The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by Conley, John E.

  But Archibald was smarter than most young men, and more bull-headed. He decided while in his teens not to be the fisherman, but to be the man who hired the fishermen and owned the boats. He became friends with Peter Harrison, the owner of the largest fleet of smacks in Whitby, and quickly earned Harrison’s confidence. To prove his commitment, Archibald spent a season on the North Sea, at one time or another completing the tasks of virtually every job on the vessel.

  He grew into a tall, stocky young man with dark hair and a short beard. Archibald was quiet, confident, and he had a vision.

  Harrison treated Archibald like a son after that season at sea and it was ordained that the business would become Archibald’s when Harrison gave it up. At the age of twenty one, Archibald married a local girl named Ilene. Archibald found her to be easily hurt and sometimes quick-tempered, but Ilene loved him dearly and they were destined for a long and happy marriage once Archibald’s career was established.

  When the time was right, an aging Harrison turned the fleet over to him.

  “Archie,” Harrison said as they sat in his tiny office, “are you ready to run this fleet? I dare say the men would rather have you in command than me.”

  Trying to conceal his excitement the best he could, Archibald leaned forward and said, “Peter, that can’t be true. They know they work for the best fleet in all of England. But if you’re ready to rest for a while, I’m ready to take over.”

  Harrison nodded. “I wish I could see the look in Maisie’s eyes when you tell her.”

  Archibald grinned. “Mum will be very happy, I’m sure. Maybe even proud. It’s hard to tell with her.”

  “Well, you’ve done her proud, Archie. Not having any other man around has been hard on her,” Harrison said, pulling on his full beard. “You be sure to take care of her now.”

  “Next to my wife, she’s the most important thing in my life, sir. She’ll always be. I just wish…,” his voice trailed off and Harrison watched his protégé as he had so many times before.

  “That your father had stayed with her?” Harrison finished the line for him.

  Archibald could only nod. Then he said, “I don’t understand life sometimes, Peter. I don’t understand how a man can leave a woman that loves him so much. Then I remember that I gave up a daughter who depended on me and Ilene. Life is hard.”

  He looked up at Harrison and a glimmer of hope crossed Archibald’s face. “But, I have the fleet and the men and I’ll do everything I can to keep us the biggest operation in Whitby.”

  Harrison slapped the young man on the knee and left the operation in the capable hands of Archibald Levering.

  The fishing business in the north of England was a competitive, merciless affair. It took all of Archibald’s brains, courage, and sometimes ire to maintain the fleet, let alone make it grow. Enemies were made on a regular basis and unforeseen partnerships were formed. Fishermen came and went, some of them devoted to Archibald to a fault and some of them murderous in their thoughts toward him.

  The period after the Great War saw Britain’s unemployment skyrocket and the economy founder. Some men wandered north and offered their services to fleets like Archibald’s, only to find the work hard and dangerous. By the mid-1920s, corruption crept into the industry. Archibald’s prospering business was a logical target for unscrupulous money lenders and speculators and he had to choose his friends and associates wisely.

  “Some days, Mother, I’m not sure who is friend or foe,” Archibald said one night as he and Maisie sat at the table of her cottage. A pouring rain pounded on the slate roof and any view of the nearby sea was obliterated.

  “Ilene tells me to just use the sense I was born with,” he said, running his finger over the rim of his tea cup. “But it’s hard.”

  “She’s a good wife, Archie. Listen to her. She knows you well,” Maisie said in her customary soothing tone. “Don’t ever underestimate the significance of a good marriage.”

  “I know that, mother, but I’ve had two men approach me this month alone,” he told her. “They say they can double or triple the size of the fleet. But they want a share of the profit, of course. A big share.”

  “Who are these men?” Maisie asked.

  “One was from London. The other claimed to be from here in Yorkshire and said he would have his hands on a large sum of money soon,” Archibald replied. “It’s so tempting…and so frightening at the same time.”

  “How did you leave it with them?”

  “They’re going to see me again the next time they’re in town,” Archibald said.

  Maisie Levering put her rough, aging hand on top of her son’s and said, “Listen to Ilene and your heart. You’ll do the right thing. You always have.”

  She picked up a day-old Whitby newspaper that sat at the edge of the table and rose from her chair with the intention of disposing of it amid the flames of the wood stove. Halfway across the room, she froze in place with an audible gasp that caused Archibald to ask, “What is it?”

  He saw her gazing down at the paper and although her back was to him, he sensed her shock. A long moment of silence passed.

  “Mum. Is something wrong?”

  “N-no. It’s…nothing. Nothing at all,” she said in a faltering voice.

  When she heard her son get out of his chair, Maisie quickly stuffed the paper into the stove and closed the iron door. At the same instant, a deafening clap of thunder shook the cottage. Maisie took a step towards the sink and put both hands out to steady herself.

  “Are you ill?”

  “I’m going to lie down, Archibald,” she replied. “I’m…I’m feeling a little faint.”

  The storm raged throughout the night and, as its fury grew stronger, Maisie Levering grew weaker. Archibald ran through the pouring rain to retrieve Ilene and the two of them never left Maisie’s tiny, dark bedroom the rest of the night. Wind wobbled the cottage until it creaked. Squalls along the North Sea coast were not uncommon, but even Archibald shuddered at the veracity of this one.

  The young couple tried to nourish Maisie between her fits of sleep, but without success.

  By the next morning, she was in such a state of disorder as to require Archibald to call for the doctor. His initial examination of the woman found no obvious ailments and he gave her a stimulant in an effort to bring her out of a stupor he could not explain. No words of significance came from the patient’s mouth for nearly twenty four hours and it seemed to Archibald and Ilene that she may never speak again.

  Then, on the second day of her sickness, Maisie weakly said to Archibald, “I have no purpose left in life, son. Take care of your wife and…and…”

  Her eyes closed and Maisie Levering passed away with her hand in her son’s.

  Archibald buried his mother that week and attempted to resume the business of running his fleet. His mother left him very little other than the cottage, its contents, and no clue about his father or other aspects of her early life. As far as he knew, all her secrets were buried along with her.

  On a much sunnier and warmer day, the door to Archibald’s office opened and he looked up to see the tanned face of a well-dressed man enter the room.

  “Mr. Archibald Levering?”

  “Yes,” Archibald replied.

  The man reached out a hand and said, “Mr. George Parker, sir. Honored to meet you.”

  Archibald instinctively accepted the handshake and studied the smiling man’s rugged face.

  “How may I help you, Mr. Parker?”

  They both remained standing.

  “I’m in Whitby on business, Mr. Levering, and no businessman with any sense would visit Whitby without introducing himself to the owner of the largest fleet in Yorkshire,” Parker said.

  Levering pointed to a chair for Parker and sat down to listen to his guest.

  Parker glanced around the stark interior of the office and came to a conclusion; either Levering was in need of cash or he didn’t waste his earnings on frivolous office decorations. He hoped it w
as the latter.

  “Mr. Levering, I’m in the business of making money—for myself and for my investors. I own mines. All over the world. And a shrewd entrepreneur like yourself is surely always on the lookout for a way to make easy money. I offer you such an opportunity, sir.”

  “How much do you want?” Levering said quickly and without emotion.

  Parker was briefly taken aback at the abruptness of the question.

  “Well now, uh, that can be negotiated,” Parker answered. “I’m willing to discuss nearly any amount you may think appropriate.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Levering said caustically. “The truth is, Mr. Parker, what profits we manage to squeeze out of these boats are accounted for in the business of keeping them afloat. I don’t mean to be rude, or short with you, but I buried my mother a few days ago and the thought of gambling away my future hasn’t really entered my mind. Nor can you make that happen. If you have nothing further to discuss, I bid you good day.”

  Parker showed no signs of leaving.

  “I’m very sorry to hear of your mother’s passing, Mr. Levering,” Parker said. “Perhaps in a few days, when your mind is back on the fleet, we can….”

  “You, sir, and Leatherby and all the others who think I have so much money can leave us alone,” Levering announced.

  It was impossible for Parker to hide his surprise. He asked, “Leatherby. Was it a Mr. Malcolm Leatherby that came here?”

  “I believe that was his name, yes. Glasses. Perhaps a little younger than myself.”

  Parker shook his head and told Archibald, “Be wary, sir. That man is not looking after your best interest.”

  “And you are?”

  Parker grinned. “It’s my business.”

  “I don’t need your business,” Archibald said. “Good day, sir.”

  That very same day, while sitting alone in the study of Stichen Manor, Inspector Silsbury dwelled on his dissatisfaction with the results of his interview of George Parker immediately following the murder of Colonel Humphries. He craved much more information about Parker’s dealings in and around Danby. He decided to cable Parker, indicating his intention to soon visit the man’s country home outside Ravenscar, a village south of Whitby along the coast, and asked Parker to set an acceptable date. Like all the other guests, with the exception of Lord Stewart and Bingham, Parker and his wife had quickly made their way home the day after the inquest.

  On the designated day of the visit, Silsbury found the businessman very relaxed in his own home, smoking a cigar and drinking sherry while taking questions from the Inspector.

  “Mr. Parker, have your travels ever taken you to Whitby, or the area surrounding it?” Silsbury asked, choosing to begin with the largest and most logical city within a short distance.

  After a momentary pause, Parker said, “Yes, it has. Not much of a place, is it?”

  “I’ve only been there once, for a short time. What was the purpose of your visit?”

  “Business,” Parker replied.

  “May I ask what part of your mining business took you to a fishing village?” Silsbury asked.

  “The monetary part of course, Inspector. I was told by a friend that a Mr. Archibald Levering may be interested in investing. So I recently paid him a visit.”

  Silsbury scribbled the name in his notebook. “Was he interested?”

  Parker took a long draw on his cigar and exhaled the smoke slowly. “Unfortunately, I found him at a bad time. His mother had just passed away and he was in no mood to discuss finances.”

  “What was your impression of Mr. Levering?” the Inspector inquired.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Silsbury replied, “I have heard tales of the type of men currently running fishing fleets in the North Sea and wondered if you found him…honorable, shall we say.”

  Parker thought before speaking. “I found him aloof, just as my friend had warned.”

  “Really? In what way?”

  “You realize, of course, that I had no prior knowledge of young Mr. Levering,” Parker said, looking directly at Silsbury. “I only knew that my friend said people in the area had reason to believe Mr. Levering wasn’t who he claimed to be. That, perhaps, his name wasn’t even Levering.”

  Silsbury looked on with interest. “Did you discuss it with him?”

  Parker said, “I didn’t feel it was my place to interrogate a man whom I was asking to invest in my mines, so I let it be.”

  “Did he invest?” Silsbury asked.

  “He did not. We agreed to continue talking after he was over his grief.”

  Fifteen more minutes did not provide Silsbury with anything more useful than the name of a contact in Whitby, so the Inspector dismissed himself with a tip of his hat. He knew as he drove away that he would have to visit Whitby and gather whatever information he could from the locals prior to interviewing Levering himself to get his side of the story.

  Silsbury drove north along the coast, passing large open fields interspersed with thick woods. Soon, the square fort-like tower of St. Mary’s church came into view and he was driving down into the valley that contained the port. Precipitous cliffs on the north and south side of the mouth of River Esk seemed to engulf the village and the North Sea dominated the horizon to the east.

  Ships of all sizes filled the harbor, some of them docked to load and unload, while others waited their turn. Silsbury drove up and down cobblestone streets looking for the area that seemed to be the most frequented by local citizens, but not in the midst of the bustling docks. He wanted to gossip and he realized it might take several attempts to get the information he sought. Eventually, he found an inn with many people entering and leaving in just the few seconds he watched it. Silsbury parked nearby and gazed into the windows of the shops as he approached the inn. It came to his mind, as it had so often in the past in similar villages, that this would be a place he could retire to when the time came.

  But first, what could he learn of Archibald Levering?

  Silsbury stopped in his tracks when he realized he was in front of a small establishment with a variety of fishing related materials in the window. Taking it for granted that the shopkeeper would know Levering, he entered. The Inspector found the interior packed with seemingly every conceivable object a fisherman might need, from tackle to clothing.

  A thickly bearded man appeared from the back of the shop and Silsbury recognized the customary stare he received in such villages, being dressed as he was in the dark suit of a London resident. He tipped his cap and said, “Hello, sir. The shopkeeper, I presume?”

  “Aye. Good day, sir.”

  “Has business been brisk?” Silsbury asked in an effort to start the conversation.

  “Naught sold a thing all day,” was the abrupt reply.

  Silsbury looked duly dismayed. “Ah, how unfortunate. I must confess I am not here to purchase supplies, despite the fine quality of what I see around me. But I might be willing to pay an appropriate sum for some local information.”

  “Lived and worked here me ‘ole life, mate.”

  “Excellent,” Silsbury said with a smile. “Then you might know one Archibald Levering.”

  “Every ‘un in Whitby knows Levering.”

  Silsbury nodded. “Runs a clean operation, does he?”

  The man ran his fingers along his beard and squinted at the Inspector. “You one of them detective types?”

  “Yes and no,” Silsbury admitted. “We don’t suspect Mr. Levering of any wrongdoing. Just interested in him.”

  The man chuckled. “Ain’t we all.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Archie Levering was ‘and-picked by ‘ol Harrison, ya see. But where he come from ‘riginally isn’t knowd by many folk. Lots of speculatin’, but not many facts.”

  “What’s your opinion, sir?” Silsbury asked.

  The man’s face showed the pleasure of being able to give it. “Me? I b’lieve ‘e ain’t completely who ‘e says ‘e is, now. By that I mean, I ain’
t sure ‘is past is all tidy. In fact, jus’ within the past month or two a gentleman…a stranger, ya see…telling me over at The Whaler after a few tankards of ale that Levering is some type of fraud. Those are ‘is words, sir. Not mine.”

  Silsbury said, “Did this gentleman say he knew Levering well.”

  The man shrugged and said, “He seemed to. Made it sound like ‘e knew ‘im.”

  “Do you know this man’s name…the stranger? What did he look like?”

  “Short beard. Little round glasses. Maybe thirty years old. I remember it bein’ a strange name,” the man said. After a pause, he added, “Weather something. Weatherby maybe.”

  Silsbury grinned and nodded. “What else did Weatherby say?”

  The man leaned forward. “He asked about Maisie, don’t ye know. Wanted to know what I knew about ‘er. She being Levering’s mum, you see. Well, I told ‘im people knew less about ‘er than they did about Archie ‘imself. Now she’s up in a grave in Larpool Lane and ‘aint talkin’, God rest ‘er soul.”

  Silsbury asked the shopkeeper, “Do you know a George Parker? Not a fisherman. Maybe an associate of Mr. Levering’s.”

  The man thought for a moment. “Don’t know any Parkers that ain’t sailors. And Levering’s operation is so big I ‘spose ‘e ‘as men coming and going all the time.”

  The Inspector reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins, which he laid on the counter. “Thank you for your time, sir. You’ve been very helpful.”

  XIII. The Inspector Has Lunch

  Lord Stewart and Bingham sat at a table under the cover of a canopy behind Stichen Manor on a threatening but, as of yet, dry day. Charles had read, walked, and thought to himself while Silsbury was off to see Parker and visit Whitby. Now, Bingham nodded toward the back of the manor and Lord Stewart turned to see the Inspector walking down the lawn in their direction.

  “Hello again, gentlemen,” Silsbury said. “I asked Calvert to send down a few drinks. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “They are much needed, Inspector,” Charles admitted. “Are you in the mood to review events as they stand?”

  Silsbury sat across from Lord Stewart and placed his hat on the table. “It’s why I’m here.”