Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  ‘No,’ he said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘Just keen on science stuff, you know?’

  ‘Well then, I’m impressed …’ she turned back to Mrs. Kemensky. ‘To answer Mr. Harley’s question—for a lot of children Naomi’s age it does work. I won’t bore you with the details, but it basically relies on eating a diet that is high in fat but low in carbohydrates—’

  ‘High in fat, she says, high in fat! So I’m a Rothschild, already, that I should afford such a diet?’

  Euphemia pulled a small calling card from her pocket and handed it to the woman.

  ‘Bring Naomi to the hospital. We run a small clinic on Wednesdays for family health. If you register her with the clinic I can have her sponsored for treatment—we can start by looking at her diet, and maybe progress to trying one of the new anticonvulsant medicines.’

  Mrs. Kemensky allowed her stare to soften a little. She looked up at Euphemia, searching the refined features for a hint of mockery.

  ‘And the money for such a thing?’

  ‘Don’t worry—it will all be paid for. All we ask for is for you to show discipline in the application of any treatment we prescribe, and also to furnish us with a little family information. You said your sister was a sufferer—are there any other affected family members that you’re aware of?’

  ‘My aunt … a handful of cousins—all back in the old country.’

  ‘Well, that will all be of interest. You see, we’re making a study of the relevance of hereditary and environmental factors in the development of disease. We may also ask you for some blood, and that of any close female relatives.’

  ‘A little blood? I should worry! After all, you wouldn’t be the first.’ Mrs. Kemensky allowed herself a smile.

  Naomi now stirred, sitting up and rubbing her face.

  ‘Mama?’

  Mrs. Kemensky kissed her daughter’s head.

  ‘There, there, libling—all is fine … Mama’s here.’ She stood up, helping her daughter to her feet. ‘I should get her home.’

  ‘Of course, but do drop by the clinic. And make sure you take some cabbage with you—I’m sure there’s some left. They’re fresh from the market—extremely good for you, you know.’

  ‘Listen to the lady!’ Mrs. Kemensky gave a little laugh and shook her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Teaching Jews about cabbage! But really …’ She put a hand to the side of Euphemia’s face. ‘… such kindness—I give you thanks, my dear.’

  The woman searched the hall until she spotted two ragged boys playing marbles on the floor.

  ‘Simey, Moishe! Come! We go!’

  Leaving Mrs. Kemensky to gather her brood, Euphemia stood and turned to Harley and Pearson.

  ‘My apologies for the interruption, gentlemen … Now, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of tea—would you care to join me? Maybe we can continue our conversation in the office?’

  ***

  In the small office space at the back of the kitchen Euphemia picked up a crate of cabbage from the table.

  ‘I bully the traders into donating whatever they can spare at the end of the day. Although it’s been harder to persuade them recently—this Depression seems to be biting harder, don’t you think? A terrible state of affairs … Still, I’m very tenacious when I want to be. As you can see—today we have a proliferation of cabbage. It’s a good source of vitamins.’

  ‘Are you a doctor, Lady Euphemia?’ asked Pearson, taking the crate from her and putting it on a stack by the door.

  ‘No, no … but I trained as a nurse, in the war—the Voluntary Aid Detachment. And before that I’d spent a year studying physiological chemistry at Cambridge … or biochemistry as we call it now.’

  ‘You were in the VAD? You don’t look old enough,’ said Harley, removing his hat and sitting down.

  ‘You flatter me, Mr. Harley … Well, actually I did have to lie about my age: I was twenty when I volunteered—you were supposed to be twenty-three, you see.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come!’

  The door was opened by a portly individual carrying a tea-tray.

  ‘Oh, thank you Giles. Just put it down here, won’t you?’

  ‘So, this soup kitchen,’ said Pearson, taking a seat at the table. ‘Do you run it every week?’

  ‘We prefer welfare drop-in, Mr. Pearson. No, not all year round, only at certain times of the year—when I’m in London … and when we have enough people to help, of course. Although I wouldn’t say I run it, per se—I’m just part of a large team of volunteers.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said the portly man, removing the tea things from the tray. ‘She’s being far too modest as usual, gentlemen. Effie here not only runs the drop-in but funds it entirely. Not to mention all the fabulous work she does with the clinic, of course.’

  ‘Giles, really! … Gentlemen, this is the Reverend Giles Pembroke. He’s the chaplain at Chantry Hall—our family estate in Somerset … and also an old childhood friend. Giles, this is George Harley and Detective Constable Pearson—from the police.’

  ‘Pembroke—the name’s familiar; have we met before, Reverend?’ said Harley, catching the brief look of anxiety that flitted across the clergyman’s eyes.

  ‘No, not that I’m aware of, Mr. Harley … Nothing amiss I hope, Effie?’

  ‘No—they’re here about Freddie. Apparently there was a break-in at his place. That’s correct, isn’t it, Detective Constable?’

  ‘Well,’ said Pembroke, before Pearson could answer. ‘I can’t stop, I’m afraid—things to do.’ And with that he disappeared out of the door.

  ‘I must apologise for Giles, gentlemen,’ said Euphemia, reaching forward to peer under the lid of the teapot. ‘As well as the church his other passion is history—he spends most of his spare time in the fourteenth century, which has left his social skills a little wanting I’m afraid. Now, Mr. Pearson, can I ask you to be mother? I have a little something that I’d like you to try with your tea.’

  As Pearson stood up to pour the tea, Euphemia opened a desk drawer and drew out a large brown paper bag.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t have had these before. They’re a speciality of Grubberton, our local village, and of the Chantry Hall estate. There’s evidence to suggest that they date back to the fourteenth century … although not these particular ones, of course.’

  With a smile she tore open the bag to reveal half a dozen lozenge-shaped scones.

  ‘Chantry cakes—they’re a sort of combination of a saffron cake and a scone. I think they’re quite delicious. Please, do help yourselves.’

  Both Harley and Pearson took a cake.

  ‘Very good,’ said Harley, after taking a bite.

  ‘The distinctive shape is supposed to depict a coffin. Rather morbid, I know—but apparently they originated at the time of the Black Death. It was thought that by eating a representation of death a person might cheat fate.’

  ‘A bit like the calavera—the sugar skulls they have on the Day of the Dead, in Mexico.’

  ‘I’ve not heard of those, Mr. Harley … My word! You certainly have a facility for retaining information.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just that I have one at home—my Uncle brought it back from his travels. It’s looking a bit ropey now, though.’

  She sat for a moment seemingly intrigued, studying Harley’s face; she held the look for so long that he was forced to reach for his cup of tea.

  ‘So, Mr. Pearson—what exactly would you like to know about my cousin?’

  ‘Well, Lady Euphemia—’

  ‘Actually, I prefer Miss Daubeney.’

  ‘Miss Daubeney … When did you last see Viscount Chantry?’

  ‘February the twelfth.’

  ‘That’s very precise,’ said Harley, placing his cup back in its saucer.

  ‘It was the eightieth birthday of our old housekeeper—Mrs. Dalton. All the family were gathered at Chantry Hall for the celebration, including Freddie.’

  ‘Any idea where he is now?
’

  ‘Is he in trouble, Mr. Harley?’

  ‘Not that I know of—why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, the thing is—and it’s probably of no consequence but … well, we had an arrangement to meet at the theatre, and Freddie just didn’t show.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Let’s see now … just over two weeks ago.’

  ‘And did you try to contact him afterwards?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But, no luck?’

  ‘No … but I wasn’t overly concerned. You see, I asked my uncle—Freddie’s father, Earl Daubeney—where he was.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, it’s rather a private matter, actually.’

  ‘I assure you, Miss Daubeney, we wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘Anything you say to us here is off the record, of course,’ added Harley. ‘Trust me—we’re very discreet.’

  ‘Oh it’s nothing like that, Mr. Harley. It’s just that, as you are probably aware from the press coverage, Viscount Chantry leads a rather colourful social life. His actions don’t always meet with the approval of the Earl. When I asked after Freddie my uncle simply informed me that he had to go away for a while.’

  ‘And you didn’t push him any further than that?’

  ‘You obviously haven’t met my uncle, Mr. Harley. He’s a formidable character—not many people would have the pluck to “push” him, as you say. Besides, this isn’t the first time that Freddie has been persuaded to pull back on the reins a little. I wouldn’t read too much into it if I were you.’

  She placed her cup and saucer back on the table and looked at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Well now, I really feel that I have discussed the matter as far as I’m prepared to at this time. So, unless there’s anything else I can help you with …’

  ‘There is one thing, miss,’ said Pearson. ‘Can you think of anything extremely valuable your cousin may have had in his apartment that might be particularly attractive to a burglar?’

  Harley raised his eyebrows and Euphemia smiled.

  ‘Detective Constable—Freddie’s place is crammed with such items. Paintings, sculpture, silverware … we’re talking about Freddie Daubeney remember—“London’s most eligible bachelor”. I really wouldn’t know where to start. Now, I don’t wish to appear impolite, but there are a few loose ends that I simply must tie up before I leave.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Harley, grabbing his hat from the table. ‘You’ve been a great help, thank you … Oh, and we’ll be taking a taxi back into town—is there anywhere we can drop you?’

  ‘That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Harley, but my uncle lends me the use of a car and driver whenever I’m in London.’

  ‘Not that formidable then.’

  ‘Earl Daubeney has been extremely kind to me since I lost my father.’

  ‘Your father, yes, Richard Daubeney—a great man. You must be very proud. I’ve got one of his books at home, you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes—Aspirin in the Ancient World—I think that’s the title.’

  ‘Indeed it is. Well, well … You know, you really are a remarkable surprise, Mr. Harley.’

  This time Harley met her smile full on.

  ‘So, do you feel that you’re following in your father’s footsteps, at all—with your work at the clinic?’

  ‘Without a doubt … You see, I had the great privilege of working closely with my father on his research into plant alkaloids and sulphonamides, and their use in fighting disease. During this research we saw again and again that poor nutrition and unhygienic surroundings were contributing factors in many of the most dangerous diseases—especially TB and diphtheria. Maybe that sounds obvious, but I’m not just talking about the direct effect on the patient of their environment, but also the relevance of hereditary factors in the development of these diseases.’

  ‘What do you mean, exactly?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Well, for example: the question whether a mother’s constitution, weakened by years of poverty, could be passed on to her offspring; whether a poor diet, insanitary accommodation, and the daily stress of suffering serious deprivation could somehow collude to recalibrate the genetic inheritance.’

  ‘Can that really happen?’ asked Harley.

  ‘It’s a little too early to draw any conclusions yet, I’m afraid; but we continue to build our collection of case studies. Here at the welfare drop-in we not only assist poorer families with their nutritional needs, but the staff—some of whom work alongside me at the clinic—also try to assess their general health, especially of the children, and encourage the mothers to attend the family clinic if necessary. There the medical team can attend to any immediate health issues, and if they are suitable candidates we can encourage them to take part in our research into hereditary influence in disease.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come!’

  A prim young woman with her hair in a bun popped her head around the door.

  ‘Miss Daubeney—your car is here.’

  Euphemia stood up.

  ‘I’m afraid I really must be going, gentlemen … I’m not sure how helpful this has been for you.’

  ‘It’s been very interesting, believe me—it was good to meet you,’ said Harley, tipping his hat.

  Pearson handed Euphemia a calling card. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could telephone me at the station if your cousin gets in touch, Miss Daubeney … By the way—is your uncle in London at the moment? I think it would be useful to ask him a few questions.’

  ‘He’s in town at the moment; but I’m not sure how much luck you’ll have in getting to see him. You may need to go through your superiors, Detective Constable. Earl Daubeney has … how shall I put it? A somewhat traditional approach to these matters.’

  ‘I understand. Well, thank you for your time.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  She ushered Pearson and Harley through the kitchen and back into the hall.

  ‘And don’t forget, gentlemen—we’re always on the lookout for new volunteers!’

  ***

  Outside on the steps Harley leant against a column and offered Pearson a Gold Flake.

  ‘Well, not much to go on there. Although it sounds like Munro was right about Fast Freddie’s little holiday.’

  Pearson buttoned his coat up against the damp night air.

  ‘Handsome woman … You seemed to be getting on famously with her. “You really are a remarkable surprise, Mr. Harley”!’

  ‘Alright, alright! We were just talking about her work, that’s all. It’s interesting stuff, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course—that’s all it was,’ said Pearson with a smirk.

  ‘Oh, grow up, won’t yer?’

  Harley nodded down the steps to a parked car.

  ‘That’s gotta be the Earl’s car—Rolls-Royce Phantom. Lovely motor.’

  As they looked down the chauffeur emerged and began to wipe the windscreen with a chamois leather.

  From further up the street there came the sound of a racing engine. Before long a maroon Austin 7 passed the Rolls at speed, almost losing control as it took the corner into Commercial Street. At the wheel was the Reverend Giles Pembroke.

  ‘The idiot!’ said Pearson. ‘He’ll kill someone, driving like that.’

  ‘Maybe it’s an emergency—got a soul to save somewhere … ’Ere—look at that, Pearson. That’s a bit odd, ain’t it?’

  Harley pointed at the chauffeur who was walking around the bonnet of the car to reach the other side of the windscreen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, when did you last see someone in service with face fungus like that?’

  ‘His beard?’

  ‘Yes, his beard—look at it. He looks like a sodding pirate!’

  ‘I suppose it is a little strange, now you mention it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought a stickler like Earl Daubeney would put up w
ith that. He’s a big bugger and all, ain’t he?’

  Just then the doors to the hall opened and Euphemia appeared, struggling a little with a clutch of boxes and bags. Seeing his mistress in need of assistance, the chauffeur opened the driver’s door and threw the cloth back into the car.

  ‘Here—let me help …’ Harley called out, extinguishing his half-smoked cigarette with his foot and beginning to make his way towards Euphemia.

  Down in the street the driver slammed the car door shut.

  Night became day as the portico was engulfed in a terrific blast.

  Harley felt his feet leave the ground and then … time stretched … all was black … quiet …

  ***

  He was somewhere cold, wet … Tentatively moving his fingers, he felt them drag across the slimy clay of the shell crater … He opened his eyes and hauled himself to a sitting position, checking arms, legs … all still in working order.

  A thunderous roar ripped the sky as the howitzers began a second barrage of covering fire to support the advance. He cursed and scrambled around in the filthy pool of stagnant water for his Lee-Enfield. Just as his hand struck against the cold metal of the rifle’s bolt a magnesium flare exploded above his head, flooding the gloom of the crater with its stark, blinding light, revealing the gaping legless torso of Corporal Jimmy Miller …

  Private Harley closed his eyes and screamed …

  ***

  Regaining consciousness Harley opened his eyes again to find himself back in the East End.

  The area immediately in front of the hall had been ripped apart by the explosion. In the road—where a few seconds previously the sleek Rolls-Royce had stood—there was now a shallow crater holding a mangled chassis, fringed with sheets of torn metal. A pall of acrid smoke drifted slowly across the entrance to the church, now littered with the remnants of the iron railings, scattered like toothpicks across the steps.

  In an echo of his dream Harley checked his limbs for injury before stumbling to his feet, shaking his head to try to rid it of a constant high-pitched whine. Deaf to any shouts for help he scanned the portico for Pearson and Euphemia, soon finding the policeman shuffling towards him on all fours, the left side of his face covered in blood.

  Struggling a little with his coordination, Harley clumsily manoeuvred Pearson to a sitting position on the steps and began to check him over. Apart from a cut to the forehead and looking a little dazed, the policeman seemed to be intact. Harley took his handkerchief out and pressed it to the wound, pushing Pearson’s hand against it to keep it in place.