‘He asks a lot of questions,’ said Mary, ‘to all of which the sensible answer would be “no”. “Are pagan rites still celebrated in modern London?” etcetera. “Were these two unfortunate men adepts of some secret cult?” Well, I suppose that’s possible…. I wonder who wrote this? There’s no name attached to it.’
‘It was written by a man called Fiske,’ said Louise. ‘He’s one of their chief reporters, and very highly regarded in newspaper circles.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Somebody told me. This Mithraism, Mary – it was an ancient Roman religion, wasn’t it? I should have thought that it was dead and buried long ago. Do tell me about it. I know that you once made a special study of ancient pagan cults.’
‘It began in Persia,’ said Mary Westerham, ‘and spread throughout the early Greek empire. Then the Romans got hold of it. It was being practised in the Roman Empire by 100 BC. It was one of those shadowy mystery religions that appealed to soldiers, and slaves. To some extent, of course, so was Christianity, when you think of it.’
Louise Whittaker frowned. When this kind of thing’s taken seriously in the papers, she thought, it was as though the Enlightenment had never happened. Most people outside the academic world seemed quite incapable of thinking rationally.
‘I could imagine a certain kind of silly exhibitionist reinventing something like that in our own time,’ said Louise, ‘a made-up religion or philosophy, like Freemasonry, you know, or spiritualism.’
‘Well, hardly Freemasonry, dear,’ said Mary, regarding Louise severely over her pince-nez. ‘Freemasons are more given to arcane rituals and solid charity than bizarre murders. Boy’s stuff, of course, but hardly murderous! And apropos of that article in the paper, I note that Detective Inspector Box is on the case. Isn’t he your tame sleuth at Scotland Yard?’
Louise Whittaker found herself blushing. It was her friend Arnold Box who had told her that Fiske was writing a series of articles about the Mithras affair for The Graphic, but some instinct had warned her not to acquaint Mary with that fact.
‘He’s rather more than that, Mary,’ she said quietly. ‘And – oh, dear! I see that I must tell you the whole truth about this afternoon’s proceedings.’
‘How intriguing! And what, pray, is the “whole truth”?’
‘I’ve invited Inspector Box to join us here for tea this afternoon. You see, I always try to help him all I can, and as you’re an expert in ancient Roman cults, I’m sure that there are things that you could tell him to smooth his path during this investigation. Do you mind terribly, Mary?’
Mary Westerham laughed, and looked fondly at her younger colleague.
‘Well, of course I don’t mind. How splendid! In any case, I suspected something of the sort when I saw that you’d set out three cups and saucers for tea. But you should have told me, Louise, and then I could have brought some notes with me. When is he coming?’
‘He’ll be here any minute now, I expect.’
Louise Whittaker crossed to the window bay, and looked out into the quiet avenue. Her mind reverted to Mary Westerham’s half-humorous remark about Arnold Box: ‘Isn’t he your tame sleuth at Scotland Yard?’
No, he was more than that. Much more. They had met a few years earlier when she had been called as an expert witness in a forgery case, and from that time Arnold Box had conducted a long, discreet and diffident courtship that had gradually won her heart. He was a renowned detective with a public reputation, but whenever he was with her, he seemed confused and tongue-tied, and she could never resist making him the butt of her deadly wit. She had never had much time for men – the self-appointed Lords of Creation – but she had plenty of time for her friend Arnold Box.
He would come out to Finchley in order to get what he called ‘a female slant’ on aspects of a case, and from this front window she would watch him walking rather self-consciously around the corner into the avenue. He would have caught one of the Light Green Atlas omnibuses from town as far as the Finchley terminus at Church End. Well, when he came today, he would find that she had provided him with an expert consultant on matters Mithraic. Dear, diffident man, he would appreciate that.
Here he was, now!
Louise withdrew from the window, and waited for Arnold Box’s sprightly knock on the front door. There was a brief murmur of voices in the hall, and then Ethel entered the room.
‘Detective Inspector Box to see you, ma’am,’ she said, and stood aside for Box to come in. He looked very smart and spruce and, as always, a trifle nervous. What would he make of Mary Westerham?
‘Thank you, Ethel,’ said Louise, ‘you can bring tea in, now. This is my friend Miss Westerham. Mary, this is Detective Inspector Box.’
She was surprised how quickly her two friends accepted each other. She had anticipated a certain awkwardness as her diffident detective friend tried to adjust to another female academic. But no: they seemed to accept each other immediately.
The door opened, and little Ethel, a pretty, cheerful girl of fifteen, came in with the silver teapot on a tray. She smiled shyly at Box, and then, recollecting the rather stern lady sitting in the window, she assumed an expression of profound seriousness, curtsied, and left the room. Soon, the three of them had settled themselves around the tea table. Louise poured tea for them into thin, patterned china cups. There were plates of ham and cucumber sandwiches, a plum cake on a stand, and some freshly baked scones.
‘Mary,’ said Louise, ‘as you know, Mr Box is investigating two murders, both of which seem to be connected with a modern cult of Mithras. It’s a strange and frightening business. Now, you’re an expert in these matters. I’m sure he’d want to hear what you can tell him about this bizarre worship of an ancient god.’
Mary Westerham put down her cup, and regarded Box appraisingly for a few moments through her pince-nez.
‘Mr Box,’ she said, ‘if I’d known that you were coming here today, I would have prepared some notes covering most of what you might want to learn about Mithras and his devotees. As it is, I’ll have to rely on memory. If I seem to go off at a tangent, don’t be afraid to recall me to the business in hand. And for goodness’ sake, interrupt with questions when you need to. So let me talk to you first about the worshippers – the devotees of this god.
‘As I told Louise earlier, the religion of Mithras is Persian in origin. It spread throughout the Greek empire, and was being practised in the Roman Empire by 100 BC. It was very popular, and very persistent, and was still being practised both in Europe, and here in Britain, as the Roman Empire was beginning to disintegrate.
‘There were seven grades of initiation into the cult of Mithras,’ Mary continued, ‘and each grade was associated with a particular sign, and also with one of the ancient Roman gods. Has anyone mentioned to you the case of Alfredo Bertoni in Naples?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I have heard of it. I believe he was some kind of fanatic who was exposed in 1874.’
‘That’s right. Well, he offered human sacrifices – and, by the way, they were voluntary sacrifices. Each slaughtered victim was found with the sign of his initiation about him. One man was clutching a lapis lazuli token depicting a horned moon: that was the sign of the fifth grade, known as “The Persian”. A second man was found with silver rings fashioned from twisted wire in his mouth, a sign that he had achieved the second grade, that of “The Bridegroom”, associated with the goddess Venus. Another victim had around his neck a token suspended on a gold chain, upon which was depicted the sun in majesty. That man had reached the sixth grade, called Heliodromus, the “Runner of the Sun”.’
Louise Whittaker moved uneasily. She hated this kind of occult business. It was all mumbo jumbo, but none the less lethal for that.
‘When I examined the body of young Mr Gregory Walsh in the Clerkenwell Mithraeum,’ said Box, ‘I found honey spooned into his mouth, and in his pocket a lapis lazuli token depicting a lion. Can you explain what that meant?’
‘It suggests that Mr Wals
h had achieved the fourth grade, that of Leo, the Lion, associated with Jupiter. Now, it’s thought that each aspirant had to undergo an ordeal, either by heat, cold, or hunger. Those who achieved the grade of Lion were, in theory, to undergo the ordeal by fire, but because their grade was associated with Jupiter, the father of the gods, honey was used instead. Honey also betokened purity and cleanness of speech. I think I’ve got that right.’
All three were silent for a while, giving their attention to the business of enjoying their afternoon tea. Arnold Box glanced at Louise, and saw that she had fallen into a reverie. She sat with her hands in her lap, clutching her teacup, and with her mind evidently far away. And this friend of hers, Miss Mary Westerham, was a much nicer lady than she chose to suggest with all that funeral black, and pulled-back hair. If was fascinating to listen to her.
So Gregory Walsh could have been a willing sacrifice, a man who crept out early from his own house in order to be slaughtered with an adze, as an offering to Mithras, or to Jupiter, or to any other of those obscene creations of a diseased imagination.
And then there was Abraham Barnes….
‘And what about the second victim, Miss Westerham?’ asked Box. ‘A man called Abraham Barnes? He was found with mercury in his throat and stomach, and a little plaque of a bird marked “Corax” found about his person.’
‘That means that Mr Barnes was a recent member of the cult, who had achieved only the first stage of initiation, that of the Raven, which was associated with the god Mercury. That was why the poor man had had mercury poured down his throat. Not a pleasant thought, but then, this is not a pleasant business.’
No, indeed…. Had Abraham Barnes, cement manufacturer, tiptoed downstairs on that fatal morning, to be offered as a sacrifice to Mithras?
‘There’s a hideous logic to it all, you see, Mr Box,’ said Mary. ‘These are modern people abandoning themselves to an ancient superstition, but they are doing it in an informed manner, adhering faithfully to the old rituals. Rather fearsome, I should have thought.’
The topic of Mithras seemed to have exhausted itself, and the conversation turned to more mundane matters. When tea was done, Louise Whittaker declared that she had to see how Ethel was coping in the kitchen, and left the room. Mary Westerham removed her pince-nez, leaned back in her chair, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
‘I expect you come here for the same reason as I do,’ she said, glancing at Box. ‘There’s something cool and serene about Louise’s house that makes it a kind of sanctuary from the cares of the world. Don’t you find it so?’
‘I do, ma’am,’ said Box. ‘It’s all because of Louise – Miss Whittaker. She’s what you might call the genius of the place.’
‘The genius loci,’ said Mary, nodding her agreement, ‘that’s what the old Romans used to call it. And you’re right. Louise is a serene person by nature and inclination, and she can impart that serenity to her friends. She and I are colleagues at Maybury College, in Gower Street, and she invites me out here to Finchley once a month. I live in college accommodation in a little dark street behind University College, so you can imagine how wonderful it is to come out this far, and enjoy the calm and sanity of Louise’s house. Incidentally, I have a hansom cab calling by appointment in a quarter of an hour’s time to take me to Gower Street. Would you care to share it with me?’
‘I would, ma’am, thank you very much. I hope that you and I will meet here again sometime. Meanwhile, let me thank you for what you’ve told me today about this cult of Mithras and its adherents. It’s given me a lot of food for thought.’
Louise watched her friends’ cab turning the corner out of the avenue, and then went back into the house. She sidled her way past her bicycle, which stood in the narrow hall, leaning precariously against the banisters. It was a symbol of her independence. This was her house, and she was its sole mistress.
In the front room, Ethel was already clearing away the tea things.
‘There are some sandwiches left over, miss,’ she said, ‘and the teapot’s half full.’
‘Well, you’d better take everything out to the kitchen, where you can consume the sandwiches and drink the tea.’
Ethel smiled, but said nothing. She knew what the answer would be to her question. The missus was very kind, as well as being very beautiful. Although it was not her place to think such things, she sometimes felt that Miss Whittaker regarded her as a younger sister. They’d had many a quiet giggle together when Mr Box first started to call, pretending that he wanted help with his cases, when all the time he just wanted to admire missus, and make friends with her! Missus would look lovely in a white brocade wedding-gown, and a bouquet of orange-blossom. Oh, well. Best wait and see what happened….
Ethel picked up the tea tray, and went out into the kitchen.
*
Inspector Box and Sergeant Knollys followed Sergeant Kenwright through the tunnel-like passage that would take them from Box’s office to the drill hall. It was early on the Saturday morning following Box’s visit to Louise Whittaker.
As always, Kenwright warned Box to ‘mind his head’. It was all very well, thought Box, to work all day in the company of two giants without having to be reminded of their superior stature. He obediently lowered his head, though in practice there was not the slightest need to do so. Sergeant Knollys smiled to himself.
The drill hall was a dim, forlorn place, a repository for trestle tables and folding chairs, and a few old deal tables. There had been talk since the eighties of piping gas into it from the adjacent office, but nothing ever came of it, and the walls were lined with ledges upon which stood a series of little smoky oil lamps, which glowed dimly at night. In daytime, though, a good deal of light found its way obliquely into the room through a row of small windows set high in the outer walls.
As Box emerged from the tunnel, his attention was immediately arrested by a vast painting of the reredos in the Clerkenwell Mithraeum. It had been meticulously copied on to a number of large gummed sheets of art paper, and pinned to a board leaning against the end wall. The morning sunlight fell across it, bringing out the immense skill of the copyist, and the delicacy of the colouring, done in chalks: sepia, umber, sienna, and pallid green.
‘Sergeant Kenwright,’ said Box, ‘that’s a wonderful piece of work! It gave me quite a shock, seeing it glowing there at the end of the room. How did you contrive to make it so real?’
Sergeant Kenwright blushed with pleasure. Really, he thought, everything he did in this quaint old backwater of the Metropolitan Police was appreciated and applauded. But it was all Mr Box’s doing. He was only thirty-five or thirty-six, but he had the knack of finding out a man’s talents, and using them creatively. He’d never met a police officer like him before, or a detective sergeant like Jack Knollys, for that matter. It was lovely at the Rents.
‘Well, sir, I measured the original, and it was roughly eight feet high and seven feet wide. I’ve made my drawing six feet square, and reduced the image accordingly. There are ten big sheets of paper there, all gummed together, and to produce the actual picture, I made thirty smaller drawings at the site. I’m glad you like it, sir.’
It was like being in the Mithraeum again, thought Box. Kenwright’s beautiful chalk drawing had the same power to create unease, to give him the impression of an atrocity suspended in time, and of a tranquil slayer-deity, forever slaughtering a bull. This was the god Mithras. Did he still have his devotees in the Age of Steam? Miss Westerham had hinted at the possibility, though she’d been too wise a lady to make any kind of positive assertion.
He drew nearer to the drawing, and saw that Kenwright had divided it with fine white chalked lines into five irregular segments. He had affixed a paper label to each segment, numbering them clearly from 1 to 5.
‘What’s the significance of these numbers, Sergeant Kenwright?’ asked Box.
‘Well, sir, the reredos seems to have been assembled from five separate pieces, which have been cemented together. You can see the
irregular edges of those pieces if you get up close to the work with a lantern. I expect it must have been broken at some time, sir, and then put together again. You have to look closely to see the joins, but they’re there, right enough.’
Excellent, thought Box. What a pity it was that Scotland Yard had no place like this, a forensic laboratory, a dedicated workshop…. There was nothing like that, though, of course, there were many specialists on call to perform certain tasks for a fee.
What was that other drawing, pinned to the edge of the main display?
It was a charcoal drawing of a man in a merchant sailor’s jacket with a peaked cap pulled well over his eyes. You could see the impression of a beard, and Kenwright had managed to convey a furtiveness in the man’s movements. He was carrying a carpet bag.
‘Well done, again, Sergeant! I’m sure that’s what our mysterious traveller must look like. I wonder who he is? He’s been sighted in Carshalton, then in Croydon. What is he? Some kind of messenger for this secret cult? Come on, let’s all get back to the office, and we’ll brew a pot of coffee.’
There was no water in the kettle, and Sergeant Knollys went out to fill it from a tap in the ablutions. Box produced some matches, and lit a gas-ring standing in the hearth. It coughed and hiccuped for a moment, and then settled itself into a steady flame.
Box looked thoughtfully at the massive bearded clerk sergeant, who was busy retrieving a number of chipped mugs from a cupboard beside the fireplace. What was he thinking?
‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘what’s your opinion of all this Mithras business? These sacrifices, hints in the press about secret worshippers, and so on? What’s your own private opinion?’
‘Well, sir, I don’t like to believe anything of that sort goes on at all. Murder is murder, no matter how you disguise it. We can’t ignore the evidence, of course, but it might be as well to look beyond the evidence at times in order to see the sober reality. Dress it up as fancy as you wish, sir, murder is still murder.’
Depths of Deceit Page 9