‘He was killed no later than eight o’clock, Inspector,’ said Lambton. ‘That’s what the local doctor said. He’s been and gone this half-hour. This is the body of John Cornish, licensed pawnbroker, aged seventy. He’s run this shop for nigh on twenty years. That frantic scarecrow of a man that you’ve just seen was his assistant. Victor Freestone, his name is, and it was he who found him dead, and ran down to us at the police station. When I saw the honey around Cornish’s mouth, and the little piece of slate with a raven scratched on it, I thought I’d better send for you.’
‘You don’t much care for the people round here, do you, Sergeant?’ asked Box.
The burly, bearded police officer looked at him with something like reproach.
‘It’s no bed of roses working round here, Mr Box,’ he said, ‘and a man can get cynical in his way of speaking about folks. We’ve got a lot of mindless brutes and merciless thugs on our patch, sir, but there are many very good, decent people living here as well. They’re the ones that don’t cause trouble.’
Arnold Box nodded his understanding, and then knelt down beside the dead man. A sudden wave of nausea made him shudder. How long were these foul murders going to continue? Was there a plan to immolate all the members of this unknown coven? Who were they? Who was their leader? Could this aged man, with the stubble beard and a disfiguring growth on his right cheek, be a devotee of Mithras? It sounded too silly for words, but murder wasn’t silly at all.
He raised the dead man’s head from the pool of congealing blood, and examined the site of a fatal blow which had caved in the right side of his skull. Whatever had been used to inflict the wound, it had not been an adze. The indentation was too wide, and too shallow to have been caused by a sharpened blade. Something heavy and round had made that fatal, crushing wound.
Yes, there it was: the pool of honey beside the dead man’s head, formed there as it had oozed out of his mouth. Box smeared some of it on his finger, and tasted it. He recalled the sticky patch of honey, no bigger than a penny, which he had found beside the body of Gregory Walsh in the Mithraeum. Here, beside the corpse of the pawnbroker, the honey formed a little pool. It was as though—
He was suddenly alert to the danger of drawing facile conclusions from the physical traces of a crime. The case of John Cornish, pawnbroker, had unique qualities of its own. He sat back on his heels, and looked at the sergeant, who was standing quite still near the counter, watching him.
‘Have you got the little piece of slate with the raven carved on it, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to see it, now, if I may.’
The sergeant unbuttoned one of his jacket pockets and produced a piece of slate, no more than an inch square. Its edges had been smoothed with a file, and on one side of it had been scratched the figure of a bird, with the word ‘corax’ written beneath it. Box’s mind reverted to the scenes of the two previous ritual murders. On those two occasions costly lapis lazuli had been used to fashion the tokens, and he had assumed, probably rightly, that they had been antique. The images, too, the lion and the raven, had been artistically depicted, with the care that one would expect where some kind of devotion, however misplaced, had guided the hand of the devotee.
But this, he could see, was part of an ordinary roofing slate, bought for sixpence a dozen at any builder’s merchants. The drawing was little more than crude scratching. An idea began to form in his mind.
‘Did you check the till, Sergeant?’ he asked. ‘Just for form’s sake, I mean?’
‘The till, sir? Why, no, I—’
‘Do it now, will you?’
Sergeant Lambton pulled upon the drawer in the desk which served as a till.
‘Empty, sir! There’s nothing in it but three halfpennies. So it was murder in the pursuit of theft…. Or maybe poor Cornish emptied it himself, sir, and put the takings away for the night in his strong-box—’
‘His strong-box? Do you know for certain that he had one?’
‘He showed it to me once, sir, after we’d had a spate of burglaries round here. Poor old chap, he wasn’t exactly rich, but I do remember a roll of sovereigns wrapped in greaseproof paper. I told him to bank it, but, of course, people like him don’t trust banks.’
‘And where is this strong-box?’
Sergeant Lambton lowered his voice, and glanced at the closed door of the back room, where the wretched assistant Victor Freestone could be heard lamenting the death of his master.
‘It’s under this loose board in the corner, sir. You see, it just lifts out, like so – and here’s the box. Hello! The lock’s been forced – it’s empty!’
‘Yes, it’s empty, Sergeant,’ said Box, sitting down on one of two rickety chairs that stood in the room. Lambton watched him slip the piece of slate into one of the pockets of his overcoat. ‘It’s empty, as I thought it would be, and in a minute I’ll explain to you what that means, and what you and I will do. But first, you’d better tell me about this disturbance in the street earlier tonight.’
‘Well, sir, Victor Freestone – him that’s moaning and snuffling in the back room there – came into the police station at a quarter to nine, as I told you. He’d found poor Cornish dead, and had noticed the pool of honey near his mouth. Everybody knows what that signifies now, sir. The papers have been full of these Mithras murders for the last ten days.’
‘I know, Sergeant, and it’s a pity, because the Press accounts are becoming more and more sensational. I’m beginning to believe them myself. So what happened next?’
‘Before he came to us, sir, Freestone had run into the public bar at the Vasa Arms in Sweden Street and told his mates what had happened. They were all blind drunk by that time, and they looked to the leader of the pack to tell them what to do. Patrick Brannigan – that’s the leader of the pack – told them that poor Tommy Bassano was behind it—’
‘Just a moment, Sergeant, you’re losing me. Who is this Tommy Bassano?’
‘He was a simpleton, sir, who made a living from selling bunches of herbs and so-called cures for common ailments from door to door. The women liked him well enough, because he was quite good-looking in a pinched, half-starved kind of way, but all the men round here hated him, on account of him being simple, like, and a foreigner into the bargain. He was supposed to be some kind of an Italian.’
‘And this Patrick Brannigan—’
‘Brannigan declared that poor Tommy was a wizard, and that it was he who must have murdered John Cornish. There was something more to that – some grudge that Brannigan held against poor Tommy. We’ll get that out of him, later.
‘So Brannigan and his mates poured out of the Vasa like a swarm of hornets, and laid siege to Tommy Bassano in his lodging further up the road. To cut a long story short, Mr Box, they broke the windows with uprooted cobbles and stones, and then someone threw a lighted torch into the house. You saw the result of that yourself. The woman who rents out the rooms managed to escape through the back. It could have developed into a full-scale riot, Inspector, but we had enough police to disperse the mob. We’ve arrested the ringleaders, and they’ve been lodged in the cells at Peckham until tomorrow morning.’
‘Where’s your inspector, Sergeant Lambton?’ he asked.
‘He’s gone to Peckham High Street, sir, to consult Superintendent Butt about the riot.’
Box rose from his chair, and began a swift search of the shelves. Lambton watched him as he rummaged behind the rows of pledges, and then turned his attention to the piles of baled clothing lying on the floor. What was he looking for?
Box gave a little cry of satisfaction, and motioned to the sergeant to join him in the space behind the front door. He pointed to one of the two brass fenders leaning upright against the wall.
‘You see that, Sergeant?’ he said. ‘There’s a heavy ornamental ball at one end of this fender, but the other one’s been screwed off. Do you see? The thread in the socket is still clean and bright, so it hasn’t been removed very long. A round, heavy brass ball – does that suggest anyt
hing to you? Bring that empty strong-box over to the table, will you – quiet, man, or they’ll hear you in the back room.’
‘What are you going to do, sir?’ asked Sergeant Lambton. ‘Why are you unscrewing the remaining ball from that fender?’
‘Listen, Sergeant,’ said Box in a low voice. ‘There’s no need for me to go into details, but I had a long talk about this old religion of Mithras with an expert on the subject, a lady called Miss Mary Westerham. She told me that spilt honey always went together with the symbol of a lion, and that the sign of a raven was associated with mercury.’
‘But that’s wrong, sir, because—’
‘It’s wrong, Sergeant, because poor Mr Cornish’s killer got his facts wrong. In this case, the case of John Cornish, there’s honey, all right, because it’s easier to procure than mercury. I expect you’ll find an opened jar of honey in the kitchen back there. But the sign’s wrong – a raven instead of a lion. Whoever carved that crude little bit of slate carved the wrong image. He’d read about the murders at Clerkenwell and Carshalton in the newspapers, you see, and used what he’d read there to concoct this fake sacrifice to Mithras—
‘Do I have to say any more, Sergeant? You know what we’ve got to do. After that, you can send a constable to fetch the van for poor Cornish’s body. Come on, let’s get it over and done with. When I give the nod, fling open that kitchen door.’
Box stooped down and, holding the heavy brass knob by its screw, trawled it through the pool of congealed blood. He placed it in the rifled strong-box, and signalled to the sergeant, who suddenly threw open the door to the back room. The haunted Victor Freestone, who was sitting motionless beside a uniformed constable, looked up in terror as the inspector slammed the open strong-box down on to the table.
‘What did you do with the money?’ cried Box. ‘Do you think you can fool a Scotland-Yarder?’
The quaking Freestone uttered a howl like that of a scalded cat, and rose from his chain He pointed at the bloodstained brass fender-ornament.
‘How did you find it?’ he shrieked. ‘I threw it into the storm drain across the road! No one could have found it in this rain….’
He began to mutter a kind of confession, mingled with an attempt at self-justification. Old Cornish had been a skinflint, an exploiter, he had cheated him out of his due share of the profits. The thin whine continued until it petered out in a strangled sob. Sergeant Lambton produced a set of handcuffs.
At the end of an hour’s activity, the body of the murdered pawnbroker had been removed in a police hand-ambulance, and Victor Freestone had been conveyed by van to the holding cells at Putney. Sergeant Lambton had prevailed on Box to come back for a while to the local police station in Canal Street. They were sitting together in front of a blazing fire in a cramped but cheerful office looking out on to the wet cobbles. A constable had brought them two enamel mugs of steaming coffee.
‘It was obvious to me, Sergeant,’ said Box, ‘that John Cornish’s murder had been tricked out to look like one of these Mithras slayings. The details had been culled from papers like The Graphic, but Freestone had got the symbols mixed. It was a crude affair, and my little ruse with the brass knob worked like a dream. And you’re my witness that I never enticed him into a confession by drawing his attention to that fender-ornament. It wasn’t a case of entrapment.’
‘It was very clever of you, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Lambton. ‘Very clever. Don’t you think so, Father Brooks?’
Box had noticed a stout, elderly clergyman enveloped in a serge cloak, who was sitting at a desk in the corner of the office, and had wondered who he was. He had been reading an evening newspaper with the aid of a pair of steel spectacles, which he used folded, rather like a magnifying glass. He had looked up when the two police officers had entered from the street, and had then turned to his newspaper once again. A broad-brimmed hat reposing on the desk in front of him suggested to Box that he was a Roman Catholic priest.
‘Very clever, Tim,’ said Father Brooks, treating Box to an elfish smile. ‘But then, Inspector Box is a very clever man.’
Sergeant Lambton rose from his chair, and went towards a door leading to the back premises of the police station.
‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and see if all’s well out the back.’
He quickly left the room, closing the door behind him.
‘It’s probably an act of Providence,’ said Father Brooks, ‘that you and I have met here tonight, Mr Box. I’ve followed your investigations of these Mithras murders in the daily Press, and I’ve been longing to talk to you about the matter. Have you ever seen the Clerkenwell Treasure?’
‘Well, Father, I’ve heard a lot about it recently, but I’ve not actually seen it—’
‘May I counsel you to go and see it, Mr Box? It’s in the South Kensington Museum. They do a very informative leaflet, too, which you might care to buy. It’s only a penny. And when you’ve seen it – but not before – come out to visit me at Saint Joseph’s Retreat, in Highgate. Do you know it?’
‘I know of it, Father, because it’s only a couple of years since the great chapel was completed, round about the time that Sir Sydney Waterlow presented that fine park of his to the public. May I take it that you’re an antiquarian, Father?’
‘You may take it, Inspector, that I’m an observer of human nature,’ the priest replied. There was a slight acerbity in his voice. ‘When you come to see me – as I hope you will – I’ll tell you something about the foibles and follies of mankind. I’m speaking, you understand, about this business of the heathen god Mithras, and his devotees. “They have mouths and speak not: they have eyes and see not”. You’ve heard those words, I expect, or something like them. Well, they’re true.’
Box looked at the priest, and saw the intense seriousness of the his expression. This was a man content for the moment to speak in enigmas. He’s telling me something, thought Box, and warning me about something, Maybe their meeting had indeed been providential.
‘I promise you, sir,’ he said, ‘that I will visit the Clerkenwell Treasure this very week.’
‘Excellent, Mr Box. And yes, I will admit now that I am something of an antiquarian. Many people would regard me as an expert on the Clerkenwell Treasure, and they would be right. Go and see it, and then come out to visit me at Highgate. I think you’ll find the journey well worth the trouble.’
11
A Bad Time at the Rents
It was well after midnight when Arnold Box got back to King James’s Rents. When his business in Rotherhithe was done, one of Sergeant Lambton’s constables walked with him through the rain to Union Street, where there was a cab rank. He’d secured a lumbering old four-wheeler, which had taken him into the Borough, and then across Southwark Bridge. When the cab had deposited him at the threshold of Cannon Street, he had hailed a hansom cab, which had taken him through the now diminishing rain to Whitehall.
It was very quiet and rather eerie late at night in King James’s Rents. When Box entered his office, he found that the gas-mantle had been turned low, and the embers of the day’s fire still glowed in the grate. He sat down in his usual chair at the long table. The ancient pile of buildings continued its creaking and settling of timbers, and from somewhere near the dark rear part of the office, a rat pattered and squeaked its way to some secret destination.
What a squalid, petty murder! Fancy being dragged out that far on a stormy night to expose the likes of Victor Freestone! If Lambton’s inspector hadn’t gone running off to Putney after the riot, he could have wrapped the whole thing up himself in half an hour. Well, he’d better write the case up for Old Growler to see in the morning.
He took a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer, and drew the inkwell towards him. Thursday, 23 August 1894, he wrote. It was actually Friday, now, but the murder of that poor wretched pawnbroker had taken place on Thursday evening. He wrote for ten minutes or so, rapidly covering the page with his neat copperplate ha
ndwriting. Then he threw the pen down, and sat back in his chair.
He was getting nowhere with this Mithras investigation. He’d been on the case since the fourteenth, and still he’d made no arrests. He’d not even brought anyone in for questioning. What about that chemist’s assistant, who hoped to gain promotion from the death of Gregory Walsh? What about the bland, uncommunicative works manager who was now free to marry into the family of the murdered Abraham Barnes?
He got up from his chair, and groped his way down the dim tunnel that led to the drill hall. Two small oil lamps had been left lit, so that Sergeant Kenwright’s large drawing of the reredos at Clerkenwell stood in a pool of flickering light. The face of Mithras seemed to be wreathed in a mocking smile. He could just make out the edges of the piece of stone containing the face, one of the several pieces that had been broken in antiquity, and reassembled. It looked to Box like a rough outline of the Isle of Wight. Hateful, alien thing!
Box returned to his office, and sat down again at the table. No, there were no fresh leads. He’d still no idea who these fanatics were – if, indeed, they existed at all. And now, petty killers like Freestone were staging their own ‘Mithras murders’…. Where was he going? Who would be murdered next, with honey in his mouth and a carved image in his pocket? He needed a new impetus. Something, anything—
The swing doors of the office were pushed open, and an elderly man in shirtsleeves and a long waistcoat came in to the room. He was carrying a wooden tray, which contained a small brown teapot, a homely collection of saucerless cups, and a couple of tin spoons. There was also a bowl of brown sugar, and an enamel jug of milk.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ said Box. ‘Have you brought me some tea? I don’t suppose there’s any toast, is there?’
Depths of Deceit Page 13