Terror by Gaslight

by Edward Taylor

  Clutching the precious envelope in her gloved hand, she approached the pillar box on the corner. At this moment a little girl was being lifted up by her mother to put a letter in the slot, an adventure she was clearly enjoying.

  The woman looked up at the approaching Clare, and there was the usual tiny flicker of the eyes before she smiled and apologized for keeping her waiting. Then mother and child moved off, the little girl skipping with pleasure.

  Clare checked again that her envelope was correctly addressed and stamped and securely sealed, and then she thrust it into the pillar box. She paused briefly to think what consequences might arise from what she had just done. Then she turned on her heels and walked back the way she had come.

  She was not returning to Hillside immediately, however. It was a bright day, her father was in a foul temper, and the atmosphere in the house would be even more oppressive than usual. There would be many hours spent indoors today as she took refuge in her room, writing at the small table. No need to start too soon.

  Beside her, the heathland stretched for miles, wild and exciting in the morning sunshine. And she had her nature notes to compile. There should be no danger on the Heath at this time of day. There was no reason why she shouldn’t take a good walk.

  She turned left and entered the Heath by the broad path that led due south towards Gospel Oak. But she quickly left this, branching off onto a narrow footpath that took her downhill and westward into a clump of trees. Passing quickly through this, she emerged into open country.

  Away to her right, she could see Hillside and, on the grassy plain in front of it, half a dozen policemen pacing the area, and sometimes going down on hands and knees to examine the ground. They were looking for traces of blood, or anything else that might tell them exactly where Kemp had received his fatal wound last night. And they hoped they might find evidence of a struggle.

  Clare gratefully turned her back on that scene; she had swallowed her fill of crime and police work in the last twelve hours. Now it was time to relax.

  At first she thought of heading for the tumulus, over towards Parliament Hill, the ancient burial mound, where she had often sat musing on life, mortality and the frailty of human existence; thoughts that might eventually be useful when she settled down to the melancholy Gothic novel she would one day write.

  But she changed her mind, reflecting again that there had already been enough horror and misery today. She would instead make her way to a more cheerful spot, and concentrate on the practical matter of assembling her December nature notes.

  She had already decided that these might include some observations on the waterways of the Heath, and the wildlife that flourished in and around them. It would be a good idea to go and sit a while by one of the ponds. She would avoid the larger ones that were frequented by fishermen and, even at this time of year, the occasional swimmer. She would go to Heron Pool, one of the lesser-known stretches of water on the Heath, and probably the most secluded.

  She took a path in that direction, walking purposefully and enjoying the gentle breeze on her face, but she was also looking diligently around her, mentally recording the natural charms and curiosities the Heath had to offer at this time of year.

  She noted that although the wild rose bushes had lost their blooms they still retained a great array of sturdy rose hips, their pretty pink skins contrasting with the bright red of the nearby holly berries, which were abundant. The holly leaves were a shining vivid green. It would be a cold winter this year. She even saw mistletoe clinging to a gnarled old apple tree. There was no point in taking any home: no kissing took place at Hillside.

  All these things Clare observed. But, strangely, she did not notice the man who had been following in her footsteps ever since she left the Highgate Road. He was a pale, unsmiling man, almost gaunt, and he wore a dark broad-brimmed hat and a grey greatcoat. He moved silently.

  It was easy to miss him. By accident or design, he remained a constant fifty or sixty yards behind Clare, and while the young woman walked out in the middle of the fairway the man stayed close to the trees.

  There was still much colour in this sprawling wilderness, even as November drew to its close. Southern England had enjoyed a mild autumn, and large areas of gorse still had their yellow hue. There were still a few leaves on many of the trees, and these by now had changed colour to an assortment of brown and golden tints. And, of course, masses of evergreens stood out boldly alongside their threadbare neighbours.

  There were also pleasing sounds to enjoy. Most of the songbirds had gone by now, or become silent, but the faithful robins still trilled their pleasant song. And the bleating of sheep, grazing over by the Vale of Health, carried for a mile in the clear atmosphere.

  Here and there flocks of starlings chattered as they busied themselves on the grassland, picking up any seeds or insects that remained from summer, and when the starlings suddenly and inexplicably took off and went wheeling skywards in close formation, cheeky London sparrows moved in to glean the remnants.

  After fifteen minutes, Clare approached Heron Pool, which owed its seclusion to being situated in the middle of a small wood: chiefly fir trees with foliage reaching almost to the ground.

  As Clare entered the wood, the silence was broken by the cawing of rooks, who had just arrived in the treetops. The other arrival was the man in the greatcoat, who had quickened his pace once Clare was in among the trees. He avoided the path which the young woman had taken. Instead, he slipped in among the adjoining bushes and firs.

  Two or three minutes later, Clare emerged from the gloom of the wood into the light of the open space that was mainly occupied by Heron Pool. Obligingly, a statuesque heron was standing in the shallows, motionless, as it watched for fish.

  Clare’s heart sank momentarily as she saw that the heron had competition. On the opposite side of the pool two fishermen had rods projecting over the water. However, they were sitting quite still in their folding stools, eyes fixed on their floats, which were undisturbed out on the water. The men seemed not to notice her, as she made her way along the narrow beach that fringed the pond.

  Separating the beach from the trees there was a modest margin of turf and, halfway along this, Clare came upon a fallen tree; she found a patch of the trunk where the bark had been broken off to reveal the smooth wood underneath. This would be a comfortable enough perch for forty or fifty minutes.

  She sat down, took a notepad and pencil from her pocket, and began to jot down the things she had seen and heard on her walk: the trees and bushes, the animals and birds, the vistas and views, the latter more extensive now many trees were almost bare. She had seen two hares, not boxing as they would do in the spring, but lolloping around together on the greensward before disappearing into the undergrowth. She had also seen an owl, apparently asleep up a tree, resting before nightfall, when he would begin his relentless hunt for prey.

  When she felt she had captured all the treasures she had met with on the way, Clare began to survey the scene in front of her.

  The lake, protected from the breeze by the surrounding wood, was placid, its calm ruffled only occasionally when the tip of a pike briefly broke the surface. Pike were too big to interest the heron, and the fishermen could only wait and hope that one of them would take one of their lines. So neither heron nor humans reacted.

  All around the pool’s perimeter coots and moorhens were bustling about, forever engaged in some urgent but obscure activity; a total contrast to the elegant heron, which hadn’t moved a feather since Clare arrived.

  As she studied the scene, Clare herself was being observed by the watcher in the wood. The man was leaning against a tree a little way back from the clearing, where he could see and not be seen.

  For a while Clare sat absorbed by the beauty around her. And then last night’s sleepless hours began to take their toll. She had chosen a spot where a gap between two treetops allowed a ray of sunshine to caress her face. She felt her eyelids beginning to close.

  For ha
lf an hour she slept, and then was awoken by a fierce burst of quacking from four ducks at the far end of the water. For some reason, few ducks ventured to Heron Pool. But those that did were especially jealous of their territory.

  The altercation ended when one duck went scuttling away into the trees, briefly pursued by the other three, still flapping and squawking.

  Once the intruder had been seen off, silence was restored. The water and the woodland glade resumed dozing in the winter sunshine.

  Then came more excitement.

  Clare was suddenly aware of movement on the pond’s tranquil surface, and saw two small blobs swimming towards her. She watched as they reached the shore in front of her and came out to shake the water off their little bodies. They were water voles. Then, to her delight, they began to sport on the beach, almost as if they were playing catch.

  For more than a minute the game went on, and then a bad thing happened. There was a flutter of wings, followed by squeals of panic from the voles, and then a bird of prey was airborne with one of the little creatures in its beak. The other vole raced for cover under a bush.

  Clare sighed. Then she picked up her notepad again and wrote a few more words: ‘Peregrine active on Heron Pool, 27 November.’

  It was the most dramatic event she had witnessed this morning, as well as the saddest. But there had been many other happenings of a more pleasing nature. Now she must go home and log them all in her Heath file, and then select the items for her December article.

  She stood up, stretched, and put away her notepad and pencil. Across the pool, the two fishermen had also decided it was time to leave. They were starting to secure their rods and lines. One of them had just transferred the few fish they had caught from the water-net into a fish-basket. It all seemed a lengthy business.

  Clare began to stroll back along the waterside, pausing briefly to examine a plant in the grass at her feet. It was yarrow, a long way past its due season, which had survived because of the gentle weather and its sheltered situation. She decided that a mental note should be enough to preserve this phenomenon for her file.

  She reached the path by which she had come and turned into the wood. The sun, low in the late autumn sky, scarcely penetrated the dense fir trees, and the way ahead of her was dark. The air was chilly here, and she fastened an extra button on her coat.

  Once Clare was out of sight of the pool, the watcher moved swiftly through the trees to a point by the path that she must soon reach. He remained concealed three yards from the track.

  In the poor light Clare was no longer studying her surroundings; her mind was on her nature notes, and she was toying with phrases she might use to bring them to life.

  The man took something from his pocket. The young woman was getting closer now.

  Then there came a shout from twenty yards behind her. It was one of the fishermen, who were catching up with her on the same path.

  ‘Oi, miss!’

  Clare stopped and turned towards them.

  ‘Can you tell us the way to the ’ighgate Road? We come up from Kentish Town. Don’t know this bit of the ’eath.’

  Clare responded courteously. ‘The Highgate Road? Well …’ She tried to marshal complicated directions in her head, and then decided on a simpler solution. These were elderly men and seemed like decent fellows. ‘That’s where I’m going,’ she said. ‘If you’d like to walk with me, I’ll show you the way.’

  ‘Ta,’ said the fisherman, and his friend said, ‘Not sure if we can keep up with your young legs, miss, but we’ll try.’

  The watcher turned and retreated into the trees.

  The hand-bell in the drawing room rang again.

  Mrs Butters had completed Meredith Austin’s luncheon order and had managed to squeeze it into a package that wasn’t too thick to fit into his copious briefcase.

  She took it with her to the drawing-room door and knocked. Austin called for her to enter and she went in, brandishing his lunch-pack.

  Her employer was standing up, transferring documents from his desk to that same briefcase, which had once been shiny and stiff but now was rough and saggy. It was well used to accommodating too many items.

  ‘I’ve got your lunch here, sir,’ said Mrs Butters.

  ‘Good,’ said Austin tersely, taking it unceremoniously from her hands. Without another word he forced it in among the papers, and was just able to make the case close and lock. Then he addressed his housekeeper sternly. ‘Mrs Butters, I am at last going to my office, to get on with the job that feeds every member of this household.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re all very grateful, sir,’ said Mrs Butters meekly.

  ‘I certainly hope so. I have lost half a day through this intolerable disturbance, so I shall undoubtedly be late home this evening. Have dinner available at eight o’clock and keep it hot till I arrive. You know I cannot abide food that is lukewarm or dried up.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Mrs Butters, wondering how that might be achieved.

  ‘Take lunch to my daughters in their rooms. They are both still in a state of shock, and need to rest.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see they’re looked after.’

  She thought of telling him that she had seen Clare leave the house an hour ago, looking fit and untroubled, but she decided against it.

  She was aware that there was something more important she ought to say to him, something that was sure to cause displeasure, and she was wondering if she could face it. Yesterday Austin had told her she must be sure to give him this reminder, but things were different today.

  She asked herself whether her employer would be angrier now if she spoke up, or later if she hadn’t done so. Finally she concluded that the wrath would be greater if delayed. She cleared her throat and forced the words out.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. You haven’t forgotten the inquiry agents?’

  ‘Inquiry agents?’ said Austin blankly. Then he remembered. The Heath Dwellers’ Association had voted to employ private investigators to speed the solution of the Heath Murders. ‘Dammit! I had forgotten!’ He thought for a moment. ‘Well, that appointment was made last week. They cannot hold me to it after what’s occurred.’

  ‘They were due at twelve o’clock, sir.’

  ‘Indeed. I had intended to come back early today, deal with them, and then work at home this afternoon. Instead, I find myself going out abominably late.’ He grunted irritably. ‘You will have to send them away. Tell them today is not convenient.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, sir.’ Mrs Butters was clearly nervous. The visitors might be stern, important men. ‘What reason shall I give?’

  ‘None. Dammit, woman, I don’t have to explain myself to people. Just tell them to go!’

  Meredith Austin was an impatient man, indifferent to the feelings and problems of others. He had been fond of his mother, and had cared for her dutifully through her long final illness. That had seemed to exhaust his supply of human kindness. No one had helped him then; he had seen no reason to help anyone else since. He had emerged from those difficult years with a determination to achieve prosperity and status. His office was the centrepiece of his life and he bitterly resented any enforced absence from it.

  His housekeeper stood for a moment, looking uncertain.

  ‘That will be all, Mrs Butters,’ snapped Austin. ‘You’ve heard my orders.’

  And then came a brisk emphatic knock at the front door.

  ‘That’ll be them now,’ said Mrs Butters. ‘They’ll be on the doorstep when you go out.’

  Austin pondered. All Heath Dwellers were expected to grant these men an interview. If he didn’t see them now, they’d come back. He changed his decision with a sigh.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Butters. As they are here, I’d better see them. Then they won’t need to return and spoil another day.’

  As Mrs Butters departed, Austin sat at his desk, frowning. He noticed one of his scarves on the seat of an armchair, and it seemed to cause him some alarm. He hurried across, picked up the scarf in a diso
rderly tangle, and thrust it into one of his desk drawers. He had resumed putting things into his briefcase when Mrs Butters ushered the visitors in.

  She did her best to manage a formal voice as she struggled to read from the card she had been given.

  ‘Major Henry Steele,’ she announced. ‘Private Invigorator and Inquiry Agent.’

  ‘Investigator, actually,’ said the taller of the two men, advancing with outstretched hand. ‘I’m Henry Steele, and this is my colleague, Mr John Mason.’

  When Steele retired early from British Military Intelligence, he had kept his service rank, but his sergeant, whose simultaneous release he had paid for, had warmly embraced civilian status.

  Austin’s glance took in the new arrivals as he shook their hands. Steele, in light green Donegal tweed, was lean and very upright, with greying hair and sharp features. Mason was a little shorter but a lot broader, built like a prizefighter. He wore a plain brown suit that had probably served him well for several years.

  Austin spoke briskly. ‘You’d better sit down. I can spare you twenty minutes. This house has been in turmoil, and I am already four hours late for work. I’m sure you’re aware of the tragedy that took place on our doorstep last night.’

  ‘We are, sir,’ Steele confirmed. ‘We wondered if we should still impose on you. But then, as this latest outrage seems related to matters we are due to discuss, we thought perhaps you would bear with us.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Austin. He took a round silver watch from his waistcoat pocket and propped it upright on his desk. ‘I am at your disposal for a further nineteen minutes. But I should start by telling you that when the Heath Association discussed employing your services, I spoke against it.’

  ‘So we heard.’ Steele spoke dispassionately. ‘I gather it went to a show of hands, and you and Dr Frankel were the only dissenters.’

  Austin was not pleased that Steele should know this, but decided not to make an issue of it. ‘There was nothing personal in the matter. Frankel and I both feel that, as we pay extortionate rates and taxes, we are entitled to full protection from the constabulary without paying additional fees.’