A Case of Grave Danger

by Sophie Cleverly

  I took a deep breath, climbed the steps and knocked on the door. It was opened almost instantly by a tall blond footman in smartly tailored black clothes. ‘Good morning,’ he said, with a light hint of a Swedish accent. ‘The Eriksens are otherwise engaged, I’m afraid.’

  ‘My name is Elizabeth French,’ I told him. ‘I live down the street. I was so sorry to hear about Mr Eriksen.’

  There was the tiniest flicker of expression in his face, and then it was gone again. ‘Of course. We are all deeply saddened by his passing.’ He said the line like some sort of automaton at a fairground, ordered to repeat it over and over. There was no emotion there.

  I pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of my eyes. ‘Did he suffer?’

  The footman looked back blankly. ‘We don’t know, miss. It is rather a mystery, what happened to him, I’m afraid. He was presumed missing, and we only recently received the news.’

  ‘It’s terrible,’ I sobbed, perhaps a little too dramatically.

  ‘Yeeees …’ the footman replied. He didn’t sound convinced. ‘It is …’ His eyes darted around as if he was suddenly concerned about being overheard. ‘I shouldn’t speak of this any further, miss, apologies. As I said, the Eriksens are engaged. Please do call back another time.’

  With a polite nod, he shut the door in my face.

  I frowned and hopped back down the steps.

  ‘He’s hiding something,’ said Oliver. Bones whined in what I assumed was agreement.

  ‘Definitely,’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t like his master too much, I reckon.’

  ‘Hmm.’ So it was possible that both our victims so far were unpopular with the people around them. I supposed that made sense. If the letter that Father had received was real, it meant that these men were involved in dark dealings – or at the very least with the wrong people. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get any more here. Let’s head to Jeffords Lane.’

  Oliver was more familiar with Jeffords Lane. It wasn’t in quite such an affluent area as the other places we’d visited, but it wasn’t far off. ‘Used to shine shoes down Green Street over there, with the shops,’ he said, pointing. ‘Lots of blokes in suits an’ hats and briefcases. They don’t want to be seen without the shiniest of shoes.’

  ‘Do you think you ever met Mr Comely-Parsons?’ I asked.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘How would I know? They didn’t want to speak to me. I was just a shoeshine boy. They’d sit an’ read the papers while I did it, that was all. Got kicked a few times.’

  ‘That’s awful!’ I gasped.

  His brow wrinkled. ‘Just the way it is round here.’

  Windermere House was a fairly new brick-built building that boasted white windows and an elegant set of steps to the front, with its own gas lamps. I was just about to approach the door when it was flung open, and a girl in a maid’s uniform came running out sobbing. She nearly ran straight into me, making Bones bark.

  ‘Oh, miss, I’m sorry, miss!’ she cried. She took a step back and started trying to dry her tears on her apron.

  I shared a worried glance with Oliver. ‘It’s quite all right,’ I reassured her. She reminded me a bit of Maddy.

  The girl shook her head. ‘It’s not!’ she sniffed.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Oliver asked her, politely removing his hat.

  ‘I’ve – I’ve been sacked,’ she said, sinking down on to the steps. ‘The mistress won’t even give me a reference. I can’t believe it! I should have known!’ Her mouth was going at a mile a minute. ‘That woman told me this would happen, said it was what they’ve done to everyone else and they know girls like me are too far from home to get help, but oh my, I had to be foolish. But I needed this job and what with the master gone I thought things would get better and …’

  Bones barked again.

  Oliver tilted his head. ‘You worked for the Comely-Parsons?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ the maid stuttered through her tears.

  Alarm bells were ringing in my head. ‘What did you say about a woman?’

  She sniffed again. Her hair was falling out of its tidy bun and she tried in vain to push it back in. ‘A-a lady,’ she hiccuped, fumbling with her hairpin. ‘She was standing outside here when I came about the job advertisement. She told me I shouldn’t work for them.’ The maid waved up at Windermere House. ‘Said they’d just treat me badly and then sack me. That they do it to all the girls, I …’ She paused mid-sentence. ‘Wait. Who are you?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, we’re just …’ I looked around frantically. I’d been caught off-guard by the crying maid. Aha – Oliver’s cap. I snatched it from him. ‘Collecting for the orphans,’ I told her, shaking it a bit. I hoped she wouldn’t notice that there weren’t even any coins in it.

  She blinked away a few more tears. ‘Sorry, miss. Barely a penny to me name now, miss.’

  I felt awful. In the past I probably would have run home and asked Father if we could hire her, but that was no longer possible. ‘Well, there is something you can do for us,’ I told her. ‘Can you tell us what this lady who spoke to you looked like?’

  ‘She was kind to me,’ said the maid, burying her head in her apron so her words came out slightly muffled. ‘I should have listened to her. She was right about him.’

  That hadn’t answered the question, and I was getting desperate. ‘But what did she look like?’ I asked as gently as I could.

  ‘Oh.’ The girl lifted her head again. ‘She was all in black. And had a …’ She dragged a hand slowly down her face.

  ‘A scar,’ Oliver said, turning pale.

  Miss Stone. The Black Widow.

  hat the housemaid had told us was certainly useful information. It tied Miss Stone to one of the victims. But it didn’t completely make sense to me.

  ‘The maid said she was kind to her,’ I was saying to Oliver.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘I know. Don’t really sound like a murderer, do it?’

  And how did this fit with the blackmail note? If it were real, and there were some angry creditor out there who wanted these men dead – why would Miss Stone be involved? Perhaps this proved what I hoped – that Father was being falsely accused. He couldn’t be guilty.

  It all went through my mind as we travelled on the omnibus, bouncing through the streets with Bones once again curled up at my feet and trying not to be noticed.

  My purse was now considerably lighter than it had been. I gave the maid a penny for what she had told us – I was expecting her to ask why a charity would give away pennies, but she was in too much of a state to question it and just thanked me profusely. Of course I also had to remember that I needed to pick up a loaf of bread before going home – otherwise Mother would realise I had been lying about my whereabouts all day. Then all my money would be gone.

  I tried not to think about it. It was temporary. We were going to free Father, and prove that he had nothing to do with all this. I had to believe that.

  Barnaby Crescent, the home of Randall Wutherford, was the last stop on our trail. It wasn’t that far from the cemetery, just a few streets away. It was another grand street, a Georgian arc of houses with black iron railings and balconies. Stone balustrades at the top hid the servants’ quarters from view.

  Bones went dashing ahead of us, and stopped right outside number 8.We ran to keep up with him. He climbed the steps and began sniffing the black front door.

  ‘Bones,’ I hissed from the pavement. ‘Come back!’

  He ignored me, and kept on sniffing and pacing up and down. A low growl began to build in his throat.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ Oliver asked, almost as if he expected the dog to answer.

  Bones kept growling.

  ‘He didn’t act like this at any of the other victims’ houses,’ I said. ‘Something’s wrong.’ I gripped the cold iron railings and tried to use my other sense, but there was no hint of ghostly activity. No tingle on my fingertips, no whispers in my ears.

  With hindsight, we should have paid atte
ntion to Bones more quickly. We should have run back the way we came from.

  Because the black door of number 8 suddenly swung open, and out marched Inspector Holbrook.

  ‘YOU!’ he barked, the second he saw us. There were two other policemen behind him, politely readjusting their helmets. They both narrowed their eyes in our direction.

  I gulped. I didn’t think we stood a chance of getting away from three policemen. Bones ran back and curled around my legs, whimpering and shaking. He didn’t like shouting.

  Inspector Holbrook strode over to us and began to speak, back to his usual manner that remained quiet but felt like it was ordering your soul about. ‘You should not be here. What do you think you’re doing?’

  I was stuck. None of our excuses of being concerned neighbours or collecting for the impoverished were going to work on the inspector. He knew who we were, and he was immediately suspicious. Oliver was just staring at me helplessly, waiting for me to come up with something.

  When the moment had gone on a bit too long, I simply had to give the truth. ‘We’re investigating,’ I told him, crossing my arms so tight that I thought I might cut off my circulation.

  The condescending look the inspector gave me only emboldened me. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. ‘If you won’t do your jobs properly, I shall do them for you.’

  One of the men with him laughed. The other leaned back against the railings and began lighting a pipe. They weren’t taking me the least bit seriously.

  The inspector’s look changed to be more quizzical. ‘Little girl …’ He bent down and put his hands on his knees, talking to me as if I were five years old. His watch dangled down in front of me. ‘Do you really think that you can save your father by playing detectives?’

  I felt tears prickling my eyes. ‘We’re not playing.’

  ‘Then,’ he said, ‘do you mean for me to take you seriously? In which case I should arrest you for obstructing my investigation, no?’

  I could feel the rumble of Bones’s growling against my leg, but he was holding back and quivering. Inspector Holbrook frightened him. In all honesty, he frightened me as well. I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Talking to people ain’t a crime,’ Oliver spoke up from beside me.

  ‘No, no,’ said the inspector, shaking his head without breaking eye contact. ‘But stealing from a crime scene is.’

  ‘We ain’t stolen anything neither!’ Oliver insisted. I squeezed the end of his fingertips, feeling warm at his bravery.

  ‘Oh no?’ Holbrook said. ‘A list of the victims’ names went missing. Would you happen to know anything about that?’

  ‘I—’ I started.

  He held up a warning finger. ‘Think very carefully before you answer, young miss. Because of course, if you had nothing to do with it, you would have to explain to me precisely how it is that you are here investigating at a victim’s house.’

  My mind was racing. I had to think of something, but I was fairly certain that he wouldn’t like anything I had to say. ‘I saw it,’ I said eventually. ‘I just read the names when you held up the piece of paper.’

  The inspector just stared back at me for a moment. ‘Then you have an incredible memory and above-average eyesight, is that it?’

  I heard a snort from the smoking policeman. Inspector Holbrook was toying with me like a cat with a mouse, and they were most amused. I felt my chest go tight and my lips sealed together.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Oliver, trying to drag himself up to his full height, though it was little use against the tall inspector. ‘You’re just a bully!’

  Inspector Holbrook barely reacted to him, but I saw a glint in his eyes. ‘I’m going to give you a final warning. Stay out of this. I think,’ he said, turning to his men, ‘that we should take these two down to the station.’

  They threw us in the back of a black police wagon, and we protested the entire way to the station – but of course it did no good. The policemen sat at the front and ignored us.

  Furious, I slumped down in a heap beside Oliver on the juddering wooden floor. Bones whined at me.

  ‘Don’t give me that! You could have bitten them for us this time!’ I told him.

  Thankfully we weren’t officially under arrest. They simply sat us in a small room in the corner of the station beside the entrance to the jail cells, with a young constable guarding the door. He wore big fluffy sideburns and a bored expression, and was passing his time by reading a newspaper. It was freezing, despite all my layers of clothing. Outside, it had begun to spit with rain. Bones whined and put his head down on his paws.

  I shuffled my shoes on the tiled floor, while Oliver stared miserably at the wall. I wondered if there was any chance of getting to see Father again. It was so strange to think that he was down there, somewhere beneath my feet. Trapped behind bars. If only we could see him – perhaps he could tell us something that might help with the investigation. I could ask him about Miss Stone!

  Through the open door, I noticed that Pickles and Williams, the two grumpy policemen, were standing not far away. One of them unlocked the prison door as if about to head down there, and said something to the other. Some sort of awful joke at our expense, no doubt. They both laughed.

  I suddenly saw an opportunity. I jumped up and leaned out of the room.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said to the constable who was guarding us, as sunnily as I could manage.

  He looked up. ‘They told me not to talk to you,’ he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. ‘Just got to keep watch until you get collected.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I replied. Oliver gave me a wary look, but I knew what I was doing. ‘They’ve sent you to play nursemaid to us children. They ought to pay you more respect.’

  ‘Huh!’ he said, folding the newspaper and slapping it down beside him. ‘You’ve got that right!’

  ‘The inspector didn’t even take you along to Barnaby Crescent today,’ I said. Oliver wouldn’t meet my eye now. He knew I was up to something. ‘To investigate Mr Wutherford’s murder. He took those other two instead.’

  The young constable snorted. ‘Pickles and Williams. What a joke! Those two are more interested in smoking their pipes than in proper investigating.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I thought I heard them saying they were the best police constables in the city.’

  He sat up straighter and glared at the two men, but they both carried on laughing and jabbing each other. ‘Oh did they now?’

  ‘What was it they called the rest of them, Oliver?’ I asked pointedly. ‘A bunch of clowns, perhaps?’

  He called out, beckoning Pickles and Williams over. ‘Think something’s funny, do you?’

  ‘Well, your sideburns don’t half give me a laugh, Jones,’ Williams sneered.

  Jones took a deep breath, and I knew for a fact that he was about to launch into a tirade at the other two. The other thing I knew was that, suddenly, none of the eyes in the room were on us. We had minutes, at most.

  ‘I’ve had it with you two!’ I heard him begin. ‘You smug know-alls with your …’

  As he ranted, I grabbed Oliver’s arm. Before my friend even had a chance to protest, I tugged him up and out of the room, and ran through the door to the jail cells, Bones slinking after us.

  f all the people that Father had been expecting to see at the door to his cell, I think we were the last he would have imagined.

  ‘Miss, what are you—’ Oliver panted as we hurried down the stone steps.

  ‘We have to speak to Father!’ I said. ‘They’re going to realise we’re gone soon!’

  We stood in the semi-darkness on the cold stone floor, and I knocked quickly on the heavy wood, praying he hadn’t been moved. There was a wooden sliding panel that could be opened from our side, so I drew it back. ‘Father, it’s me!’ I hissed.

  ‘Violet?’ My father’s pale and unshaven face appeared. ‘What on earth are you—’ He peered around. ‘Is that Oliver? And the dog?’ Bones had jumped up and
was attempting to lick Father’s face through the hole in the door.

  ‘No time to explain,’ I said, as Oliver gave an awkward little wave. ‘I-I …’ I was suddenly hit with all the emotions that I’d been bottling up, and tears stung at my eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I miss you.’ I gulped. ‘We’re doing what we can to get you out of here. You’ve been falsely accused, Father! You don’t deserve this, whatever the police say!’

  ‘And what do they say?’ he asked gently.

  I wiped my tears with my handkerchief, but I could still feel more threatening to spill. ‘They – they found a blackmail letter,’ I told him. ‘They believe you were told to kill the victims, and that if you didn’t they would hurt us.’

  ‘Blackmail,’ he said, without a trace of emotion in his voice.

  ‘Because you have terrible debts,’ I said, quiet and ashamed.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  He didn’t deny it. It must be true.

  I looked up and saw a deep furrow in his brow, his eyes filled with sadness and confusion. ‘But … a letter, you say? I didn’t know about this.’

  ‘You didn’t read it?’ Oliver asked him.

  Father shook his head. ‘I don’t recall any letter. Perhaps I didn’t notice. But … This Inspector Holbrook,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps he has something against me. I don’t know what, but in my few interactions with him he has treated me with considerable disdain. Maybe this letter is a forgery.’

  ‘That’s what we were wondering!’ I exclaimed. ‘It was typewritten, Father. It could have been from anyone. Don’t you think it’s possible that the police could have written it themselves to pin the blame on you?’

  ‘Or someone else could have,’ Oliver said under his breath.

  Bones barked. ‘Shh, boy,’ I said, but I took it as a reminder. ‘Sorry, we don’t have time to discuss, Father. There’s something we need to know. Do you remember Miss Stone? Our old governess. You sacked her?’