Louise Whittaker and Arnold Box walked Vanessa Drake home to her lodgings near Dean’s Yard, Westminster, and then made their way to Baker Street, where they climbed into one of the Light Green Atlas buses that ran out to Finchley. They journeyed through Lisson Grove and St John’s Wood until the Finchley omnibus reached its terminus at Church End, and the two steaming horses were uncoupled from the heavy vehicle. Arnold Box hurried down the curving rear stair in time to hand Miss Louise Whittaker down the steps from the interior saloon.
They walked decorously side by side along one or two pleasant roads of new, redbrick houses, skirted a playing field, and then came to the wide avenue of modern villas where Miss Whittaker lived.
Louise Whittaker opened her smart black-painted front door with a latch-key, and after they had attended to the business of hanging up their coats and hats on the hall stand, she preceded him into the front room. Miss Whittaker indicated a chair near the fireplace, and Box sat down.
Arnold Box was no stranger to Miss Whittaker’s study. He had met her more than two years previously, when she had appeared as an expert witness in a fraud case. He had visited her a number of times since then – purely in a professional capacity, of course – and had taken tea with her several times, once in an ABC tea-shop in a quiet road near the British Museum, when he had been spotted by a beat constable. He hadn’t heard the last of it at King James’s Rents for weeks.
‘Repose yourself, Mr Box,’ she said, ‘while I make us both a cup of tea. Coffee’s all very well, but it doesn’t quench the thirst.’
Louise Whittaker left the room, and presently Box could hear the vigorous rattle of the sink pump as his hostess filled a kettle in the kitchen. It was followed by the chink of cups on saucers. Box glanced across the room at the large desk in the window bay. Many books and papers were spread out on it, and there seemed to be a positive barrage of ink wells and pens. This quiet room was a kind of sanctuary, a temporary refuge from the hectic life of the Metropolitan Police, the irascible Superintendent Mackharness, and all the inconveniences of King James’s Rents.
But today, it was not quite the same. He had tried not to think of his old father during the afternoon. ‘Don’t go worrying about me, boy,’ he’d said. ‘Enjoy yourself with your lady friend. I’m only lying in there, on Monday, while they do some tests, you see, and make everything ready. Mr Howard Paul will do the job on Tuesday. About midday, so he says.’
Louise Whittaker returned, carrying a tray of tea things, which she placed carefully on a small round table near the fire. As she poured the tea from a patterned china teapot, she talked to him in a low voice. He watched her spoon sugar into his cup, and noted how carefully she poured the milk. She had real silver spoons ….
Twelve o’clock, at the Royal Free Hospital in Gray’s Inn Road, on Tuesday, 3 January, 1893. Tuesday was tomorrow.
‘So what did you think?’
Arnold Box started guiltily out of his reverie.
‘Think? Think about what?’
Miss Whittaker sighed with amused impatience.
‘There! I knew you hadn’t been listening. I was asking you, What did you think of Vanessa Drake? Not her pretty face, you know, or her cornflower-blue eyes, or her corn-yellow hair – but her. What did you think?’
‘There’s something worrying Miss Drake,’ Box replied. ‘I noticed it almost at once, and evidently you did, too. Perhaps Miss Drake has confided in you?’
He left the question hanging in the air. It was a stilted way of putting it, but then, he was never entirely at ease with Miss Whittaker. She was gazing into the fire, and he saw her bite her lip with evident vexation. He waited for her to make up her mind.
‘Mr Box,’ she said at last, ‘I’ve known Vanessa since she was a very young girl of sixteen, with her own way to make in the world. She earns her living as a skilled needle woman – she is, in fact, a vestment maker with Watts and Company in Westminster. Well, she has fallen for a young man, a soldier. Or he has fallen for her. He was supposed to have come with us today, but cried off at the last moment.’
Louise sipped her tea for a while without speaking. Box saw how she was eyeing him with some kind of speculative concern. Did he, perhaps, look as worried as he felt?
‘According to Vanessa,’ Louise continued, ‘this young man – Arthur, she calls him – is a steady, decent fellow, but she thinks he’s being led astray by an older man, who’s introducing him to gambling of a dangerous nature. That’s why she looks worried.’
Whenever she speaks of men, thought Box, she describes them as though they were a quite distinct species. A young man. A steady, decent fellow. Arthur, she calls him. Well, why not? That was his name, no doubt.
‘This young man, Miss Whittaker, this Arthur – you say he’s a soldier. Do you happen to know what kind of soldier? It makes a difference, you know.’
‘Well, he’s an officer. And the man who’s leading him astray is an officer, too.’
Miss Whittaker suddenly blushed. It was an unusual reaction, thought Box.
‘You must wonder why I’m telling you all this, Mr Box. We’ve had such a splendid outing, a genuine holiday for a single afternoon, and now I must spoil it by seeming to ask you favours. But is there anything that you could do? In an official capacity, I mean. For Vanessa’s sake, at least.’
‘Well, Miss Whittaker, gambling’s curbed and reined in by statute law, but it’s very difficult to police it. It’s a moral delinquency, but not a crime in itself—’
‘So nothing can be done!’ He saw his friend’s face flush with anger. He held up a restraining hand.
‘There’s plenty that can be done when gambling leads to folk flouting the law. And there are some legally prohibited games – ace of hearts is one of them, basset, dice (unless you’re playing backgammon), faro, roulette – but of course you can’t have a policeman standing behind every gambler when he’s behind locked doors with his friends. Still, Blackstone says that gambling “promotes public idleness, theft and debauchery”, so if you can give me a few more details, I’ll ask around, as they say. See a few people I know.’
Box was understandably pleased to see the look of respect that came to Miss Whittaker’s eyes as he spoke. It wasn’t often that he was able to parade his own specialist knowledge in front of her. She was the clever one, not he.
‘Vanessa told me that her Arthur had become very friendly with this senior man …. He’s in the Artillery, and his name’s Lankester. Major Lankester.’
‘Major Lankester. And do you know where he and this Arthur are supposed to do their gambling?’
‘I don’t know exactly where it is, Mr Box. But it’s a sort of club or society, run by a man called Gordon. Mr Gordon.’
Box smiled, and sat up in his chair. Gordon! This was more like it!
‘Well, now, Miss Whittaker, I’ll be delighted to look into this little matter for you. Mr Gordon is not entirely unknown to us at Scotland Yard. I’d be very happy to pay him a call. And I’ll ask him about this Major Lankester, and what he’s doing to Miss Vanessa Drake’s Arthur. I expect Arthur’s got another name?’
‘His name’s Fenlake. Lieutenant Arthur Fenlake.’
‘Fenlake. Bear with me a while, Miss Whittaker, while I make a note in this little book of mine.’
He scribbled a few lines in his notebook with a stub of pencil that he carried in his pocket. When he had finished, he saw that his hostess’s eyes were fixed on him, and he realized that she was no longer thinking about Vanessa Drake’s problems.
‘What’s the matter, Mr Box? There’s something worrying you. Why don’t you tell me what it is? Drink some tea, and then tell me.’
Box sipped his tea obediently, and began to order his thoughts. He was unwilling to intrude his own private concerns into this calm and ordered sanctuary. He brought professional problems here, conundrums that his clever friend would help him to solve, or at least to clarify. Personal worries – well, that was a different matter.
‘I
t’s my old pa, Miss Whittaker. I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned him to you before? He’s a retired police sergeant – a uniformed man, he was – and he keeps a cigar divan and hair-cutting rooms in Oxford Street. He wasn’t a detective officer.’
‘And what happened to him? How old is he?’
‘He’s seventy-three. Well, way back in ’75 he was shot by a villain called Spargo. Joseph Edward Spargo. Shot in the leg. This Spargo went on to commit a murder, and he was hanged at Newgate in 1880. Pa has suffered with that leg for eighteen years, and the upshot of it is, that he’s to have it cut off before it kills him. Amputated, that’s what they call it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Louise Whittaker’s voice held a tinge of reproach, as well as sympathy. ‘I thought there was something troubling you this afternoon. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well, Miss Whittaker, it’s not the kind of thing a lady wants to hear—’
‘This lady does! To think of all the times we’ve had tea together – it’s become a kind of ritual – and yet you never told me about your father and his predicament. When – when is the operation to take place?’
‘Tomorrow, miss—’
Miss Whittaker sprang to her feet. She shook her head in evident exasperation, but Box was startled to see the tears standing in her eyes.
‘Tomorrow? And yet you entertained Vanessa and me, and put up with my begging for favours when all the time – tomorrow?’
‘Yes, miss. Mr Howard Paul’s going to do it, at the Royal Free Hospital. Pa went in there today. This morning. So, I’ve been a bit anxious, as you can understand. But don’t you worry about it, Miss Whittaker. I’ll go now, and have a word straight away with our gambling friend, Mr Gordon. Whatever’s going on there with this Arthur Fenlake and Major Lankester, I’ll make sure I know all about it.’
Arnold Box got to his feet. How beautiful she was! And she’d been sorry for Pa!
As he approached the door, Louise Whittaker suddenly put her arms round his neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
‘You great silly boy,’ she said.
Arnold Box blushed, and blundered out of the room.
Discretion, as Arnold Box well knew, was the hallmark of Mr Gordon’s establishment in Eagle Street, Holborn. It looked sober enough from the outside, a genteel four-storey residence clad in immaculate stucco, one of a row of town houses built in the 1860s. Behind the respectable façade, though, all was luxury. Mr Gordon’s gaming-house boasted crimson flock wallpaper, crystal chandeliers, and sumptuous Persian carpets. A suite of rooms on the first floor contained the gilded gaming salon, and an elegantly appointed supper-room for the use of the clients. There was an excellent cellar, and the kitchen, too, was above reproach.
Mr Gordon, a supple, olive-skinned man with curly black hair and expensive garments, was rumoured to hail originally from Italy. Some of his associates addressed him as Mr Giordano, which always brought a slight frown of annoyance to the olive brow. Mr Gordon liked to think of himself as one of the Bulldog Breed. He operated strictly within the law, so he said, and it was very difficult to prove otherwise.
‘It is my practice, always, Inspector Box,’ said Mr Gordon, ‘to assist the police.’
‘I know it is, Mr Gordon.’
Inspector Box looked round the gilded and ornate room.
‘Have you taken the precaution of insuring these premises, Mr Gordon?’ he asked.
‘Indeed I have, Inspector. These crystals, these antiques – priceless! But tell me, Mr Box, have you come about something specific? Or do you wish to recommend an insurer?’
‘I’ve come to ask you what you can tell me about a young man called Lieutenant Fenlake, an Artillery officer. I’m told that he frequents this place of yours.’
Mr Gordon paused for a moment, evidently to gather his wits.
‘I have a high-class clientele of ladies and gentlemen here, Mr Box. Among them was Lieutenant Fenlake. He made a few desultory visits at first – about six months ago, it would be – but then he came more and more frequently. I could see he was fatally attracted to the gaming tables—’
‘Would I be right, Mr Gordon,’ Box interrupted, ‘in thinking that Lieutenant Fenlake was lured into this place by a fellow officer? Someone who, perhaps, wished to corrupt him by letting him amass impossible debts? This is all in confidence, of course. I’m referring to a man called Major Lankester.’
Box saw immediately from the bewildered expression on Gordon’s face that he was completely wrong in his assumption. Mr Gordon was suddenly in the mood to tell all.
‘What you have said, Inspector, could not be further from the truth! Mr Fenlake and Major Lankester are officers in the same unit – the 107th Field Battery of the Royal Artillery. Major Lankester has been a member of this club for many years. He is a seasoned gambler, who plays for high stakes, and who usually gets up from the table richer than when he sat down. At least—’ Mr Gordon stopped abruptly. Evidently he wished to change the subject.
‘Young Fenlake, though – well, he was not so fortunate in his choice of recreation. There came a time when he incurred a debt to me that he was unable to repay. I began to insist that he fulfilled his obligation. These are debts of honour, you understand. I told him that I would be obliged to inform his commanding officer if he did not pay me.’
Box watched Mr Gordon as he moistened his drying lips. He’s beginning to skate on thin ice, now, he thought. There were unpleasant ways of making a man pay his ‘debts of honour’.
‘The upshot of the business was that Major Lankester came here, bringing the unfortunate Fenlake with him. Major Lankester informed me that he would pay young Fenlake’s debt himself from his own future winnings, which I considered a very handsome thing for him to do. Then, in my presence, he said: “Fenlake, you must cease immediately your visits to this house. You are too young to be embroiled with villains like Gordon here, and your work is too valuable to be jeopardized by such foolishness”.’
‘So Lieutenant Fenlake never came here again?’
‘He didn’t, Inspector. Major Lankester was as good as his word, and very quickly paid off Mr Fenlake’s debt. I don’t know why, but his doing so impressed me very deeply.’
Inspector Box rose to his feet and glanced once more around the ornate room.
‘You know, Mr Gordon,’ he said, ‘all this finery, these crystal chandeliers and sham antiques – they look very tawdry and sordid in the light of day. I expect they appear better in candlelight. Watch out for naked lights! Good afternoon.’
As Box stepped out into Eagle Street, he felt a chill north wind blowing. It seemed like an ominous signal of bitter squalls ahead. He turned up the collar of his coat, and made his way towards Farringdon Street.
*
Mr Howard Paul, visiting surgeon to the Royal Free Hospital, removed his frock coat and turned back his shirt cuffs. One of the three theatre nurses handed him his rubber apron, and when he had lifted it gingerly over his head in such as way as not to disturb his well-brushed but sparse hair, she tied the linen tapes behind him at the waist.
He nodded briefly to the three young doctors who were present, and glanced swiftly around the room to see that all was in order. Sister, as always, stood guard over the tray of instruments as though she feared that somebody would steal them. Dr Avebury, the anaesthetist, was ready with his bottle. A young male nurse attendant was adjusting the carbolic spray apparatus on its little round table near the door. Mr Howard Paul addressed the elderly, white-haired man lying on the operating-table.
‘How are you, Mr Box?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, sir.’
Mr Howard Paul could hear the tremor of fear in the man’s voice, which a recent injection of morphine and atropine had done little to mitigate. He was securely strapped to the table, and the tourniquets were in place, though not yet screwed tight. The waiting was as much an ordeal as the operation itself. He wouldn’t keep him waiting too long.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,
’ said Howard Paul, ‘this patient is Mr Toby Box, a retired police sergeant, aged 73. He was referred to me in October last by Dr Hooper, of Bryanston Street, and has very sensibly agreed to the amputation of his infected leg. He has been severely crippled for many years as the result of a criminal attack, and both Dr Hooper and myself fear gangrenous complications, and resultant necrosis.’
He gave a slight signal to the theatre sister, and at the same time the doctors and nurses moved close to the table. An attendant turned up the twin glass-shaded gas lamps positioned over the patient to their brightest glow. Howard Paul heard Toby Box draw in his breath sharply.
‘Now, Mr Box,’ said Howard Paul, ‘a nurse is going to place some cotton wool, and a pad of gauze over your nose and mouth – that’s right, there you are! There’s nothing to fear, and you will feel no pain. None at all. Just breathe as normally as possible. That’s right.’
Dr Avebury, the anaesthetist, moved close up behind the patient, and began to pour ether on to the thick pad of gauze. The patient flinched, and a nurse placed the fingertips of one hand briefly on his forehead. It would take from ten minutes to a quarter of an hour to render the patient unconscious. It was essential to allow the vapours to be thoroughly diluted with air, otherwise the patient could go into fatal convulsions.
‘Miss Maynard,’ said Howard Paul in a low voice to one of the young doctors, ‘what would you say was the chief danger attending this operation?’
‘The chief danger, sir, is haemorrhage from the severed arteries.’
‘Good.’ He noted that the female student doctor’s voice was calm and sufficiently detached. The anaesthetist continued his measured pouring of ether on to the gauze. The patient was nearly unconscious. Another two or three minutes would do it.
The Hansa Protocol Page 3