Mrs Green threw Betty one of her special glances, and the young maid took this as permission for her to join in the conversation.
‘He’s got a new financier,’ she said, and for some reason blushed.
Had Mr Jardine fallen into financial difficulties? It was amazing the things that servants found out about their employers.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Green, ‘it’s not as though they’re formally engaged, because of the mourning, but I think we’ll hear something positive in the new year. She’s a foreign lady, but she speaks perfect English, doesn’t she, Betty? And she’s very beautiful, in a foreign sort of way. They’ll make a handsome couple.’
‘French, she is,’ said Betty. ‘She wears lovely clothes, and has a pair of them scented purple gloves. She’s ever so nice. She wrote her name down on a piece of paper, but it’s no use me trying to say it. After they’re married, she’ll have to call herself Mrs Jardine. I wonder will they get married here, at St Margaret’s?’
Mrs Green laughed. ‘For goodness’ sake, you silly girl! They’ve only just met, and you’re planning their life out for them! She’s a friend of Professor Gorringe’s, next door, ma’am. That’s where he met her.’
‘Master went out to a swanky dinner at the Randolph the other night,’ said Betty, ‘and when he came back it was after one o’clock. It was one of those dinners when he can’t fit his key in the keyhole. But I think he must have enjoyed himself.’
‘And is he still seeing things, Betty?’ asked Sophia. She remembered how the girl had started to talk about her master’s visions, but had been silenced by her stern superior. Mrs Green silenced her with a look.
‘It’s true, ma’am,’ she said, ‘that he does see things that aren’t there, but there’s no harm in it. He’s as sane as you or I. He saw a dog in the hall passage, and told me to let it out, but we haven’t got a dog. He stumbles over things that aren’t there, and sometimes you’ll hear him talking to someone in an empty room. Maybe he should see Dr Maitland, and ask him for a bottle of medicine. But look at the clock, ma’am, it’s time for me to take you up to the Master.’
*
True, thought Sophia Jex-Blake, he is a handsome man, with a natural charm about him, accompanied by the kind of latent vulnerability that would attract a woman to him. This was the man who had kept a mistress in a suburb across town, and who had then lost both her and his wife to murder. He looked pale and drawn, and there were shadows under his eyes. But he was dressed with what she liked to call a careless impeccability; a scapegrace by all accounts, but a gentleman for all that.
Mrs Green had shown her into his study, and he rose to greet her from where he had been sitting at his desk.
‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr Jex-Blake,’ he said, giving her the courtesy of her hard-won title. ‘Mr Antrobus has told me about you. Please sit down. How can I be of service to you?’
‘I’ve come here today to tell you about Inspector Antrobus, and what happened to him recently in London. I realize that you had the misfortune of meeting him in his professional capacity, rather than as a friend, but I gather that you felt some regard for him.’
Sophia gave Jardine a full account of her friend’s close encounter with death, including her own part in dragging him back to life. Jardine listened entranced, and when she had finished speaking, he was silent for some moments.
‘Good Lord!’ he said at last in low, admiring tones. ‘Chloroform injected into his failing heart? What gave you the courage to do that? Do you know, Doctor, I am sorrier about his plight than I can put into words. Poor man! Poor man!’
He sat down at his desk, and permitted himself a long, melancholy sigh. He fell into a profound silence, and she watched him fix his gaze on a door in the opposite wall. His eyes remained open and unblinking. Very softly, almost in a whisper, she asked him a question.
‘What do you see?’
Jardine seemed to awake from his momentary trance.
‘I’m looking at my Uncle Edwin. He was always kind to me when I was a boy. I see him occasionally about the house. He died in 1868.’
‘Is he a ghost?’
‘Yes, Doctor,’ he replied. ‘He is a ghost. This is a vile burden that I have to endure for my sins. I see the spirits of the departed.’ He flushed angrily, and added: ‘Pah! I sound like a crooked medium! I sometimes wonder whether I am fit to go out alone. I am due to dine with Count Raphael Savident on Saturday night—’
Sophia interrupted him. ‘Mr Jardine,’ she said, ‘you’ve seen other things, haven’t you? Will you tell me about them? Not as to an interfering stranger, but to a woman who is both physician and surgeon.’
She sat in her chair while her host told him about a past fellow of St Gabriel’s whom he often saw walking through the college quadrangles; he too, was dead. He saw dogs, that barked silently at him, and then disappeared. He had seen Rachel Noble, days after she had died, walking and moving about as though she were alive. And then, choking back tears, he told Sophia of his vision of Dora and himself as a young married couple, and how the blissful memory had turned into the terrifying reality of his kneeling in the rain on Dora’s grave. When he had finished, he sat with his head in his hands. It was as though he had just made his confession, which, in a way, he had.
‘Mr Jardine, do you have severe megrim headaches?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you ever see bright lights? Or do you see objects at night outlined in orange?’
Jardine was immediately alert.
‘Why, yes, Doctor. Only the other night, coming home from Count Raphael Savident’s house in Beaumont Street— Do you know what these things mean? Am I going mad?’
‘One further question, and then I will give you my professional opinion. When you see the spirits of the late Mrs Jardine and the other lady – can you still see them when you close your eyes?’
‘Yes. I see them just as clearly as when my eyes are open.’
‘I think that concludes the matter for me, Mr Jardine. All these visions are hallucinations, but taken together, they indicate a particular medical condition that will require urgent attention. You must go to see a specialist for confirmation; but I am certain that you are suffering from a brain tumour.’
14
The Last Day of Michaelmas Term
The 11.35 stopping-train to London stood patiently at the platform of the GWR station, while a contingent of sweating porters dealt with the swarm of passengers and their luggage. The great steam locomotive emitted impatient noises from time to time, sinister hisses and rustlings, as though anxious to be on its way.
Most of the passengers were young men going down for the Christmas holidays; Michaelmas term officially ended on the Saturday, but Friday was the day of the great exodus. Trolleys loaded with cases were trundled along the platform, and their burdens quickly transferred to the luggage racks in the compartments. All this din was complemented by the confident, loud voices of the undergraduates, as they contrived to shout their farewells to friends.
At the end of the platform a mountain of brass-bound chests, and a number of crates, were waiting to be loaded into the luggage van. A young man in the uniform of a GWR guard, enlivened by a red kerchief around his neck, supervised the work. Another young fellow, of aristocratic appearance, stood by, watching. At a signal from the young guard, he slipped unseen into the luggage van.
Fifteen minutes later, all was ready for the London train to leave. The guard closed the door of the luggage van and locked it before retiring to his own guard’s van. A whistle was blown, a green flag was waved, and those remaining on the platform were sternly bidden to ‘Stand back from the train!’ The great locomotive burst into life, and after a few protesting groans, swiftly made its way out of the station.
Inside the luggage van, Harry Napier knelt on the floor, and examined a plain wooden
crate secured with thin iron bands. It bore a label, attached by stout string, saying that it was to be delivered to Monsignor Vaux, Archbishop’s House, Carlisle Place, London, SW.
Harry crawled across the vibrating floor of the van until he located another chest, also with a label secured by string, which was to be delivered to H. Napier Esq., Shenstone Hall, Shenstone, via Worthing, Sussex. Harry smiled to himself, and got to work.
*
The filing-clerk at Somerset House had been particularly helpful, and within half an hour of Sergeant Maxwell’s arriving there had produced for him all the documents relevant to Mr R Fischbein, nephew of the murdered financier, held in the General Register Office. They were not particularly enlightening. His birth certificate showed that he was born on 7 August 1850. Father’s name Alexander, mother’s name Mary. He himself was described as ‘male infant’, and he had been registered three days after birth. His father’s occupation was given as claims adjuster, and his mother was described as a housewife.
Ah! Here was a baptismal certificate, formerly in the records of Sacred Heart Catholic Church, Cripplegate, closed and demolished in 1859. Here his name was given as Ralph Fischbein. So at least, they now knew the nephew’s Christian name.
There was no marriage certificate for Ralph Fischbein, and no death certificate.
Maxwell copied all these names carefully in his notebook, thanked the filing-clerk for his trouble, and set out for the North London suburb of Neasden. It seemed to be a very nice place, with its own village atmosphere. The surrounding farms were mainly given over to the breeding of horses.
17 Platt’s Lane was a very pleasant house of brick and stucco, standing in its own garden. In answer to a question from Maxwell, the owner of the house said that he’d heard the name Fischbein mentioned in association with the house, but knew nothing at all about the family. No, he’d never heard of a Mr Fischbein being murdered across the river in Rotherhithe. He had bought the house with vacant possession in 1882; he and his family had lived there ever since.
Maxwell had better luck when he called into a grandiose public house, the Wellington Arms. The public bar sparkled with brass and crystal, and the walls were covered in gilt-framed mirrors. It was mid-morning, so there were few customers in the bar. The floor was covered in freshly dampened sawdust, and the air smelt of stale beer and carbolic.
The landlord, a stout, ginger-haired man with fine whiskers of a matching colour, drew him a pint of mild, and when Maxwell asked him whether anyone in the area knew anything about a family called Fischbein, pointed to an old man sitting disconsolately in a quiet corner.
‘That’s old Mr Pegg, a retired jobbing gardener,’ said the landlord. ‘He’s lived in Neasden for nigh on fifty years, and knows all about the old days. He’ll tell you about the Fischbeins. It’s difficult to draw him out, but once he gets going he can’t stop. I can see from here that his glass is empty – he likes an India Pale Ale. Perhaps you’d like to treat him.’
Mr Pegg was very happy to accept Maxwell’s treat. He was a man over eighty, with a sun-bronzed wizened face, which told of a working life spent out of doors.
‘The Fischbeins? Oh, yes, mister, I remember them. I did some gardening for them, on and off, in the old days. They had that nice detached house in Platt’s Lane, where Mr Cross lives now. Did you say you were a relation of theirs?’
‘I didn’t say nothing about who I was, Mr Pegg,’ said Sergeant Maxwell, ‘and I don’t intend to. But you’ll greatly oblige me if you’ll tell me what you know about the Fischbeins.’ He produced a half-crown from his pocket, and placed it down carefully on the table. Mr Pegg fixed him with a rheumy eye, sipped his ale, and sat back in his chair.
‘There was a Mr Julius Fischbein who lived there in the sixties, but I never knew him. It was his son I worked for, Mr Alexander Fischbein. He was a claims adjuster, by which we mean a man who makes sure the insurance companies aren’t swindled by people making false claims. They all came from Cripplegate originally, so they were true City of London folk.’
‘What was he like, this Alexander?’
‘He was a stern kind of man, with a great black beard. He paid well, but God help you if you tried to put one over him. Come down hard, he would. He took care of the pence, as they say. He married a quiet sort of lady, Mrs Mary Fischbein, and had two children, Christopher and Ralph. Did you know that there was a terrible murder in that family?’
‘I’ve heard something about it,’ said Maxwell. ‘Was it this Alexander who was murdered?’ Questions like that always evinced a satisfying response. People liked to show other people where they’d gone wrong.
‘No, no! Nobody every murdered Mr Alexander. He died in his bed, on account of a chill on the kidneys. And Mrs Alexander, she died the year after. Mr Fischbein left a tidy sum of money – it was about £3,000 – and that went to his elder son, Mr Christopher. No, he wasn’t murdered. It was his brother, Mr Jacob Fischbein, who lived in lodgings in Rotherhithe. He’d never married, you see, and was comfortable where he was. He was the rich brother. He was what they call a discount broker, and he did very well indeed until he was murdered.’
‘Who got his money, Mr Pegg? I suppose it went to his nephews?’
‘Well, no, it didn’t, because it was all in bearer bonds, and the man who murdered him went off with them. They never found out who did it, and they never recovered the money. In any case, he wouldn’t have left anything to Ralph. He was a very clever, dreamy sort of lad, was Ralph, but he couldn’t settle to anything. His father put him in one counting-house after another, but it was no good. He ran away from home, once, and was away three months or more.
‘And when his father died,’ the old man continued, ‘it turned out that he’d cut Ralph out of his Will. Oh, he ranted and raved about it no end, and went off in a temper to get money from his uncle on the Surrey Side, but he told him to stand on his own feet. They had rows, those two, and when Mr Jacob Fischbein was murdered, some people thought Ralph had done it. Maybe he did, but nothing was ever proved.’
‘What happened to the two sons?’
‘Well, Mr Christopher sold the house in Platt’s Lane and moved to Chichester. He married a local girl, and set up a book shop, which was very successful, I believe. He changed his name to Fisher, as I recall. They were all Catholics, you know, and I suppose Fischbein sounded too Jewish. Of course, they were Jewish originally, but they converted years earlier.’
‘And what happened to Ralph?’ asked Maxwell.
‘His brother gave him some money, and he went abroad. Some said he went to France, others that it was Germany. Wherever it was, he was never seen again.’
Sergeant Maxwell slid the half-crown across the table.
‘Mr Pegg,’ he whispered, ‘who do you think murdered old Mr Jacob Fischbein? Between you and me?’
‘Well, I’ve always reckoned that it was Ralph. The money disappeared, and so did he. Without that money, he’d have turned into a scrounger, living off that brother of his in Chichester. Yes, I reckon it was Ralph that did it.’
*
Later in the day, Sergeant Maxwell called at 17 Regent Gate, the town house of Lord and Lady Castle Royal. Regent Gate was a smart and exclusive road virtually in the shadow of Buckingham Palace. A liveried footman opened the door, and stared at Maxwell’s warrant card with something approaching distaste.
‘You wish to see Her Ladyship?’ he said. ‘I don’t think she’s receiving today.’
‘She will receive me, young man,’ said Maxwell. ‘Take that card through to her directly. I am a Crown Officer of the Law, and am here on Her Majesty’s business.’
That usually worked with snooty menials, he thought. Within a few minutes he was ushered into a sumptuous drawing room decorated in exquisite and expensive taste. An impressive and rather haughty lady was standing before the fireplace. She was wearing a day dress of mau
ve silk, and her abundant hair was elegantly coiffeured. A diamond necklace encircled her throat, and her fingers glittered with rings. Maxwell bowed, and the Viscountess Castle Royal acknowledged him with a curt inclination of her head.
‘Detective Sergeant Maxwell?’ she said, handing him back his warrant card. ‘I gather that you have come to see me, not His Lordship. I am intrigued. Pray state your business.’
Her voice was that of an aristocrat, not unfriendly, but clear and commanding.
‘My Lady,’ said Sergeant Maxwell, ‘I’ve come to talk to you about two murders that occurred recently in Oxford—’
‘Murders? Really, Sergeant, I cannot imagine how I could possibly help you in the matter. I will ring the bell for my husband. It would be more in order for you to speak to him. But I can advise you now that Viscount Castle Royal also knows nothing about murders. Is it possible that you have come to the wrong address? Perhaps you meant to call at Regents Gate, in St John’s Wood?’
Before she could reach for the bell-pull Maxwell spoke.
‘I am speaking about your friend Dora Jardine, ma’am, Dora Spencer as was, who was most cruelly murdered at Oxford on the thirteenth of last month.’
Lady Castle Royal’s hand flew to her mouth, and she turned deathly pale. She felt for a chair and sat down.
‘And the second victim of murder was another friend, or acquaintance, Rachel Greenwood, later Mrs Gregory Noble.’
‘So Dora is dead,’ said Lady Castle Royal. ‘Poor, dear Dora! Sit down, will you, Sergeant Maxwell. You look quite austere and threatening standing there like the harbinger of death. Dora wrote to me last month, after a lifetime in which we had gone our separate ways. Murdered? So, after all these years, that man carried out his threat to silence her.’
‘What man, ma’am?’
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