which he was introduced. He was brought in at a senior level and it caused ructions. I believe they eventually led to the fragmenting of the Order. I’m afraid I don’t know what shape that took. I do know that some of the people Westcott had brought in formed some temples which, I hear, dabbled in the worship of Lucifer. These were just rumours. Nothing more. I’m afraid I don’t know who was involved. It was all so long ago I’m not even sure I can direct you towards who might know.’
‘I know it’s been a long time, Sir Arthur, but it would be a great service to us if you look at these photostats. Do any of them seem familiar from the séances you have attended?’
Kit reached down and withdrew a selection of pictures from his bag, placing them all on the table. There were five in total. Four men and one woman. Doyle did not have to ask what was required of him. He rose from his chair and went to a cabinet to retrieve his spectacles.
‘Old age,’ he sighed as he sat down.
He adjusted the spectacles and picked up each picture and looked carefully at the faces. Kit and Agatha glanced at one another but neither felt optimistic if Doyle’s countenance was any guide. Finally, he looked at his guests with a look of sorrow.
‘They are fine likenesses I’m sure, but I cannot put a name with certainty to any of them. This one and this one seem familiar,’ said Doyle pointing to a man and the woman.
Agatha, to be fair, did try to avoid looking vexed at this. She failed of course.
‘Oh, come on, Arthur. You’re among friends. Look at them again. At this point even a vague likeness could be important.’
‘You haven’t changed,’ smiled Doyle. He picked up the picture of the woman and studied it again.
‘You’re accusing no one, Sir Arthur,’ said Kit.
Doyle nodded and continued to look at the picture.
‘There is a passing resemblance to Beatrice Wolf.’
‘Peter Wolf’s wife?’ exclaimed Kit.
‘You know her?’ asked Doyle.
‘Well, I know her husband, Peter. I’ve met Lady Wolf once or twice.’
Doyle handed the photostat to Kit who, likewise, studied it closely. He nodded and looked at Doyle.
‘There is something about the likeness. I didn’t know she was a follower of spiritualism.’
‘Oh yes. Many years. I don’t know her husband so well. He doesn’t appear to share her interest. I gather she lost family and was hoping to make contact again. I can’t remember the details, however. I’m sorry.’
The interview drew to its conclusion with no further insights from Doyle. As they walked out of the room Kit stopped in front of a photograph of a young man in an army uniform. He was smiling. Life and confidence radiated from him.
‘Kingsley,’ said Doyle. He couldn’t add anything else. Agatha took his hand and pressed it gently.
-
Kit looked at his aunt on the journey back. She seemed troubled by the interview. Kit asked her why.
‘I’m not sure it’s moved us further forward.’
&nb
sp; ‘There were some things. We need to send a telegram to Westcott in South Africa. I’m sure Spunky can manage to find out where he is. He can tell us if there were any individuals that might have harboured a curiosity beyond the philosophic interests of the Order.’
Agatha nodded and agreed it was worth trying. However, her mind seemed to be on other things. For the remainder of the journey, she stared out of the window at the countryside as they passed through one rain squall after another. Whatever was on her mind, Kit knew from experience, would stay there until she was ready to share.
The silence on the journey gave Kit the peace and quiet to think through the next steps of the investigation. Then there was Mary.
And Mrs Rosling.
Try though he might, he couldn’t fight the feeling that he was losing a part of Mary to the American. Losing? He hated to think of it in this way. Mary loved him. He knew this to be true just as he knew there was no one else for him. Their love was unconditional.
But love is never unconditional. It makes demands.
Kit not only accepted Mary’s fierce independence, he loved her for it. Already he’d found, however, that it left him with little option but to accede to how this spirit would, on occasion, place her in danger. He’d never reconciled himself to this.
Why did it bother him, then, if she became more involved with Mrs Rosling? With a realisation bordering on shame Kit realised how little account he’d taken of the suffrage movement. He supported the right of women to vote. It seemed insane to him that there were educated, intelligent women like Mary who had no right to vote while men who were no better than thugs could exercise this right.
Over the years he’d been aware of the actions taken by the Suffragettes. The protests. The militant action against shops and buildings. The imprisonments. The hunger strikes. And, of course, the fatal protest undertaken by Emily Davison at the Derby.
It wasn’t until later, through Mary, that he heard of the brutally repressive way these protesters had been treated. The beatings at the hands of the police and the prison warders; the forced feeding.