The Phantom

by Jack Murray

  ‘Of course,’ replied Kit eyeing Ryan. One of the things Kit realised about himself was his ability, as he grew older, to deceive more easily and to comprehend when someone was lying to him. The very nature of his work in Russia was to live a lie, to recognise its form, its texture and its tone. This was a matter of survival as much as it was a tool of the trade. When Ryan replied to him, Kit senses tingled. Something in the young detective’s manner told Kit he was either lying or, more likely, not telling the full truth.

  The two men turned and walked back in the direction of Scotland Yard. When they arrived at the steps, Kit said, ‘Thank you for sharing this, would you be kind enough to let the Chief Inspector know I called. I think you can tell him what you’ve told me, he’ll want to know and I’m sure he won’t mind.’

  Kit returned to the car.

  ‘Anything new sir?’ asked Miller.

  ‘No, they’re floundering somewhat. No clues, no lead, nothing.’

  ‘None of the stolen items have surfaced?’ By the tone of his voice, it seemed extraordinary to Miller.

  ‘Apparently not,’ replied Kit.

  ‘Well either there’s a new fence that no one is aware of or the person stealing the jewels doesn’t really need to sell them.’

  ‘I agree Harry, it’s a very good point. Hadleigh was a gentleman thief. It could be we have another.’

  ‘Not a lot they can do then,’ pointed out Miller. ‘It sounds like they need a break badly. No trail, no catch the criminal.’

  Kit nodded and added, ‘And this is the nub of the problem for the Chief Inspector. They need a break. In my limited experience, these things usually come from the area one least expects.’

  -

  Nearly two years nursing in France meant Mary was more than capable of managing a handful of bedrooms. She moved methodically through each room changing sheets, cleaning floors and windows, tidying clothes away. It was almost a surprise how quickly it all came back to her. The memory in her arms, muscles and sinews acting independently of thought, with an economy and speed that was almost gratifying. Almost. It was also deadly dull, and Mary was keen to meet up with Caroline.

  Each bedroom was large and, she noted with disbelief, Mr and Mrs Rosling slept separately. This state of affairs was certainly not going to be the case for her and Kit. She stopped for a moment to consider the delightful prospect of spending the night in Kit’s arms before the sound of Miss Carlisle’s footsteps jolted her back to the job in hand.

  There were some photographs of the family in Mrs Rosling’s bedroom. Out of sight from Miss Carlisle, Mary picked up the pictures to study the family members. Mr Rosling appeared to be in his fifties. Beyond a certain point she found it difficult to be precise. He had a well-manicured beard with flecks of grey around the chin which twinned nicely with the grey at the sides of his head. Rosling’s eyes were his most distinctive feature. They were hidden under bushy eyebrows, which made him quite compelling. She nicknamed him Svengali.

  Mrs Rosling looked every bit as imperious as Aunt Agatha or Aunt Emily. Her dress was as fashionable as it was obviously expensive. Notwithstanding her apparent manner, she appeared to be quite a bit younger than her husband. Mary would have said she was in her early forties. Her hair was still long but done with some awareness of current style albeit with an innate conservatism.

  There were no photographs of nephew Rosling, but it was clear when she was tidying his room that he was quite a tall gentleman, and every bit as untidy as she assumed the weaker sex to be. One thing that Mary noticed on his tuxedo was a strand of hair that suggested either a man of bohemian appearance or, more likely, fast out of the gate when it came to the fairer sex.

  After less than two hours she had completed her task and descended the back stairs to the servant’s quarters. Miss Carlisle’s demeanour was a little more relaxed having seen Mary’s work. If there were any complaints, Mary hadn’t heard any.

  Rose greeted her with a big smile and handed her a cup of tea. At least one person in the staff was a friendly, thought Mary. There was a knock on the door of the kitchen and in walked Caroline Hadleigh.

  Caroline looked at Mary in surprise and then glanced at Miss Carlisle.

  ‘Miss Hannah, this is Miss Tanner. She’s taking over from Gibson.’

  -

  ‘So what was she like?’ asked Betty as she, Mary and Agatha sat around the dining room table in Grosvenor Square later that afternoon. Mary frowned a little and spent a moment to collect her thoughts. There was so much to take in, distil and discuss.

  ‘It was difficult, at first, to gain an impression, I was so struck by her ridiculous disguise. It was so obvious, I was amazed no one could see through it. She’s wearing a wig to hide her blonde hair, which is ironic, given I’m doing the opposite. The glasses are obviously meant to hide the fact that she is quite beautiful. They fail abysmally of course. I wonder if the young Mr Rosling, or indeed the elder, has spotted the fact yet. If they’re half the men I think they are, I’m sure they’ll have noticed. Her voice is certainly not what one would describe as working class. She’s made little or no effort to hide that she’s educated.’

  ‘How was she with you?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Polite but wary. There was something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It seems we will room together tonight, so I may have a better opportunity to get to know her better.’

  ‘Do you think she’s planning a job? Perhaps your arrival has upset the proverbial apple cart? She may be sore at you for this,’ pointed out Betty.

  Mary nodded in agreement and said, ‘Yes, I wondered about that also. Anyway, we shall see. Right ho, I think I’d better get a shake on, they’ll be expecting me back soon.’

  ‘Good idea, I’m sure Helen has packed your things now,’ said Agatha, rising from her seat.

  They exited the dining room and, as Agatha had forecast, two suitcases sat in the entrance hall. Noticing Mary’s surprise at the two unfamiliar bags, Agatha said, ‘I took the precaution of buying slightly less expensive bags than the two you brought originally, Mary. Your bags might’ve aroused suspicion.’

  -

  Miss Carlisle seemed relieved when Mary reappeared at the Sloane Gardens house, in the early evening. However, she made no comment on this and said to Mary, instead, ‘We’ll go up in a few minutes to meet Mr and Mrs Rosling. I’m not sure if their nephew has returned. He keeps strange hours.’ The manner in which she said the final part of the statement suggested, unsurprisingly, disapproval.

  Caroline Hadleigh was not around so there was no chance to renew her acquaintance. Rose, however, was and asked her if she had eaten anything. Mary admitted she had not and the stew in the pot smelled awfully good.

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Rose, ‘I’m sure you’ve time to have a spot of dinner. There’s hardly a pick on you either. You young girls, I really don’t know.’

  Mary laughed. It was clear Caroline had been at the receiving end of a similar admonishing from Rose. Miss Carlisle didn’t look happy about the arrangement but, as so often, she deferred to the common sense of the cook rather than her own more mean-spirited inclinations.

  The stew was every bit as nice as the aroma had suggested it would be. Even Elsie would have been hard pushed to improve on it. Or, perhaps, the hard work of the day had meant she had built up a healthy appetite. Only her innate good manners prevented her from wolfing down the delicious meal.

  When she’d finished, she offered to wash the dishes, but Rose wouldn’t hear of it telling her to think of her hands. This comment meant nothing to Mary, but she nodded sagely anyway. A few minutes later Grantham, the family butler, appeared.

  ‘Miss Tanner, the family are ready to meet you now.’ It seemed he was every bit as formal as Miss Carlisle. Something in his piety reminded her of Curtis, her own butler. She smiled at the thought of him back at Cavendish Hall.

  A few butterflies appeared in Mary’s stomach as she followed Grantham up the stairs, with Miss Carlisle following just b
ehind. They arrived in the main entrance hallway and went from there to the drawing room. Grantham knocked lightly on the door and went in when he heard an American voice say, ‘Enter.’

  Mr and Mrs Rosling were sitting in the drawing room. Neither turned around to look at the new arrival. For a moment Mary was surprised and then she remembered who she was supposed to be. As she walked towards the couple, she wondered if she had always been so rude also. It was possible. Although as a rule she would acknowledge the servants when they were in the room with her, she realised it was by no means certain she did so every time. A feeling of shame descended on her momentarily and an aspiration that she would never do as the Rosling’s had done in the future.

  Miss Carlisle walked to a certain spot, not quite in the centre of the room. She stopped and remained silent, waiting for one of the Rosling’s to speak. Finally both of them looked up. Both registered Mary with a degree of shock, which had Mary smiling inwardly. It required no mind reader to understand what each was thinking.

  ‘You’re Gibson’s replacement?’ said Rosling.

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied Mary. For fun, she accompanied this with a delicate curtsy, tying desperately not to laugh. This seemed to please the Mr Rosling. The first hurdle had been cleared. She recognised this was the lower of the two hurdles, however. From the moment she’s entered the room, it was clear who the master of the house was. The master spoke.

  ‘Name?’ demanded Mrs Rosling in a tone of voice that suggested she had guessed exactly what her husband’s view of the new arrival would be and wasn’t happy about it, no siree.

  ‘Tanner ma’am,’ replied Mary.

  ‘Where have you come from Tanner.’

  Mary took her through the pre-arranged story, careful to be brief. The fact that she had conveyed the information efficiently without excess of detail seemed to impress the lady of the house. She nodded to Miss Carlisle. Mr Rosling saw this tacit communication and sought to regain some degree of control of an appointment he would, of course, have little say over.

  ‘Yes, well, very good. You can go,’ said Mr Rosling, pretending to return to his newspaper. Carlisle looked at Mary and indicated with a jerk of her head to exit stage left immediately.

  Happy that the cattle parade was over, Mary needed no second invitation and sped like a gazelle to the door. As she opened it she bumped into someone coming in. The someone in question was six foot tall and a male of the species. The young man quickly apprised Mary and had his arms around her slender waist, in the blink of an eyelid, as if to stop her falling over. Mary suspected this was the younger Rosling. Not bad looking either, she thought.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the young man in a voice that was as delighted as it was certainly unapologetic. He quickly released Mary but the smile on his face couldn’t have been wider than if it started in Norway.

  Mary returned the young man’s gaze for a moment before remembering she was not Mary Cavendish, and then shot out of the room without saying anything. The meeting with the two Rosling men confirmed in Mary’s mind that their interpretation of her role in the house would almost certainly be wider-ranging and more eclectic than the narrow remit envisaged by Miss Carlisle and Mrs Rosling. The wisdom of Caroline in dressing down was looking increasingly like an astute move, even if her purpose was to rob them.

  A little later that evening, Mary assisted Grantham in serving dinner. Much to Mary’s surprise, the Americans also dressed for dinner. Perhaps they were not as uncivilised as her reading novels on the wild west as well as occasional visits to see moving pictures by D.W. Griffith had led her to believe.

  Thanks to Rose’s sterling work, the dinner menu would have gone down just as well in a Parisian salon never mind with three emigres from the new world. An onion soup was followed by a cold salmon first course. The main course was duck with a sauce Mary had never seen before. It smelled delicious. Mary hoped there would be some left over at the end.

  Conversation around the table was surprisingly lively and piqued Mary’s interest. In Britain one rarely talked of commerce or politics over dinner when women were present. Mary resented this and felt excluded from subjects she felt just as qualified to comment on. Here, the three Americans talked of nothing else but business and politics, including Mrs Rosling. For all her petty pretensions to be a grande dame, she was clearly an intelligent, formidable woman. Mary also found herself admiring the level of respect afforded by her companions for her opinions.

  The most interesting part of the evening, for Mary, came when they talked of Mr Rosling’s impressions from the London conference. Unsurprisingly, Mr Rosling’s views were fairly forthright.

  ‘It would be funny,’ said Mr Rosling, ‘If it weren’t so transparent how Britain is trying to lock France out of access to oil.’

  ‘Typical British trick,’ replied the young man before remembering the presence of the two English servants.

  This brought a stern look from Mrs Rosling, but Mr Rosling ignored him and carried on.

  ‘The more I see of the Europeans negotiating together, the more I think that their time is up. The new world will be our world. Mark my words America’s time is coming. Europe and all their damn, sorry Isabelle, colonies will go the way of the Greeks and the Romans and the who knows what.’

  ‘I think you’ve hit the nail of the head, uncle,’ continued the younger man. ‘I’ve been to this gentleman’s club with some of my pals, Sheldon’s, you have to see some of these people to believe them.’

  Mary resisted smiling at the mention of Kit’s main club in London. This’ll be interesting, she thought.

  ‘It’s full of the old lords, their silly ass sons and military types that sent tens of thousands of men walking into a hail of lead.’

  ‘It’s not so long ago we were doing the same, Whittaker,’ pointed out Mrs Rosling.

  Whittaker? Mary immediately covered her mouth lest they see the amusement that Rosling’s name caused her.

  ‘They certainly didn’t learn from us then,’ added Rosling senior. ‘That makes them damn fools in my eyes, sorry Isabelle.’

  The rest of the evening confirmed Mary’s fears regarding their interest in herself. Both Rosling men were on best behaviour, obviously keen not to tip their hand too soon, especially in the presence of Mrs Rosling. However men, in these matters, have as much proficiency at disguising their intentions as an army that has ceased its three day artillery bombardment and follows this by the blowing of dozens of high pitched whistles. The overt ignoring of Mary by the two men was understood and apparent in Mrs Rosling’s permanent scowl over dinner.

  However, the evening did throw up one piece of information that Mary was keen to share with her accomplices in Grosvenor Square. Mrs Rosling was wearing a spectacular diamond necklace.

  -

  The sound of crying woke Joe Ryan from a deep slumber. At first he thought it was young Ben and then he realised it was Sally. He immediately got up from the bed and went to the living room. His wife looked up at him with tears staining her face.

  ‘What’s wrong Sal?’ asked her husband.

  ‘Sorry Joe. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  Ryan looked at the time and saw it nearly four in the afternoon.

  ‘I’d have been getting up anyway, love. What’s wrong?’

  Sally dried her eyes and tried to regain her composure.

  ‘I was just looking at Ben outside. He’s with Alice and some of the kids, Grace from number eleven is keeping an eye on them. He just sits there, like he hasn’t the energy to play. All the kids are so nice to him, but he can’t join in. It breaks my heart Joe, it really does. What’s going to ‘come of him?’

  Ryan hugged his wife tightly. He thought about this often, also. This was something he could not share with his wife. She needed his strength. He needed to convey a certainty he did not feel. His own fears he buried deep within. If they ever surfaced it would enfold his family in a darkness which no light would ever enter.

  ‘He’ll get better, Sal.
He will. When I was a young ‘un I knew loads of kids who had asthma, they coped. Ben isn’t any worse than they were. You’ll see, Sal.’

  These words had their usual effect. How true they were was another matter, but this wasn’t the issue Ryan had to deal with in that moment. Keeping his family’s spirit up was paramount. He had enough to deal with at work without any additional burden.

  Two hours later Ryan was standing opposite Abbott at the conveyor belt waiting for the waves of cigarettes to arrive.

  ‘I think I’ve found someone who is interested in taking bulk from me. We’ll earn less for the snout, but he can pay,’ said Abbott.

  ‘As long as he has the money, that’s fine,’ replied Ryan. He was about to add something else when Abbott moved his head slightly to indicate someone was coming.

  ‘Alright?’ said Johnny Mac looming over them both.

  ‘Yes boss,’ replied the two men in unison.

  ‘You want to stay here or move to another part?’

  ‘Fine here boss,’ said Abbott but not too quickly, ‘How about you Ryan?’

  ‘Me too, boss,’ added Ryan more casually than he was feeling. The big Ulsterman always gave the impression that he was as likely to stab you as pat you on the back.

  Johnny Mac nodded and walked away without saying anything. Ryan looked at Abbott and asked, ‘What do you think that was about? ‘

  ‘Nothing, I’m sure. But to be safe, we’ll lay off the snout tonight.’

  ‘D’you think they suspect something?’

  ‘Let’s not get caught out if they do.’

  ‘I agree,’ nodded Ryan.

  The rest of the night went as slowly as ever. Both men’s senses were on heightened alert for either Johnny Mac or, his Rottweiler assistant, Rusk. Neither spoke much over the course of the shift. Neither had to, it was clear that they were being looked at. Both were scrupulous in not giving any appearance that they were aware of this. At the end of the shift, Rusk called the two men over.