by Carol Hedges
Cully tells him.
For a second, Stride stares at him in blank amazement. Then he leaps from his seat.
“Hell and Damnation. I don't believe it.”
****
Josephine has just sat down to a plate of bacon and eggs when Annie enters the breakfast-room with a piece of paper and an important expression.
“A telegram has arrived for you, miss.”
Josephine slits open the thin paper and reads:
URGENT STOP PLEASE COME AT ONCE STOP
T MOGGS
She pushes back her chair.
“I have to go out.”
“But you haven’t had your breakfast,” the maid protests.
“Tell Mrs Hudson, I’m sorry, no time.”
Josephine takes her shawl, her bonnet and a pair of gloves, and hurries out of the front door.
When she reaches Holborn, she discovers a nervous young police constable standing guard under the brick archway. There is also a small crowd of people waiting patiently on the pavement, because the sight of a nervous young policeman standing guard anywhere suggests something juicy and sensational may have occurred, possibly involving weltering in gore, or death by murder.
Trafalgar Moggs greets her at the bottom of the stairs, his expression anxious.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Miss King,” he says. “The discovery was made this morning by one of the cleaning women.”
There are cleaning women? Josephine is astounded. She follows him up the stairs.
“This was what she discovered,” Moggs says, pointing.
A series of deep parallel grooves run from top to bottom of the outer door. It is as if some immense clawed beast has tried to claw its way in.
Josephine feels the blood beating upwards from her heart. Voices sound in the stairwell. Footsteps hurry up the stairs, and the next minute Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully appear on the landing.
At the sight of her, the Detective Inspector's face falls.
“Ah. Miss King. So you are here,” he says, in a tone of voice that clearly indicates he wishes she was not.
“Where else should I be, detective inspector?” she replies tartly. “This is – or rather it was – my uncle’s place of work.”
“Yes. Yes indeed.”
Stride glances past her.
“By Christ,” he exclaims.
He gets out a small memorandum book and begins scribbling furiously.
“You see what I mean,” Detective Sergeant Cully remarks.
Stride’s mouth forms a straight line.
“I hardly think your theory fits this scenario,” he says stiffly.
“Really? So how do you account for it?”
Stride goes on calmly writing.
“There will be a logical explanation.”
Cully gives him a sceptical look.
Stride closes the book.
“I find myself very uneasy, Miss King,” he says. “Ve-ry uneasy indeed. Can you think of any reason why this might have occurred?”
“Really, I do not know. Mr Moggs, do you know?”
Moggs shakes his head.
Stride mutters something under his breath. He gives the door a hard, accusatory stare as if it has done the marks all by itself.
“The papers are full of the presence of a gigantic hound,” Moggs remarks. “I have heard it has been rampaging everywhere and running wild across the city. Maybe it found its way here.”
“Now, now young man,” Stride says dismissively. “I shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“Indeed so,” Moggs agrees. “As the late Mr King frequently used to remark: a journalist is just another name for a vulture with a notebook.”
“And how right he was,” Stride mutters. “So, neither of you have anything further you can tell me? No reason you can think of why this ... event should have occurred?”
Josephine shakes her head. There is a short silence.
“Then I will leave you, for now,” Stride says.
He pauses.
“If you have anything further that you wish to discuss – anything you think might be relevant – do not hesitate to call upon me at Scotland Yard.”
“Indeed, I will not,” she assures him.
The two detectives take their leave.
“What do you think has happened, Mr Moggs?” she asks, when the sound of their footsteps has faded.
“I do not know, Miss King. It is a mystery, indeed.”
They stand side by side contemplating the wrecked office door.
“With your permission,” Moggs says, “I shall now go and find a carpenter to plane the door.”
“I think that would be a very good idea, Mr Moggs.”
Moggs glances at her.
“But first, may I bring you a cup of strong coffee? You look a little shaken, if I may say so.”
And, truth to tell, she does feel a little shaken. So many tumultuous events are piling in upon her one after another that she is in danger of being overwhelmed.
“Thank you. That would also be very acceptable.”
Moggs nods briefly. He straightens his muffler and buttons up his overcoat.
“A gigantic hound?” she queries.
“Just something I read in the newspapers,” he says. “Do not give it a second’s thought, Miss King. As the inspector said, there is bound to be a logical explanation. I shall return shortly with the coffee.”
****
Meanwhile, Stride and Cully have reached street level.
“There’s more to this than meets the eye, Jack,” Stride murmurs. “First we have the brutal murder of Mr King. Then the mysterious removal of his body. Now this. Three events that I’m beginning to suspect could all be linked in some way. Though I’m not sure how or why.”
While they have been engaged inside the building, the group outside has increased incrementally, the laws of causality stating that wherever two or three are gathered together a crowd will eventually form. Also, that among the crowd there will inevitably be a member of the press.
Stride’s mouth sets in a grim line as he spots the jaunty cloth-capped figure of Richard Dandy, chief reporter on The Inquirer. The Inquirer is the sort of paper that claims it speaks for ‘The Ordinary Man in The Street’.
“Good day, gents both,” Dandy greets them breezily, elbowing his way to the front of the crowd, pencil poised, notebook at the ready. “Busy morning?”
“No busier than usual,” Stride snaps.
“The Ordinary Man in The Street might be tempted to ask what two of London’s finest detectives are doing in this neck of the woods.”
“Might he?”
Dandy Dick, as he is known in the trade, gives Stride the sort of smile that lies on sandbanks waiting for unwary swimmers.
“He might indeed. Specially since we have this very dangerous gigantic hound on the loose. I’d’ve thought the mighty detective police had more important things to be getting on with.”
He scribbles a couple of lines, angling the notebook towards him so that they cannot see what he is writing.
Stride sucks in his breath.
“So, give us a clue – what’s going in there?” Dandy Dick asks.
“There is nothing going on, and I do not have any clues to give you.”
The journalist nods sagely, then writes something else down.
“Thank you very much, detective inspector. You've been very helpful.” He grins, tips his cap, and disappears into the crowd, leaving Stride staring after him in bafflement.
“What did I say?”
Cully shrugs.
“Who knows? Whatever it was, at least he’s leaving us alone now.”
He frowns.
“That door. I still think it might -”
Stride clicks his teeth impatiently.
“Well, don't think. I’m the one paid to think, not you. Right, I’m going to return to Scotland Yard. You stay here. Somebody must have seen something, heard something
. Ask questions, and get some answers for God’s sake! We can't let that bastard Dandy steal a march on us.”
He hurries off in the direction of the Strand. Cully turns back to the crowd. Having noted the departure of the police, combined with the failure of any blood-soaked, blanket-covered bodies to emerge from the building, they are now reverting from suspiciously innocent bystanders to suspiciously innocent bystanders melting away into the surrounding streets and alleyways. His chances of finding out anything do not look good.
****
Mrs Thorpe’s private sitting room is cosy and warm. A bright fire crackles in the grate and the little rosewood tea-table is well furnished with silver teapot, cream jug, sugar basin and plates of delicious little cakes. This is where the angel in the house entertains her intimate friends.
The current intimate friend is Mrs Carlyle. The two ladies have known each other since they were day pupils at Miss Jemima Prudholme’s Academy for Girls from Genteel Families.
Mrs Carlyle has recently managed to secure husbands for both her daughters, who, in Mrs Thorpe’s opinion, are not particularly attractive girls. They are certainly not nearly as talented as Isabella, who can sing, play piano, dance, and has studied geography, history, sketching, globes and mathematics.
Now the two ladies sit side by side on a sofa, balancing cups and saucers, little fingers crooked daintily, while they discuss the details of the lavish dinner party Mrs Thorpe is planning to hold shortly.
“You have secured the services of Monsieur Bouillon?” Mrs Carlyle inquires.
“Of course. Everything will be à la Française, as we prefer it,” Mrs Thorpe replies. “We do not go in for dinners à la Russe here. Mr Thorpe likes to oversee the carving of the joints. Taylors will provide the fresh flowers and fruit.”
Mrs Carlyle nods.
“I am sure it will be a perfect evening. And who have you invited for ...” She lets the words hang invisibly in the air.
Mrs Thorpe leans forward and murmurs a couple of names. Her companion’s eyes widen.
“I congratulate you, my dear. You have secured two of the most eligible young bachelors in London. Let us hope for a satisfactory outcome.”
And Mrs Thorpe is indeed hoping for a satisfactory outcome. Hoping fervently with all her heart and soul. Because only a few hours earlier, she had another difficult conversation with Bella, stemming from a perfectly reasonable observation that if the girl had nothing better to do with her time, she might like to join one of Mrs Thorpe’s church ladies’ charity groups.
Mrs Thorpe bites her lip. She is sure she never spoke to her own beloved Mama in such a way. Indeed, she remembers herself as a most loving young creature, who would never stare at her Mama with hard eyes, and raise her eyebrow is such a supercilious fashion.
Mrs Carlyle straightens her gloves, and prepares to depart. Mrs Thorpe accompanies her friend to the hallway, where a maid waits to show her out.
“We shall meet again soon, my dear,” Mrs Carlyle says, proffering the fingers of a gloved hand. “I am sure the dinner party is going to be a great success. Isabella will be the cynosure of every eye. You will be announcing her engagement in The Times before you know it.”
Mrs Thorpe smiles thinly and prays that she is right.
****
While Mrs Thorpe and her dear friend have been tea-drinking and plotting, a cab has just pulled away from outside the house in St John’s Wood, where a doorbell has been rung, and an official-looking letter delivered.
The letter has been carried by Annie to the book-lined study, where Josephine is once again dealing with the pile of funeral correspondence that never seems to get any smaller. The letter, which is from the solicitor Mr Able, has been handed over with a dignified gesture, the disapproving sniff being an optional extra.
Dear Miss King [Mr Able writes],
It has come to my notice that the Will of your late uncle, Mr Herbert King, has been asked for at Doctors’ Commons, and has been examined. You may not be aware that once a Will has been proved and lodged, the law allows it to be examined, for a small disbursement.
As there is nothing in the Will that could, to my knowledge, be contested, and I am not aware of any individual who might have an interest in examining it, nor has any subsequent claim been made in person or writing to this office, I have made enquiries to ascertain the source of the request. I have discovered that it was made by Mr John Skittles, of Smallbone, Skittles & Smallbone, a firm of solicitors.
As I am your legal guardian, I immediately applied on your behalf to the individual named above, asking why he found it necessary to examine the Will. I have now received a reply, stating that he was acting under instructions from a client, but that it would be a breach of professional confidence for him to reveal more.
Be assured that I am pursuing this matter vigorously, and will write more when I have further information.
Your very obedient servant,
Sept. Able
A curious communication. Josephine places the letter next to the letters of condolence, deciding to think about it later. Meanwhile Annie remains standing in the doorway, awaiting instructions.
“Thank you, Annie.”
The maid eyes the letter with interest.
“You may go.”
A pause, a toss of the head, followed by a flouncy departure.
Josephine sighs. She wishes that her education, inadequate as it was in every single respect, had at least touched upon how to handle sulky staff. Resignedly she reaches for another letter of condolence, dips her pen into the inkwell, and begins to write.
****
Meanwhile Detective Inspector Stride and Detective Sergeant Cully are staring down at the early evening edition of The Inquirer, whose front page headline declares in big bold letters:
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR STRIDE OF SCOTLAND YARD SAYS HE ‘DOESN'T HAVE A CLUE’!
Stride jabs a finger angrily at the incriminating headline.
“I did not say that!”
“I think you did,” Cully says.
“Yes, all right, maybe I said something to that effect. But not in the way he puts it. The bastard’s twisting my words.”
They read on.
“What a load of utter cock!” Stride splutters. “Local residents report hearing fearful howling ... things going bump in the night ... terrible screams ... churchyard haunted for weeks by a ghostly apparition in black robe … Who are all these ‘local resident’? Why didn’t they come forward and talk to us, instead of to the press?”
Cully shrugs.
“I did my best. But people prefer talking to the newspapers. It gives them what I believe is called in the newspaper trade the oxygen of publicity.”
Stride mutters words to the effect that if he had his way, he wouldn’t give them the oxygen of oxygen.
“And look here!” he exclaims, stabbing the paper viciously with his finger. “Did you read this? ‘The ordinary Man in the Street is beginning to wonder whether the new detective division is worth all the thousands of pounds of taxpayers’ money spent upon it.’ Do you know what I feel like doing to our smug self-satisfied Mr Dandy? Do you? I’d like to pull his head off with my bare hands, and use it as a football.”
“I don’t think that's actually legal.”
“Then it should be,” Stride exclaims. “Spreading lies. Misquoting people in public office – it’s not on. I tell you what Jack, if this state of affairs is allowed to continue much longer, the press’ll become an even bigger menace to law and order than the bloody criminals are. Mark my words!”
Detective Inspector Stride crumples up the newspaper and throws it angrily on to the floor. It will be later found by a cleaner, whose family is always desperately short of paper for the outside privy. Sadly, because it would give Stride great satisfaction to know that this will be its final use, he will never find out.
****
Dusk falls, and the lamplighters begin their rounds. The little flames flare and burn. The lamps are like eyes:
they observe the dark, spectral side of the great city. They bear witness to the strange and terrible life of London at night.
In the flickering golden glow, they spy something moving erratically along the street. Something that makes progress, then stops and rests against a wall. The approaching Something develops a wretched threadbare topcoat, a battered shako still bearing the faint outline of a skull-and-crossbones, and boots that seem to be on the wrong feet.
As the Something draws closer, the prow of a red-veined nose, a pair of blood-raddled eyes and an unkempt beard also become apparent. The figure shuffles into a dark doorway, and pulls a bottle from one pocket.
“Forward the Light Brigade. Charge for the guns,” it mutters in a hoarse whispery voice, before sinking to the ground in an insensible heap. Private Jim Jarndyce, late of the Light Brigade, and subsequently late for everything else, has returned to his old haunts.
****
Dawn arrives, accompanied by a milky vapour that hangs in the streets like the damp shed skin of a cloud, coating faces with moisture droplets. It also brings a ragged street-urchin carrying a broom who picks his way along the grease-slimed pavement. He is followed a few paces in the rear by the shambling mumbling object of the night before.
“Only a few more miles,” Oi announces jauntily. “Soon be there. Look lively!”
The object shuffles along, looking more deadly than lively.
“No food, no fuel,” it mumbles.
“Yeah, right. Plenty of food where we're goin’,” Oi says encouragingly.
A few more miles brings them to the Marylebone Road. The boy continues to half-support, half-drag his companion, who has a tendency to suddenly stop dead, regardless of any approaching traffic.
Oi takes the shambling figure by the arm.
“Come on old soldger. Best foot forward.”
The old man rips off a shaky salute.
“Private Jim Jarndyce reporting for duty, my lord. Forward the Light Brigade! Death or Glory!”
Eventually the two travellers reach St John’s Wood. They stand (or rather, one of them stands, the other sways) in front of a handsome new house, whitewashed, and shiny painted, but with the blinds drawn down halfway, and a black bow on the door-knocker.