Depths of Deceit

by Norman Russell

  His eyes still stinging from the chemical-laden atmosphere of Mr Walsh’s laboratory, Knollys crossed the lane, and set out to find the premises of Reuben Greensands, the optician who had made the pair of glasses that had been found in Gregory Walsh’s pocket. He found it almost immediately. It was a modest, double-fronted shop, with an open door between two display windows, one of which had been smashed, and boarded up. Wooden packing cases and heaps of shavings stood outside on the cobbles, together with a newly painted shop sign propped up against the wall, evidently waiting to be erected. ‘J. Newton, Optician’, it read. Above the shop the name of Reuben Greensands still stood on its painted board.

  ‘Come in, sir! We are open – mind that ladder! I can see from here that your near sight’s not all that it should be. Sit down in this chair.’

  An affable, bald-headed man had come forward from some recess at the back of the shop, which was crammed with cardboard boxes and decorating materials. Before Knollys had time to speak, the man had gently guided him into a chair facing one of the walls.

  ‘My name’s John Newton, sir,’ said the man, rummaging through a box of lenses, ‘and I’ve just bought the late Mr Reuben Greensands’ business from his cousin. How are you? Isn’t it warm today! Now, just cover your left eye, and look through this little lens. There’s a chart on the wall in front of you. Never mind the big letters. Try the fifth row.’

  ‘Mr Newton—’

  ‘That’s right, Newton. I’ve another shop in Finsbury. Just read the fifth row.’

  ‘P E C F D. My name is Detective Sergeant Knollys of Scotland Yard. I’ve come to ask whether you can identify a pair of spectacles that were found in the pocket of a dead man.’

  Mr Newton almost crowed with delight. He put the lens down on the counter, and clasped his hands together.

  ‘Dear me! A mystery! Do let me see these spectacles, Mr Knollys. Ah! They’re in one of Mr Greensands’ own little tin cases. I’m introducing mock crocodile cases, which I think will go down well, but I’ll use up Greensands’ old stock first. The shop stood empty for over a fortnight, and I’m afraid people seemed to have got into it from time to time. Somebody threw a brick through that right-hand window, but that’s only exuberance. Boys, I expect.’

  Mr Newton had a pleasant, light tenor voice, and evidently liked to hear it in action.

  ‘And can you identify the owner of those spectacles? Did Mr Greensands record his customers’ details in a ledger?’

  ‘He used a card index system, Mr Knollys. You can see it, over there. Now, let me see if he’s scratched a reference number on the inside of the frame – where’s my magnifying glass? While I’m looking at this, just read the seventh line of the chart, will you? Read it aloud, you know.’

  ‘D E F P O T E C.’

  ‘Well done. Yes, here’s the reference number, so now I can look it up in the index. How fascinating this is! I’ve never helped the police in an investigation before.’

  The genial Mr Newton threaded his way between the cardboard boxes and ladders until he came to a mahogany box standing on a table. He pulled open a drawer, and flicked rapidly through the stack of cards arranged in it. With a little cry of triumph, he selected a card and held it up for Knollys to see. The optician’s mind, however, was occupied with more important things than mere cards.

  ‘The beauty of it is,’ he said, ‘that the eye test is free. Entirely free. It’s not a good thing to strain the eyes by too much peering at pages of print. I’ll need to try you with four more lenses, and then I’ll show you our selection of ready-made reading glasses. You were very wise to come in here this morning.’

  ‘Mr Newton, will you please tell me the name on that card?’

  ‘The name? Ainsworth. Professor Roderick Ainsworth. Now isn’t that interesting? He’s the man who excavated the Mithraeum just a stone’s throw from here, in Priory Gate Street. He’s in Edinburgh at the moment, addressing the Royal Caledonian Something-or-other. You know how learned the Scots are. Now cover your right eye, and look through this new lens. Can you see the third line of the chart clearly?’

  ‘Yes, I can. So those particular glasses belong to Professor Ainsworth?’

  ‘They do. They’re for reading, you know – quite strong of their type.’

  Mr Newton drew up a chair, and sat beside Knollys. He looked both excited and intrigued.

  ‘I wonder why Professor Ainsworth bought his glasses from Greensands?’

  ‘It’s a question that I’ve been asking myself, Mr Newton. I don’t suppose he lives in Clerkenwell.’

  ‘Oh, no, he doesn’t. He has a beautiful house at Epsom – Ardleigh Manor, it’s called.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about him, Mr Newton. And it looks as though archaeology pays very well.’

  ‘I’m very interested in history, Mr Knollys, and in archaeology too, and I’ve read a lot about Professor Ainsworth in The Historical Magazine. And, of course, he’s by way of being a local celebrity. It was he who discovered the Clerkenwell Treasure just across the road from here, near the entrance to Hatchard’s. Have you seen it? It’s in the South Kensington Museum. Ancient church vessels of gold and silver, all kinds of wonderful things. Try these steel frames on for size. It’s fit I’m interested in at the moment, so there’s no glass in these.’

  Jack Knollys resigned himself to the fact that he was going to buy a pair of glasses. This gossiping optician was a veritable mine of information as well as being an extremely cunning salesman.

  ‘And it was very clever how he discovered it,’ Mr Newton continued. ‘Quite in your own line of work, Mr Knollys. He read all kinds of old letters and chronicles in cathedral libraries and other ancient places, and from those documents he was able to deduce where the treasure had been hidden. Something like that. Wonderful, really.’

  ‘And so he made his fortune?’

  ‘Oh, no, Mr Knollys. I don’t suppose archaeology pays all that much, or the professorship, come to that. No, Professor Ainsworth inherited a fortune from his father, who was a Tyneside shipbuilder. He’s a very wealthy man, so he’s been able to put all his heart and soul into his scholarly work. I went to one of his lectures, once. Fascinating.

  ‘Now, all these pairs of spectacles in this tray are suitable for your eye condition. You can try them all on, and choose the one you like. Those steel-rimmed ones are three-and-six, and the gold ones four-and-eleven. You can pay me now, or you can make a down payment of a shilling, and pay the rest off at sixpence a week. The important thing is that you should be satisfied.’

  While Newton was talking, Knollys was propounding a theory to himself. Walsh’s killer must have fled quickly from the site, but had nevertheless contrived to conceal the murder weapon. What if this was a local murder, something confined to people living in Clerkenwell? True, there was the odd business of the honey, but that might have been a crude attempt to lead the police astray.

  This Mr Newton had told him that the empty shop had been broken in to more than once. Had the killer been one of those intruders, using the premises as a place to conceal his deadly weapon? It would do no harm to have a look around.

  ‘I’ll take this steel pair, thank you, Mr Newton,’ said Knollys, ‘and I’ll pay for them now. Would you mind very much if I were to look round the premises for a little while? Just out of interest, you know.’

  ‘Of course, of course! Things are rather topsy-turvy at the moment, as you can see. Poor Mr Greensands died very suddenly, you know. Heart, it was. I don’t think the doctors can do much in that line, do you? By the way, I suppose the man who had Professor Ainsworth’s glasses in his pocket was young Mr Walsh, who was killed in the Mithraeum? You see, if you found those glasses in his pocket, then maybe he’d found them in the Mithraeum, and decided to return them to Professor Ainsworth.’

  ‘Quite possibly, Mr Newton,’ said Knollys. ‘We’ll certainly look into the matter. May I go through this door behind the counter?’

  ‘Certainly. It leads into the back yard. T
here’s a lot of straightening up to be done there before the week’s out.’

  The back yard of 14 Catherine Lane was quite small, and occupied almost entirely by a couple of tall iron middens, and a number of bulging crates of rubbish. There was a dilapidated wooden door in one of the high brick walls. It was half open, and led into an alley. It was very quiet and sunny. A few somnolent bluebottles were droning around one of the crates. Bluebottles…. Wherever they congregated, there was bound to be organic decay.

  Jack Knollys pulled aside a number of sheets of cardboard and pieces of broken wood to reveal the steel head of an adze, which was clotted with congealed blood. He permitted himself a little sigh of satisfaction: his theory had been right. This was surely a local crime, committed by a man with local knowledge. Very carefully, he drew the complete adze from the crate into which it had been thrust. This, clearly, was the instrument that had been used to strike down Gregory Walsh.

  6

  The Man with the Carpet Bag

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Sergeant Knollys.’

  The two officers were sitting at the big table in Box’s office. Each had given the other a full account of his doings on the previous day, and together they were pondering some of the ramifications. Having heard Box’s account of the events at Carshalton, Knollys had conceded that the death of Gregory Walsh was something more than a local affair.

  ‘There must be a link between these two murders,’ Box continued. ‘I’m not prepared to consider coincidence. Gregory Walsh was an analytical chemist. Abraham Barnes had connections with another chemist, a man called Bonner. Walsh had come in contact with scrapings of paint while examining that Roman shrine. Barnes was interested in the analysis of Roman cement. Why this interest in things Roman?’

  Sergeant Knollys nodded his assent.

  ‘What were they both up to, sir?’ he said. ‘Each man had been abused after death by the introduction of a substance into his mouth – honey in one case, mercury in the other. Apart from the disgusting profanation of a dead body, what was the point of it?’

  ‘If we contain our patience for a few days more, Sergeant, it’s more than likely that the general public will start to remember things – men behaving suspiciously, furtive goings-on in the vicinity of the Mithraeum – you know the kind of thing I mean. And then, there’s your discovery of the murder weapon in the back yard of the late Reuben Greensands’ shop. Someone may have seen someone else “behaving suspiciously”, as they say. It might be an idea to ask a few questions in the area.

  ‘Meanwhile, there’s other work for us to do, besides the murders of Walsh and Barnes. The Balantyne brothers are coming up for trial at the Old Bailey next week, and we’ll both be called as witnesses. We need to write clear statements of our own evidence, or their counsel will tie us into knots. The Balantynes have briefed Malcolm Thresher, QC, who’s a real terror—’

  ‘Sir,’ said Knollys, who evidently had not been listening, ‘there’s a little detail concerning this Mithraeum case which I think we should both bear in mind. I’m referring to the railway line from Croydon to Carshalton. Its final stop is Epsom, and it’s at Epsom that Professor Ainsworth lives. Croydon, Carshalton, Epsom – a nice convenient line.’

  ‘Ainsworth? You think he may have travelled to Carshalton, done for Barnes, and then went on to London Bridge? Well, Jack, I suppose anything’s possible, but if your friend Mr Newton the optician’s telling the truth, Professor Ainsworth is in Edinburgh, giving a lecture. But you’re right, Jack, we need to know far more about Ainsworth. At the moment, he’s just a name and a reputation. Did he know poor Walsh? Did he know Barnes?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ said Knollys, ‘I saw in The Morning Post yesterday that Professor Ainsworth’s giving a lecture at Exeter Hall next Monday, the twentieth. It might be an idea for us to go to that lecture, partly to listen to what the professor has to say, and partly to see what he’s like as a man. Weigh him up, you know.’

  ‘That’s a very good idea, Sergeant. We’ll do that. Maybe I’ll introduce myself to him at the end—’

  The swing doors of the office were pushed open, and a young lad of fourteen or so came into the room. He was wearing the smart uniform of a message boy, and carried a folded newspaper in one hand, and his cap in the other. The boy looked with interest around the room before his eyes rested on the giant Sergeant.

  ‘Sir,’ said the boy, ‘I was sent from Fleet Street to give you this copy of The Graphic, which is just off the press. The policeman at the door said I could come through with it. Mr Fiske sent me.’

  ‘He thinks you’re me, Jack,’ said Box, laughing. ‘Go on, give him a penny for his trouble!’

  Sergeant Knollys did as he was bid with a good grace, and took the folded paper from the lad.

  ‘Mr Fiske said you’re to look at page four, sir.’ The boy glanced round the bare room for a second time, and pulled a face.

  ‘It’s not up to much, is it, this place?’ he said. ‘There’s a crack in the ceiling. Why don’t you move to the new building on the Embankment?’

  ‘Because we like it here,’ said Knollys, handing the paper to Box. ‘So you just hop it, will you, and leave us alone.’

  When the boy had gone, Box laid the paper on the table, and opened it at page four. Beneath a striking engraving of the mysterious figure painted on the reredos in the Mithraeum, a headline had been set in daringly large type, and beneath it was the deliberately sensational article that Billy Fiske had told Box he would write.

  ARE PAGAN RITES STILL CELEBRATED IN MODERN LONDON?

  On Tuesday last, in the Roman Mithraeum at Clerkenwell, a young man was found murdered, his body sprawled at the base of a great pagan image of the ancient god Mithras. His mouth was found to have been filled with honey, introduced there after his death. On the same day, at Carshalton in Surrey, an older man, a highly respected citizen of the town, was found murdered in the same manner. His mouth had been sacrilegiously filled with a quantity of common mercury or quicksilver.

  Reader, do not be lulled into the belief that these two foul murders were not connected. Consider this. At the heart of our great metropolis there sits the ancient, hidden Roman city of Londinium. If business ever takes you south of Cripplegate, you will find yourself walking above the remains of a great Roman fort. Within a stone’s-throw of London’s cathedral a first-century Roman bath lies concealed. Carshalton lies near an ancient Roman staging-post, where, so I have been told, a second-century cave of Mithras once existed.

  These are the dead remains of a civilization long gone. But do its ancient beliefs and practices still persist? Are these murders linked by occult practices surviving unknown and unsuspected for over a thousand years? Were these two unfortunate men adepts of some secret cult, its origins lost in antiquity? Mithraism was once a serious rival to Christianity, and may still have its secret adherents.

  In the pockets of both unfortunate victims, circular tokens of lapis lazuli were found, each bearing an image of Jupiter on one side, and the depiction of a beast on the other: in Clerkenwell, a lion, in Carshalton, a raven. Is there some occult fellowship of Mithras at work in our land, and were the images of lion and raven signs of rank in a diabolical hierarchy?

  You will reply that the nineteenth century is an era of progress and enlightenment, and of course you will be right. Nevertheless, we will remind you of the shocking revelations made at Naples in 1874, where the self-styled ‘Mage’ Alfredo Bertoni was condemned to death for offering human sacrifices to this same deity, Mithras. There were lapis lazuli tokens there, too, one bearing an engraved horned moon, and the other a sun’s disc with arrows for rays. In the mouths of Bertoni’s victims the authorities there found not only traces of honey and mercury, but rings, fashioned from silver wire. Surely, we must suspend our disbelief for a while, and examine the possibility of dark supernatural forces at work in our midst.

  We are gratified to hear that the murders at Clerkenwell and Carshalton are being investigat
ed by Detective Inspector Arnold Box of Scotland Yard, an officer who needs no introduction to readers of this paper. We sincerely trust that, among the many mundane details of his investigation, Mr Box will not lose sight of the grim reality that the powers of darkness, even in this, the most enlightened of ages, can be in the ascendant.

  ‘Blimey!’ cried Box, throwing the paper down on to the table. ‘He doesn’t half lay it on! But then, he’s always known how to use words as a weapon. “The powers of darkness”! Only think!’

  ‘What a load of tosh, sir,’ said Knollys. ‘And yet— That Italian case Fiske referred to – there was the same business of honey and mercury. And silver wire rings…. He certainly does his research, doesn’t he? What can it all mean? Maybe Billy Fiske’s on to something real after all.’

  Arnold Box stood up, and gave a little shudder of distaste.

  ‘I don’t like all this pagan stuff, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said. ‘Quite frankly it disgusts me. I can’t see why they don’t leave all these mouldering bits of stone where they belong – under the ground, buried from our sight. It’s eleven o’clock. Come on, let’s go and have a glass of ale and a pie in The Grapes. There are one or two other things I want to talk about while we’ve got a bit of time to ourselves.’

  Joe Straddling, sitting at breakfast that morning in the kitchen of his railway cottage overlooking the down line from Croydon, threw the newspaper aside, and drained his second cup of tea. He sat back in his chair, and looked at his wife. Should he tell her about the man on the train the night Abraham Barnes was killed? She always said he imagined things, but he hadn’t imagined that man. Maybe there was nothing to it, but he should have told Inspector Perrivale.