‘Very carefully,’ said Charlie. ‘Like I said, he can be violent.’ He laughed heartily at his little joke, then became respectful again. ‘Sorry. Yeah, I know what you’re asking but I don’t know the answer. You could try the public bar at the Black Swan. Or there’s an agent we both used to use, maybe Luke kept in touch with him. Ernie Treadwell, 63 Charing Cross Road.’
As Mason made a note, the door was flung open and a woman burst in, a shabby dressing gown flapping loosely over her underwear. Minus her splendid black wig, her mousey-coloured hair was in a mess and without her stage make-up her face was grey and starting to show a few wrinkles. In crumpled slippers, instead of high-heeled shoes, she seemed considerably shorter but, with mounting dismay, Steele and Mason began to recognize her.
‘For God’s sake, Charlie, give us a fag!’ implored the woman they knew as Olga. ‘Alfie’s gone and smoked the whole bleedin’ packet! I’m gasping!’
‘Mind your manners, Gladys!’ said Charlie. ‘I got two gentlemen here.’
‘Beg pardon,’ said the woman, drawing her dressing gown closer around her. ‘Got the bailiffs after you again?’
‘No,’ said Charlie, reaching into a drawer for his cigarettes. ‘They’re trying to find Luke Scully.’
‘Cor!’ said the woman. ‘That toerag? Well, I can soon tell them where to find Luke Scully.’ She turned to the detectives. ‘Worth a quid, is it?’
In his austere little office at Dunblane, Charles Stone heard the thump of the front door knocker downstairs but he knew the manservant would answer it and, after a swift glance at his watch, he continued working on the accounts. They had got slightly disordered due to recent dramatic events and this would displease Dr Frankel, which was not a wise thing to do.
A minute later, bony knuckles rapped on his own door. ‘Come in,’ he called, and the door opened to admit Prosser and a youth, about eighteen years old, in working clothes.
‘This young man is from Slaughter’s,’ said Prosser.
‘Right,’ said Stone. ‘I’ll deal with this. Dr Frankel is not to be disturbed before eight o’clock.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘What is for dinner tonight?’
‘Sirloin steak,’ said Prosser. He was a man of few words.
‘Make sure it’s rare. And have a bottle of the Burgundy decanted.’
Prosser left the room without response, closing the door behind him. The youth seemed nervous. He advanced to the desk, took a large envelope from inside his rough jacket, and handed it to the secretary. Stone slit it open with a large metal paper-knife, which was rather sharper than it needed to be, and checked the contents.
Satisfied after a minute’s perusal, he put the envelope in a drawer on the left-hand side of his desk. Then he opened a drawer on the right-hand side, took out a package wrapped in brown paper, and gave it to the youth. ‘Instructions are inside,’ he said.
The youth turned to go but Stone stopped him. ‘One moment, young man,’ he commanded.
The youth, somewhat alarmed, turned back to face Charles Stone, who was looking stern.
‘Dr Frankel tells me our arrangement will have to be renegotiated,’ said the secretary. ‘His costs have increased, and the business is dangerous.’
The youth had trouble with the word ‘renegotiated’ but he grasped the essence of what Stone had said. ‘I don’t know nothing about that,’ he protested. ‘You’ll have to talk to Mr Slaughter.’
‘Exactly,’ said Stone. ‘Tell Slaughter to come in person next time.’
Winter had come early to Lambeth: the two tired-looking trees that graced Gravelly Road had long since shed their leaves, and their bare branches glistened with moisture. Some sparrows hopped around the railings that fronted the basement steps, chirruping bravely to keep their spirits up, but it was a bleak scene. Both sides of the street were lined with long rows of grey terraced houses that had seen better days.
When Steele and Mason reached number 53, they were heartened by the first show of human spirit in that long thoroughfare: an aspidistra in the front window offered some defiance to the general gloom.
Mason raised the knocker and rapped three times on the black front door. After half a minute he rapped again. There was a further short delay, then the door was opened halfway and a female face peered round it. It was a grey, weary-looking face, and it registered suspicion.
‘Yes?’ said the woman.
‘Madge Scully?’ asked Steele.
‘Yes,’ said the woman again. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Henry Steele and this is John Mason. We’re inquiry agents.’
Now the woman’s face expressed alarm. ‘You’re police!’
‘No, we’re not. We’re private citizens. One thing we do is try to bring people together, or put them in touch. We have a message for Mr Scully from his friend Charlie Challis.’
‘Charlie Challis? Cuh!’ The woman’s voice was bitter. ‘Fine friend he turned out to be!’
‘We also bring greetings to you from your sister Gladys. It was she who told us your husband was here.’
‘Oh. Gladys.’ The voice was now a little more amenable. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Gladys is fine,’ said Steele. ‘We saw her last night at the Camden Alhambra. She and Alfred are a big success.’
‘That’s a nice change,’ said the woman.
‘People were remarking on her fine Cossack cheekbones.’ Mason couldn’t resist the jibe.
‘What?’ Madge Scully was bemused.
Steele smiled tolerantly. The men’s relationship had always thrived on a little gentle ribbing.
‘Your sister is in good health and hopes to see you next time they play south London,’ he said.
‘Well … give her my love. And thanks for bringing Charlie’s message.’
She seemed about to shut the door but Mason’s foot had somehow edged on to the threshold. And then her eye was caught by Steele feeling in his waistcoat pocket, and producing what looked like gold coins.
‘We haven’t delivered the message yet,’ Steele pointed out. ‘Also, the Camden manager has discovered that Mr Scully is still owed some money from last time he worked there. He’s asked us to bring it to him.’
‘Oh. That’s good.’ The woman opened the door wider and reached out for the cash. ‘I’ll give it to him.’
‘I’m afraid we must hand it over to him in person. We have to get him to sign a receipt.’
‘Oh,’ said the woman again. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in.’ At last the door was fully opened and the men entered. The woman led them through what might have been called the hall, but was actually a dark passage.
‘I’ll have to find out if Luke can see you,’ she cautioned. ‘He’s not well, you know.’
‘No,’ said Steele. ‘We didn’t know that.’
‘You could have guessed. If he was well, he wouldn’t be home here, would he? He’d be up north of the river, chasing girls and toadying to the toffs.’
They reached a door at the end of the passage. Mrs Scully knocked, opened it an inch, and called out, ‘Luke! There’s two visitors to see you!’
The voice from within was weak and unwelcoming. ‘I can’t see no one. I’m ill.’
‘They’ve got some money for you!’
The pause was short, and the voice became less hostile. ‘All right. Tell ’em they can have five minutes.’
Mrs Scully opened the door wide and the men went into a small, depressing room, which contained little more than a narrow bed and a wooden cabinet beside it. On the cabinet stood a large china bowl, with a water jug standing in it. Beneath the cabinet was a chamber pot, mercifully empty.
One look at the wreck of a man in front of them was enough to answer the question that had brought them here. Through gaps in a torn nightshirt, an emaciated body could be seen, shiny with sweat. The face was deathly white, with watery eyes sunk deep in dark sockets, and cheekbones strained against papery skin. Thin arms moved slowly and painfully, as the man tried to prop himself
upright against the pillows. The effort exhausted him and he fought for breath, which came in short gasps.
Having no warning of their visit, Scully could not be dissembling. Anyway, no actor could simulate quite that degree of human devastation. So it was certain that Scully had not been stabbing and murdering people on Hampstead Heath in the last month.
Still, he might have some useful background information. Steele and Mason advanced to the bedside. ‘Good morning, Mr Scully,’ said Steele, with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. ‘Charlie Challis sent a message.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He said, “Cut out the gin.”’
This affront raised a small spark of animation in the invalid. He seemed about to spit but then, remembering his wife’s presence, confined himself to a contemptuous snort and moved on to the important matter. ‘You got some money for me?’ He held out a shaky hand.
Steele put three sovereigns in the palm. ‘You’re owed this from your last job at the Camden Alhambra.’ He didn’t bother to pursue the fiction about the receipt.
‘Blimey!’ wheezed Scully. ‘That’ll be three years ago! Mean sods! Three years they’ve hung on to this!’
He took a grubby handkerchief from under his pillow, wrapped it round two of the coins, and put the small bundle back under his pillow. He held out the third coin for his wife.
‘Get me half a dozen bottles of gin, Madge. And you can keep the change.’
Madge took the coin firmly. ‘One bottle will do for you, my lad. And the change will pay off some of the back rent.’ She nodded at the pillow. ‘I’ll have the rest of it later.’ She moved towards the door.
‘D’you mind if we stay and have a word with your husband, Mrs Scully?’ asked Steele, looking round for a chair. There was a rickety upright one in the corner. Mason fetched it for him, and then perched himself uneasily on the end of the bed.
‘Please yourself,’ said Madge. ‘You’ll not get much out of him. I never do. At least, not much that makes sense.’ And with that she left the room.
The conversation with Scully mainly confirmed what they’d already heard from Clare Austin and Charles Challis. Scully’s voice was feeble, and his words sparse as he reluctantly answered questions about his time working for Meredith Austin; indeed, only the sight of another sovereign glinting in Steele’s hand induced him to do so at all.
He admitted that he hated Austin, and said the theft charge was a bloody lie, trumped up as an excuse to get rid of him. The real reason he had to go, said Scully, was that he wouldn’t kow-tow to Austin all the time, as the tyrant expected. But Scully showed no passion for revenge. Again, when asked about Clare Austin, his response was muted. She was ‘all right’, he said, ‘the best of the bunch’. Briefly, he seemed about to say more, but either from weariness or inhibition his voice trailed off.
Nor did he have much to say about his ten months living rough on the Heath. He’d existed by shooting birds and rabbits with his bow, and catching ducks by the ponds; he’d learned survival techniques in the army.
But it had obviously been a time of great privation, which had finally destroyed a body already ravaged by drink, and it had eventually sent him slinking home to his wife. He acknowledged that he was lucky to be married to a saint. ‘She’s a real Christian,’ he said. Clearly she’d still felt bound by her marriage vows.
It was only when, unasked, he went back further, to his years on the stage, that Scully’s voice mustered a little strength and his mind some enthusiasm. His story differed from that which they’d heard from Charlie Challis. He averred that he had been the star, and it was jealousy that had caused Challis to push him out. He described great audience reactions and, having checked that his wife had not yet returned, recalled colourful adventures with theatrical ladies.
These excitements tired him; his voice began to peter out and his eyes to close. He was silently enjoying happy memories as he fell asleep.
On this occasion Scully’s timing was perfect. It was as he began to produce little snuffles and snores that Madge came back with the bottle of gin.
‘Nodded off, has he?’ she said. ‘It’s best if he’s sleeping.’ She opened the bottle, replaced the stopper, put an upturned glass on top, and placed the gin on the far side of the cabinet. ‘Don’t want him reaching it too easy.’
The men rose to leave. ‘Thank you, Mrs Scully,’ said Steele. ‘Your husband’s done his best to be helpful.’
‘Well, there’s a miracle! Perhaps he’s seen the light at last,’ said Madge, as she led them out through the door and back along the passage. ‘I’ve been trying to get the parson to come in, that’s if Luke’ll see him. It’s time he made his peace.’
‘We heard you talk about rent arrears,’ Steele ventured. ‘Perhaps you’d allow us to help a little further.’ He handed Madge Scully two more sovereigns.
‘God bless you, sir, and thank you,’ said Madge, putting the coins in her apron pocket.
‘You must find things difficult. How do you manage?’
‘I’m out cleaning five days a week,’ replied Madge. ‘Nice lady I’m working for. She even give me money to have a doctor look at Luke.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Consumption. His lungs is almost gone.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Steele. He meant it. What had happened to Scully was hideous.
Mason remained practical. ‘Should we leave a card, guv’nor?’
‘Oh yes. Thank you, Jack.’ Steele gave Mrs Scully one of their business cards. ‘We’re engaged in the hunt for the Hampstead Heath Maniac,’ he said. ‘We hoped Mr Scully might remember something useful from his days in Hampstead, but he wasn’t able to do so today. If he recalls anything later, would you please let us know. And if at any time you need help, Mrs Scully, you can call on us.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Madge Scully put the card in her apron pocket alongside the sovereigns, a handkerchief and a comb, which she would use from time to time to straighten her husband’s remaining strands of straggly hair.
Steele could not resist a final cautionary word. ‘Excuse my asking, but did the doctor say it was all right for your husband to go on drinking gin?’
‘He said it won’t make no difference now. He’s only got a few weeks to live. It’s best to keep him happy.’
Frankel descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and went down the three stone steps into the kitchen area. He was enjoying some pleasant anticipation, though no one would have known that from his face.
He was recalling that there had been a lot of good meat left on the lunchtime roast chicken. In particular, he was savouring an enticing mental picture of a plump chicken leg, still in place on the bird.
Three hours had elapsed since lunch, and there were three more to get through before dinner. His gastric juices, seldom idle, were starting to make their presence felt. It was time for a snack. He remembered that there were a few cold sausages as well.
He walked through the kitchen, opened the door of the spacious larder, and marched in. And then he let out a howl of rage.
A figure was already there, standing in front of the marble shelf, cutting off a slice of chicken breast with a sharp knife: a small piece, whose absence he hoped would not be noticed.
Hearing the door opening behind him, the boy swung round, his face a mixture of terror and disbelief. This was a time when the kitchen area should normally be deserted.
Frankel grasped him by the front of his shirt, hoisted him off the ground and began shaking him violently, berating him as he did so.
‘You scoundrel!’ he thundered. ‘Wicked little thief! Vile wretch! How dare you!’
‘I’m sorry! It was only a little bit … I’m sorry!’ was all the frightened lad could say, as he was jerked about in the big man’s grasp. There was no excuse he could think of.
His words only inflamed his master further.
‘I’m sorry, sir!’ he shouted into the boy’s ear. ‘You’ll be a lot sorrier before this day is over! And don�
�t you ever speak to me again without saying “sir”!’
Then Frankel released his grip and, as his victim tottered on his feet, dealt him a fierce blow to the side of his head with a swing of his huge hand. The boy crashed to the floor. For a moment he showed a brief surge of defiance and reached out for his knife, which he’d dropped when his assailant first seized him.
Frankel saw the movement immediately, having already glimpsed the gleam in the boy’s eyes. He brought a heavy boot smashing down on the outstretched hand, and the boy let out an animal cry of pain. Frankel kicked the knife away, and the boy lay there trembling. The doctor shook his fist at him.
‘Go for your knife, would you, you cur!’ he roared. ‘So! You’d be a murderer as well as a thief!’
‘I’m not a thief,’ mumbled the boy.
‘Not a thief? Not a thief? Then why are you meddling with this chicken? Why are you in here? You know full well you are allowed in the kitchen only when you’re working. And you should never come in this larder at all! Never! You know that! And now I catch you in here, putting your filthy hands on the meat! How dare you?’
The boy said nothing. He was fighting back tears.
‘Answer me, you blackguard!’ Frankel bent forward to fix his prey with a savage glare. ‘Why do you disobey me?’
A few words came out painfully. ‘I was hungry … sir.’
‘Hungry? You’re not hungry, you’re greedy! You cannot be hungry, when you are given two meals every day! Good meals, better than you ever had before I brought you here!’
The boy didn’t argue. It would have been unwise to protest that the black bread, bought in bulk, could scarcely be called a good meal. It was usually stale, often mouldy, and could only be consumed after immersion in the thin grey soup which was the other component in his diet. Occasionally, there would also be some poor-quality fruit, sold cheap because it was bruised or squashed. The doctor didn’t want scurvy in his household.
Frankel went back to the door and bellowed orders in a voice that would have brought down the walls of Jericho.
Terror by Gaslight Page 11