Terror by Gaslight

by Edward Taylor

  ‘You had better delay the evening meal till nine o’clock on this occasion. I suggest you use the extra hour to do some proper cleaning. If I find a speck of dust anywhere in this house tomorrow, you will lose a week’s wages!’

  And with that Austin stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Left alone, Mrs Butters stood for a moment, shaking her head unhappily. Then, nervously, she prised the dagger out of the newspapers and wiped it on her sleeve, before replacing it on the wall.

  She noticed the end of Austin’s scarf protruding from a desk drawer. Puzzled, she opened the drawer, extracted the scarf, and folded it neatly before replacing it and closing the drawer again. Austin had never been an easy man to work for but this last month his temper had become worse. She wondered why.

  She was straightening the curtains when the hall door opened and Harriet’s sister came in. Clare’s cheeks were still a healthy pink from her outing. She had deposited her notes in her room and given her face a refreshing wash, but she still retained much of the impetus from her walk. She spoke briskly. ‘My father came upstairs looking very angry, Mrs Butters.’

  ‘He is angry, Miss Clare. Angrier than a rabid stoat. When he’s in this mood, I dread what he’ll do next.’

  ‘He likes people dreading what he’ll do next. It’s better if you don’t let him frighten you.’

  ‘But he does frighten me, and that’s a fact. And he frightens Miss Harriet too.’

  Clare smiled a neat little smile. ‘Well, please remember that he doesn’t frighten me.’

  Mrs Butters took a cloth from her apron pocket and began dusting the windowsills. ‘It strikes me nothing frightens you, Miss Clare.’

  ‘Not true, I’m afraid. Smallpox frightens me. The Heath Maniac frightens me. The Liberal Party frightens me. But I am not frightened by a blustering bully.’ Clare went to the stack of bookshelves which lined the wall opposite the window. ‘I hope I’m not holding up your work, Mrs Butters. I need to consult some reference books for a piece I am writing.’

  ‘Bless you, no,’ said the housekeeper. ‘There’s not much more to do in here. But how you’re managing to write today, I do not know. All this fuss, and bobbies everywhere.’

  ‘Writing is actually a great escape from the stresses and strains of life.’

  Mrs Butters was carefully dusting a small china cat. ‘But it must be hard work, finding the right words and so on. It takes me ten minutes to write a note for the milkman.’

  Both women were startled by the noise of the front door being violently slammed shut. Although there was a door and a long hallway between her and the noise, it was loud enough to make Mrs Butters drop the china cat. It landed on its feet on the carpet, as cats do, and no damage was done.

  ‘Ah,’ said Clare. ‘My father’s gone, as gracefully as usual. You will be able to breathe more easily now.’

  ‘For a few hours at least, thank the Lord. His temper’s no better, from the way he slammed that door.’

  Clare sighed. ‘His temper’s a fact of life, I’m afraid. He simmers like a latent volcano. It’s something we all have to live with.’

  ‘It wasn’t always as bad as this, was it?’

  Clare changed the subject. ‘Oh, Mrs Butters, perhaps when you’ve finished working in here, you could kindly put the carpet sweeper away. I think it’s rather dangerous at the top of the stairs.’

  Mrs Butters was puzzled. ‘Top of the stairs? I don’t remember leaving it there, miss. I don’t know what’s happening in the house this morning.’

  3

  FROM THE HILL Top Cafe opposite, Steele and Mason watched Meredith Austin close his front gate and walk briskly off down the Highgate Road.

  ‘Shall we go, guv’nor?’ asked Mason.

  Steele demurred; his cup was not quite empty. ‘No hurry, Jack,’ he said. ‘There’s time to finish my coffee.’ Now there were just the two of them, the formal use of ‘sir’ and surname was jettisoned. In front of clients it enhanced the impression of military efficiency. But in private the two men’s relationship was much more relaxed.

  They had been a good team throughout twenty years in British Military Intelligence. In particular, their undercover work in Mesopotamia had forged a unique mutual respect. It had also done much to protect British interests and the welfare of the local population in that troubled region, where European powers were conniving to extend their influence. The methods employed by the two men, however, had tended to be unofficial and unorthodox, and had often raised eyebrows in senior circles.

  Then came the mishap that eliminated a ruthless and dangerous German agent. It had undoubtedly saved hundreds of lives, and possibly averted war in the Middle East. The man’s fatal fall from a hotel balcony had, of course, been a drunken accident. But a Times journalist, seeking a story, had hinted at British involvement, and military authorities had hurried to distance themselves from the incident. Major Steele had been encouraged to resign and return to England and civilian life. It had been his idea that his sergeant should do the same, and join him in starting a detective agency.

  In this new enterprise, their instinctive teamwork continued to serve them well. Each normally read the other’s thoughts without effort. But at the moment Mason was puzzled. ‘Excuse me asking,’ he ventured, ‘but why are we so interested in that lot over the road? I mean, our job is chasing the Heath Maniac. That’s not going to be Mr Austin, is it?’

  Steele took a sugar lump from the bowl and sucked it. ‘We don’t rule out anything at the start, do we? And the reason we’re probing a little deeper into the Austin household is because it’s aroused my interest.’

  ‘I can see that, guv’nor, but why?’

  ‘You know that I am always intrigued when I perceive that someone is lying, or concealing something. There’s a mystery at Hillside House. It may have to do with the Heath Maniac, or it may not. Either way, I think we should find out what’s going on.’

  As Mason considered this proposition, he peered out through the cafe window and watched a man walking along the other side of the road. The man wore a grey greatcoat, and had a broad-brimmed hat pulled down low over his forehead. Curiously, although it was still a mild day, the muffler round the man’s neck had been dragged up to cover most of his mouth. Mason thought perhaps he had a toothache. There was certainly nothing jaunty in his walk.

  Mason turned back to look at Steele again.

  ‘Well, you give the orders, guv. And you’re usually right.’ He sniffed. ‘I must say, I don’t much care for Mr Austin. I reckon if he ever smiled his face would break up. And I could never trust a man with shoes as shiny as that.’

  Clare was still making notes by the bookshelves when Mrs Butters returned.

  ‘I’ve put the sweeper away in the cupboard.’ She’d had second thoughts. ‘I wonder if it was me that left it on the landing. Tell the truth, I’m in such a tizzy today.’

  ‘After being shouted at by my father, it’s not surprising,’ Clare consoled her. She closed a large volume and returned it to its place. ‘What time is luncheon today?’ she enquired.

  ‘Any time you like,’ said the housekeeper. ‘There’s some nice cold steak and kidney pie from yesterday. The master said to serve you and Miss Harriet in your rooms.’

  ‘Ah, not for me, thank you. There are papers all over my room. I’ll have mine as a snack downstairs. Lay it out on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Very good, miss.’ Mrs Butters was glad to be spared an extra trip up the stairs.

  ‘With a little English mustard, please.’

  ‘Yes, of course, miss.’ The housekeeper was eager to please: she always saw Clare as an ally. ‘And perhaps you’d like some potato salad.’

  ‘Yes, that would go well. Thank you.’ Clare was about to leave when there came a knock at the garden door.

  ‘Hello, who can that be?’ Clare turned back into the room. ‘Can you see, Mrs Butters?’

  Mrs Butters peered through one of the windows. In the sunshine she
could see Steele and Mason, standing back from the door.

  ‘Mercy me!’ she said. ‘It’s the two gentlemen who were here just now. The detectives. They made your father very angry.’

  ‘That sounds interesting. Open the door and let them in.’

  ‘Oh no, Miss Clare!’ cried the housekeeper. ‘Mr Austin said I was never to let them in this house again! And he said I was to tell you not to speak to them!’

  ‘That sounds even more interesting. Open the door, please.’

  ‘But Mr Austin said—’

  Clare cut her short. ‘Mr Austin is not here. Open the door at once, Mrs Butters.’

  Reluctantly, the housekeeper opened the door.

  Henry Steele stepped forward with a smile. ‘Ah, Mrs Butters, I’m sorry to trouble you again. I seem to have left my silver pencil in here. May we come in and retrieve it?’

  Clare took charge. ‘Yes, come in, by all means, gentlemen. I’m Clare Austin. My father just left, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah, indeed. Thank you,’ said the major, as the two men stepped into the room. ‘How do you do, Miss Austin. I’m Henry Steele, and this is my colleague, John Mason.’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Clare. ‘I’ve heard that the Heath Association have engaged your services. You have mislaid a silver pencil?’

  ‘Your father was giving me useful information, and I was making notes. I think the pencil may be on Mr Austin’s desk.’

  Steele crossed to the desk and surveyed everything on it. He looked at a pad on which there was writing, then he raised it and looked beneath. ‘It may have got pushed underneath here. No. Then it must be somewhere else.’

  For a moment Mason feared his colleague might suggest that the pencil had somehow rolled into one of the closed drawers. But Steele knew when to temper audacity with discretion. ‘Perhaps it’s on one of the windowsills,’ he said, and set off in that direction.

  Then Clare intervened. ‘Where were you sitting?’

  The suggestion seemed to come as a surprise to the major. ‘Ah. A good idea,’ he said. ‘I was in that armchair.’

  Clare reached down inside the chair, felt around, and swiftly produced the missing item. ‘Is this it?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Steele gratefully. ‘Good gracious! In the chair! My word! Thank you, Miss Austin.’

  Clare handed him the pencil and he put it in his pocket. Then he smiled and said, ‘As we’ve met, madam, I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Certainly, Major. I should be pleased to help, if I can. I believe the Heath Association would wish all of us to assist you in any way we can.’

  Mrs Butters was appalled. ‘Miss Clare, your father said you weren’t to talk to these gentlemen!’

  ‘I’m sure that must be a misunderstanding. I will take full responsibility.’

  ‘But, Miss Clare—’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Butters. That will be all for now. Please go and deal with the lunch.’

  Once again shaking her head disapprovingly, the housekeeper left the room and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Clare. ‘Please be seated. And tell me how I can help you.’

  The men sat down. Steele cleared his throat and voiced the cautionary words his conscience demanded. ‘Miss Austin, it’s only fair to warn you that Mrs Butters is right. Mr Austin has forbidden us to talk to his daughters. There could be unpleasantness for you if he found out.’

  ‘There will be no unpleasantness in this house whatever happens,’ said Clare. ‘In the meantime, my father has gone to the City. I am twenty-five, and will talk to whomever I please.’

  Steele’s admiration was genuine. ‘You are a woman of spirit, Miss Austin. I hope to speak to your sister also. May I ask if she shares the same attitude?’

  ‘My half-sister,’ Clare corrected. ‘And no, she is only eighteen and entirely under our father’s thumb. I doubt she will be willing to talk to you.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Steele. ‘We were especially keen to hear from her, as I believe she had an association with last night’s victim. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare firmly.

  ‘Although your father vehemently denies it, for some reason.’

  ‘Snobbery is the reason. He felt Robert Kemp was beneath our station in life.’

  ‘I see.’ Steele glanced across to check that the faithful Mason was taking notes again. He was. Steele continued. ‘Will you tell us a little about your sister, please.’

  ‘Harriet has always been young for her age. Her main concern in life was always her pets. That is, until she met Robert. Under his influence, she began to take an interest in books, and show a little independence. Alas, I fear all that will now be snuffed out.’

  Steele smiled gently. ‘We must hope not, Miss Austin. Independence is a powerful beast, once it is unleashed. You knew Mr Kemp yourself, I take it?’

  ‘I was the first to meet him. Last year, through an old school friend. After I introduced them, Harriet saw him more frequently. Often at the Hampstead Arts Club, which I no longer attend.’

  ‘You are not a lover of the arts, then?’

  ‘On the contrary, I am. But I am a doer rather than a critic. I do not care for the chatter at the Arts Club.’

  ‘Ah. Loud talk and floppy bow ties, perhaps?’

  Mason chuckled dutifully. Clare merely said, ‘I think that might be fair comment.’

  Steele pressed on.

  ‘So a friendship developed between your sister and Robert Kemp?’

  ‘Yes. He called on her several times here. To exchange books, or simply to talk about them. He and I spoke only briefly. I thought it right to leave them alone together.’

  ‘Quite. Was there a feeling that this friendship might blossom into something stronger?’

  Clare paused fractionally and then said, ‘Yes, there was.’

  ‘And your father reacted unfavourably?’

  ‘To say the least. He was determined to destroy the relationship. The first time Robert called, Father was rude to him. Then he forbade Harriet to see him. So Robert had to come on Sunday nights, when Father is always out.’

  ‘And you feel his hostility was due to snobbery?’

  Clare hesitated briefly. Then she took the plunge. ‘Well, snobbery was the obvious reason. But, in truth, I think there was something else. Something stronger. Father called Robert a fortune-hunter.’

  ‘Oh. A fortune-hunter.’ Steele thought for a moment. Then he leaned forward and said, ‘Miss Austin, will you allow me an indiscreet question?’

  Mason looked up, a little apprehensively. But Clare Austin was unperturbed.

  ‘You may ask me anything you wish,’ she said.

  Steele chose his words carefully. ‘Is there a fortune for Robert Kemp to have hunted?’

  The young woman looked around, and then there was something in her tone that might have been a rebuke. ‘You have observed that we live somewhat modestly, no doubt.’

  Mason rushed to the aid of his leader. ‘The major was not suggesting that anything was shabby, miss.’

  Clare gave a little humourless laugh. ‘Of course not. But there is no sign of conspicuous wealth, is there? My father is not an extravagant man. However, Harriet’s mother seemed to have money. I imagine Harriet will eventually inherit some.’

  ‘One would assume so,’ said Steele. ‘Can you tell us anything of Harriet’s mother?’

  Clare’s reply was brisk. ‘A very sensible woman. She left my father.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Steele, and waited for more. After a few seconds it came.

  ‘She ran away with another man. Mention of her name is forbidden in this house. Like so many other things.’

  Again there was quiet for a moment. Then Steele risked another indiscreet question. ‘It’s clear you are not happy here, Miss Austin. May I ask why you stay?’

  Clare was not offended; indeed, she seemed relieved at a chance to air her problems. ‘I am the daughter of his first wife
. There is no fortune for me. My father gives me a very small allowance while I am under his roof. A legal obligation, I’m sure.’

  ‘A legal obligation?’

  ‘A condition of my mother’s will, I think. He would not do it out of kindness. At all events, it is a mere pittance, which I try to augment by writing articles for publication. At present, that income is tiny. So, until it improves, I would rather endure my father than go and starve in a garret.’

  ‘Ah. I understand,’ said Steele sympathetically. And then, more brightly, ‘Well, well. So you are a writer, Miss Austin?’

  ‘I aspire to be. So far I have succeeded only with nature notes. I observe the wildlife of Hampstead Heath, and write a monthly piece for the Hampstead and Highgate Express. They pay me a token fee: very small, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Steele smiled admiringly. ‘I’d say that makes you a professional writer. In my experience, for anyone to get anything published anywhere is a considerable achievement.’

  ‘Thank you. But it does nothing to alleviate my financial plight.’

  ‘Have you tried submitting material to other publications?’

  ‘Oh yes. I have sent articles to various natural history journals, but none has so far been accepted.’

  ‘Keep trying, Miss Austin. It is the only way.’

  ‘I know that, Major, and I do. I recently completed a short story, and I have offered it to The Strand Magazine.’

  Steele and Mason were both visibly impressed.

  ‘The Strand Magazine!’ said the major. ‘You are aiming high! When do you think you may have their response?’

  ‘Not for a while, I think. I posted it only this morning. I am already asking myself if I have simply wasted precious pennies on postage. One has to send a stamped addressed envelope, you know.’

  ‘So I understand. Well, let us hope and pray that it will prove a good investment.’

  Mason nodded his head cheerfully. ‘We both wish you luck, miss.’

  ‘We certainly do,’ Steele echoed. And then he reverted to business. ‘Now, may I ask you about your own mother? What are her circumstances?’