Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  ‘A regular? So these girls were on the bash?’

  ‘Hey George, you know how it is—there was a lot of juice, it was late! Besides, me and Mo got a free pass on account of us being exotique … Anyway, the girls said that Freddie had been turning up out of his skull, making a nuisance of himself for the past week or so. Just thought it might help.’

  ‘Hey, listen—it has. Cheers Johnson! Let me get you a drink.’

  ‘Save it for the next time, Georgie boy—I gotta get back for the next number. You take care now!’

  Munro twirled his horn around his finger with a flourish and climbed back on stage.

  Whilst Harley stood taking in the next Moochers’ tune, Conrad reappeared on the dance floor and made his way back to Pearson. By the way he was working his jaw it looked like he’d recently had another taste of his own merchandise.

  ‘So, Albert—you get anything useful from our little hostess?’

  ‘What? Oh no, nothing—waste of time I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah well, I shouldn’t worry too much,’ said Conrad, flashing a grin. ‘George Harley usually gets his man in the end.’

  It suddenly occurred to Pearson that he might be able to take advantage of Conrad’s excited state to get a little more background on his new partner. ‘Tell me—have you known Harley for long?’

  ‘Oh, long enough. There was a time that we saw a lot more of him in Limehouse, though. Lily—my boss—well, Lily’s sister and George were engaged to be married.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard—Cynthia … But she erm, she died, didn’t she? What exactly happened?’

  Conrad looked astonished.

  ‘You mean—you don’t know?’

  ‘Harley’s a little reluctant to talk about it.’

  ‘Well, there’s no surprise there …’ Conrad moved in a little closer and lowered his voice. ‘Cynthia was murdered, Albert—murdered by Osbert Morkens.’

  ‘My God! Really? Morkens? The serial killer? But I thought all his victims were children. I don’t remember reading about any adult victims.’

  ‘That’s because he’s never been officially charged with her murder. But everyone who’s in the know will tell you—it was Morkens alright.’ Conrad turned and grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. ‘It started back in … ooh, twenty-nine? You see George had already made such a name for himself as a private detective that the bogeys—sorry, Scotland Yard—wanted to take advantage of some of those unique skills. These were different times, you understand, Albert, people didn’t have such a mistrust of CID as they do now. There wasn’t as much, erm …’

  ‘Corruption?’ suggested Pearson.

  ‘Exactly. Now, there was a certain officer that George was close to at the time: DI Franklin. A good man—honourable.’

  ‘Yes, John Franklin. He ran the Morkens inquiry—a bit of a legend amongst the ranks. But I don’t remember any mention of Harley being on the case.’

  ‘He worked as a special consultant to Franklin. They kept it out of the press—best for everyone involved, I guess.’

  ‘So what happened with Cynthia?’

  ‘Well, to cut a long story short, Albert, George helped Franklin crack the case. But, as you know, Morkens escaped the noose by pleading insanity. He was sent to Broadmoor for life. George was furious; he claimed that the only reason Morkens didn’t swing was because he was part of the establishment—an Oxford professor, a freemason, you know the deal. George wouldn’t let it go. He got permission to visit Morkens in the loony bin. He told Franklin he was visiting Morkens because he suspected there were more victims—but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I think he just went there to rile the man. You know George—he would have taken great relish in pointing out to this professor—this supposedly evil genius—that it was plain old working-class George Harley that had put him away. You know how he is with that stuff … Anyway, up until then Morkens had been blissfully ignorant of George’s involvement—who knows what went through his mind when he found out? A week later DI Franklin was found dead in his bed by his wife and George received an anonymous letter—.’

  ‘But Franklin died of a heart attack—right?’

  ‘Not according to George—he swears that Morkens got to him somehow.’ Conrad polished off his glass of champagne.

  ‘And the letter?’

  ‘A cryptic clue which led George to Cynthia’s flat—where he found her body …’ Conrad leant in close to Pearson, his pupils wide with the effects of the cocaine. ‘Decapitated!’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘And the worst part, Albert? … The worst part is that Cynthia’s head is still missing.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Pearson, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to erase the vision of Harley’s awful discovery from his imagination. ‘No wonder he won’t talk about it … And he’s certain that Morkens was responsible?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. But, of course, there was never any real evidence … Hold on! We’d better change the subject—he’s coming back.’

  Harley made his way over to them as the music started up again.

  ‘Say, do you still Charleston, George?’ asked Conrad, giving a few comical kicks to the music.

  Harley laughed. ‘Not in a long while, Conrad.’

  ‘So, I hear you didn’t get very far with Gussy Daubeney.’

  ‘No, but it wasn’t a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Munro?’

  Harley nodded.

  ‘Ah well, I’m glad you got something to go on.’

  ‘Thing is, Conrad, apart from a few rumours—and what I’ve read in the papers—I still don’t know what makes this Freddie Daubeney character tick. Can you think of anyone else who might be worth a visit?’

  ‘Well, let me see … you could always try the cousin—Lady Euphemia.’

  Pearson began to look around the room of toga-clad young women. ‘Which one is she? Don’t tell me she’s that blonde over there.’

  ‘No, Albert,’ Conrad grinned. ‘I’m afraid that particular young lady is here on a purely professional basis. No, Euphemia Daubeney wouldn’t be seen dead at a do like this. She’s more your “angel of mercy” type than a Bright Young Thing.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Harley. ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, by all accounts she’s taken over her father’s charitable works.’

  ‘The late Earl—Richard Daubeney?’

  ‘That’s right. This particular Lady Daubeney doesn’t have much time for tripping the light fantastic.’

  ‘Any idea where we might get hold of her?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Conrad, scanning the room and then darting off to a table of young gladiators and returning a few minutes later with a scrap of paper.

  ‘There you go, George—on Friday nights Lady Euphemia runs a soup kitchen in Lamb Street, Spitalfields.’ He consulted a very expensive wristwatch. ‘If you rush you might just catch her.’

  Looking especially pleased with himself, Conrad pulled out a comb and attended to his luxuriant head of blue-black hair.

  ‘Right gentlemen, no offense, but there are far better-looking individuals that I could be chewing the fat with. Nice to meet you, Albert—look after yourself! George—come and see us in Limehouse sometime. And remember—if you ever need anything …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know how to get hold of you. Be good, Conrad.’

  ‘If you ever need anything?’ said Pearson, when Conrad had disappeared into the crowd. ‘What did he mean by that exactly?’

  ‘Never mind about that old madam, come over here,’ said Harley, leading Pearson to a quieter corner of the room. ‘So, I’ve just been tipped the wink that Fast Freddie Chantry has been in Paris for the past week or so.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’

  ‘From Johnson Munro—no reason to doubt him.’

  ‘But Harley—really? How is it that a … a negro … knows the whereabouts of a viscount?’

  ‘Because he saw h
im with his own eyes, that’s why. And for your information, this precious viscount of yours was blind drunk, making a nuisance of himself outside a knocking shop.’

  ‘So you think he’s lying low over there, because of the murder?’

  ‘I do. But enough of this idle chit-chat. Come on, let’s leave this lot to it—we’ve got a date in the East End.’

  As Harley and Pearson made their way towards the exit a slight, lithe figure, dressed in black, slipped out from behind a cardboard cut-out of the Acropolis. He kept his dark eyes on them and once he was satisfied that they really had left he pushed his way through the crowds, his disfigured face incongruous amongst all the beautiful young things.

  ‘Oh my God, Ludovico!’ said Lady Augusta, turning to find the man staring at her. ‘Do you have to creep up on people like that? What are you doing here? Hold on …’ she added, looking around her in a concerned manner. ‘My father’s not with you, is he?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Signorina,’ purred the Italian. ‘I am quite alone.’ He helped himself to a glass of champagne. ‘You had some visitors, si? Detectives? … And what exactly did they want?’

  Lady Augusta’s gaze wandered to the large scar running up from the corner of the Italian’s mouth.

  ‘Lady Augusta?’

  She turned away to reach for her drink, unwilling to display the unease she felt in the sudden fix of those feral eyes.

  ‘Oh, that … Well, they were asking about my brother, Freddie—wanted to know his whereabouts. Something about a burglary at his place—’

  She snapped back round as the Italian laid a firm hand on her arm.

  ‘Burglary? And what did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing, of course! I’m not in the habit of discussing my family’s private life with policemen. Now will you kindly take your hand off me!’

  The Italian flashed a smile.

  ‘Mi scusi, Signorina! You told them nothing, eh? Yes, that is good.’

  He took a drink, moving the champagne around his mouth as he looked around the room at the drunken young men and women cavorting in their togas.

  ‘L’Impero Romano—the Roman Empire—it is a proud thing for an Italian; an example to the world. We taught you how to eat … how to lead … how to fight, no?’

  ‘Yes, yes—we all have endless boring lessons about it at school here. But it was an awfully long tome ago, Ludovico … And your Signor Mussolini—is he the new Caesar?’

  The dark eyes hardened again.

  ‘Goodnight, Lady Augusta. Enjoy your jungle music. And if the detectives come again … you say nothing, yes?’

  She watched his lithe frame weave its way through the revellers on the dance floor, amazed that this taut, dangerous package of a man was even the same species as the frivolous boys giggling at her side.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Harley rubbed at the steamed-up window of the taxi cab.

  ‘Here we are, Albert—Spitalfields.’

  Once out of the taxi they made their way past the market entrance, through the grubby tide of cabbage stalks and ruined fruit flooding the cobbles, and turned into Lamb Street.

  ‘There it is—the church hall. And it looks like they’re still open.’

  They ascended the steps to a colonnaded portico and entered the building, passing a small family group who were just leaving, the two dishevelled children each clutching a cabbage. The brightly lit hall was set out with rows of trestle tables; service was obviously drawing to a close for the night, but there were still a number of occupied tables—mostly women and children, finishing up their soup from large chipped china bowls.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Pearson. ‘Look at all these kids … and it’s so late, too.’ He thought of his own son, snuggled up in his cot at home. ‘Didn’t expect that—you hear the words “soup kitchen” and you think of old men, vagrants.’

  ‘Yeah well, there’s plenty of hungry kids about at the moment, ain’t there.’

  Harley looked to corner of the room where a woman in her thirties sat at a desk, checking a ledger.

  ‘D’you think that’s her?’

  Pearson checked out the other women in the hall: the weather-scarred immigrant faces framed by ragged headscarves; the weary mothers, old before their time with anxious eyes locked on their offspring as they supped greedily at their soup; the decrepit drunks with ruined mouths and shaking hands.

  ‘Well—she’s certainly the only one who looks like a Lady.’

  Harley raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Let’s hope she’s friendlier than the last one we met then, eh?’

  As they approached Harley added, under his breath: ‘Remember—easy does it.’

  He removed his hat. ‘Lady Euphemia?’

  She looked up from her work; and the generous smile that greeted him, those beautiful hazel-green eyes, were—for just an instant—Cynthia’s.

  ‘Yes, how may I help?’

  Harley stood, disorientated for a moment by this stranger’s extraordinary likeness to his dead fiancée.

  Confused at his partner’s silence, Pearson stepped a little closer and flashed his ID.

  ‘Lady Euphemia—DC Pearson, CID … I wonder if we might have a few private words with you? About your cousin, Viscount Chantry?’

  Euphemia instinctively placed a hand to her breast.

  ‘Oh dear! Whatever’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, no—nothing like that, miss, er … madam. He’s quite alright—well, that is, as far as we know.’

  ‘Oh, thank God for that! What is it then, Mr. Pearson?’

  ‘Well, you see—there was a burglary at his place, a little while ago, and we’d just like to ask you …’

  Pearson noticed Euphemia was being distracted by something behind him.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen—I’ll be back directly,’ she said, getting up and rushing past them.

  ‘Well, she’s certainly nothing like her cousin Gussy, is she? … Harley? … Harley? You alright?’

  Still a little pale, Harley ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Yeah, yeah—of, course … It’s just a little stuffy in here, is all … I’m alright.’

  He pointed to the crowd gathering between the trestle tables at the back of the hall.

  ‘Come on—let’s see what’s cooking over there.’

  They squeezed through the onlookers to find Euphemia Daubeney kneeling on the floor, struggling with a convulsing young girl who was in the throes of some kind of seizure.

  ‘Ah, gentlemen! I wonder if one of you might assist?’

  She calmly directed Harley to hold the girl’s head still, long enough for her to force a knotted rag between the teeth. This done, Euphemia looked to the girl’s mother, who stood in the crowd, ringing her hands nervously.

  ‘It’s just to stop her swallowing her tongue,’ she said to the woman, her authoritative tone tempered with a reassuring smile.

  ‘Come on, Mum!’ said Harley. ‘You come and sit close—she’ll be alright in a minute; looks like she’s in good hands … Pearson, get the rest of ’em to sit back down—give us some space.’

  Euphemia turned her head to regard him. There was that smile again … and in such close proximity he could detect a little of her scent—a subtle play on jasmine. On closer inspection she didn’t look quite as much like Cynthia as he’d first thought—maybe it had been the light. But she certainly was extraordinarily beautiful.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. … ?’

  ‘Harley, George Harley.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Harley.’

  The girl’s thrashing began to subside and before long she was at rest in Euphemia’s arms. She let out a light moan as the rag was removed from her mouth.

  ‘There now, everything’s alright,’ Euphemia said, gently wiping a trail of spittle from the girl’s chin with the rag. ‘You rest there for a while.’

  The mother now approached and knelt to take her daughter’s head into her lap. Harley and Euphemia stood to give her room.

  ‘What is her n
ame?’

  ‘Naomi, Miss—Naomi Kemensky.’

  ‘Mrs. Kemensky, has Naomi had these seizures all her life?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re getting worse. We let her thrash them out—you can’t stop them. But it scares me so … My sister Hannah had them too—may she rest in peace … We buried her when she was seventeen.’ The statement was matter-of-fact, without emotion.

  Showing a strength that belied her diminutive stature, the woman now picked her daughter up and sat her on a chair next to her, resting her head on her shoulder and stroking the hair.

  ‘And how is her diet?’

  There was a flash of angry pride in Mrs. Kemensky’s dark eyes.

  ‘You should ask? With us schlepping to such a place for handouts?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Euphemia, moving closer to them on the bench seat. ‘That was insensitive … It’s just that there has been some recent research into how diet affects epileptics. Does she eat a lot of carbohydrates?’

  ‘Carbohydrates? I don’t know from carbohydrates. Her father dropped dead six months ago—his heart. May he find rest in paradise! Why God should punish with such woes, who knows … Now we live on the charity of his family—and the little I make from dressmaking. Don’t I want she should have a nice diet? You fancy I like coming here, like a beggar, for treyf food? But God gives and he takes away … We eat what we’re given—mostly stale beigels from Weinberg’s bakery.’

  ‘Now listen, Mrs. Kemensky,’ said Euphemia, gently taking the mother’s hand.

  Harley guessed that there was probably only a couple of years between the two women, but the contrast of the aristocrat’s ivory skin with the gnarled, leathery look of Mrs. Kemensky’s was remarkable.

  ‘There’s a doctor in America who has developed a special diet that can reduce the frequency of fits in young epileptics,’ continued Euphemia.

  ‘The ketogenic diet, isn’t it?’ asked Harley, his amateur’s enthusiasm getting the better of him. ‘I’ve read something about that. Does it actually work?’

  ‘Are you a medical man, Mr. Harley?’