“Should I know him?”
“His name was all over the newspapers this spring.”
“I’ve been out of the country. What did he do?”
“He’s nuts!”
“That, too, is fairly self-evident.”
“I don’t mean just cheerfully fruitcake, I mean loony-bin nuts. Straight-jacket and locked doors nuts. And, he’s a fairy.”
Since for days now I’d been thinking of Goodman as Puck, this assessment hardly surprised me. However, it appeared that was not what Javitz meant.
“And, he was involved in a murder, with one of his fairy friends.”
That word got my attention.
“Murder? Goodman?”
“His name is—”
“Yes, yes. He was tried for murder?”
“This spring. Well, no, not him, but a friend of his—Johnny McAlpin—was tried for murder, and everyone seemed to think that Goodman—Moreton—knew more about it than he was saying.”
“Mr Javitz, you really need to explain this to me.”
He tried, but the legal details were rather fuzzy in his mind. The sensational details, however, were quite clear.
The death itself had occurred in the summer of 1917, in Edinburgh. The victim was a middle-aged man well known as an habitué of the sorts of clubs where the singers are boys dressed up as girls. The murder went unsolved all those years, until this past January, when the newly jilted boyfriend of Johnny McAlpin started telling his friends how McAlpin had once drunkenly bragged about killing the man and getting away with it.
The police heard, and arrested McAlpin. He, in an attempt to spread the blame as thinly as possible, named every friend he could think of—including Win Moreton, who was among those dragged in to testify.
Bearded and wild-haired and sounding more than a little unbalanced, Goodman made quite a splash on the stand. He refused to acknowledge the name “Moreton,” would say only that McAlpin had once been his friend, and was narrowly saved from being gaoled for contempt of court when his sister brought to light a file concerning her brother’s history: Moreton had indeed known McAlpin, the two men having both drunk at the same pub during April and May, 1917, but Moreton had left Edinburgh in June, three weeks before the murder, and there was no evidence that he had been back.
Moreton was a decorated hero, in Edinburgh for treatment of shell shock that spring, but had never been violent even at his most disturbed.
McAlpin alone was convicted. However, the trial of the Honorable Winfred Moreton in the court of public opinion, had been both loud and unequivocal: He had to be guilty of something, and murder would do as well as any other charge.
The story itself sounded more colourful than factual, so I finally interrupted Javitz to ask how he’d heard all this.
He bent down and pulled an oversized envelope from the carpet-bag, thrusting it into my hands. I unlooped the fastener and looked in at a mess of pages, newspaper clippings, letters, and pocket diaries. I eased a few out of the pile, and read enough to catch the drift of their meaning.
Meanwhile, Javitz was explaining how he had come across this, after the boy in the house had told him who “Goodman” was: He’d gone to the butler who took him to the housekeeper who showed him a clipping she kept in one of her ledgers and then, when he demanded to know more, led him to the butler’s pantry and the collection in the envelope.
“You stole this?” I asked.
“Borrowed it—send it back to them if you want. But I needed you to see, and understand.” The earlier heartiness had gone; he shifted, his leg troubling him.
I closed the envelope, trying to follow the currents. I felt that Javitz was honestly concerned at the idea of permitting a madman and accused murderer near Estelle. I also thought that he was more than a little worried at letting a man with dubious relationships near to his own person. I couldn’t imagine what threat the five-and-a-half-foot-tall Goodman might be to a strapping six-footer, but sex and sensibility do not always go hand in hand.
Beyond his concern, however, I thought I detected traces of embarrassment, which I had seen in him before. He was a captain in the RAF, a hero and man of action, who had permitted me to shove him to the back with the children. That he had uncomplainingly set aside his personal dignity for the sake of a child—and moreover, continued to do so—was a sign of his true valiant nature. Reasoned argument would be no help, since his mind was already delivering that. I needed a means of permitting the man to retain his self-respect.
I let his story and his explanation fade away, watching Estelle solemnly constructing a Dolly-sized hut out of some twigs and dry grasses. Then I sat back.
“I can’t tell you whether these newspaper charges are substantiated, although I’ll find out. However, we still need to decide where to put you—and, if you honestly don’t mind, Estelle. It shouldn’t be for more than a day, at the most two.”
He settled a bit, which allowed his embarrassment to come closer to the surface. When he realised I was not about to accuse him of cowardice or point out his irrational fear of a man who had never so much as looked at him sideways, he relaxed. Suddenly he sat up and dug out his watch. “You have to be at the funeral in, what, three hours?”
“A little more than that.”
“Then you don’t have time to spend on me and the kid,” he said.
I exhaled in relief: If assuaging his guilt drove him to volunteer for nanny duty, who was I to argue? I hastened to assure him, “Three hours is plenty. Tell me, how do you feel about Kent?”
It took me half an hour to locate a taxi with a driver who was not only taciturn, but willing to take a fare all the way to Tunbridge Wells. I put on an American accent and explained that my injured brother was shy of conversation but willing to pay generously for silence, and that he and his daughter needed to go to the largest hotel in the town. Tunbridge Wells was a watering hole and tourist destination busy enough to render even this unusual pair—large American male and tiny Eurasian child—slightly less than instantaneously the centre of attention.
I told Javitz to explain to the concierge that the luggage had gone astray on the ship, and gave him enough cash to clothe and feed himself and the child for two days, as well as distribute the sorts of tips that guarantee happy, hence silent, hotel staff.
But I admit, it was with a great deal of trepidation that I watched the taxicab pull away.
Forty minutes later and dressed in my funeral clothes, I walked up the steps to the unlikely address for Peter James West. To my surprise, the warehouse showed signs of an inner transformation, with added windows and doors geared for humans rather than lorry-loads of goods. I grasped the polished brass of the lion’s head knocker and let it fall sharply against its brass plate. The sound echoed through the building within, and I waited for footsteps.
Chapter 50
Walking to church in the company of his wife and daughter was the high point of Chief Inspector Lestrade’s week. He tried hard to ensure that his work did not stand in the way of accompanying his family every Sunday. Once there, he participated with gusto in the hymns and prayers. He had many of the collects committed to memory. He got to his knees with humility and concentration—particularly following a week such as the past one, which left him much to pray about.
He even enjoyed the sermons. This new pastor, who had replaced the old one when senile dementia began to make services rather more creative than comfortable, was one of the new generation of enthusiasts, and Lestrade wasn’t yet sure how he felt about this. One of the things he liked best about church was the abiding knowledge that all over the world—San Francisco and Sydney, Calcutta and Cairo—men and women were gathered for the same words, the same sentiments, and more or less the same sermon.
Progress was fine, but modernisation?
He might need to have a word with the lad in the pulpit, to suggest that certain topics were better suited for a discussion over the tea-pot than for a Sunday morning sermon. Such as—yes, there he went: The ma
n probably thought he was being delicate, but his advocacy of universal suffrage was sometimes a little heavy-handed.
No doubt Miss Russell would appreciate these new-fangled sermons. Imagine, picking the lock of a Scotland Yard officer in order to have a chat at three in the morning! Sooner or later, that young woman was going to find herself in a trouble that the joint efforts of Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes weren’t going to get her out of. Still, one had to appreciate her enthusiasms, compared to the pleasure-seeking light-headedness of many of her generation.
Thank goodness for Maudie. His wife had been something of an enthusiast herself when they’d first met, but look how nicely she’d settled down into motherhood. He couldn’t see Miss Russell going quite so far, but still, there had to be interests that were not quite so extreme and … masculine.
(A gentle stir ran through the congregation, the ecclesiastic equivalent of “Hear, hear!” Lestrade cleared his throat to show agreement with the point, listened intently for a few minutes, then allowed his thoughts to wander again.)
Still, the poor girl had to be upset over the death of her brother-in-law. How shocking that idea was, even days later. Almost as bad as the death of a king. He looked forward to seeing who showed up for the funeral. Because the man’s authority was, as it were, sub rosa, it wouldn’t be a Westminster Abbey sort of affair, but he wouldn’t be surprised if representatives of the Prime Minister and the Royal Family were dispatched.
His mind played over the possible diplomatic representatives of both those governmental bodies, men who were low-key, but important enough to indicate that Mycroft had been valued by those in the know. He, Lestrade, would of course represent Scotland Yard. Which suit should he wear? The new one might best assert the competence and authority of the Yard, in pursuit of the man’s killer. On the other hand, its faint modernity (Maude’s choice, about which he was still uncertain) might add a dubious thread of frivolity. Perhaps the older, blacker one, stolid and—
The congregation stirred again, and again Lestrade shifted and gave a nod. However, this time, the stir did not die down. Rather, the ripple of movement grew, and after a moment, the minister fell silent, a look of confusion and incipient outrage on his youthful face.
No, Lestrade thought: Surely the Russell girl wouldn’t interrupt—
But it was not Mary Russell. It was one of his own Yard officers, so new one could see the ghost of a constable’s helmet above the soft hat he wore. Lestrade turned to his wife to mouth, “Sorry,” then rose to push his way past the other knees in the pew, mouthing the same apology to the scandalised priest in the pulpit.
The man in the aisle leant forward to give a loud whisper. “They think they found Brothers, up in Saint Al—”
But Lestrade reached out to seize the plain-clothes man’s arm with such force that the words cut off in a squeak. As Lestrade frog-marched him up the aisle, he hissed, “For pity’s sake, man, remove your hat in church.”
This younger generation simply had no concept of proper behaviour.
Chapter 51
Peter James West sat at his desk, idly picking a design into the blotter with the wicked point of Reverend Brothers’ knife. The curve of its blade was a satisfying touch of the exotic East; the sheen of the steel made him hope the metal had in truth begun as a meteor.
So, they’d found Brothers—not that they’d identified him yet, but they would before long. He’d hoped to be given a few more days. Still, he couldn’t see that it mattered much. There was nothing to tie him to the mad religious leader from Shanghai. Nothing but the knife. West held it up to the light, admiring it again. He wondered if Brothers’ last moments had included a brief appreciation of the symmetry of his death, being caused by an artefact that had been present at the moment of his birth.
He’d even been tempted to send the knife with Gunderson on Wednesday, for the sheer pleasure of owning an instrument that had killed not only Thomas Brothers but Mycroft Holmes, as well, but in the end decided that was too much like something Brothers would have thought. Instead, he’d merely told Gunderson to keep the killing silent, and sent him on his way.
West himself appreciated symmetry, in death or in life. The arrangement of items on his desk was balanced: IN tray here, OUT tray there, pens beside the one, a framed photograph next to the other (small, showing himself shaking hands with Prime Minister Baldwin at a garden party). The furniture in his sitting room was similarly balanced: a settee bracketed by two chairs, a mirror facing a framed watercolour, two carved figures on the left side of the mantel balancing two porcelain vases on the right. His tie always complemented his suit; his shoes matched his belt; his overcoat, his hat.
In life, too, symmetry was both the means and the end. One presence removed, another takes its place.
Human beings were happiest when the shapes around them were familiar. This was as true for the men on the ground—the troops, if you will—as it was for those in command. Revolutions failed not when the change ushered in was too minor, but when the new social order became too grossly unfamiliar for comfort.
The current radical shift in deployment—men who were generally scattered in low-visibility positions around the globe, brought home for the effort—would be permissible only if it quickly faded. He had needed men—unusually large numbers of men—and his position had allowed him to summon them without question. But questions there would be, if the situation went on.
However, it should not be necessary. After this evening, those elements of change that did not fit would be quietly packed away. Tomorrow, or by Tuesday at the latest, Gunderson would return from his second trip to the Orkneys—this one a tidying operation—and the men who’d been quietly summoned from Paris and Istanbul and New York would be just as circumspectly returned to their places. Before the men above West could draw up their list of questions, the situation would have stabilised again, the turmoil smoothed over, the reins of authority—so much authority!—resting in new, more competent hands.
Mycroft Holmes would be mourned. Ruffled feathers would subside. The work of Government would go on.
A sharp knock came from the door. West raised his head: Who would come here on a Sunday afternoon? Even if Gunderson finished quickly, he knew not to come here. He slipped the knife into the closely worked Moroccan leather scabbard that he, like its previous owner, wore over his heart (another touch of symmetry), then stood. As he adjusted his clothing over the knife, he studied the perfect spiral its tip had picked into the green blotter, closing inexorably in on the centre. As his men would do at the funeral.
Peter James West went to answer the door.
BOOK FOUR
Sunday, 7 September–
Tuesday, 9 September
1924
Chapter 52
The file concerning the Honourable Winfred Stanley Moreton, also known as Robert Goodman.
Letter from “Robert Goodman” to Sir Henry Moreton, Moreton House, Richmond, Berkshire:
3 April 1917
Craiglockhart, Edinburgh
Dear H,
Sorry. Sorry, sorry, letting the side down and all that. A disappointment to all.
No, that’s not fair to you, not after you spent half your leave travelling the length of Britain to see your dodgy brother. Really you should’ve stayed at home with the children. Children are all that matter. Give yours their uncle’s love. Sal too, of course, although she won’t want it.
I was thinking of spending time in Cumbria, once they give me permission for a few days away. The house is closed, but I’d sleep rough in any event. Not sure when.
Sorry, again, to disappoint. Sorry my handwriting’s so bad. At least I can hold a pen now, more than I could when I got here. Sorry too you didn’t like my friends down the local, they’re not altogether a bad lot.
—me
Letter from “Robert Goodman” to Lady Phoenicia Moreton Browne, Moreton House:
15 May 1917
Craiglockhart
Dear Pin,
>
They told me today about Harry. I am sorry for Sal and the children, but I cannot say I am surprised. All the good men are dying over there. I hope you thank the Powers every day for James’ foot, or he’d be dying over there too.
Sorry, not a great day here.
Anyway, I don’t know what to write to Sal, but could you tell her I’m thinking of her? I think I’d better not come to the funeral, I’m not exactly at my most presentable.
And since you two will be wondering, leave me out of any discussion of the future. I’d like use of the Cumbria place, if Father doesn’t mind, but the only time I intend to pass through Berks or London again is when they’re dragging my corpse to the family vault. Everything else belongs to the children, so do with it as you like. Any papers that need signing will reach me here.
Although that may not be long. To everyone’s surprise including my own, I’m making something they seem to regard as a recovery. My medical board is scheduled for mid-June. They’d have to be pretty desperate to want me back, but even if they do, I’ll have some leave first, and will spend it in Cumbria. It’s the only place I want to be. The thought of the woods keeps me alive.
Kiss the baby for me.
Yr brother
Report from W.H.R. Rivers, Craiglockhart Hospital for Officers, Edinburgh.
“Robert Goodman”/Winfred Stanley Moreton
9 June 1917
Generally the reports I write concerning a patient under review for release begin with that patient’s name. However, in the case of this patient, I shall use “Captain Moreton” when referring to his life previous to November 1916, and “Robert Goodman” to describe the period afterwards, for reasons that shall become evident.
The God of the Hive: A Novel of Suspense Featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Page 24