Terror by Gaslight

by Edward Taylor

  The dog began to howl again, now distant, as at first.

  ‘Oh, that dog!’ Harriet complained. ‘It has been making that horrid noise all evening. Yet I never heard it do that before.’

  Steele’s response echoed Clare’s. ‘Animals sense the presence of evil.’

  After this exchange, the pair fell silent. Again, the wind seemed to be abating, its sound decreasing as the tension in the house mounted. The fire in the grate seemed finally to be dead.

  And then a hideous, anguished cry rent the night air. It came from outside on the Heath, but not far away: one brief shriek, high-pitched with pain, but surely a male voice.

  Harriet shrank closer to Steele. ‘Dear God, what was that?’ she cried. ‘It sounded like a man! A man in agony!’

  Steele was equally shaken, and his reply was grim. ‘Yes. Yes, I fear so. I pray it doesn’t mean that …’ He checked himself, as a hubbub erupted outside.

  Suddenly, the bleak night was full of violent noise: angry voices, running feet and police whistles. Harriet’s horrified reaction was compounded by a fearful blend of recollection and premonition.

  ‘Oh, God!’ she cried. ‘I fear that something awful is happening! Like the night poor Robert died. But then there was no uproar outside. We heard only banging on the door.’

  ‘Things are different tonight,’ rasped Steele. ‘I hope that the outcome will be different also.’

  And now came the banging on the door. First a short burst of hard blows, then a few more, slower and feebler, as if delivered with diminishing strength. The thuds were accompanied by a dismal moaning. Harriet’s recall was now appallingly complete, and her response was the same as before.

  ‘Dear God! Someone is in terrible distress! We must open the door!’

  This time there was no argument.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steele. ‘You stand back. I will open the door.’

  With his pistol raised, he advanced to the garden door and opened it wide.

  On the doorstep stood a man, unsteady and glassy-eyed. For a moment he swayed on the threshold, then one fist beat weakly at the empty space where the door had been. The momentum carried the man forward and he fell full length, face down, on the floor. A spike protruded from between his shoulder blades and blood bubbled up through a gash in his overcoat.

  As Steele bent over the body, feeling for a pulse, Harriet leaped forward with a wail of despair. She put a hand under one of the man’s shoulders and seemed to be trying to turn him over. Steele restrained her.

  ‘Do not attempt to move him, Miss Austin. He’s dead, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But he’s my father! What’s happening? He’s my father!’

  ‘Yes. He was also your tormentor. And, I have to say, your mortal enemy. You must come away now or you’ll be covered in blood.’

  Harriet began to sob hysterically. Steele put an arm round her and led her to a chair.

  ‘This is not the way things were meant to happen,’ he lamented. ‘But perhaps it is for the best. You would not have enjoyed seeing him on trial at the Old Bailey. Anyway, what’s done is done. Help will soon be here.’

  Now the raised voices were coming closer and, as Harriet watched in amazement, three figures came in through the garden door. The one in the middle was Clare Austin. Her right arm was held by John Mason, her left was supported by a constable. More policemen could be seen outside.

  Harriet’s sobs were interrupted by a relief that was almost joyful. ‘Clare!’ she cried. ‘Thank God you’re safe!’ She jumped to her feet and was about to run to her sister, but Steele held her back, gently but firmly.

  ‘Not now, Miss Austin,’ he said.

  John Mason looked down at the corpse of Meredith Austin and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. We were just too late to prevent this.’

  ‘Evidently,’ said Major Steele.

  ‘But you were right,’ Mason added. ‘It was a crossbow.’ He held up the weapon he was grasping in his free hand.

  ‘It had to be,’ Steele pronounced. ‘The silent Angel of Death you once spoke of. Coming from nowhere to strike the victim down. Once the man had fallen, the bolt was withdrawn, and a knife thrust in and out, to make it look like a stab wound.’ He glanced at the spike in the dead man’s back. ‘Tonight, of course, the assassin hasn’t had time to do that.’

  Harriet’s relief turned to renewed horror.

  ‘You mean the Maniac is still out there? For God’s sake, shut the door!’

  ‘No, Miss Austin. The Maniac is in here.’

  ‘What?!’

  Steele indicated Clare Austin, standing sullen and hostile between her two guards. ‘Your stepsister.’

  ‘Clare?!’ Harriet was astounded and could only blurt out, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about an embittered and jealous woman. A woman unhinged by frustration and ill-treatment.’

  ‘No!’ Clare came to life with a defiant shout.

  ‘There’s no point in denying it, miss,’ said Mason. ‘You were holding the crossbow when we caught you.’

  Clare spoke passionately. ‘I’m not denying that I’ve rid the world of some evil men. I’m denying that I’m unhinged. My brain is sound and my mind is clear.’

  ‘Well, that will be a matter for the experts to decide,’ said Steele. He turned to the policeman. ‘Inspector Willoughby is watching the front of the house. Tell him to come and arrest the Heath Maniac, will you? And bring the police doctor.’

  The policeman said, ‘Very good, sir,’ and left to carry out his mission.

  Harriet was trying to come to grips with the astonishing events and revelations of the last five minutes. She stared wildly at her sister and found herself saying, ‘Clare! Clare, what have you done?’

  ‘I’ve eliminated another male rodent. Not a handsome young seducer this time, but a wicked brute who’s ruined more than enough women’s lives.’

  John Mason was crestfallen. ‘We should have saved him, sir, as you planned. We saw the woman come out of the house, like you predicted, but then we lost sight of her in the dark. We didn’t see her again till Austin arrived and she let fly.’

  ‘No need for sackcloth and ashes, Jack,’ said Steele. ‘He’s no great loss to society. He was a bully and a cheat, and he certainly murdered his first wife. You’ve saved the hangman a job.’

  ‘But he was my father,’ sobbed Harriet.

  Steele put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘That is not certain, Miss Austin. It is known that your poor mother sought relief from his brutality in the company of a better man.’

  Clare turned bitterly on her sister.

  ‘And don’t you realize, you ninny, that Meredith Austin was bent on driving you out of your mind? Your guinea pig stolen, the whistling in the night, the dead rabbit, and God knows what he’s done with your wretched cat! I have despatched a monster from your life!’

  ‘But Clare! You killed all those young men! You murdered my dear Robert!’

  ‘Your dear Robert!’ Clare spat out the words. Her resentful resignation was now burgeoning into anger. ‘He was my dear Robert until he saw your silly good looks! And then, like other male nincompoops, he decided he preferred a china doll to a real woman!’

  Harriet gasped. ‘I can scarcely believe this!’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it, you useless milksop!’ Clare’s anger had now fermented into an insane rage. ‘You never believe in anything real, anything practical! You think your pretty face will carry you through life without any problems!’

  Clare broke loose from Mason’s mild grip and gave him a fierce shove. Caught off balance, he toppled to the floor as Clare, now unrestrained, ran across the room. ‘But it won’t!’ she cried. ‘Because it won’t be pretty any more!’

  The demented young woman snatched one of the daggers from the wall and charged at her bewildered sister.

  The blade was no more than a foot from Harriet’s face when Steele fired his pistol and Clare’s arm dropped to her side.

  Harriet’s e
ars were still deafened by the gunshot as she watched her sister sink slowly to the ground.

  12

  MASON LOOKED AT his watch. ‘What time is Mr Willoughby coming?’ he enquired.

  ‘He said he’d be here at eleven,’ said Steele. ‘So he’s already half an hour late.’

  Steele was in a tolerant mood. ‘We shouldn’t be too hard on our constabulary, Jack. They always have much to do. Besides, Richard Cresswell won’t be here till noon. And, while we’re waiting, Mrs Butters’ blackcurrant wine is very pleasant, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, it is, guv’nor. But should we really be drinking it?’

  ‘Of course we should. Miss Austin told us to make ourselves at home. Anyway, there’s no one else to drink it now, and it’s far too good to waste.’

  He poured a little more wine into Mason’s glass and a lot more into his own, which had been almost empty. ‘We owe it to poor Mrs Butters to ensure it’s fully appreciated. And it may help to keep us warm.’

  It was a cold, bright December morning and the south-facing sitting room was catching a little watery sunshine. But after only four days with no resident, Hillside was already beginning to feel chilly and desolate. It was the detectives’ first visit to the house since that momentous Sunday evening which had changed two lives and ended a third.

  When that night’s drama had finally come to an end, Steele and Mason had driven the distraught Harriet Austin to Mason’s home, where Emily Mason had gladly taken her under her wing.

  The cab had then carried the men to the hospital, so that Mason could receive treatment. Clare Austin’s violent and unexpected push had sent him sprawling and he had crashed his head against the cast-iron fender that surrounded the fireplace, causing a large gash close to where the previous one was only just starting to mend. To Mason’s dismay, after stitching the cut, the doctor had suspected renewed concussion. He had insisted the patient stay there for three days’ observation, in the care of Nurse Bullimore, who, of course, scolded him roundly for being careless.

  While Mason languished in hospital again, Steele had been busy. He’d worked with Chief Inspector Willoughby at Scotland Yard, tidying up the outfall from the Heath Maniac’s arrest and dealing with matters relating to Meredith Austin. And he’d also been pursuing some inquiries of his own.

  On Tuesday afternoon he’d visited his disgruntled partner and cheered him with the news that Ned Barker, the felon arrested after the bridge attack, had finally yielded to a mixture of pressure and promises, and revealed who was behind the assault. It was Tommy Slaughter, obviously anxious to put a stop to the detectives’ probing.

  Slaughter had been swiftly arrested, on a charge of conspiracy to murder, and was now himself under interrogation. The police were especially keen to find out why he had been visiting Frankel, and what business the two men had which called for such desperate measures.

  Since Monday morning the Hillside grounds had been invaded by excited reporters. The capture of the Heath Maniac was the big news of the week, and they wanted some background for their lurid stories. The house itself had been inhabited only by police, checking the scene of Mrs Butters’ death, gathering evidence against Clare Austin, and keeping the newshounds outside the building.

  This morning, though, other activities were afoot in Hillside. Steele and Mason were there to meet Inspector Willoughby and show him some papers in Austin’s desk, which would be used in the prosecution of Cedric Jamieson. They had brought Harriet Austin with them, so that she could choose and pack things that must go to her new home. She was upstairs now, making her selection.

  After today, Hillside would be left to the police and, when they’d finished their work, the house would be locked up, and its contents covered with dust-sheets. Steele was determined that Mrs Butters’ wine should not suffer this indignity.

  He sipped some more, gently savouring its fruity flavour, and mused on good developments.

  ‘Harriet Austin looks a different person,’ he reflected. ‘Remarkably, she seems to have put on weight already.’

  Mason grinned. ‘No surprise there, guv’nor. The poor defenceless girl has been stuffed with Emily’s eel and onion pie. And her saveloys and mash, with piccalilli.’

  ‘Has she been sleeping well?’

  ‘Like a log, apparently. Apart from that first night, of course. Emily’s been sharing the same room, to keep an eye on her. She says Harriet goes out like a light as soon as she lies down. No need for sedatives now.’

  ‘Ah.’ Steele smiled and lit a small cigar. ‘Just the relief from fear and tension. Of course, Austin was behind all the things that scared her, but Clare was happy to stoke them up. And now they’re both out of her life.’

  There had been little chance for the two men to talk this week, and Mason had questions to ask. ‘So it was Scully’s note that put you on the right track,’ he ventured.

  ‘Scarcely a note,’ said Steele. ‘More like a full-length confession. But, yes, that was what opened my eyes. It’s clear that Scully and Clare Austin were lovers, though he doesn’t actually say so: no doubt because his wife was writing the letter. They spent a lot of time together and he taught Clare self-defence and the use of some weapons, including the crossbow.’

  ‘Funny thing to be doing with your girlfriend.’

  ‘Weapons were his hobby, remember. And it would have been an amusing pastime on the Heath. Then, when he was booted out in a hurry, he left his crossbow behind.’

  ‘Why didn’t he go back for it?’

  ‘Probably because Austin said if he ever showed his face there again he’d shoot him on sight.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose.’

  ‘Long afterwards, thinking deeply on his deathbed, Scully was haunted by the thought that the Heath Maniac might be using that crossbow.’

  ‘So he shopped his bird? In this letter he sent you?’

  ‘Not specifically. He just said he’d left the thing at Hillside. Anyway, they’d actually parted on bad terms. Clare turned hostile when she suspected, no doubt correctly, that he had other women on the go. And, when she caught him in flagrante delicious with the parlourmaid, she told her father at once: adding a few lies about both of them thieving. Austin sacked the pair of them immediately.’

  ‘Not the sort of woman to get the wrong side of,’ Mason observed.

  ‘As her father recently discovered.’ Steele was warming to his subject. ‘So I came up here looking for the crossbow. And when I found it in the garden shed, with dried blood on the bolt, I reckoned that was the murder weapon. It had been carefully hidden behind a pile of logs. I think Mrs Butters saw it there and that’s what she was trying to pluck up the courage to tell us, that day when she was interrupted.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember. Someone came in, didn’t they, and she shut up like a frightened oyster. So Clare Austin must have killed her to make sure she didn’t try again.’

  ‘That’s what Willoughby thinks. And so do I.’

  ‘I suppose she pushed the poor old girl down the cellar steps.’

  ‘More than pushed, I think. The doctor says Mrs Butters had head injuries that suggest a violent blow on the back of the head. I’m afraid the lady was as deadly with a blunt instrument as she was with the crossbow and the knife.’

  ‘Knife? Oh yes, you mean the one she used to enlarge the wounds.’ Mason glanced at Austin’s ornamental daggers on the wall. ‘D’you think she used one of those for the job?’

  ‘I doubt it. She would scarcely risk being seen taking it down. And kitchen knives are easy enough to come by.’

  Another thought occurred to Mason. ‘Why was the woman so ready to help us, when she was the culprit we were out to catch?’

  ‘We can only guess at that, Jack. I suppose her main purpose was to ruin her father, and we were the best means of doing that. Also, helping us meant she always knew what we were up to.’

  There were three sharp knocks on the front door.

  ‘That may be Willoughby,’ said Steele.
<
br />   Ten seconds later came another three knocks, even sharper.

  ‘Definitely Willoughby,’ Steele added. ‘He’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.’

  They heard the front door opened by a duty policeman, who treated the newcomer with great respect, and evidently took his hat and coat.

  A moment later Willoughby entered the room, red-faced, puffing slightly, and rubbing his hands together to warm them up; not a tall man, but one who gave the impression of strength and authority. His sandy-coloured hair was beginning to show some grey streaks at the sides.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And a damned cold one, too.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Steele. ‘We have some good strong wine here that is keeping our circulations going. May I pour you a glass?’

  Willoughby raised a flat hand, as if holding up the traffic. ‘No, thank you,’ he said.

  Steele smiled. ‘Ah. No wine while working, eh?’

  ‘Exactly. That is my rule,’ said the inspector. ‘In fact, I very rarely take wine. Blurs the judgment. I have my own survival kit.’

  He took a silver flask from his pocket, sat down heavily in an armchair, and took a hefty swig of Scotch whisky. Then he exhaled heavily and rubbed his hands again.

  Steele looked at him with mock disapproval. ‘Drinking spirits on duty, George?’

  ‘I’m entitled to this. I’ve been up since five this morning, and engaged on Her Majesty’s business.’

  ‘Good heavens! What could Her Majesty have wanted you for at that time of day?’

  ‘A matter which I think will interest you. As you know, we have been questioning that rogue Slaughter since Monday night, mainly about his involvement with Otto Frankel, a person we’ve been interested in for some time.’

  ‘A nasty piece of work,’ observed Mason.

  ‘Undoubtedly. He came to our attention in connection with contraband items seized by Customs at Dover. There was insufficient evidence to pursue him at that time. But we were intrigued that Frankel keeps a large house and several servants, but seems to have no legitimate income.’ A note of triumph entered Willoughby’s voice. ‘Well, now we have the explanation.’