Terror by Gaslight

by Edward Taylor

  He looked up at the new arrivals and said, ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We’ve called to see Mr Jamieson,’ said Steele, pleasantly.

  ‘You got an appointment?’

  ‘No. We thought we’d give him a nice surprise.’

  ‘Mr Jamieson never sees no one without an appointment,’ said the youth.

  ‘I think you’ll find he’s about to make an exception,’ said Steele, handing the youth his card. ‘Tell him Major Steele and Mr Mason would like a word with him. Say some new facts have emerged about the Slattery case.’

  Steele’s manner made the youth disinclined to argue. He took the card and went into an inner room, closing the door behind him. For a short while, indistinct male voices could be heard, one raised in anger. The detectives passed the time studying Jamieson’s certificates. These all bore spectacular red seals, but came from American universities of which neither man had heard.

  Jamieson had first come to the detectives’ attention as an East End lawyer, defending local villains on routine charges. He was known for exploiting legal loopholes to the limit and sometimes, they felt, rather beyond.

  After he’d progressed to more salubrious areas of the law, Jamieson had crossed their paths again in the notorious case of Edwin Slattery. Slattery had tried to execute a series of elaborate share-dealing frauds, using a network of false proxies and non-existent companies. Steele and Mason, working for a firm of stockbrokers, had been the first to uncover wrongdoing, before the police took over the investigation. Slattery and an assistant had gone to jail.

  They had employed a number of lawyers in weaving the dense web of legal complexities which were intended to hide their criminal activities. One solicitor, Silas Crutchley, had been struck off by the Law Society. And suspicions remained that others had been involved in misconduct.

  Jamieson had been a minor player, with no firm evidence against him. Steele had always believed that a deep and thorough probe would reveal some misdeeds but justice had been done, investors had been reimbursed, and the detectives had more urgent work on their hands, protecting a prominent politician from assassination.

  So the matter lay dormant. But Steele and Mason and Jamieson all knew there were dark secrets to be unearthed if anyone had the incentive to dig.

  Just as the certificates on the wall were starting to lose their entertainment value, the spotty youth returned and said, ‘Mr Jamieson will see you in five minutes. He has an important job to finish.’

  ‘Ah. Perhaps we could go in and help him,’ said Steele, already moving briskly towards the inner door. ‘Many hands make light work.’

  The youth seemed about to protest but before he could find the words Steele and Mason were through the door and into the lawyer’s inner sanctum.

  Cedric Jamieson, somewhat agitated, was trying to secrete a whisky bottle in a desk drawer into which he’d just crammed a bulky file that he must have thought rather sensitive. The drawer wouldn’t close, and the neck of the bottle protruded. The Commissioner for Oaths was uttering several very coarse ones.

  Steele was reassuring. ‘Don’t bother to get drinks out, Cedric. We’re here on business.’

  Jamieson regained his composure, laid the bottle on the floor beneath his desk, closed the drawer and managed a smile that was rancid enough to curdle the milk downstairs. ‘Major Steele!’ he cried. ‘And Mr Mason! Good to see you!’ He rose and extended a hand.

  Mason did the job of shaking it so his senior didn’t have to. Steele just grinned affably at the lawyer and said, ‘We’d like a little co-operation from you, Cedric.’

  Jamieson enthused. ‘Of course, Major, I’m always ready to help, you know that.’ He cleared his throat, and then spoke a little nervously. ‘Arthur said it was something to do with the Slattery case.’

  ‘That was just to get your attention, old chap.’ Steele was still sounding genial. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that at present we have no plans to delve deeper into the Slattery affair. Unless new circumstances arise, of course.’

  The solicitor concealed his relief effectively and instead registered mild puzzlement. ‘I’m not sure why you feel the Slattery case is of special concern to me, Major. However, if you tell me the actual purpose of your visit, I’ll do my best to assist you.’

  ‘We’re interested in the affairs of one of your clients. Mr Meredith Austin of Highgate Road, Hampstead. We need to know about various transactions.’

  ‘Major Steele,’ said Jamieson sternly. ‘You know I can’t discuss a client’s business with a third party. Unless I have the client’s express permission, of course. Has Mr Austin given his consent to this approach?’

  ‘We’ve had several meaningful discussions with Mr Austin,’ said Steele. ‘He’s aware of our interest.’

  ‘But has he given you written authority to make these inquiries?’

  ‘Now I come to think of it,’ Steele conceded, ‘I’m not sure that he has. In fact, I think it might be best if none of us mentioned them to him.’

  Jamieson was shocked. ‘This is most irregular. In the circumstances, I don’t see how I can help you.’

  ‘Well, let me make a suggestion,’ said Steele. ‘That cabinet must contain clients’ files, surely? Mr Austin’s will be in the top drawer, marked “A to C”, I daresay.’ He turned to Mason. ‘Jack, perhaps you could find it for Mr Jamieson.’

  ‘Shall be done,’ said his burly assistant, moving swiftly into action.

  Jamieson objected vociferously. ‘This is outrageous! Come away from there! I shall have to call the police!’ But he thought it wise not to intervene physically, and Mason quickly took out Austin’s file and laid it on the desk.

  ‘Here we are, sir,’ he said. ‘Right at the front. Very orderly system Mr Jamieson has. I didn’t have to disturb anything.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Steele. ‘Now you have the file in front of you, Cedric, it should be easy for you to help us. We’ll ask questions and you can look up the answers.’

  ‘That’s out of the question,’ the lawyer protested. ‘Completely unethical.’

  Steele smiled. ‘And of course you would never do anything unethical, would you? Not like poor old Silas Crutchley in the Slattery case. He got struck off by the Law Society, didn’t he?’

  Jamieson ran his tongue over dry lips, and said nothing.

  ‘Of course,’ Steele continued, ‘if our way is blocked on this Austin inquiry, we’ll have time on our hands. We could take another look at the Slattery business after all.’ He turned to Mason. ‘What d’you think, Jack?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. I’ve felt all along we should go into that more thoroughly.’

  The lawyer sighed. ‘Be reasonable, Major. The fact is, I cannot supply you with information about clients. I dare not.’

  Steele considered the situation and then offered his solution. ‘All right, Cedric, I see your problem. You can’t answer our questions. We’ll have to acquire the information we need without your knowledge.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘If you leave this office for half an hour, you won’t be responsible for what goes on here, will you? Why don’t you go and help Arthur with his reading? He seems to have difficulty with the longer words. Or perhaps Miss Lamour would welcome a visit. Does she offer special rates for neighbours?’

  Jamieson looked at Steele and then at Mason. Both faces were smiling but quite relentless. Mason tilted his head briefly towards the office door.

  Without another word, Jamieson gave a resigned shrug and left the office, closing the door behind him.

  Steele sat down at the desk and opened the Austin file. Mason took out his pocket notebook.

  It had turned colder overnight, and now the afternoon was as bleak as a judge’s smile.

  Some thin November sunshine was totally outgunned by a freezing east wind, not spectacularly fierce but very cold. This wind was apparently blowing all the way from Siberia, crossing the North Sea and the flat plains of East Anglia, and arriving undiminished on Ham
pstead Heath, eager to chill new victims.

  Harriet Austin still looked pale but was largely recovered from the crisis of four days ago. She was glad of her overcoat, with the scarf and the hood brought up over her head. She was grateful, too, for the leather gloves, lined with warm fleece, and much more comforting than any gloves she had worn in the past. She’d found this expensive pair in the attic. They’d been tucked away in a chest of drawers, which contained some of her mother’s belongings Meredith Austin had failed to burn or throw away. These items had survived because his hatred had been surpassed by his reluctance to part with anything that might be worth money.

  The gloves were of good quality, soft and supple, and Harriet had hoped she could carry out her mission without removing them. But then she found she couldn’t. Although the bark of the trees was firm and fairly soft, the drawing pins were too small and fiddly for gloved fingers, and two pins had fallen to the ground. As she took off a glove to grope for them in the grass, she relaxed her grip on the leaflets and one of them detached itself from the rest, to go skittling away in an eddy of wind.

  Harriet had spent hours composing the text of her leaflet, and many more making a dozen copies by hand. She had felt that twelve was the minimum required, and she still thought so. Besides, she hated litter. So she stuffed the rest of the bunch into her overcoat pocket and set off in pursuit of the miscreant.

  Harriet was slim and light but not much accustomed to physical exercise, and the leaflet was well airborne. It seemed an unequal chase.

  But then the leaflet was blown against the side of a prickly bush, becoming briefly trapped. And before it could free itself and resume its flight, a figure emerged from a clump of trees and intervened.

  It was a boy who had been using a knife to whittle a stick into a sharp spike. Now he thrust the knife and the spike into the belt of his trousers and moved swiftly to retrieve the paper.

  The rescuer was a lad of about fourteen years, with tousled fair hair and a grubby face. His face and body were thin and his frame was wiry. He wore long scruffy trousers, with a tear at the right knee and, above them, a coarse jerkin over some sort of woollen garment.

  He grabbed the paper and studied it keenly for a few moments. Then he looked at Harriet.

  ‘This yours, miss?’ he asked. His voice was hoarse and had already broken.

  ‘Yes,’ she said nervously, uncertain whether or not to advance and take the leaflet from him. It was broad daylight and there were other people in sight, including a distant police constable on patrol. But the boy looked wild, almost feral, and he had that knife in his belt.

  So she stayed where she was and simply said, ‘Thank you for catching it for me.’

  The boy showed no sign of wanting to part with the leaflet. He continued to peer at it closely, and eventually managed to master one of the words near the top.

  ‘Woss this about a cat?’ His delivery was slightly aggressive. But there was a naive pride in his words that was somehow touching. ‘I can read, you know. My mate taught me,’ he went on. ‘Before he had to go away.’

  ‘My cat’s disappeared,’ Harriet explained. ‘I think she may be lost on the Heath. I’m offering a reward to anyone who finds her.’

  The boy’s interest was aroused. ‘Woss this cat look like?’

  ‘She’s small and brown, not much more than a kitten. She’s called Ella, her name’s on her collar. There’s more about her in the leaflet.’

  The boy sniffed. ‘Yeah. Well, I don’t read no more than I have to. My mate said too much reading’s bad for your eyes.’ He got quickly to the main point. ‘Woss the reward?’

  ‘I’ll give a guinea to anyone who brings Ella safely back to me.’

  ‘A guinea? ’ow much is that?’

  ‘A guinea is one pound plus one shilling.’

  The boy whistled in amazement. ‘Gor! More than a quid! When I bring home a cat to my gaffer, he just give me tuppence!’

  Harriet was pleasantly surprised. ‘Your father runs a refuge for lost cats?’

  The boy gave a brief, mirthless laugh. ‘Nah! He ain’t my father. And the cats don’t have to be lost. Just any old cat I can lay my hands on. Or a rabbit. Or a squirrel, if I can ever catch one. See, he just likes something he can cut up.’

  The smile froze on the young woman’s face.

  ‘He cuts them up?’

  ‘Yeah. Research, he calls it. I think he just enjoys it.’

  Harriet winced. ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘Well, he won’t get no more moggies from me. Not when he pays tuppence and you’ll pay a quid. I’ll bring ’em all to you in future!’

  Shock waves began to course through Harriet’s brain, triggered by the dreadful thought that this boy might start bringing a succession of kidnapped cats to her home, creating huge problems; not least, the fury of Meredith Austin.

  On the other hand, if she declined the offer, any cat unlucky enough to be caught by this ruffian was doomed to be butchered.

  Briefly, she struggled for words. Then she gave in. The other cats would have to take their chance. The alternative was impossible.

  ‘No, you must bring me only Ella, if you find her. As I said, her description’s in the leaflet. I cannot pay for any other cats. I have little money.’

  ‘Gor!’ said the boy again, this time in disappointment. He summed up. ‘Right. So I just look out for this small brown cat, then. And if I fetch her to you, you give me a quid and a shilling?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet. At least if she sent this boy roaming the Heath with a financial incentive, it might be her best chance of recovering her pet. Then a hideous thought struck her.

  ‘Pray God you haven’t already found Ella and delivered her to your master! She’s been missing for more than a week.’

  The boy thought, then shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I ain’t seen a brown cat lately. Fact is, I ain’t caught any cats these last ten days.’ His voice took on a darker tone. ‘I had other things to do.’

  As Harriet wondered what those other things might be, and how she could bring this encounter to an end, the youth changed the subject.

  ‘You live in that ’ouse over there, don’t you?’

  The young woman was shaken. She hadn’t expected, or wanted, this rough lad to know where she lived. But then she remembered her address was on the leaflet anyway. It had to be, for her to get the cat back.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I live at Hillside. I’m Mr Austin’s daughter.’

  ‘I thought so. I seen you in the garden there. I was watching you the other day, walking up and down.’

  Harriet shivered, and realized it was not just the cold. But there was worse to come.

  ‘I live next door, see? Dunblane. I can watch you from our window.’

  Harriet was dismayed. She had supposed that this unkempt creature came from one of the dingier corners of the Heath, from Gospel Oak, perhaps, or Archway. She had even imagined him living rough in the woods. But no, in fact it seemed he was her neighbour! Dear God! Did that mean that the person who slaughtered animals in the name of research was actually the man her father had chosen to be her doctor? Fearing she knew the answer, she still had to put the question.

  ‘Do you work for Dr Frankel?’

  The boy was becoming animated. ‘Work for ’im? Not arf! Morning, noon and night I work for ’im. I’m only out here now cos I’m supposed to be gathering firewood! I’m ’is bloody slave, that’s what I am!’

  The swear word jarred on Harriet. She’d heard it before, when Luke Scully worked at Hillside. In fact, it had rent the air several times. But it always bruised her ears. Then she reflected that this lad probably had no idea that the word was offensive.

  ‘But I won’t always be,’ he declaimed, a new passion in his voice. ‘I’m going to get away, I am! When the right time comes. I’m going to make a lot of money, I am! Cos I know secrets! I seen things other people don’t know about! One day I’ll be rich. And then I’ll do what I like and have lots to eat
.’

  ‘Well, I hope all those things happen for you,’ was all Harriet could find to say.

  The boy calmed down, as the thought of money prompted a more practical question.

  “’Ow much you gonna give me for this paper, then?’ He waved the leaflet teasingly in the air.

  Harriet was taken aback. ‘You have to keep that,’ she said. ‘You need it for my address and the description of my cat.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ the boy announced. ‘I know where you live, don’t I? And I know about the moggie. Small and brown, ain’t she?’

  ‘With a white patch on her tail,’ Harriet added.

  ‘Right. So now I know it all. You can have this paper back, and give me a tanner for catching it for you.’

  ‘Well, I suppose the more leaflets I can pin up the better. But I have no money with me at all at present.’

  Then she saw the solution. ‘Give me the leaflet now,’ she suggested. ‘And when you bring my cat back I’ll give you an extra sixpence.’

  The boy considered this proposition for a moment, and then concluded it was the best bargain he could get.

  ‘All right, you can have it,’ he announced. ‘Cos I like you.’

  He moved forward and gave the leaflet to Harriet, and having done so, he put his hand on her wrist.

  ‘You’re quite pretty,’ he said. ‘You and I could be friends. And when I’m rich I’ll buy you lots of nice things.’

  Had she been told in advance that such a thing might happen, the young woman would have expected to recoil and scream for help.

  But now that it had occurred, she astonished herself by doing neither. The proposition was absurd, of course. But she found that she didn’t want to hurt this vulnerable fellow human.

  His voice had become quieter, and his touch was tentative and reasonably discreet, not the brutal groping she’d heard of other young ladies enduring on rare encounters with males of a lower class. And she was looking at a pale, sad face that seemed as if it had never known any affection.

  So she produced a nervous smile and responded courteously, gently removing his hand from her arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think that would be possible. My father would not approve.’