‘If it would help you,’ Foxe said, ‘I can take the book away with me and let my apprentice work on it for you. The lad loves book binding and repair. My own shop and circulating library rarely provide him with more of a challenge than the occasional broken spine or cover stained with wine or coffee. He’d relish working on a book in a state like this, I’m sure.’
‘Might it not be too much for him to undertake, Mr Foxe? I’m not a skilled bookbinder, but I’ve repaired hundreds of damaged books in my time. This one is going to challenge me to the uttermost.’
‘He has young, deft hands, Mr Lavender. More to the point, he has abundant time and needs to be kept from wasting it. Why not let him try? I’m sure he’ll make an excellent job of it. He has all the tools and I’ve sent him to two of the finest book binders in Norwich to increase his skill and knowledge of the art.’
Mr Lavender wavered. ‘There’s no doubt it would be a godsend to me at this point, Mr Foxe. How much would you charge? As you know, the funds available to me are extremely limited; even to repair damage inflicted by senior members of the cathedral chapter — and their dogs.’
‘There will be no charge, I assure you. Look on it as a charitable act. You will be allowing a young man to practice a skill which will serve him for the rest of his life. Besides, you have, I hope, been able to undertake a time-consuming task for me and bring it to a successful conclusion. The encrypted letter, Mr Lavender. Has it yielded any of its secrets?’
‘You may take this book to your apprentice, Mr Foxe, and my thanks along with it. Now, the letter. In view of your most generous offer today, I’m delighted to be able to tell you that I have indeed met with success. I can tell you exactly what it contains. Whether it will make more sense to you than it does to me, I cannot say.’
Lavender stepped out of his tiny workroom and went to a desk set against one wall of the library.
‘Here it is, Mr Foxe,’ he said. ‘It proved less of a challenge than I feared. The cipher used was nought but a simple letter substitution. One of the kinds anyone might use in a confidential journal. Two things made it appear more challenging. First, writing down the enciphered version into groups of four letters; that was designed to conceal the varying lengths of the words behind them, of course. Then the fact that the original text was in Latin. Rather poor Latin, I must say. Still, once decrypted and split into words in the proper way, it read easily enough. You were correct in thinking it had to have been enciphered in a way that would allow the decryption process to be swift — at least for anyone knowing what to expect. You were, however, quite in error in suspecting the message was written in any language as obscure as Gaelic.’
‘Latin is obscure enough to me, Mr Lavender. I lack the depth of your education.’
‘Deep perhaps, but not nearly as useful in practical matters as yours, Mr Foxe. Yet in this case it did indeed prove useful, as you say.’
‘What does the letter say?’
‘Here, I have written you a translation in full. The gist of it is that the bearer is operating on behalf of a secret society of scholars, one which extends throughout Europe and includes contacts in Egypt, Mesopotamia, India and China. This society, he says, is devoted to seeking out hidden sources of spiritual knowledge and understanding. Having heard about Dr Danson’s own interest in such matters — and the library of rare books which he has amassed — the society wished to consult certain books they believe he is holding. In return, they offer a copy of a privately printed monograph containing information gleaned from — let me get this right — “a papyrus scroll in Coptic, recently discovered in a tomb in the deserts of Egypt, containing hitherto unknown revelations by the greatest of occult philosophers, the great Hermes Trismegistus”’.
‘Good Lord!’ Foxe cried, forgetting he was within the cathedral precincts and thus probably on consecrated ground. ‘No wonder Dr Danson was at home to such a visitor! The fellow set out his bait with great cunning and the fish must have swallowed it whole. No mention of any particular book though? No suggestion this society wished to purchase anything?’
‘No on both counts. Only the seeking of permission to consult certain volumes in the library.’
‘Very odd, Mr Lavender, and somewhat vexing. I was convinced Dr Danson was murdered because he refused to sell a volume to his visitor; a volume the mystery man then stole.’
‘Why would any man go to such lengths over a book, Mr Foxe? I know avid collectors are prepared to pay a great deal of money to get what they want. I have never heard of any resorting to murder to do so.’
‘You are probably correct, Mr Lavender, and I have let my imagination run away with me. I have been known to do as much on numerous occasions. My thinking has also been coloured by a visit from another mysterious fellow. He asked me about a title which would have been exactly the kind of thing to excite Dr Danson, probably the man who wrote this letter as well. I made an immediate linkage which may not exist outside my head. This meddling in matters of the occult is entirely foreign to me.’
‘To me as well, Mr Foxe. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the church regards all such interests as sinful. None but fools deluded by Satan look into such matters. They do so at the peril of their immortal souls. Superstitious and blasphemous rubbish, all of it.’
‘What bothers me most at this moment is that understanding the contents of this letter doesn’t take me any further forwards. I had hoped it would aid in discovering who the man was, and whether his visit had anything to do with Dr Danson’s death. Now, it seems, that notion too was no more than another case of putting two and two together and making five.’
‘Why, if I may ask? A connection seems to me most unlikely.’
‘Again, I must now accept your doubts as valid. Perhaps it was no more than a coincidence that the book Mr Smith wished me to find for him was one I have found to be missing from Dr Danson’s library. I jumped to the conclusion it had to be connected somehow with his murder.’
‘Is it not more likely that Mr Smith went to see Dr Danson after he visited you, found the book he wanted and concluded the sale? It would have been courteous to inform you of his success, but not obligatory.’
‘No one at Dr Danson’s house mentioned such a visit.’
‘Did you ask?’
Foxe shook his head in disbelief. How could he have been so stupid?
‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘The instant I discovered the book was not in its place on the shelf, I linked it to the murder. I did ask if anyone knew if Danson had loaned it to someone. I didn’t pose the question of purchase. In fact, if I am being honest with myself, the answer I received even to the question of a loan was ambiguous. His wife merely said she took no interest in her husband’s obsessive collecting and rarely ventured into the library. It was I who interpreted that to constitute a definite “no”. I can see now that I had formed a hypothesis and was unconsciously making the evidence fit it. Unforgivable!’
‘Merely human, Mr Foxe. We all do it at times. Don’t be too hard on yourself.’
Foxe wasn’t comforted by this remark, though knew it was kindly meant. Feeling angry at his own failings, he thanked Mr Lavender profusely for his help, picked up the poor, wrecked book for Charlie to try to restore, and took his leave.
Foxe returned home feeling considerably disheartened. The walk down to the cathedral had been easy going all the way. The walk back uphill now seemed to symbolise the state of his various investigations. What had before seemed on the brink of a full elucidation, now offered little but further effort. There was nothing for it but to work through everything he knew yet again.
Only the uncovering of Lord Aylestone’s killer was on the point of final resolution. Not that he relished what lay before him. The task of confronting the actor, Adam Bewell, then having him arrested by the constables on the charge of murdering Lord Aylestone, was certain to be distasteful. Foxe enjoyed the intellectual challenge of his ‘mysteries’, the business of sorting through the evidence and finding a solu
tion. Bringing the perpetrator to justice was necessary, but nearly always unpleasant. He had few qualms about seizing some ruffian or a person of truly evil intent. In this case, something told him Adam Bewell was basically a good man caught up in a series of emotions he was unable to control. Worse still, the victim had been a member of the aristocracy. It was unlikely the actor would be treated mercifully when finally convicted.
Still, there was nothing else to be done. He had at least allowed the poor young fellow his moment in the limelight as the lead actor. He hoped that at least would go well.
Turning over the best way to deal with what lay before him the next day, Foxe had an idea. It would be demeaning to go to the theatre or Bewell’s lodgings with a pair of constables and haul him away like a common criminal. Why not find a way to lure the man to Foxe’s own house? Give him the chance to explain himself, if he was willing to do so? There was still an outside possibility he could discover something in the way of mitigating circumstances to let the two of them formulate a successful plea for mercy and avoid the gallows.
Comforted at least a little by this idea, Foxe turned to the other case where he felt he might be closest to finding a solution. He would occupy the evening by examining all the evidence again. Perhaps sitting quietly in his library after a good dinner, washed down with wine from his excellent cellar and a glass or two of fine port, would bring him inspiration. He would tell Molly to set a decanter of vintage brandy beside to aid things along. Then he would review all he knew again. With luck, some fresh idea would come to him on how best to proceed. It had happened that way many times before.
Despite all he had said to Mr Lavender, Foxe was still hopeful he was getting close to a solution to the mystery of the killing in Dr Danson’s library. He still didn’t know who the killer was, of course, nor why Danson had been done to death. Yet, something in his gut told him another burst of effort would produce the answer. He would make a start by sifting again through all he knew, or could deduce, so far.
What if Mrs Danson had lied to him, if only by omission? The visit of Mr Cornelius Wake was real enough, and the man’s purpose was now clear. She had led him to believe that mysterious figure was the only visitor on the day of her husband’s death. What if there had been another? What if the theft of the book and the murder of her husband were two separate incidents?
It was most likely Wake who had stolen the book. Who else would be knowledgeable enough to seek out that single volume amongst all the rest? Who had a better reason to make off with it? He would have needed to silence or incapacitate Danson first, of course. Danson was an elderly man. It would be easy enough for someone young and vigorous to render him unconscious. All it would take would be a hard blow to the head, or some drug slipped into the wine if the two were drinking. Then Wake could find the book, thanks to Danson’s meticulous arrangement of volumes on the shelves and make off with it before anyone in the house noticed.
If that were true, why was there any need for murder? That was the point at which this pattern of reasoning must falter. Why kill, when you had no need to do so?
Suppose someone else had visited the house that day. Someone with a far better and stronger motive for ending Dr Danson’s life. Foxe felt certain the butler, Gunton, would have told him at once if he had known of an extra visitor. Either this person had crept in unobserved, or Mrs Danson had let him in. Who would Mrs Danson be willing to shield by lying? The obvious answer must be her brother, George Stubbings.
13
Early the next morning, Foxe received a note from Mistress Tabby. She had written to tell him of the discovery of the body of a man floating in the river. The dead man, she wrote, had been about twenty years of age, with a badly scarred face and hands roughened from heavy work. His throat had been cut.
He sighed loudly and put the note on his desk. Yet another murder. There had been several such killings recently, all connected with the rivalry between “Smiler” Hayes and “Growler” Spetchley. It was what you had to do to take over the position of premier gang boss. You killed your rival’s men. There was supposed to be a truce, but violence between gangs might break out again at any time. The truce — if it existed — would still be a fragile thing. A single, small incident would bring it to an end. Still, this new murder was probably a coincidence; not something which concerned him.
‘Hold on!’ Foxe told himself. Unbidden, a thought had popped into his head and was now claiming his attention. ‘What if the dead man in the river was actually Stubbings, Mrs Danson’s brother? Not coincidence and not a man linked to either gang. What if George Stubbings was the man who had ended his days in the River Wensum, like so many others before him? That really would interest me. Could it be the truth? Could it?’
Thinking about it further, Foxe now saw a believable series of events emerging. Stubbings had managed to escape from prison. That was certain. He might well have returned to Norwich after that, exactly as the gossip suggested. Foxe had already considered the possibility of the man finding work as a bully-boy, employed by the apothecary, Craswall, who had been operating as a loan shark. So much had been proved by Dr Danson’s ledger. That sort of person always needed bullies to inspire fear and enforce their demands for payment.
Yes, it was making a pattern!
The little Foxe knew about Stubbings suggested he was reckless with money and thus always greedy for more. His type had few, if any, scruples and little loyalty to anyone save themselves. If he had indeed been working for Craswall, he must have been privy to many of his employer’s criminal secrets. Maybe the temptation to engage in a little blackmail had got too much for him? It would be easy enough to get money for himself by raising the amount of payment demanded and pocketing the extra. If so, he had not stopped to think that the apothecary was a good deal cleverer than he was. Far more ruthless too.
Very well, Foxe said to himself. Take this further.
How would Craswall respond? Men like him hated to be cheated themselves, however willing they were to cheat others. He would also be alert for any signs made by his hired ruffians that they were considering blackmailing their master. If his activities as a money-lender became public, the apothecary’s legitimate business — and his standing in the city — would have been ruined. Would he pay for their silence? Hardly! The moment he encountered an attempt at blackmail, his response would be swift — and fatal. Suppose one of his victims had been killed while trying to stand up to his bully-boy, perhaps through desperation? The money-lender himself would face the gallows. The actual killer might be tempted to turn to blackmail in an attempt to save himself. Pay me to go away, or I’ll hand myself in and turn King’s Evidence against you.
George Stubbings had killed a prison guard trying to help Jack Beeston escape. That almost earned him a visit to the gallows. He had killed again to escape the prison hulks. Two death sentences would be hanging over him. Those who killed even once found killing easier the second time. A man who had killed twice would be hardened enough to kill a third time without a qualm. George Stubbings would also be in urgent need of money, especially if he intended to try to start a new life somewhere or escape overseas.
Someone in need of money made Foxe think again of the embezzlement of money from the city treasury which Halloran had mentioned. What if one of the clerks had got into debt, perhaps through gambling or to pay for medicines for some sick member of his family? What if he’d taken money from his place of work, intending to pay it back later, before he was discovered? Suppose his thefts had been spotted too soon? Such a man might well have turned to Craswall for a loan to let him replace the money before the trail led to his door.
Foxe’s mind raced ahead. A person like the clerk, someone who had been respectable all his life, would probably never dream of what would happen next. The way the interest would pile up. The need for new loans to meet those payments, on top of the original loan. Then on and on in the same way, until meeting the continual demands for money became a crippling burden. Next, if the pr
ey tried to escape by refusing to hand over more, one of the bully-boys would come around to make sure he changed his mind. Suppose on that day the bully-boy had been George Stubbings, a proven killer with nothing to lose . . .
‘Slow down, Foxe! Slow down!’ he now told himself. ‘You haven’t a shred of actual evidence for any of this.’
Still, add all those together and a likely scenario emerged at once. Mrs Danson’s brother could well have become over-enthusiastic in dealing with the clerk, to the extent that the man died. Desperate to escape a third charge of murder, and therefore in urgent need of money to pay someone to take him abroad, Stubbings might have tried to wring some from his employer, using the threat of exposing him and turning King’s Evidence. It was the kind of stupid, half-brained idea a reckless bruiser might come up with. If he had, it would certainly account for him having had his throat cut and ending up in the river.
So what? None of that had anything to do with Danson’s murder.
Forget Craswall for a moment. Why should George Stubbings have murdered his sister’s husband?
Another idea then. George Stubbings returns to Norwich needing money and starts working for Craswall. At the same time, he thinks he’ll find out what his sister is doing. He assumes she’s still working in the bordello. He’ll approach her and force her to hand over something as well. If he went to the bordello, he’d find out at once what had become of her. She’s married a rich man. Better and better. He goes at once to seek her out in the hope of extracting some cash. She either refuses or he thinks she hasn't given him enough.
A Sickness in the Soul Page 14