His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5)

by Linda Stratmann

  As we go to press, our correspondent has reported that Mrs Vardy in the company of her brother Mr Gordon Saltmire has been seen entering the police station, and it is a reasonable conclusion that they have been called there to identify the man claiming to be Mr Jasper Holt. As Mr Saltmire entered the building he was overheard to make the comment that the man was undoubtedly an impostor or a madman and he was sure that the question would be settled very quickly. Mrs Vardy, who was heavily veiled, although onlookers declared that she could be none but the distressed wife, said nothing.

  THE BRIGHTON SCANDAL

  Further to our earlier report we must describe a very remarkable scene which took place in the normally respectable parts of Brighton yesterday. A large assembly of persons of the business classes gathered outside the Town Hall demanding to see the man who has declared himself to be Mr Jasper Holt. Our correspondent, who was present, states that the situation came close to an outright assault on the building, which had to be protected by officers of the law.

  Our readers might wonder at this turn of events, since the former Mrs Holt and her brother have both stated that the man in the cells is not Mr Holt, and there the matter ought to rest, however he continues to insist that he is, and a rumour began to circulate in the crowd that there was some prospect of his creditors receiving their money.

  Peace was restored when three gentlemen all of whom were acquainted with Mr Holt and were connected with him in business, were permitted to enter the Town Hall and see the mysterious resident of the cells. All three were able to confirm that he was indeed who he claimed to be, and he was at once charged with the attempted fraud on the Brighton and Hove Insurance Company. He remains in the cells waiting for a legal representative to be appointed. While he appears to be without funds, we have no doubt that in such a notorious case, there will be many in the legal profession who will see it in their interest to represent him, the public excitement his situation has aroused, and the constant speculation that appears in the daily prints being tantamount to a fee. He will probably appear before the police courts in the next few days when we will expect to hear that he has been committed to be tried at the next assizes.

  We are advised that a special delegation from the photographic department of Scotland Yard was able to view the prisoner and portraits of him will be placed on display at a Brighton photographer’s shop very soon, where we have no doubt that they will attract considerable public attention.

  There followed a lively debate in the correspondence column under the general heading: MR JASPER HOLT:

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

  Sir— I had occasion to be in the vicinity of the police station this morning when I heard that a gentleman confessing to be Mr Jasper Holt was being held there. I hope to be excused from any accusation of overweening curiosity on the matter, but I was some years ago a customer of Mr Holt’s wine emporium and therefore I am in a good position to identify the stranger. I witnessed Mrs Vardy and Mr Saltmire going into the station and what was my astonishment to see them emerge less than five minutes later. I really doubt that they can have had any opportunity to view and question the individual.

  I have since been advised that they were adamant that the man being held in the Town Hall is not Mr Jasper Holt. Would it be too bold of me to suggest that their minds had been made up before they saw him? To identify the man as the missing Mr Holt would place Mrs Vardy especially in a very difficult not to mention delicate position, and I can well understand her reluctance to do so. I did approach the police to offer my services and was told that these were not required. I do think it is essential to have another view on the matter.

  BRIGHTON RESIDENT

  BRIGHTON RESIDENT TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

  Sir— there have been many persons amongst the residents of Brighton, especially men of business, who have long suspected that the disappearance of Mr Jasper Holt was a well calculated fraud, designed to cheat his creditors. I for one, have always believed that he was able to reach the shore safely and make his escape undetected, perhaps with the assistance of accomplices. I have my suspicions of who those accomplices might have been, but beyond commenting that one must have been a female, I decline to venture an opinion. And now he reappears, begging forgiveness! There are men in Brighton who came close to ruin or whose good reputations were unjustifiably sullied because of his actions and they cannot forgive him however much he pleads for mercy. Are the police taking no steps to place him under arrest? They had better take good care of him or he might run away again.

  JUSTICE

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

  Sir— Might I suggest that the person best placed to determine whether the man who claims to be Mr Jasper Holt is actually his family doctor?

  COMMON SENSE

  Mina pointed to the last contribution. ‘People without information are often very free with their opinions. They think they have all the answers which other, stupider people have not thought of, and they never think to check if they have their facts right before writing their letters. As a result, their mistakes are immortalised in print for the world to see. This person who demanded that the family doctor should go and identify the man in the Town Hall was obviously unaware that Mr Holt was never examined by Dr McClelland. Dr Crosier would be a better man to consult.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Hamid, thoughtfully, ‘the man who examined Mr Holt for the insurance company.’ He made a brief but attentive examination of Mina’s respiration and pulse, and nodded satisfaction. ‘Dr Crosier’s name was familiar to me, when you first mentioned him, but I decided not to say anything at the time in case my memory was faulty. I did not want to risk criticising a man’s character without good reason. I have however, been making some discreet enquiries on the subject, and I have at last discovered that Dr Crosier died two years ago at the age of eighty-four.’ He made a pause that was so solemn and significant that he had all Mina’s attention. ‘But that was not before he had been struck off the medical register.’

  ‘Oh? For what reason?’

  Dr Hamid completed his notes. ‘That I have not yet been able to establish. If I do, I will let you know. But my feeling is that it must have been something more serious than a decline in his faculties with age. Had that been the case; for example, had he been losing his sight, he would simply have been encouraged to retire from practice.’

  ‘But if the answer does not lie with either Dr McClelland or Dr Crosier, you might be able to solve the mystery. Didn’t you tell me that Mr Holt used to visit the Baths?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t examine him.’

  ‘But your masseur might recall if there were any marks about him that would assist identification.’

  ‘I will ask, but it seems unlikely. It was about ten years ago, and our records do not keep details of that kind unless they are relevant for treatments.’

  ‘Did he ask for any special treatment?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Many gentlemen ask for a shoulder and back massage especially businessmen and shopkeepers. And the scalp as well, if they are afraid of losing their hair. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have any information which would assist the police.’

  Mina pointed to the letter from JUSTICE. ‘The veiled inference here is as clear as day. Even if the man is not Mr Holt, I fear that the suspicion that Mrs Vardy actually connived and colluded with her husband’s disappearance will always attach to her. She will never be free of it.’ Suspicion, she thought was like the corpse of a drowned man, one that had sunk below the waves, and then just as one hoped it had finally rotted away to nothing, it rose to the surface again, bloated by the foul-smelling gas of gossip.

  ‘Oh, it may turn out to be much worse for her than that,’ said Dr Hamid, regretfully. ‘One of my patients was in the crowd yesterday and he tells me that someone had heard a rumour that Mrs Vardy had not been left destitute by her husband’s loss, but had, unknown to him, been concealing some property, a box of jewels or some such, that she had held when she wa
s single, and which by law ought to have passed to him on their marriage.’

  ‘But the Married Women’s Property Act —’

  ‘It is not retrospective. And in my opinion does not go nearly far enough.’

  ‘As if I needed another reason not to marry,’ said Mina dryly. ‘But the rumour cannot be true!’

  ‘There will be some people to whom that hardly matters. Those who prefer scandal to the truth. But as you can imagine it has especially aroused the interest of Mr Holt’s creditors, who suddenly saw a chance of suing him for their money.’

  Mina realised that in her eagerness to solve the mystery of Mr Holt she had not seriously considered that in one sense it would never be solved. Even the production of a mouldering corpse wearing the last garments the man was seen in, or his living body recognised by his nearest and dearest would never for some people, be enough.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mina was eager to hear from Mr Merridew again. She had written to him asking him to observe Mrs Vardy specially at the next séance, saying that having read all about the recent dramatic events at the Town Hall she was concerned for the lady’s wellbeing. She was delighted to receive his reply informing her that he had visited Mrs Barnham a second time and would call on her to make his report.

  When he arrived and saw her no longer in bed but sitting in an armchair, he gave a little cry of pleasure and made a pirouette of joy, before joining her before a table where there was a dish of biscuits and tiny cakes, nicely arranged, and a carafe of refreshing mineral water.

  ‘As you know,’ he said, ‘I was anxious about the behaviour of one of the attendees at the last séance, a Mr Cobbe. ‘I am sorry to say that there are persons who take a delight in cruelty to others, especially those in a humble way of life, who cannot speak out in their defence.’

  ‘Is that Mr William Cobbe, the banker?’ asked Mina

  ‘It is. Do you know him?’

  ‘Only by name. I have sometimes read in the newspapers of people who treat their servants quite abominably,’ said Mina, ‘usually when they are facing judge and jury. Prison is the only place for them. Is he a creature of that sort?’

  ‘I fear he may be. A man such as Mr Cobbe, who is very jealous of his reputation, dare not indulge his cruelty too openly,’ observed Mr Merridew, ‘but he will always find ways and places. I therefore took the opportunity to speak to little Maggie before I went up to the medium’s rooms.’

  Mr Merridew proceeded to describe everything that had happened when he reached the house:

  As Maggie opened the door, I was struck once more how dreadfully thin and worn she was and could not help wondering if she might be a little older than she looked. I wanted to sit her down to a good nourishing dinner, but I doubted that Mrs Barnham would allow it, and there was also the concern that Maggie might well mistake my intentions. Some of these vile individuals earn the trust of their victims with outward kindness, which they soon abandon. I would not be able to help her if she were frightened of me. I asked if I could speak to her for a moment.

  She agreed and paused in the dank hallway. There were the faded remains of flowered wallpaper and as she drew back towards the wall she seemed to be sinking into and becoming part of it. I asked her if Mr Cobbe would be there that evening. She seemed to shrink at the mention of his name, but she shook her head, telling me he had important business at the bank.

  I was relieved to hear this since I had not yet formulated a design and did not want to confront Mr Cobbe until I had. But I felt that the little servant was shrewder and more observant that she was given credit for. And if she was regarded as a person of no consequence, what might she have witnessed or overheard and remembered? I said: ‘You know, Maggie, although I have only met Mr Cobbe once, it is my belief from what I have seen of him that he is a very bad man. What do you think?’

  Maggie looked down at the floor, and her fingers twisted together. ‘I don’t know. I’m not to say.’

  ‘No?’ I questioned. ‘Well, tell me this, then; when he comes here, does he give presents of money to Mrs Barnham?’

  Maggie looked up. She stared into my face, as if trying to fathom whether I could be trusted, and then made a decision and nodded. ‘Not in the room in front of everyone, but later on, so the other visitors don’t see. Mrs Barnham always tells people she doesn’t take money for the sittings, but that isn’t true. And he gives something to Miss Stone as well. But I don’t think it’s as much.’

  I asked her if she also received presents from him and she told me he had given her a penny if she agreed not to say anything about what went on.

  ‘How long has he been coming to these séances?’

  ‘Not long. The last time when you were here it was the second time. He — he tells Mrs Barnham what he wants,’ she added in a whisper.

  ‘Maggie, I couldn’t help but see that you were afraid when I gave you a present. But that was not for any bad intention, please never think that. I am not like Mr Cobbe.’

  I gave her another penny. She took the coin and wiped a dry little fist across her eyes.

  ‘I think I may have guessed something,’ I ventured. ‘When the ghost of the little girl appears at the séance, that is really you, isn’t it? You are all dressed up to look like a ghost of a child, and you have been schooled about what to do and how to walk about without making a noise.’

  She bit her lip.

  ‘That’s all right, you don’t have to say anything, but I can tell. I expect it is Miss Stone who gets you ready to appear like a ghost? She does it when she takes the tea things down to the kitchen, and when we sing our hymns and pray with our eyes closed that is when you can come in and go away without our noticing you?’

  Maggie nodded again.

  ‘And you must pretend to be Mr Cobbe’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes, only —’ she stopped.

  ‘Only what, Maggie?’

  She took a deep breath, and looked more bravely into my eyes, the penny clutched tightly in her hand. ‘I heard Mrs Barnham tell Miss Stone once. Mr Cobbe doesn’t have a daughter. He never has had. He’s never had a wife, neither.’

  ‘And yet he would have us all believe that he grieves for a lost daughter; he addresses you, embraces you as such.’

  ‘It’s play-acting. That’s what Mrs Barnham said. But I don’t want to do it. And if I was his daughter he —’

  The child could say no more, and I did not press her further. How desperately I wanted to comfort the poor creature, but it was not my place. What she needs is a motherly figure, something neither I nor the women who have charge of her could ever be. ‘Maggie, are your parents alive?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Father was killed on the railway. I looked after mother till she died. Then Miss Stone saw me begging in the street and said I was just what she wanted.’

  ‘For play-acting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I smiled reassuringly. ‘Oh, I have nothing against a little honest play-acting. I have been known to do it myself from time to time. If the audience is pleased with the performance and the actors are happy with their lot, there is no harm in it. It can be a highly respectable mode of living. But what if the actors are not happy? What if they are told to play a part that they feel is not honest and proper? What do they do if they have no-one to help them?’

  Maggie shuffled her feet. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I will tell you. If they can, they find a friend. Now I know that Mr Cobbe is an important man in Brighton. A gentleman whose occupation commands respect. And if you were to say that you were not happy with the play-acting that Mrs Barnham asks you to do for Mr Cobbe, and he denied that anything was the matter with it, then it would be he who would be believed and not you. Isn’t that so?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But I believe you, and I will be your friend.’

  She gulped. ‘Mr Cobbe told Mrs Barnham that he wants to take me away so I can be his maidservant. But I don’t want to go!’

  �
�Oh, I promise you,’ I told her, very seriously indeed, ‘that will never happen.’

  I took my seat at the séance, hoping to see Mrs Vardy. This time, however, Mrs Vardy’s companion Mrs Wandle came alone, and took her seat with an expression of profound sorrow. The fire burned brightly but she looked chilled.

  ‘I trust I find you well,’ said Mrs Barnham, letting the real question hang in the air unasked.

  ‘I am well enough,’ said Mrs Wandle, ‘but I regret that my dear friend Mrs Vardy will not be able to attend today as she had hoped. The recent dreadful events have prostrated her. She is able neither to pay visits nor receive visitors.’

  Mrs Anscombe grunted, although whether from sympathy or scepticism was unclear.

  ‘I was in the square on that day,’ said Mr Eve, ‘since I acted for one of Mr Holt’s creditors who was too elderly to attend, and a more disgraceful scene I never witnessed. Men of business acting like wild animals. Some fool started a rumour about Mrs Vardy which I cannot believe.’

  ‘It is quite untrue,’ said Mrs Wandle, firmly.

  ‘Then we must all pray for her,’ said Mrs Barnham.

  The company prayed more devoutly than ever before, with special words said for the health of Mrs Vardy, and in the séance that followed, the spiritoscope spelled out its wisdom. I was honoured to receive a heartfelt message from the spirit of King William IV commending my intention to write a history of his court, and both Mrs Wandle and Mrs Anscombe were comforted by kind words from their deceased loved ones. To Mr Eve, there was a statement from a past associate, an appreciation of his good qualities, which he was assured, would earn him great gratitude in all his endeavours. There was even a message from an unnamed spirit advising Mrs Vardy to be of good heart.