by Paul Stewart
Hobholt firmly believed that this allowed each prisoner to reflect on their crimes and aided their reformation. That, however, was not what I’d heard. Rumour abounded of inmates of Whitegate being driven mad by the rigidly enforced isolation and silence of the place, and being transferred to the lunatic asylum at Watermeadows Lane.
Clarissa Oliphant, I knew, would find it hard being locked up there. Visiting times for those awaiting trial were strictly limited and there was no way I would be allowed to see her, the inspector had informed me, until Monday morning at the earliest. In the meantime, though, there was someone I needed to visit.
Clarissa’s parlourmaid, Tilly.
I imagined that the poor girl would be desperate with worry at the disappearance of her mistress, and I set off for Aspen Row at once. Ducking down the first alley I came to, I shinned up a conveniently placed drainpipe and onto the tiled rooftops. Night had fallen, cold and foggy, while I’d been stuck inside the police station. My rather threadbare jacket did little to keep me warm, and I was missing my poacher’s waistcoat. Fifteen minutes later, however, having dashed across the rooftops at breakneck speed, I reached my destination with sweat beading my forehead.
I raised my cane and was about to rap on the door, when I heard the sounds of muffled sobbing coming from inside.
‘Tilly?’ I said, knocking firmly and shouting through the letter box. ‘Tilly, it’s me, Barnaby. Let me in.’
‘Barnaby,’ I heard her say. ‘Thank goodness.’
Footsteps came running across the hallway, followed by the sound of bolts and a chain being released. The door flew open, and Tilly threw herself at me.
‘It’s all right,’ I told her, hugging her tightly. You’re safe now. Tell me what happened.’
She pulled away and looked up at me, her blue eyes red-rimmed, and her pretty cheeks stained with tears. She pushed her hair away from her face.
‘I … I was so frightened, Barnaby, and it got later and later, and the mistress didn’t come back,’ she fretted, the words stumbling over each other. ‘And she still isn’t here, and she’s never out this late. And then I heard sounds upstairs, and I thought she was back and had slipped in without my noticing, but when I looked, there was no one there, and …’
I squeezed her hands. ‘You’ve been very brave, Tilly,’ I told her, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.’
I stepped inside, closing the door behind me, and led her through to the cosy kitchen, with its copper pots and blazing range. I sat her down in the rocking chair and told her what had happened. Tilly gasped and buried her face in her hands.
‘Mr Oliphant, dead,’ she whispered. ‘And the mistress accused of his murder! Oh, what is a poor maid-of-all-work to do, Barnaby?’ Tilly sobbed.
Just then, there came the soft creaking of a loose floorboard from upstairs. Tilly looked up, her eyes wide with terror.
‘There it is again,’ she said. ‘I told you, Barnaby.’ She swallowed. ‘I didn’t imagine it.’
‘Leave this to me,’ I told her. ‘You stay here.’
I drew my sword, left the kitchen and crept up the carpeted stairs as quietly as I could. Peering inside from the landing, I could see that what I took to be the door to Clarissa Oliphant’s bedroom was open. Drawers had been pulled out, cupboard doors hung open and various items lay strewn across the floor. The room had clearly been searched, and pretty thoroughly by the look of it.
The adjacent room was at the back of the house, directly above the drawing room. It was where I’d heard Laurence Oliphant pacing about on my first visit. The door was closed, and I paused and pressed my ear to the dark-stained wood. Silence. I waited for a moment or two, then, gripping my sword firmly, I seized the door handle and marched into Laurence Oliphant’s bedchamber.
I looked around. There was a wall lamp to the right of the door. I pulled a box of vestas from my pocket, struck one and lit the gas. As I adjusted the mantle, a golden yellow glow filled the air, banishing the shadows to the corners of the room–but failing to reveal any intruder lurking there. Nevertheless, I felt ill at ease, every fibre of my body tense and braced as I took in my surroundings.
Unlike the rest of the house, Laurence Oliphant’s bedchamber was stark, with bare boards and empty walls. Heaps of boxes and crates stood piled up on both sides of the room, with various pieces of what I took to be photographic equipment nestling between them. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, and a faint tang of chemicals hung in the air.
Beneath the window at the far end of the room was a small metal-framed bed, with crumpled blankets strewn across a thin mattress. An easel stood at the end of the bed behind a varnished wooden screen. It had what looked like a painting propped up against its angled struts. My curiosity aroused, I went to inspect it more closely and was surprised to discover that it wasn’t an oil painting at all, but a photographic image mounted on thick card. I pulled the easel round until the lamp glow fell upon the picture.
The big ears and small eyes. The snub nose. A strand of silvery hair that had come free from the bun and hung down across a fleshy cheek. The high-collared jacket, buttoned at the neck …
It was the likeness of Clarissa Oliphant, captured in a beautifully modulated black and white image. But it wasn’t just her features and clothes that I recognized, it was her expression. The lofty superiority of her steady gaze. The parsimonious tightness in her lips. It was as though I wasn’t merely looking at a likeness of Clarissa Oliphant, but at the essence of the woman herself. It was more life-like than any painting I’d ever seen.
I leaned forward, my sword lowered. Laurence Oliphant’s looped signature filled the bottom left-hand corner; below it, there was a date. The picture, I realized, was over a year old, with the image as crisp as the day it had been produced.
‘An oliphantype,’ I murmured.
As if in response, I heard a faint hissing noise, like the expelling of air. My body tensed. I spun round, brandishing my sword, but the room was empty.
Just then, in the flickering glow of the lamplight, and for the briefest of moments, I thought I glimpsed a half-formed, spectral shape by the doorway. It was translucent and indistinct, yet there was the suggestion of the tip of an ear, the curve of a shoulder.
‘Barnaby!’ It was Tilly, calling up from the foot of the stairs. ‘Barnaby, are you all right?’
Suddenly, the door slammed shut. The next moment, Tilly screamed, her cries of terror echoing round the empty house.
‘Tilly!’ I shouted back. ‘Tilly, I’m coming!’
I hurtled across the room, tore the door open and dashed along the landing. From the top of the stairs I could see her. She was lying at the foot of the stairs, her mobcap beside her and her hair unpinned. I slid swiftly down the banister, and landed beside her.
‘Oh, Ba … Ba … Barnaby,’ she stammered, looking up. Her sobs caught in her throat as I helped her shakily to her feet. ‘Something brushed past me. It knocked me aside.’
‘That’s the thing,’ she said, her face taut with fear. ‘I didn’t see anything, Barnaby.’
‘It?’ I said. ‘What did you see?’
‘That’s the thing,’ she said, her face taut with fear. ‘I didn’t see anything, Barnaby.’
Just then, more sounds came from the drawing room. I pulled away from Tilly and, sword before me, raced across the hall. I burst into the room and froze. Behind me, Tilly let out a little cry.
The large sash-window that led out into the back garden was open, and the curtains were flapping in the wind. I strode across the floor and pulled the window down with a rumbling thud. I fastened the catch.
‘Whatever it was,’ I told her, ‘it appears to have gone now.’
‘Look, Barnaby! Look!’ Tilly’s horrified voice sounded from behind me.
I turned to see her staring at the wall opposite the window. The landscape painting that would have hung there was propped up against the wainscoting beneath, while the strongbox it had concealed was open, the heavy i
ron door hanging back on its hinges, and a key protruding from its lock.
‘What was in it?’ I asked.
Tilly turned to me, her face white with shock. ‘The mistress’s gold sovereigns,’ she said, confirming what I’d feared. ‘Her inheritance from Lord Riverhythe!’ Her face crumpled. ‘It was her nest egg, Barnaby. She depended on it, and now it’s gone. She’s ruined!’
There was no question of Tilly staying in the Oliphants’ residence after the strange events of that night, and I escorted her to her aunt’s house in Mulberry Court, not far from my rooms in Caged Lark Lane. Despite the lateness of the hour, one look at her niece’s terrified face convinced the old fishwife that this was indeed an emergency, and she was happy to take her in.
I returned to my rooms, exhausted and disturbed by the day’s events in equal measure, and went straight to bed. I fell almost immediately into a deep sleep, only to be plagued by nightmares of a hideous apparition emerging from the lock-up and pursuing me down Blood Alley. Suddenly, I was cornered, and it pressed its appalling face close to mine, its fetid breath suffocating me. I tried to raise my hands, to push away the unseen head that was pressing closer and closer into my face. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get away.
I felt something wet graze my chin and draw slowly up my grimacing face; over my nose, across my forehead. Then again. And again …
My eyes snapped open. ‘Kaiser!’ I exclaimed.
The dog cocked its head to one side, then leaned forward for another lick.
‘Kaiser! Down, boy!’
Shamefacedly, the huge hound stepped down from the bed and sat on the floor, staring back at me expectantly. I sat up and patted his head, then glanced across at my clock.
It had seemed like a good idea the night before, having the guard dog in my attic rooms, sleeping on a blanket by the door. Now, wide awake at only half past six on a Sunday morning, I was beginning to regret my decision. Rolling over and going back to sleep was out of the question. I pushed the covers back and climbed out of bed.
‘Just give me half an hour,’ I told the dog, ‘and I’ll take you for a walk.’
I don’t know for certain whether the creature recognized the word walk, but his tail started thumping noisily against the floor. I washed and dressed quickly, and was putting the kettle on to boil when there was a soft knock at the door.
My heart missed a beat, and I had to remind myself that, as a general rule, phantoms don’t knock on doors. With Kaiser standing alert at my side, I unlocked the door and opened it.
‘Barnaby,’ came a familiar voice, and Will Farmer, his wheelboard clamped under one arm, stepped into the room. ‘I thought …’ His gaze fell on the dog. Grinning broadly, he crouched down and looked into the dog’s eyes. ‘And who are you?’ he said, stroking and patting his head, and then laughed as Kaiser licked his face and neck.
‘His name’s Kaiser,’ I told him. ‘He belonged to Laurence Oliphant, the brother of that client I was telling you about. The late Laurence Oliphant,’ I added.
Will looked up in surprise.
‘Laurence Oliphant has been murdered,’ I told him. Just then, a low, flutey whistle filled the air as the kettle came to the boil. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Will Farmer seemed bemused as I outlined the bizarre events of the previous day. He shook his head as he placed his cup back on its saucer.
‘Who do you think the intruder at the Oliphants’ house was?’ he asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
I’d witnessed more than my share of the supernatural over the years, from werewolves and evil skulls to a legion of undead zombies, and I’d learned to keep such things to myself as much as possible. It didn’t do to go about scaring the good citizens of this great city any more than one had to.
‘I’m not sure,’ I told Will, ‘but I plan to find out, starting first thing Monday morning.’ I stretched and yawned extravagantly. ‘Now, what plans do you have for this fine day of rest?’
Will grinned. ‘Since it’s Sunday,’ he said, tapping the wheelboard, ‘I was going for a spin in Centennial Park, and I wondered if you’d like to join me.’
‘Excellent idea,’ I said, ‘and I’ll bring Kaiser. He could do with a good run.’
We set off ten minutes later, with Will babbling on about the fine adjustments he’d been making to that wheelboard of his, as well as the various moves he was beginning to perfect. The early morning mist was soon burned off by the autumn sun, leaving the streets pink and golden, though still bitterly cold. At the bottom of Waverley Avenue, Will took a left turn.
‘I thought we were going to Centennial Park,’ I said.
‘We are,’ Will replied, and grinned sheepishly. ‘But I thought I’d see whether Molly fancied accompanying us. It’s such a lovely morning.’
‘Molly Gosney?’ I said, twitching Kaiser’s leash to stop him pulling ahead. ‘What makes you think she might be interested in you?’
Will’s grin broadened. ‘Because she told me herself,’ he said, and winked. ‘At the Alhambra music hall last night …’
‘Why, you sly old rascal,’ I said, throwing back my head and laughing.
As we rounded the corner of Prospect Avenue, Gosney and Daughter homed into view. The shop was shut up and in darkness, but when Will rang the bell, Molly soon appeared at the door to let us in.
‘Will,’ she said, blushing charmingly. ‘And Mr Grimes.’
‘Call me Barnaby,’ I told her.
‘Barnaby,’ she repeated and nodded. ‘My mother’s going to be very pleased to see you. She’s just been putting the finishing touches to your poached egg waistcoat.’
Both Will and I burst out laughing. Molly stared at the pair of us, one after the other, her brow lined with confusion. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What did I say?’
‘It’s a poacher’s waistcoat,’ Will explained, and kissed her lightly on her forehead.
‘Well, whatever it’s called,’ said Molly primly. ‘It’s ready.’
She called up the stairs to her mother, who emerged a moment later, the newly completed waistcoat hanging over her arm. She smiled at me warmly, and gripping the garment by the shoulder seams and holding it out before her, crossed the shop floor towards me.
‘I only hope it fits,’ she said anxiously.
I removed my jacket and slipped the waistcoat on, and Mrs Gosney clucked and tutted as she did up the buttons at the front, tightened the buckle at the back and smoothed down the shoulders. She turned me round and steered me towards a full-length mirror, where I paused and looked at my reflection.
The waistcoat was a work of art. Made of light-brown canvas and lined with buttery silk, it had been decorated with tooled leather corner-pieces and ten polished mother-of-pearl buttons. There were six numbered pockets stitched to one front panel, and eight to the other, with hooks, rings and tags stitched between them, and two more deep pockets on the inside – in short, a place for everything I needed, and more besides. Keys, pencils and notebook, documents, dockets and calling cards; there was even a handy pouch for the grit I carried for long rooftop jumps on frosty mornings. Best of all, the waistcoat fitted me perfectly.
‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I said.
‘There’s no need for thanks, Barnaby,’ she said. ‘It’s the least I could do. We’re so grateful to you for rescuing Bobbin, aren’t we, Molly?’
But Molly hadn’t heard. She and Will were by the door, staring into each other’s eyes and giggling softly.
‘Come on, you two,’ I said, slipping my jacket over my fine new waistcoat. ‘I thought we were going wheelboarding.’
It was mid morning by the time the four of us reached Centennial Park. The russet leaves of the trees were stark against the deep-blue sky and, as we passed beneath the cast-iron arch entrance, I saw that the fine weather had attracted crowds. The place was thronging.
There were men with dogs, elegant couples walking arm in arm and clusters of nannies with
sleek black perambulators. Young children flew gaudy kites, rolled wooden hoops and prodded at sailboats which bobbed about on the ornamental lake. Half a dozen older boys were playing tag rounders, using their jackets for bases and tackling each other to the ground; while twin sisters, each in matching sailor suits, shrieked with delight as they rolled down a grassy hill – much to the annoyance of their over-protective governess.
Will dropped his wheelboard to the ground, jumped onto it and, scooting with one leg, propelled himself along the path towards the bandstand. Molly and I ran after him, while Kaiser, on the end of his leash, bounded along before us. Will skidded round, and brought the wheelboard to a standstill. His cheeks were red with a mixture of cold air and exhilaration.
‘Your turn, Barnaby,’ he said eagerly.
I handed Kaiser’s leash to him and stepped gingerly onto the board, which immediately shot forward, out of control, pitching me down to the ground – and causing both Will and Molly to howl with laughter. Kaiser lowered his head and licked my face where I lay.
‘It’s all a matter of balance,’ Will told me, as I prepared myself for a second attempt. ‘Keep your legs flexed, your knees bent and arms outstretched. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
I persisted and, thanks to the balance that highstacking had taught me, before long I was managing rides of twenty, thirty yards or more. Will was right. Wheelboarding was fun. Lots of fun. What was more, not only were people pausing to watch us, fascinated by the curious wheeled contraption, but some were even stopping to ask Will where they could buy a wheelboard of their own. Maybe it would become all the rage after all.
‘I think you’ve got the hang of it, Barnaby,’ Will told me. He turned to Molly, a smile on his lips. ‘Do you think he’s ready yet?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Molly, her dark eyes flashing with amusement.
Will nodded and grinned at me. ‘We think it’s time you had a shot at Cheese-Chaser Hill.’