The Devil's Mask

by Christopher Wakling

  ‘Take note of what you see,’ I said, as much to myself as the others.

  ‘Down!’ retorted Blue. He took hold of the body roughly. ‘Help me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fetch a knife,’ Blue told the landlady. ‘Help me cut the rope.’

  The woman shifted from foot to foot, looking from Blue to me and back again. I saw the train of thought displayed in her face – if she followed Blue’s instructions, might he not only get the horrible thing down but take it, and the trouble it represented, away?

  I crossed the floorboards and gripped the sailor’s forearm. ‘Lower the body. We must report this to the proper authorities.’

  Blue shook his head incredulously. His face was working, the muscles in his jaw bunching and releasing. It looked like he was fighting to stop his mouth from trembling.

  I spoke quietly. ‘We must report what we’ve found here to Justice Wheeler, and keep the scene as it is until he has satisfied himself … Come on … easy …’

  Slowly Blue released the Captain’s body. As the rope – and neck – above them took the weight of Addison’s body again, some complication within the corpse caused it to emit a noise very like a gasp. Both Blue and I started at the exhalation and looked up, but the rope and body were already cast in stone again. There was a crumpled corner of paper poking from the pocket of the man’s breeches.

  I knew I should leave it where it was.

  To do otherwise would be to go against my own counsel.

  But Blue, head down, had slow-walked around me and was now heading for the door, temporarily blocking the landlady from view, and in that instant, as I realised the chance would be over before it had begun, I found I had already pulled the paper free. I slid it surreptitiously inside my breast pocket. Instantly, I feared I’d made a mistake. Perhaps I should contrive to put the note back? No! Even if I managed to do so unseen that wasn’t what I wanted at all! I had to know what it said. This wasn’t just about curiosity winning out over caution. Waiting for the contents to be relayed in the pages of Felix Farley’s news-sheet wasn’t an option at all. Though this story would be of salacious interest for the Bristol gossips, it mattered to me. I was involved in it. The note’s contents would simply be of more relevance to me, than to anybody else. In discovering the body, I’d gained the right to read it …

  As ever, the urge for self-justification crabbed me sideways around my morals. I glanced up at Addison again, and the guilt I felt turned the Captain’s hanging body into an exclamation mark of reproach.

  I picked up the birdcage and ushered both Blue and the landlady out on to the landing, drawing the door shut behind us.

  ‘You stay here,’ I told the sailor. ‘Guard the room against interference while I fetch Wheeler. Explain how we have moved nothing. Point out the open window, the position of the fallen chair.’

  Blue nodded. I put my lamp at his feet and guided the woman downstairs. ‘The Justice will want to question you. Best use the time between now and his arrival to collect yourself.’

  ‘Question me? But I’ve done nothing. He did that to himself, in my house … he’s the one that’s wronged me!’

  ‘And the best way to mend your situation is to be as helpful as you can with the authorities. They’ll want to know when you last saw Captain Addison alive and well, for instance.’

  ‘Yesterday morning. When I collected his breakfast tray. Though I’ve heard him since, stumbling about drunk or laying in bed groaning. But I couldn’t have seen this coming! I thought he was sorting himself out.’

  I paused in the hall, a hand on the head of the newel post. The wood was worn; there was play in the joint between post and stair. I imagined Addison hauling himself upright on it, launching himself unsteadily up to his room.

  ‘Sorting himself out? What gave you cause to think that?’

  The woman narrowed her eyes and worked at her neck again. ‘The Captain was agitated, and the bottle had a grip on him. He was sick at heart, but only yesterday he had his doctor friend come and visit all the way from Bath! He was seeking help, I tell you. I’d have fetched some for him myself if he’d have asked.’

  There was a clock on the wall behind the woman’s head. I had been staring at it as she spoke. Only now did I realise that it was broken: the pendulum wasn’t moving and both the clock’s brass hands were pointing straight up at the number twelve. Addison on the rope. I shuddered: the memory was more real than the thing itself. The little woman was still fidgeting, fizzing with anxiety. I explained that the authorities would no doubt want her to recall whether the Captain had had any other visitors during his stay. She explained that – to the best of her knowledge – he had not. That being the case, in the moments before I left to fetch Justice Wheeler, I helped the woman remember all she could about the Doctor from Bath.

  Thirty-three

  The words on the page read as follows:

  Where I owe apologies, I offer them. From those willing to grant it, I beg Forgiveness. It is better I take this course than the other. C.A.

  I stared at the script. It being dark outside, I’d had to wait until I came upon a lit shop before opening the Captain’s note to read it, and in that brief delay the thing had become a flame pressed against my chest. Yet reading the message neither soothed my guilt nor quenched my curiosity. The only thing I was certain about was that this note was not what it seemed. And yet I couldn’t quite put my finger on the oddness.

  The handwriting was uneven, the ink smudged, the page itself crumpled.

  That all made sense.

  The document reflected – embodied even – a disordered mind.

  And yet, looked at in a different light, the slash of words and ink conveyed something other than anguish. They suggested haste. That was it; the message looked as if it had been written in a rush.

  I thought for a moment. Perhaps Addison had determined to kill himself and scribbled this down quickly so as not to give himself a chance of changing his mind? No, that didn’t quite add up. If he’d feared a sudden weakening of will, he’d not have paused to write a final missive at all. It wasn’t even as if the note conveyed anything of particular importance. His thoughts weren’t addressed to anyone in particular. Vagueness was what made the note notable, in fact. Looked at straight, it appeared less a man’s impassioned final words than a jerkily penned sham. I folded the piece of paper carefully back into the pocket of my greatcoat.

  I would do the right thing. I had begun on the right track, after all. Fallen chest of drawers aside, the room was exactly as we’d found it. If ever a man was trustworthy, the epithet applied to Blue. You could see it in the way he held himself. And he clearly had a sense of allegiance to his unlucky Captain. So the sailor would definitely guard the room until the Justice arrived, and from then the matter would be in sensible hands. I was headed there now, Wheeler’s house in Stratton Street; going straight there was the honourable thing to do.

  I strode out, my pace fanning my sense of self-righteousness.

  But what I really wanted to do was get beyond the Justice and back to Carthy’s house. Availing myself of his help was suddenly more important than everything else. For with the discovery of Addison’s death, I was irretrievably out of my depth. His dead weight, leaden upon the rope, changed everything. It gave substance to my suspicions. Never mind that I didn’t understand quite how; that was where Carthy would come in. He would not expect me to soldier-on alone now.

  One of the Justice’s children opened the house to me. She was carrying a cat which squirmed madly in her arms upon spotting the canary inside its cage. I had interrupted the Justice at his supper. The man appeared behind his daughter with his napkin still tucked into the collar of his shirt, his sleeves turned back for what his jowly, solid appearance suggested was, for him, the important business of eating. He wasn’t pleased with my news. The cat must have scratched the girl at this point; she dropped it unceremoniously and aimed a kick at it which it evaded by leaping on to a pile of pallets to one si
de of the doorway. Girl and cat hissed at one another from a distance. Wheeler rolled his eyes and tore the napkin free, neither shocked nor surprised, and his brusqueness somehow made it easier for me to pass on a diluted version of the facts, as follows:

  In routine pursuance of my duty I, together with one of the sailors from Addison’s old ship, had that afternoon called upon Captain Addison at his lodgings, only to discover, together with the landlady of the premises, the unexpected news of the Captain’s death.

  Downplaying my role in the discovery in this way felt prudent. The Justice huffed and grumbled and sent for a lantern as he crammed himself into his coat. I checked my pocket-watch and declared myself late. Wheeler knew where to find me if I could be of further assistance. For now, I trusted that my civic duty was done.

  Thirty-four

  Besieged troops fight with renewed vigour ahead of the arrival of reinforcements, the prospect of help itself being enough to lift their heads. Despite the now sullen ache in my upper back, and the continuous ringing in my left ear, my decision to ask for Carthy’s guidance buoyed me before I’d even reached Thunderbolt Street.

  I crossed the imposing square and glanced at the Alexanders’ high-fronted house, its windows boastful with lamplight. Lilly would be somewhere inside. I’d call on her again soon. In fact, I’d make a drawing for her … something as direct and honest as one of Edie Dyer’s poems. Recalling the poetess at that moment irked me. I looked away from Lilly’s house and shifted the birdcage from the crook of one arm to the other. At least I’d be rid of this … absurdity … soon. I rounded the final corner with long strides.

  The door to Carthy’s house stood open. Anne was sitting on the front step, bouncing a doll on her bare knee. Her father would be doubly annoyed. He didn’t like her playing in the street unsupervised, and he insisted, in milder weather than this even, upon her wearing a coat outdoors. I squatted on the paving stones and reminded her as much.

  Anne nodded and re-fixed her squint upon her doll.

  Sorry that I had chastised her, I went on swiftly: ‘I have something for you.’

  The little girl’s expression sharpened instantly, her attention switching to the basket under my arm. ‘What is it?’

  I turned sideways so she couldn’t see the bird. ‘I’m not sure how well this will go down with the authorities,’ I nodded over her head.

  Anne’s eyebrows dipped. ‘What is it?’ she repeated.

  ‘There’s a chance you won’t be allowed to keep it,’ I warned her. ‘Meaning I probably shouldn’t have bought it in the first place …’

  ‘Let me see.’

  I tumbled the basket forwards, a ham magician, and Anne took it and held it up, delighted.

  ‘We’ll have to get it a proper cage, I know,’ I went on. ‘Just let me do the talking if your parents object!’

  Anne nodded, still squinting at the canary as it – gratifyingly – put on a twittering, flapping show. ‘Nobody will mind today,’ she said. ‘Not now Daddy has gone.’

  I began warning Anne that the bird would no doubt fly away if released from its cage outdoors, or within reach of an open window, and was about to elaborate when I simultaneously realised what Anne had said and heard a movement in the house behind her.

  ‘Does it have a name?’ Anne asked.

  There were heavy feet coming down the stairs. A pair of women’s boots, flashing beneath full skirts, stumped into view. A set of wringing hands appeared above Anne’s head. They connected themselves to a woman, Anne’s aunt Beatrice. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes, expectant as a bride’s, were too large in her face.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness!’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come in, come inside. Oh, thank goodness you’re here.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Bedtime, Anne. Go upstairs.’

  ‘I’ve got a bird, but it doesn’t have a name.’

  ‘Upstairs!’

  Beatrice’s sharp tone cut concern with excitement. She bustled ahead of me, energetic. Whatever was going on, there was something annoying about the way the woman appeared to be relishing her involvement in it. I could not stop myself from snapping at her. ‘Stop! What’s happened?’

  Beatrice paused and looked meaningfully – theatrically so – at Anne, unwilling to explain herself in front of the child. I put a hand on Anne’s head. The softness of her hair was suddenly heartbreaking. I knelt before her again and said, ‘This little bird is very curious, Anne. Keep him safe in his basket, and take him up to see your bedroom. Explain where you keep things. Your shell collection, the conkers and so on. I’ll be up in a minute.’

  The child nodded hard and skittered away upstairs.

  I rounded upon Beatrice, backing her purposefully through the door into my office. ‘Where’s Adam? Where’s Mrs Carthy? What is going on?’

  ‘Why, Mrs Carthy is taken to bed. That’s the reason the maid sent for me. She’s never been much use in a crisis. The shock … They didn’t know where to find you. So the carriage was sent for me and –’

  ‘An explanation!’ I thundered.

  The woman sucked in her cheeks and rolled her lower lip over her bottom teeth. She would not be hurried into spoiling her surprise. My heartbeat hushed in my ears.

  ‘A note has arrived!’ Beatrice said, finally. ‘A note about Mr Carthy. It says he has been taken for a prisoner. Kidnappers have him! And he says they will kill him unless you do exactly as they say.’

  ‘Where is this note?’ I said coldly.

  Beatrice produced a folded wedge of paper from her housecoat, triumphant as a magician: she would let nothing undermine the melodrama of her moment.

  I took the paper from her without speaking, corralled her from my office, and shut the door behind her. Then I spread the note out on my blotter.

  We have Adam Carthy. We will release him in exchange for all the documentation pertaining to our case, and a final undertaking to DESIST from further meddling. Deliver the papers to ‘the top of the world’ at noon tomorrow. If you fail to do so, you will not see Mr Carthy alive again.

  The blank threat of these words sent a shiver through me. But it was as nothing compared to what I confirmed by spreading out Addison’s ‘suicide note’ next to the demand. I’d thought as much from the jerky lettering on the front of the ransom note. The same jagged ‘f’s and ‘s’s. It was as if these sounds were hissing in my ear. Undoubtedly, both missives were penned by the same unhinged hand.

  I didn’t know what to do. I had never felt so alone. I slumped into the leather chair behind my desk, and recalled Carthy wheeling it into the office the day I qualified. Upstairs his daughter’s footsteps skipped from left to right and right to left again. The heavier tread, of Beatrice, presumably, followed them. This was all my fault. I should have told Carthy I had been threatened, warned him. By trying to double-guess him I’d put him in danger.

  The pattering footsteps upstairs drummed recrimination over my head. If anything happened to him … I could not complete the thought. What should I do? The question rolled round my head uselessly, evolving, eventually, into: What would Carthy want me to do?

  That was easier to answer. He would not want me to give in. He would not want me to take the file up to the top of Clifton Hill as instructed, unless it was part of a wider plan. In any dispute, his reasoning was that a man put on the back foot should come out fighting.

  But what did I have to fight with?

  Well, the two messages on my blotter were a starting point. They were evidence of foul play. I could present them to Justice Wheeler and in so doing compel him to investigate Carthy’s disappearance, as well as Addison’s death. I’d have to explain how I came to be in possession of Addison’s note, but so be it. It was evidence the Captain had not died at his own hand; Wheeler may well have reached that conclusion on the basis of what was in the room, anyway. Now he would have to.

  I’d already shucked myself back into my coat; I buttoned it up forceful
ly, as if by doing so I could truss these addled, panicky thoughts into something solid. If I set off immediately, I’d stand a chance of intercepting the Justice back at Addison’s lodgings.

  Yet I had a duty to reassure Carthy’s family before I set off. I took the stairs two at a time, then paused on the landing to force myself to breathe slowly. Beatrice jack-in-the-boxed from her easy chair when I entered Anne’s nursery. I sidestepped her and knelt before the little girl.

  ‘You know how your father likes to set us small challenges,’ I said. ‘Stories to find endings for, questions to answer ourselves?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s quite like what he’s done today. He’s gone somewhere to do with work, and it’s my job to find out where it is and bring him home. Understand?’

  ‘He likes puzzles,’ Anne said. ‘As well as treasure hunts.’

  ‘Exactly. And while he’s gone, and I’m gone looking for him, I’ve got a job for you. You must work out a name for the canary, a good name, one you think your father will like.’

  Anne squinted at me thoughtfully and nodded.

  ‘You work that out then,’ I repeated. ‘And I’ll go and find him.’

  Thirty-five

  By now it was horribly dark. Even the glow from the windows appeared muted, rendered ineffectual by the combination of an evening mist and lowering smoke from the city’s countless chimney pots, which together blotted all memory of sun, moon and stars alike. It was as if the air had turned black and greasy; it dug cold thumbs into my collar and ran wet fingers through my hair. I knew which way I was going, more or less, but reckoned I would make hopelessly slow progress if forced to feel my way through the rat-maze of streets in this cloying dark. A lamp-bearer would speed my progress. But there weren’t any visible from Thunderbolt Street, or even in Queen Square. I had to cut down to the Welsh Back in order to pick up the only available light for hire and, as luck would have it, the lamp-bearer himself was a decrepit old man, so bowlegged, wheezy and round-shouldered that he appeared to be expending most of his energy in lugging the weight of his final breaths every step of the way, never mind the lantern. I asked whether I might not carry it for us, and so speed up our way, in response to which the man managed, through some peculiar combination of sniffing, coughing, and clearing his throat, to suggest I’d insulted him. He picked up the pace. We scuttled through the snot-slick streets, over the black river, and back into the city’s rotten guts.