The Durham Deception

by Philip Gooden

  Ambrose started to dismantle the cabinet and Kitty to pack away the curtains and muslin. Aunt Julia was sitting and writing at a roll-top desk in the corner of the room and Flask was standing over her like a shield. She handed a slip of paper to the medium who promptly tucked it away. Tom would have bet a month of his own salary that the medium was receiving his reward for the evening. The task which Helen’s mother had entrusted to her, that of weaning the aunt away from her devotion to the medium, seemed more impossible than ever.

  Flask’s Family

  Eustace Flask and Ambrose Barker and Kitty were renting a tiny end-of-terrace house outside the city walls in the old borough of Elvet. The medium and his companions were better dressed and kept odder hours than most other inhabitants of the borough, which lay to the north-east across the River Wear. If anyone asked, the trio was a family of sorts, with Flask as the uncle, Kitty his niece and Ambrose some kind of cousin. But no one did ask because in this area of back-to-back terraces, boarding houses, small shops and drinking places on the fringe of a colliery, there was little neighbourly curiosity. Besides, Ambrose had a faintly threatening air to him that discouraged questions.

  If the old part of the city was dominated by the cathedral and castle, this more recently built quarter was the location for the new court and police-house and an imposing prison. Ambrose might have seen more than one prison from the inside – he looked the type – but if it disturbed him to glimpse the high walls of Durham Gaol first thing in the morning and last thing at night he did not show it.

  Now he finished stowing away the handcart containing the dismantled cabinet which he had wheeled down from the old maid’s place in the South Bailey. The terrace house was backed by a tiny yard, convenient for storing the equipment required by the guv’nor. The guv’nor! Ambrose was able to maintain a sober face while Flask was pulling his tricks but the moment the show was done with and they were away from the spiritualist mob and their trusting sheep’s eyes he could hardly keep himself from sneering and cackling at the stupidity of humankind.

  This attitude did not extend to Eustace Flask himself for, although Ambrose was often nettled by the airs and graces of the medium, he recognized that the man had a real talent for deception and moneymaking. He called him Eustace but also the guv’nor sometimes and it was not altogether ironic. It was his appreciation of Flask’s skills that made him bite his tongue as he watched the medium and his ‘niece’ Kitty walking ahead while he trundled the cart behind them over the cobbles, feeling a bit like some beast of burden. He knew that if they were to be stopped by one of the town police – which had happened more than once – Mr Flask would soon knock any suspicions on the head. He’d talk in that superior way of his and refer in a familiar style to the Chief Constable and his superintendents and other town worthies as if he dined with them every day. Nevertheless, it hurt Ambrose in the heart to see Kitty next to Flask and touching his arm so constantly with her little paws as they walked so close, to see her whispering and giggling all confidential in his ear, and altogether behaving like a silly chit.

  Ambrose had always taken Flask for a molly, a Mary Anne. The guv’nor slipped into the manner easy enough and he was relaxed in the company of women, especially older ones, which could be a sign of molly-hood. But perhaps the truth was that he was something in between, or a nothing in between, neither fish nor fowl. Yet it disturbed Ambrose to see Eustace and Kitty so cosy. He’d have words with Miss Kitty Partout later on, he would.

  He pronounced her name Par-tout, putting the stress on the second part and rhyming it with ‘out’, which she said was wrong because it was French and she should be pronounced Par-too. Kitty claimed to be French originally, a generation or two back. In that case, said Ambrose, what’s Par-too mean? Does it have a meaning? Dunno, said Kitty. My mum never said and my dad wasn’t around to ask. But Ambrose did believe that Kitty might have Frog blood in her. She had a saucy air sometimes and a way of looking up from under her lowered lashes that was, well, foreign as far as he was concerned.

  Ambrose made certain that the gate to the yard was locked before he entered the house by the back passage. He heard rustlings from the parlour and walked into the room just as Mr Flask and Kitty sprang apart from each other. Ambrose thought that his guv’nor’s hand might have been on her tit. Trying the goods, eh? He almost laughed to imagine what that old maid and the other worthies up in the high town would say if they could see their precious medium fondling the boobies of his ‘niece’. He almost laughed. Instead, he promised himself he’d definitely be having words later on with Miss Kitty.

  ‘Ah, Ambrose,’ said Flask. ‘Everything tucked up for the night? Join us for a libation?’

  There were glasses of some sticky pale brown stuff on a table. Sherry or something.

  ‘There’s a jug of porter in the kitchen. I’ll have some o’ that. Run and fetch it, Kitty Par-tout, there’s a good girl.’

  Kitty hesitated for a second and Ambrose saw Flask nod almost imperceptibly before she scampered off to the kitchen. But he put his best face on it and said, ‘Find anything in York, Eustace? That’s where you was this afternoon, wasn’t it?’

  ‘A couple of likely prospects,’ said the medium. ‘One of them a widower.’

  ‘Thought you found women easier to work with than men, guv’nor. More – what’s the word? – pliant.’

  ‘It depends,’ said Flask.

  Kitty returned carrying the jug of porter and a tankard. She made a show of pouring it out for Ambrose and not spilling more than a drop or two, as if she wanted to demonstrate what a careful girl she was. Then, picking up her own sticky brown libation, she flung herself into a battered armchair, one of a pair. Eustace Flask settled in the other while Ambrose had to content himself with an even more dilapidated rocking chair which was hard on the bum and pinched the hips.

  ‘We did well tonight. Here is a contribution for the cause,’ said Flask, producing the cheque which Julia Howlett had presented to him. Ambrose noticed that he didn’t let it out of his hands or even say how much the cheque was for.

  ‘Who was that terrible man with the moustache?’ asked Kitty.

  ‘I think I know who he is,’ said Flask, without enlarging on it.

  ‘He nearly spoiled everything.’

  ‘That’s where you are wrong, my dear Kit. He made an exhibition of himself and, far from convincing the congregation he was right, he made them feel I had been hard done by. I am sure that Miss Howlett gave us more than she would have done without his intervention.’

  Eustace Flask sometimes referred to his audience as a ‘congregation’. He did it with a straight face, which you had to admire him for.

  ‘What about that other couple, Eustace?’ said Ambrose. ‘The tall, dark-haired geezer and the pretty piece with fair curled hair. What were they up to?’

  ‘I understand from Miss Howlett that the woman is her niece and the man is her husband. They are newly married and visiting Durham for the first time. As a matter of fact, I met them on the train from York. I don’t think there is any harm in them.’

  ‘Oh, we know all about nieces, don’t we Eustace?’ said Ambrose.

  Eustace ignored the remark. He said, ‘We must tread very carefully over the next few days. That is why I responded with calm and dignity to the attack on me this evening. We have reached a critical moment. Miss Howlett is primed to provide me with an allowance so that I can continue with my good work for the cause. And I have high hopes of something more . . .’

  Ambrose was wondering what the ‘something more’ could be when Kitty broke in. ‘Does that mean we’ll have to stay in Durham, Eustace? I am getting tired of the city.’

  ‘We shall not be staying here for much longer. I shall make it a condition of any allowance that I – or we, rather – would have to continue with our journeying, to spread the word. Now, Kit, we are ready for a little supper after our exertions. You purchased some pork chops earlier today, did you not? It must be time for you to go and cook t
hem up.’

  Kitty refilled her glass and then busied herself in the kitchen frying the chops. Eustace and Ambrose sat in silence in the parlour, drinking. By the time the food reached the table, all three of them were sozzled.

  When he got Kitty to bed that night, Ambrose had more or less forgotten his earlier irritation at seeing Eustace and her so comfortable and familiar together in the street and the parlour. He did give her nipples a few extra twists but it was half-hearted, like her little shrieks in response. The two shared a room at the back of the house, with a view of the stern prison walls, while Mr Flask had the bigger room at the front.

  The nipple-twisting had turned to stroking and fondling, and Kitty’s little shrieks to sighs. But before they got on to the main matter, Ambrose had something he wanted to ask her. ‘What’s the guv’nor hoping to squeeze out of the old maid? She’s going to give him an allowance – more fool her, if she does – but he was talking about something more. What’s he mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ambrose. Ah . . . yes that’s it. And I’ll just put my hand here . . .’

  There was an extended pause but suddenly Kitty said, ‘Maybe he’s trying to get her to put him in her will.’

  ‘Who? What you talking about?’ said Ambrose, who was rather distracted at this point.

  ‘Eustace and Miss Howlett. He thinks she might leave him something in her will.’

  ‘She’s not dead yet.’

  ‘She’s old.’

  ‘Looks in good health to me.’

  ‘You never know with old maids though. They can go sudden.’

  ‘Or be pushed sudden.’

  And the two, in the middle of their pleasure, giggled at the thought.

  Ambrose Barker was familiar with the use of force. It was one of his attractions for Kitty Partout. She had first admired him while he was wearing no more than knee breeches and practising his trade at the Black Lion near Drury Lane. Miss Partout was keeping company with a young Corinthian or swell who enjoyed seeing men of a lower class beat each other to pulp. Usually Kitty enjoyed it too. Most of the fighters showed the marks of their trade in broken noses and ripped ears and swollen hands. Although Ambrose possessed a dented nose he still had a touch of youth about him. But that evening he came off badly at the hands of a negro called Turner. As he was being dragged from the ring – which was nothing more than a chalked-off square on the bare pine boards of a back room – he managed to exchange glances with Kitty. She felt a thrill go through her.

  About an hour later, when ‘Ebony’ Turner had disposed of several more contenders and Kitty’s swell had drunk so much that he was staggering worse than the fighters, they left the Lion. Ambrose was waiting outside, lounging against a wall, holding a flannel to the side of his face where Turner had torn a great rent in it. Apart from that wound he had quite recovered as he demonstrated by what he did next. With his free hand he seized Kitty’s arm and said, ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘Where we going then?’ she said, as her Corinthian swell fell into the gutter without needing so much as a shove. ‘Where are we going? Gretna Green?’

  It was such a good joke that she was still laughing as they stumbled, hand in hand, towards Covent Garden. They didn’t end up in Gretna Green but in a nethersken in Hackney – two pennies for a room to yourself – where they stayed for that first night and plenty more of the nights to come. When they eventually found time to talk, Ambrose explained that he’d had enough of the fancy or P.R. as he called it, meaning Prize Ring. The ring was on its last legs in these new respectable days; he’d come at it too late and maybe – he didn’t say this but Kitty guessed it – he was not quite ruthless enough or sufficiently indifferent to his own injuries. There must be safer means of getting by.

  Ambrose and Kitty tried a couple of the safer means. He worked on the docks and in a carpenter’s while she tried her hand as a milliner’s assistant. But there was always the pull of something darker and more lucrative – and more dangerous. Ambrose had links with the fancymen who hung about the prize ring, and obligations to one in particular. It was suggested that, to fulfil one such obligation, that he work as a bearer-up – a robber – while Kitty would be the decoy. He might have done it; he wasn’t averse to a spot of outright robbery. But Kitty balked at being his accomplice. She had never, yet, broken the law, at least not so nakedly or violently.

  But they had to leave Hackney in a hurry and somehow they decided to quit London altogether. They made a slow zigzag progress north, going via Newport Pagnell and Birmingham and then across to Derby and Nottingham. It was as if they were giving substance to her original jest about Gretna Green. Eventually they arrived in Durham, a city that neither of them knew. They were on their uppers.

  It was then that, in desperation, they tried a form of mild extortion. Kitty was to accost a man in one of the city vennels or alleys and after a brief time Ambrose would appear on the scene as her outraged mate demanding payment by bluff and bluster. They were depending on Kitty’s good looks and Ambrose’s pugnacious ones. They selected a fine-looking gent on account of his clothes and swagger. They watched as he turned off Saddler Street down one of the alleys, and Kitty cooeed softly after him. The pair got to talking in the covered passage. Kitty started to fondle him, even though he was not very receptive, and she wondered whether she’d laid her hands on a molly. Then, too soon, Ambrose clumped down the alley, full of useless outrage.

  The gent was Eustace Flask. Unfortunately for Kitty and Ambrose, Flask was better at the bluff and bluster business than they were. He saw through them, saw that they were not as ferocious or threatening as they seemed. Rather than taking his money, the couple found themselves listening to a proposition. He, Flask, was in need of a couple of assistants for his work. What work? It’s legal, he said, it’s legitimate. It will take you into the better houses in the city. It will make us some lucre. They were impressed by his smoothness, by his way with words. He explained that they would have to smarten themselves up, be on their best behaviour. They agreed.

  The threesome established themselves in the rented house in Old Elvet. Kitty was Eustace’s niece, if anyone asked questions, while Ambrose was a cousin. Flask was ready to develop his spiritualist show. No longer content with table-rapping and such minor manifestations, he realized that more elaborate and impressive effects were required. He was cultivating a wealthy spinster who lived in the old part of town. Ambrose constructed the spirit cabinet and Kitty purchased the material for the curtains and painted the cabinet.

  This was a new world for them. Flask instructed them in some of his methods. He demonstrated how one could write on a slate even while one’s hands were seemingly at rest on top of a table. He showed them how to tie knots which could easily be slipped. He taught them how to use two of the key techniques of the performer, which are expectation and distraction.

  Kitty in particular took to her role as Running Brook, the Indian maid who was Flask’s ‘control’. She was an adept performer. Ambrose wasn’t so willing or useful but he acted as a combination of handyman and valet. He still believed that Flask was a molly but Kitty wasn’t so sure. Some day she would have to put it to the test, to put him to the test. But not yet. She was happy to be in bed with Ambrose, even if he was somewhat coarse and brutish compared to Eustace. She was happy that they were all together, that they had a roof over their heads and a bit of cash in their pockets. They were almost like a family.

  By the River Wear

  ‘It felt like a real hand,’ said Helen, ‘though now I think about it I was only touching one of his fingers with one of mine, which is what the medium told me to do. And the lights were low.’

  ‘Well, we know that Flask somehow managed to write those words on the slate and at the same time make you and your aunt believe both his hands were resting on the table.’

  ‘Unless he’s got three hands,’ said Helen. ‘Or unless he was using his feet to write. Or unless there was a dwarf concealed beneath the table and busy scribbling aw
ay.’

  ‘That wouldn’t explain the blue chalk on his fingers,’ Tom couldn’t help pointing out, though he admired his wife’s skill and imagination in coming up with all these possibilities.

  ‘Whatever the explanation, whether it’s three hands or feet capable of writing or whether it’s dwarves, it is all rather horrid. I did not like the way he employed my name. Writing ‘BELIEVE HELEN’ on the slate.’

  ‘But you asked him a question,’ said Tom.

  ‘I felt that he wanted me to. It gave me goose-bumps.’

  ‘And he was using your name to show how familiar he is with the household,’ said Tom. ‘He’s clever all right.’

  ‘Clever and sinister. I’m glad we’ve got this romantic view all around to distract us from Mr Eustace Flask.’

  It was the morning after their arrival in Durham. Helen and Tom Ansell were strolling beside the river and below the rise dominated by the castle and cathedral. They could feel the presence of those great edifices although the buildings themselves were hidden by the rise of the bank and thick tiers of summer foliage. A walk had been created under the overhanging oaks and chestnuts, and there were other people ambling along in the morning sun. Among the casual walkers was the individual who had alighted at Durham Station from the same train as Tom and Helen. Once again, his attention seemed to be fixed on the backs of the young couple who were perhaps fifty yards ahead of him.