The Orpheus Trail

by Maureen Duffy

  ‘What’s your theory Chief Inspector?’

  ‘It’s an obsession that sees what obsesses it everywhere it looks, in everything it hears. That’s my theory. A kind of pathology. I wonder what your professor friend would say?’

  My immediate thought was that I didn’t know and didn’t want to speculate, even for myself, but aloud I said, ‘I didn’t think that’s quite his field.’

  ‘Maybe not. I’ll let you know when we’ve more information. Whoever they are they’re very well organised to get these pictures up so quickly. The site’s been closed down of course but they can’t trace the perpetrators because it was being piggy-backed on a perfectly legal site of children’s literature.’

  I thought of the Opies’ great work on street and playground games, the last knockings of Victoriana, that I had come across in my own studies:

  ‘Here comes a chopper to chop off your head

  Chip chop, chip chop. The last man’s head.’

  Even so, I wasn’t prepared for the inspector’s next call the following morning before I left for work.

  ‘It seems I can’t get along without you, Alex.’ The sudden use of my first name was alarming in itself as well as the early call at home. ‘Could you come in and see me.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ve moved back to the Yard since the action shifted to London. There’s a little café round the corner, Bettina’s. Meet me there as soon as you can. I take it you’ve got a mobile. Ring me when you get there and I’ll come and join you. You know where the Yard is?’

  ‘I’ve never been there but I’ve passed it in the bus coming from Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Victoria Street. St James’s Park Tube station. As quick as you can make it.’

  I rang Lisa to let her know I was wanted by the police and wouldn’t be in the museum until later, if at all.

  ‘I hope they don’t lock you up. We need you back,’ she joked.

  ‘So do I.’

  The air outside the station when I stepped into a mild, moist London morning, was heavy with the fumes of combusting fuel, the thick diesel stink of buses and taxis and the more acrid burn of petrol. A sign pointed to the park where I caught the brief flash of early crocus, yellow, deep purple, and pale lilac. I turned away, following the finger that pointed towards New Scotland Yard, a building anonymous as any other office block without a whiff of Baker Street, the Clink or Bow Street Runners. How did I know that even those not in uniform, heading to or from the station, were police? But I did. Something in the confident walk, an ooze of camaraderie as if they’d been studying themselves on the television screen, and were auditioning for a part in The Bill.

  Bettina’s, when I pushed the door open was filled with more of the same, male and female. I found the only free table and rang Hildreth. ‘Sit tight. I’m there in five minutes.’

  As he pushed his way across the space between us some faces looked up in recognition, then went back to their intense conversations.

  ‘Come on, we can’t talk in this din.’

  I followed him out into the street again and through the elegant glass doors of St Ermin’s Hotel. ‘That’s better. I’ll get them to bring us some coffee. They know me here.’

  He disappeared among the potted palms, redolent of a setting for Poirot. ‘Now,’ he said, settling himself into an armchair, ‘this isn’t very pleasant, Alex. I need you to identify a body. Have you done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘There’s a bit of urgency of course. I know who it is but I need an independent identification and the only one I could think of was you. So as soon as we’ve had our coffee, we’ll get on with it if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘So is it male or female?’ I asked, my gut churning with fear.

  ‘It’s male. I’ve got a car waiting.’

  He drove us expertly south through the old suburbs of Lambeth, past the Old Vic and the Imperial War Museum, between the elegant town houses of Camberwell and up Denmark Hill to King’s College Hospital.

  Less than an hour later I was staring down at the bloodied and battered face of Jack Linden.

  ‘I could have asked Dr Caistor of course but I thought she might find it all too upsetting.’

  ‘How did he die? Where?’

  ‘It’s a toss up at the moment between his being run over or beaten to death, or both. As to where… he was found on a piece of waste ground behind the Vauxhall Tavern.’

  ‘South of the river?’

  ‘That’s right. That’s why they brought him here.’

  ‘What was he doing there? That wasn’t where he lived. I thought he had a flat in Hammersmith somewhere.’

  ‘So he did. I see you don’t know. This is a pub frequented by gents of a certain sexual persuasion. Has been for years. Others come and go but the Vauxhall’s almost an institution, a national monument, you could say.’

  I thought of the thousand lamps of the old Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, closed down by the Victorians as a venue for vice of various kinds, the pale faces of prostitutes of all ages, and all sexes, under the flickering torches or yellow hissing gas mantles, a scene Degas might have painted.

  ‘If he was found on a piece of waste ground how could he have been run over, unless by a motorbike?’

  ‘A good question.’ Hildreth dropped the sheet back over Jack’s face. ‘Will you tell Dr Caistor or shall I?’

  ‘I will,’ I said but my stomach lurched at the thought of trying to find the right words, partly because I didn’t know how I felt myself. I seemed to be quite numb, unable to take in what Hildreth had just told me. I presumed he had meant that Jack’s body had been found behind a gay pub. But that wasn’t Jack’s scene or so he had implied.

  In the end I rang Hilary and asked her if she was free for lunch.

  ‘What is it, Alex? Your voice sounds strange.’

  ‘There is something we have to talk about. Are you free?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in London. Hildreth wanted to see me.’

  ‘Can you be at the Wheatsheaf in half an hour? We might be able to beat the lunchtime scrum.’

  I was the first to arrive. I found a corner table and sat playing with my whisky and water while I turned over various ways to break the news. As she crossed the bar towards me I felt a sinking wave of sadness that this couldn’t just be an ordinary meeting of hopeful lovers. ‘What will you drink?’

  ‘Just a mineral water. I’d better not breathe alcohol all over the director this afternoon.’ And then when she had poured the foaming bubbles into her glass: ‘Now tell me.’

  ‘It’s about Jack.’

  ‘They’ve arrested him again.’

  ‘No, not that. It’s worse. Much worse. I’m afraid he’s been killed.’

  Hilary put down the glass and covered her face as she had at the thought of the dead boys. I wanted to put my arms round her but the bar was filling up and the place was too public. Then she clasped her hands in front of her and rested her chin on her palms. Suddenly I wanted to kiss her.

  ‘Do they know how?’

  ‘They’re not sure. It’s too soon.’

  ‘He rang me two days ago and said he was going to see the man in Oxford again. What was his name?’

  ‘Jim Stalbridge?’

  ‘Yes, that was it. He thought he was on to something. I suppose I should tell the inspector.’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s think about it. I don’t know why I somehow feel it might be a betrayal of Jack or even a false lead that might set them off on the wrong trail.’

  ‘Poor Jack. I wonder what he was trying to find out. Why he didn’t just tell the police if he suspected something?’

  ‘Perhaps he was afraid they wouldn’t believe him, that they would think he was trying to cover up his own involvement with the boys, that they still suspected him of something.’

  ‘Can you come back to my place tonight, Alex. I don’t think I want to be alone.�
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  So that night we did make love, but afterwards I saw that her face was wet with tears as she turned her head away from me.

  Translated from the Welsh. After AD 79

  Then the Roman general Agricola returned to govern Britain and set out to complete the conquest of our island. Before him Frontinus had beaten down the warlike Silures in the south and west and now Agricola turned north to the lands of the Ordovices, and the holy island of Mona. We keeping to the mountains for a time held him off until, putting himself at the head of his army, although the summer was nearly over, he led his men against us into the hills. High on the hilltops we raised up our ramparts, our spears over our heads, our faces over the shield rims. Useless the chariot in those mountains and rocky valleys. Terrible the slaughter. After, ravens grew red from the blood of warriors.

  Then those who remained withdrew to the Holy Island of Mona where the priests made sacrifice in the sacred groves. We kept watch for ships crossing the Hibernian waters that would bring the Roman army. But they did not appear those sails across the horizon, the prows biting the water. None came. Then we rejoiced in feasting and drinking not knowing the cunning of their general. For Agricola caused those of his men trained in breasting the waters holding their swords and shields above their heads, with their horses following after, to cross the narrow waters, naked except for their arms. Surprise was our undoing. Yet some fought on protecting the sacred groves until all the warriors and all the priests were put to the slaughter for the Romans believed they were the source of our anger and rebellion.

  Then the governor built many forts to subdue the tribes and leaving us conquered turned his attention to the north so that once again we were free to worship our own gods, the Mothers and the Horned One, the hunter. But also men began to sacrifice to the gods of the Romans, and others from beyond the seas, fearing that our own gods of grove and river had forsaken the land or had lost their power to protect us.

  We hadn’t discussed Jack’s death the night before but in the morning it couldn’t be put off any longer.

  ‘Do you think he was lying to us?’ Hilary asked.

  It seemed strange to be considering such things over marmite toast.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, about his sexuality. He told us he wasn’t interested in the kind of place where he was found but perhaps he thought we wouldn’t approve of gay cruising, that we’d drop him if we thought that. So he pretended to be, not straight but at least celibate, not practising.

  ‘Would you have dropped him?’

  ‘Of course not. But I didn’t get the feeling that he had many friends, did you? He might have thought… Oh I don’t know.’

  ‘He said he’d tried that sort of thing and it wasn’t what he wanted – like someone straight who’s turned off by the thought of going with prostitutes.’

  ‘But if what you want is forbidden you might settle for second or third best.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Not with Hildreth still looking for answers.’

  ‘Somehow I hope he doesn’t find them, or anyway not that answer. I liked Jack.’

  I thought that I did want to know, wanted to know if he’d lied to us and if any of it fitted into the jigsaw puzzle of the deaths of the three boys.

  It wasn’t long before I found out something at least. A call from Hildreth was waiting for me at the office. As soon as I could I rang him, after I’d made sure Doris Shepherd was available to go and feed Caesar.

  ‘Your friend wasn’t killed where he was found,’ Hildreth said. ‘He was done over elsewhere and the body dumped there, presumably to make it look like a queer killing. They stripped him of everything, apart from his clothes, just to add the suggestion of robbery for more confusion. We’ve no means of knowing where he was killed unless we can find a witness but it’s hard to get people to come forward and admit they were in such a place at round about three in the morning. It looks from one or two signs in his flat that he went out to meet someone. Do you know any of his friends? Anyone he might go out to see?’

  ‘He didn’t say much about his present life. More about his past, working abroad, or his subject.’

  ‘No mention of any family?’

  ‘None.’ It crossed my mind to mention Jim Stalbridge, the man he had visited in Oxford but for some reason I held back.

  ‘Should I have?’ I asked Hilary later.

  ‘I don’t know. You could have put him on to somebody perfectly innocent. I imagine the inspector hangs on like a bulldog if he gets his teeth into someone or something.’

  ‘Suppose I went and looked him up to see what I think, whether he knows anything.’

  ‘If he does you could be at risk yourself.’

  ‘Not in broad daylight. I feel we owe it to Jack and Hildreth doesn’t seem to have any leads.’

  ‘When will you go?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I can take some time off.’

  ‘I wish I could come with you but I can’t get away. You will be careful, Alex. No heroics please.’

  Secretly I was flattered that Hilary thought I might be capable of something rash. First though I had to find an address. I opened up St Julian’s website: Professor James Stalbridge with a photograph I could download. Then I tried the Oxford area phonebook and there he was again, alive and well and living in Westmoor Road, north Oxford. It was as if I was meant to find him. Now I had no choice in my own mind, but to go and search. I knew Oxford from summer courses; Westmoor Road was in the respectable part where dons kept their families in tall grey houses and assembled on Sunday mornings at St Philip and St James for old style matins, if I wasn’t too out of date and they’d swapped the organ for the guitar or bongo drums.

  I felt a childish excitement as I set off up the A127, the old arterial road to London for pre-Second World War outings ‘beside the seaside’ to join the M25 snaking round north London before turning west on the M40, and eventually down another old London Road, over Magdalen Bridge into the city centre, past St John’s College and out on the Woodstock Road, where I pulled in to study my city map.

  The excitement had faded on the long drive. Now I was here what should I say or do? I wished Hilary had been able to come with me. The whole enterprise of private detective Alex Kish seemed not just a bad idea but rather silly. I sat there behind the wheel and watched the ragged shapes of rooks thrown up against a grey sky and wished I was a bird. Then I remembered Jack’s bloodied face, switched on the engine and drove slowly to the turnoff for Westmoor Road, cruising gently along it to read the house numbers, looking for twenty-eight with its stacks of doorbells. I pulled in again a little further along where I could watch the comings and goings through the front gate.

  I sat there for about half an hour, covertly inspecting the cyclists and a few walkers, mainly women with dogs and pushchairs on their way to the Parks. Then suddenly there he was turning the corner, a little hunched inside his overcoat but unmistakable from the website photograph, slightly shaggy moustache, plump face with two wings of bushy hair sprouting from a bald patch stretching back from his forehead. I got out of the car and walked towards him.

  The words came out as if they had been well rehearsed. ‘I’m a friend of Jack Linden’s. I think we should talk.’

  He stood quite still for a moment like someone who might suddenly take flight and then his shoulders sagged and he put out his hand. ‘Jim Stalbridge, Come on up. I’ll make us some coffee.’

  I followed him up to the third floor. The stair carpet had been flattened by a procession of feet over the years and the air was slightly stale from the cooking I supposed went on behind closed doors. Inside though, Stalbridge’s flat was airy with high ceilings and light from a big sash window.

  ‘Have a seat. It won’t take long.’

  I sat down in a dark blue, buttoned armchair and looked about. I could hear him clattering cups and spoons in the kitchen. There were hundreds of books, mostly relating to Egyptian arc
haeology as far as I could see, and a collection of figurines, jackal and hawk headed gods, a portrait of a beautiful golden skinned, olive-eyed boy painted on a wooden panel, and a miniature chariot with a rider but no horse.

  On a table by the window I could see a newspaper. I stood up quietly and walked across the room. A short column had been ringed in black: an account of the finding of Jack’s body. And then: ‘The body has been identified as that of visiting American professor Jack Linden. Police are treating the death as murder.’ So he knew. I went quietly back to my armchair.

  ‘I see you know about Jack,’ I began when Stalbridge had handed me a thick mug of coffee with ‘University of Cairo’ written on it.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Stalbridge said.

  ‘He was found behind a gay pub in south London early on Tuesday morning, seemingly beaten to death and robbed.’

  ‘Seemingly?’

  ‘The police don’t believe it was a queer bashing. They think he was killed somewhere else and dumped there. They think he went to meet someone. Do you have any idea who that might be?’

  Stalbridge slowly shook his head. ‘None. We hadn’t kept up until he dropped in on me the other day. I didn’t find out why he’d called out of the blue like that. We had a bit of a row and he left. I’ve no idea who his friends or acquaintances might be.’

  ‘But you knew he was here, in this country.’

  ‘These things get around. Academic gossip. I hadn’t seen him since Egypt.’

  ‘Were you instrumental in getting him sacked.’

  ‘He told you that? Jack wasn’t an Egypt scholar. That wasn’t his field. He just got lucky. But he wouldn’t have known what to do with what he’d found. Couldn’t even read the hieroglyphs on the front walls. The project managers knew it needed an expert. They asked me to take over.’

  ‘But you didn’t stay?’

  ‘I finished the excavation and wrote it all up in the report. We put the stuff on show for everyone who wanted to come. Then I was offered this fellowship. I could see how the whole Middle East was going: a bonfire waiting for the match. Then it spilled over into Egypt with foreign nationals being targeted. Kidnappings, bombings. It was time to go. I’d had a good run. You have to know when it’s the right time to quit.’