by Gary Dolman
Chapter 9
As the magnificent portico of Sessrum House came into view at last, they could see Michael Roberts anxiously pacing the broad steps that footed it, like a demented cerberean hound.
“Mr and Mrs Fox, thank the Lord you came so swiftly.”
His face collapsed in relief as he caught sight of them.
“There has been a ghastly, ghastly accident. Please come inside, quickly.”
“James has already told us that Miss Elizabeth stabbed your grandfather to death,” Lucie explained, “And that she was found in her bed, singing a lullaby, covered in his blood.”
But instead of climbing the steps towards the still-open front doorway to the house, Roberts led them away to the side, past some ancient hydrangea bushes whose swaying, mop-headed flowers seemed to be jostling for a better view of the unfolding drama. Then he turned down a little path that branched away around a dirty, slime-covered statue of some ancient, mythological figure.
“I’m afraid that what he told you is quite correct, Mrs Fox. Petty, my butler, found my grandfather stone dead on the floor of Aunt Elizabeth’s bedroom whilst he was making his early morning rounds. He was covered in stab wounds, mainly to his face and chest.”
He hesitated, looking suddenly revolted.
“One of the blows pierced his eye-socket and penetrated into his brain. Death, thankfully, was instantaneous then.”
“Where are you taking us?” Atticus asked.
“There is a direct entrance to the Annexe,” Roberts explained.
“It will be quicker and more discrete if we go in by that. It’s just a little further.”
He stopped. There, in front of them, set deep into the shadows of the rear of the house, was a large doorway. The door’s original varnish was bleached and peeling, and a dark sheen of moss seemed to be creeping across it from its heavy, stone surround. There was something else about the door that struck them both as being odd in some way too, but what that was, neither Atticus nor Lucie could immediately place.
Across the broad stone lintel above them was carved an inscription: ‘Omnes Relinquite Spes, O Vos Intrantes,’ and above that, a carved relief of the same mythological figure whose statue marked the beginning of the pathway.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Atticus instinctively translated the words.
Roberts shivered in the coolness of the shadows.
“Abandon hope indeed,” he said.
“A curious choice of words for the entrance to a gentlemen’s club,” Lucie remarked.
Roberts nodded.
“My grandfather rather enjoyed the effect they had on his… guests.”
“The relief is the Norse goddess Freya,” Atticus said.
“Indeed it is, Atticus.”
“And so was the statue at the start of the path.”
“You are very observant.”
“Thank you Doctor, but observation is a basic tool of our profession.”
“There are no knobs or latches on the door,” Lucie exclaimed suddenly, realising all at once what had seemed so odd about it. “There is only that door knocker in the shape of a cat’s head.”
“That is also correct, Mrs Fox,” replied Roberts. “In its day, this was the private and very secret entrance to what my grandfather and his friends used to call their ‘Friday Club.’
“Friday – Freya’s day; I see the connection with the statuary now,” Atticus exclaimed.
“Admittance was strictly by invitation only,” Roberts went on, “And those invitations were extended only to a very small, shall we say, select group of gentlemen. They always had to knock before they were admitted. But I came out this way to wait for you, and so I left it unlocked for us.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then, seeming to gather every last particle of his will, he pushed tentatively on the door. It creaked painfully as it slowly swung wide on its great, iron hinges, as if it was a door that was very seldom opened.
“Are the police here already?” Atticus asked.
Roberts hesitated once more.
“No Atticus, they’re not.”
“Ah, that’s fortunate; we generally find it is far better to examine a crime scene before the police arrive. They do have a tendency to trample all over any evidence that isn’t staring them directly in the face.”
“I haven’t sent for them at all if truth be told. I sent for you both instead. I am conscious – despite my grief – that this is a very delicate matter; a very delicate matter indeed.”
“How so?” Atticus asked.
Roberts looked deliberately at each of them in turn. He licked his lips. “Well, you see; I commissioned you both to trace Aunt Elizabeth’s whereabouts, and to bring her back to live here. I also arranged for her to sleep in the very same part of the house where her uncle still lives, or lived I should say, and from where she departed in rather, shall we call them, abrupt circumstances. People might surmise that it was foolhardy of me, and then they might delve further. My reputation – you’ll understand I’m sure – might be compromised. That’s why I called you first. I thought you both could carry out any investigation that might be needed and then hand it all over to the police in a more, shall we say, circumspect way.”
Atticus was aghast.
“Dr Roberts, this is a criminal matter of the most serious nature. You haven’t lost your dog; it is a murder. You really must inform the police directly. Mrs Fox and I will happily liaise with them on your behalf if you wish, but you must let them investigate your grandfather’s death in the proper manner, circumspect or not. To do anything other would be to immediately arouse their suspicions and might ultimately land you in front of a jury yourself for perverting the course of justice.”
It was Roberts’ turn to look aghast.
“I’m so sorry, Atticus, I had no idea. We just thought it was for the best.”
“So,” Atticus continued, mollified now, even perhaps in truth, a little excited, “Show us this Annexe, and while you call for the police, we’ll take the opportunity to examine the scene of the murder.”
Roberts nodded wearily, as if succumbing to the inevitable, and then, steeling himself like an actor about to enter onto some grand stage, ushered them through the doorway.
They found themselves at the foot of a deep, wide stairwell. But this was nothing like the modern, comfortable surroundings of the rest of the house. This place was grim and austere, more akin to the tower of some medieval castle or dungeon than to a fashionable home. The walls towering above them were of raw, naked stone, and what appeared to be iron torch rings tracked the rude, uncarpeted stairway as it spiralled upwards. On the wall immediately opposite the door was a gigantic oil painting; a glorious depiction of a flame-haired maiden astride a racing chariot pulled by two enormous, snarling black cats. In the chariot’s wake, a host of naked, dancing maidens snaked off into the far distance.
“You have already noticed my grandfather’s particular penchant for the goddess Freya,” Roberts growled in answer to Atticus’ unspoken question.
Atticus nodded.
“The Norse goddess of love, beauty and fertility,” he said.
Roberts turned sharply towards him. The briefest shade of accusation in his expression subsided quickly to a brooding thoughtfulness, before he turned away once more and led them in silence up the stairs.
The chill air at the foot of the well became all at once warm, almost oppressive, as they climbed the stairway. They reached the top and came to a second door. This was also very solidly made and peculiarly devoid of any furniture, barring a knocker that was again cast in the shape of a snarling cat’s head. Above it, painted in black gothic script was a second legend, but this time in English.
Atticus read: “‘Freya is the receiver of the slain. Lördag cleanses your body and your tongue.’”
He frowned in puzzlement.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that my grandfather was a very strange man, Atticus.”
> Roberts’ tone was grim.
“But what does it really mean?” Lucie persisted.
“It means that my grandfather and his Friday Club friends had a strange fascination with the Vikings, Mrs Fox. Lördag is the Viking name for Saturday.”
“But it was a Friday Club,” Lucie reminded him.
Roberts hesitated, his hand hovering against the door.
“Exactly so, and as I said to your husband, Mrs Fox, so I say again to you: My grandfather was a very strange man, a very strange man indeed.”
He pushed at the door and it rolled wide, like a curtain parting on an opening night stage.
“This,” he announced, “was my grandfather’s Friday Club.”
They looked. In front of them, a large, airy, high-ceilinged room was set about with around a dozen or so chaises longues. Like the stairwell, the walls were of brute, naked stone, but here they were softened by a large number of heavy, hanging tapestries; nude studies of Freya, and of other women and girls in various degrees of nakedness.
Atticus stepped forward into the cooler, fresher air of the room and he heard Lucie’s voice speaking his own first impression.
“This carpet is very deep,” she said.
“It’s a double carpet,” Roberts replied, “Intended to muffle the late-night noise from the club so that it wouldn’t disturb the rest of the household.”
“How very thoughtful of your grandfather,” Lucie remarked.
“Oh, yes,” Roberts said bitterly, “It was. It was very thoughtful indeed. This Annexe was laid out with a very great deal of thought: Double carpets, thick walls with those heavy tapestries covering them to deaden any sound, curtains over all the doors. Everything was meticulously planned down to the very last detail.”
“Are they some of the members of your grandfather’s club?” Lucie asked, pointing towards a large, grey photograph. It was mounted high on the wall above their heads. A group of obviously well-to-do men smirked back at them from within a handsome, brass picture frame. Curiously, a fine, wire mesh covered the face of the photograph, almost like the grill of a prison window.
“Those are the members in their entirety, Mrs Fox,” Roberts replied without looking at them, “Plus a steward called Mr Otter my grandfather employed. He’s the brutish-looking one on the left. There only ever were a dozen or so of them at its height. It’s closed down now, of course. I use this room only occasionally as a smoking room or when I need to be alone to collect my thoughts. But I keep that photograph up there to continually remind my grandfather of his former associates.”
“Happy memories,” Atticus said, and Roberts frowned.
“Sister Lovell, Miss Elizabeth,” Lucie exclaimed suddenly.
Atticus looked round. There, framed just inside another doorway directly opposite them were the slight figures of Elizabeth and her nurse.
“Mary,” Roberts said gently, “Would you mind sitting with Aunt Elizabeth for a while in here while Mr and Mrs Fox examine the scene of the… the incident?”
He hesitated.
“I’m going to have to call the constabulary I’m afraid; Mr Fox insists on it.”
Miss Lovell looked as if she had been struck. Her eyes, full of appeal, darted between Atticus and the doctor and finally settled onto Lucie.
“Must we, Mrs Fox?”
“You must,” said Lucie gently, “My husband is right to insist.”
Then she asked: “How is Miss Elizabeth?”
Miss Lovell regarded Elizabeth, and her expression softened to something between fondness and pity. She shrugged.
“Lizzie is just as Lizzie always is, Mrs Fox. I don’t even believe she knows what… what she’s done.”
Friday, it must be Friday. Friday was when she and the waifs and strays were brought here, to this room with its bare stone walls, and its foul stenches of liquor and tobacco. Friday was the day he brought his gentlemen friends here too, to smoke and to drink, to play cards and to…
Often his gentleman friends brought other little girls who had been wicked and who needed to be punished too. Sometimes the little girls didn’t even know that they were wicked. Some even thought they were to be taken as servants or maids into the gentlemen’s houses. Instead, they were given their medicine for naughty girls and taken into the other rooms of the Annexe. They were taken away for their punishment. Sometimes the gentlemen would take them off in their carriages for the night; sometimes for days on end. Elizabeth had often been taken away in the gentlemen’s carriages, and each time it happened, it had seemed as if those particular days would never end.
They had to beg for mercy. The gentlemen might be more merciful if they begged, if they pleaded with all their souls not to be punished. Sometimes the punishments would be over more quickly if they screamed and writhed and showed how much it hurt them. But always, they had been wicked. Always, they needed to be punished. And always, they screamed.
But Uncle Alfie would not punish her today. Today, Uncle Alfie’s eyes had gone forever. Uncle Alfie had gone to be with Jesus in Heaven. Perhaps he might tell her mama that he and his gentleman friends had punished her enough, that she had done everything he had wanted her to and that now, now she was surely a good little girl. Now, at last, the world must have ended and her mama could come to fetch her to be an angel in Heaven too.
Chapter 10
To their disappointment and intense frustration, Dr Roberts had already had his grandfather’s body moved from its place of discovery in Elizabeth’s bedroom to a scrubbed-top table in what he called the ‘Surgery,’ a tiny room adjoining the Annexe’s scullery.
As they entered this makeshift mortuary, Atticus kept his gaze determinedly focused on the little square, black and white tiles that made up the floor. The examination of corpses, and most particularly those that had died a violent or unnatural death, was thankfully a very rare part of their profession, but one he still left very much to his wife, who by contrast seemed to positively revel in it.
“Oh, upon my word,” Lucie exclaimed, pulling up a large, involuntary wave of nausea from the pit of her husband’s stomach.
“What is it? What do you see, Lucie?” Atticus took a deep gulp of air, holding it fast in his lungs for one, two, three seconds, as pinpricks of sweat began breaking out across his brow. There was also, he noted, an ominous tightening in his gut.
His wife glanced at him.
“Well, Alfred Roberts is certainly dead, and likely has been for several hours. There is an awful lot of blood present, and most of it has dried on his skin and his nightclothes, or at least has thickened. There are many – very many – deep puncture wounds to his upper chest and neck, and still more to his face. As Dr Roberts told us, one of the blows pierced his left eye-socket and quite took out the eyeball.”
Here, even she paused.
“It was a violent, I would say an almost frenzied, attack. I also suspect that he was suddenly overwhelmed by his assailant, because there is no sign of blood or injury to his hands or forearms. There almost certainly would have been if he had tried to defend himself.”
“He was suddenly overwhelmed?” Atticus repeated.
“That’s how it seems. There’s a heavily bloodstained knife lying next to the corpse too, one which could well be the murder weapon.”
There was another, longer pause.
“Yes, the width of the blade appears at first glance to match the wound dimensions exactly. I can see fingerprints in blood on the handle too; small ones which would likely belong to a woman or a grown child. They are very clear; in fact, they are unusually clear. I can make out heavy scarring that would fit with the owner having spent their life in manual work – in a workhouse perhaps. Atticus, I will check of course, but I would wager our fees to a farthing that these are Elizabeth Wilson’s bloody fingerprints on the knife.”
“Let me see it, Lucie.”
Atticus glanced up long enough to take the knife gingerly between his forefinger and thumb.
“It’s an envelope kni
fe; a very handsome one too. Yes, I see the fingertip prints you mentioned and I can see the scarring clearly. Let me see; there’s an inscription on it too – on the blade. It’s just about polished out but if I carefully smear just a little of the blood across it… yes, I can make out some of the words: ‘Presented to Mr Thomas Liddle,’ and: ‘Union Workhouse, Eighteen Eighty Four.’ The rest is illegible.”
The inescapable weight of evidence crushed them into silence.
Then Lucie said: “The case is easy then, Atticus. It was Elizabeth. So we shouldn’t be congratulating ourselves on helping to save a senile old woman from poverty at all. We should be trying to come to terms with the fact that we’ve unwittingly contributed to an old man’s murder, and maybe to our senile old woman being hanged for it too.”
Atticus nodded gravely.
“You’re right, Lucie. Old Mr Roberts is dead and there’s no changing that.”
He sighed helplessly. “And what this is going to do to our professional reputation I shudder to think; just when we were beginning to build something of a name for ourselves too. There’s no point in crying over spilt milk though; what’s done is done, and we must be professional about it all. Come, Lucie, let’s go and see exactly where Alfred Roberts met his death.”
The door to Elizabeth’s bedroom was still wide open, revealing an exquisitely carved fireplace on the chimney-breast opposite, complete with a pair of white, marble cherubs. But as they entered, slowly and tentatively, they could see that the cherubs must really be fallen angels, because the scene within was hellish.
The pillows and the counterpane of the bed were smeared and streaked in blood, which had mellowed with the passage of the hours into the colour of fine, burgundy wine. Several thick, glutinous reddish brown stains sat on the pile of the rug beside it. The room had been freshly and fashionably decorated in the new ‘liberty’ art style, with its flowing, natural lines and, as if in macabre homage to this, a curving, spattered serpentine of arterial blood swept low across the wall adjacent.