by Simon Clark
When he took hold to shake it, she pulled him forward and kissed him on the cheek.
‘It’s been remarkable knowing you.’ The woman held his gaze as she spoke. ‘I found you somehow … what’s the correct word? Luminous … yes, I found your presence here illuminated something inside of me.’
The ferryman called out, ‘Going in two shakes, sir. Please come aboard.’
‘Right you are,’ Thomas replied. He turned to Bertie. ‘Listen. You are a fine boy and you will grow up to be an honest man with a good life ahead of you.’ He stared Jo in the eye, daring her to disagree with what he’d just said.
‘Bertie,’ she began pleasantly, ‘remember Mr Lloyd. If you grow up to be like him then you shall accomplish all that your heart desires.’
Thomas nodded his farewells to both then took his place on the boat. He felt the tug of the current that would carry them away. Already, the river itself seemed eager to remove them from this unusual little kingdom.
Thomas sat beside Metcalfe, but only so he could face Abberline.
‘King Ludwig didn’t come down to watch his son leave,’ Thomas said.
Metcalfe nodded. ‘The man knows when he is beaten. Ludwig has retreated to his den to lick his wounds, as it were.’ He stared at Abberline as he said the words. ‘Ludwig will be too ashamed to show his face in public.’
Thomas would have dearly liked to throw the corrupt and mendacious Lionel Metcalfe overboard. All he could do, however, was watch the island dwindle into the distance, and the people, there on the jetty, waving as they shrank away to specks. Soon they had vanished completely.
One week later
Strands of mist ghosted along the street. London was as silent as a graveyard tonight. Thomas Lloyd had been at his desk writing all day and wanted nothing more than to move his limbs and try and work the stiffness from his shoulder; something that he’d acquired from sitting for so long with a pen in his hand.
From the mist came the sound of horses’ hooves. Thomas watched a carriage approach, drawn by a pair of horses. He recognized the vehicle straightaway. The driver stopped the carriage alongside Thomas and touched the brim of his hat by way of a respectful greeting.
‘Mr Lloyd, sir, would you kindly step into the coach?’
Thomas didn’t hesitate. He opened the coach door, climbed in, and took his place in front of the man he’d spoken to before his trip to Faxfleet. The gentleman, aged seventy or so, didn’t have a single hair on his head. Once again, Thomas looked into a pair of grey, intelligent eyes that regarded him with an air of calm authority.
‘Mr Lloyd, you are quite well, I trust?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Thomas didn’t linger on niceties and said firmly, ‘This is a remarkable coincidence, you passing by as I walked along this street, or did someone tell you where I’d be at this precise time?’
‘I wished to speak with you.’
‘So someone is spying on me?’
‘Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you.’ The stranger picked up a newspaper that lay on the richly upholstered seat beside him. ‘My colleagues and I have been reading your account of the murder investigation on the Isle of Faxfleet. We are all agreed that it is wonderfully written and portrays Inspector Abberline as the kind of modern policeman that we admire so much. What’s more, the story is an exciting one. The public at large will find it satisfying to read how you brought the young man, Tristan, down to earth, literally, with that well-aimed shot through the bottom of the cellar door. A most exciting narrative.’
‘Thank you.’
‘One can imagine families gathering together in their homes to read about those dramatic events that your pen captured so well.’ His thin lips formed a smile. ‘We hope you will continue to accompany Inspector Abberline on many more investigations.’
‘The case isn’t finished yet. I’ll be in the courtroom when Tristan is tried for murder, assault and kidnap.’
‘There will be no court case, Mr Lloyd.’
‘Why?’
‘Young Mr Tristan has been diagnosed with lunacy. Therefore, he will not be tried for any crimes.’
Thomas couldn’t believe his ears. ‘He is not insane. He deliberately, coldly and rationally committed those murders. His motive was to preserve the family’s income.’
‘Nevertheless, the authorities have now classified Tristan as a lunatic.’
‘Are you saying that a self-confessed murderer will go free?’
‘Tristan has been sent to a private hospital in Switzerland. He will not be released until he reaches the age of forty.’
‘That means he will be kept under lock and key for less than twenty years.’ Tristan escaping responsibility for the murders so lightly enraged him. What’s more, he pictured that hospital in Switzerland – there would be flowers in vases, walls painted in pleasant pastel colours, lawns where patients could sit out in the sun or play croquet. ‘What is to prevent me from writing a news story about how a privileged young man escapes the hangman’s noose?’
‘That would not serve the interests of the nation.’
Thomas glared at the man. ‘What will serve the interests of the nation, then?’
‘Mr Lloyd, King Ludwig will be the last of the royal line. In return for the British justice system declaring Tristan unfit to stand trial due to insanity, King Ludwig has agreed that the Faxfleet monarchy will cease to exist upon his death. What’s more, his sons are, as from today, no longer princes. They are commoners. Just like the two of us.’
‘When we first met you told me you had such great plans to create a true civilization in Britain, yet I’ve seen you pervert justice for your own ends. Tristan should be tried in a court of law.’
‘More powerful individuals than my friends and I wanted the Faxfleet monarchy to be abolished. I had nothing to do with stifling justice.’
Thomas turned his lapel over to reveal the gold pin with the pearl. ‘Inspector Abberline found one of these on the island. Do you have colleagues there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘I am not at liberty to say. Our society is a discreet one. We do not publicly reveal who our members are.’
‘Mr Feasby? Miss Josephine Hamilton-West? King Ludwig?’
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Lloyd. I’ll bid you good evening, and please continue to write your excellent news reports about Inspector Abberline. You are helping build a better future for all.’
Thomas remained sitting in the carriage. He refused to leave without revealing what constantly preyed on his mind. ‘You were right about Inspector Abberline having enemies.’
‘Ah, you have something to tell me in that regard?’
‘Yes, recently an attempt has been made to discredit the inspector and force him to resign.’ Thomas told the man about the hoax Jack the Ripper letters, the discovery of the mutilated body in Whitechapel, and about what he’d overheard when Abberline had confronted Lionel Metcalfe in the conservatory. Thomas decided to test his place in this society represented by a gold pin – yet he did so without any firm belief he’d be taken seriously. He said, ‘Detective Constable Metcalfe is clearly trying to damage Abberline’s reputation; therefore, he should be sacked.’
The man nodded. ‘I agree. Metcalfe will be dismissed.’
‘Aren’t you going to persuade me that he should remain a detective until you make enquires?’
‘You are a fellow member of our society, Mr Lloyd. I have absolute trust in you. Tonight I’ll write a letter. Who to doesn’t concern you. However, by noon tomorrow Detective Constable Metcalfe will no longer work for Scotland Yard. Naturally, he won’t be accused of planting the body or forging letters. He must not know the real reason. Simply, witnesses will say that Metcalfe was seen drinking alcohol while on duty. That is sufficient. The man will be dismissed from his post and removed from the premises.’
‘You can do that?’
‘Yes, I can – or, rather, we can. Of course, Inspector Abberline must never know abo
ut this conversation we’re having now, or that you are responsible for Metcalfe’s employment being terminated.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘There are reasons why we work in such secretive ways. We have enemies, too.’
A moment later, Thomas stood in the street, watching the carriage vanish back onto the mist.
One month later
The summer of 1890 was turning out to be a warm one. The evening heat had become almost tropical as Thomas Lloyd took his seat in a small theatre in Bloomsbury. When the curtains slid back they revealed a lectern. Behind the lectern stood Miss Josephine Hamilton-West. He found it difficult to think of her as the cheerful, bohemian ‘Jo’ that he’d encountered on Faxfleet. Tonight the woman was dressed in a black jacket and long, black skirt. The theatre was, perhaps, almost half full. He watched as the woman lectured the audience about the marvels of phrenology.
Jo’s voice rang out clearly: ‘It is possible to discover a human being’s future behaviour by examining the contours of their skull. We can examine the head of a child and know whether that boy or girl will grow up to be a sinner or a saint.’
Jo delivered her lecture with powerful authority. She used a cane to point at a phrenology chart of a skull – the chart, in effect, was a map of the head that indicated areas of character traits upon the skull. When she lifted a cloth from an easel to reveal a photograph of Bertie Trask, Thomas quietly left the theatre.
He walked out through the doors into a street where people strolled under the night sky. Horses trotted by, pulling hansom cabs. The gas in the streetlights burned brightly. So brightly, in fact, that Thomas could easily read the letter in his hand.
Dear Thomas,
I shall be giving one of my lectures at the Coptic Theatre in Bloomsbury, 16th June. Would you attend? It would be lovely to see you there. I will notice you immediately in the soft, warm darkness of the auditorium, because didn’t I tell you once that you have such a personality that is, without a shadow of doubt, luminous?
Do be there, Thomas. There is no place for me on Faxfleet anymore. I plan to go to New Zealand and start afresh there. Wouldn’t it be enchanting if you were my travelling companion? Wouldn’t it be an adventure!
Meet me in the theatre after the lecture. We will talk. We shall make plans.
Yours, with a fierce and heartfelt affection,
Jo
Thomas recalled the effect she’d had on him on the island all those weeks ago. She had been like a spirit creature from a marvellous dream. The woman had cast her spell. He’d been happy in her company. He also recalled her condemnation of the little boy Bertie Trask: born bad. Thomas looked up into the night sky above bustling, noisy London. The spell Jo had cast seemed to float away like a soap bubble – a fragile thing in the end. The bubble had burst, and Jo’s vile philosophy made him shudder. He screwed the letter into a ball and dropped it through an iron grate in the pavement that led down into one of the sewers.
Thomas had begun to walk away when he heard someone calling his name. He turned to look into the crowds. A familiar face appeared.
‘Thomas, just you wait there a moment.’
‘Magglyn, what are you doing here?’
The smiling face of the man that lived in the next room to his, under Mrs Cherryhome’s hospitable roof, appeared.
‘Thomas. Friend, Thomas. I have Mr Abberline in tow.’
Abberline emerged from the crowds. He used a cane still, and had a slight limp. However, the wound caused by the spring-gun was healing well.
Thomas shook both men by the hand, laughing as he did so. ‘How the dickens did you know I’d be here?’
Magglyn beamed. ‘You told Mrs Cherryhome this evening that you were going to the Coptic Theatre. Mr Abberline dropped by – oh, I should call you Inspector, shouldn’t I? – well, the gentleman dropped by … we got talking. Supper was suggested in quite a roundabout way, and I recommended that we find you and carry you to a restaurant for a dish of something tasty.’
Abberline said, ‘I hope you don’t mind us hunting you down?’
Thomas laughed. ‘Not at all. In fact, I’m rather glad that you did. It’s very nice to see friendly faces.’
Magglyn clapped his hands together in sheer delight. ‘I shall forge ahead to the House of Spain café over there. I’m sure I’ve just spied an empty table. If I’m swift, I’ll have that table before anyone else.’
‘Thank you, Maggs,’ Thomas said. ‘We’ll follow you there.’
Magglyn crossed the busy street to the café.
Abberline paused for a moment. ‘My ankle still feels stiff from time to time. But the doctor told me that I’ll probably only need the cane for another week or two.’
‘Jo gave a lecture at the theatre tonight. Phrenology. She used a photograph of Bertie Trask as if he was a laboratory specimen.’
‘Oh?’
‘I left early.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ve heard from Emma. She should be back in London for Christmas.’
‘That’s excellent news, Thomas.’
‘Yes. I’ve now realized that it is.’
‘We should cherish these pleasant surprises, shouldn’t we? I remember how surprised I was to hear that Lionel Metcalfe had been dismissed from the police force. Drinking on duty. Who would have believed it of him?’ Abberline linked arms with Thomas. ‘You know, there are times when I find myself believing that I have friends in high places. I don’t know who they are, or whether they are close to me or far away, but for some reason they wish to protect me. Or, rather, they wish to protect my work as a policeman. Oh … after you, Thomas. Mr Magglyn has found us the best table in the house.’
By the same author
Midnight Bizarre – A Secret Arcade of Strange and Eerie Tales
This Rage of Echoes
Ghost Monster
The Gravedigger’s Tale: Fables of Fear
Inspector Abberline and the Gods of Rome
© Simon Clark
First published in Great Britain 2015
ISBN 978 0 7198 1977 3 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1978 0 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1979 7 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1656 7 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Simon Clark to be identified as
author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988