The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal

by KJ Charles

  Dr. Merridew had choked to death on Cabbage Whites.

  Remember, Remember

  I sat in Wyatt’s dining-rooms by the Strand and waited for Simon Feximal, who was late.

  It was the fourth of November, and this would be my first meeting with him since our return from Winchester. He was occupied with his strange duties of course; I had my career as a journalist to pursue.

  It was blossoming. My account of the abominable Dr. Merridew and his death by butterflies had thrilled even the jaded palates of London readers. I had not given a complete account of events, wishing to steer clear of the laws governing defamation, gross indecency, obscene publications and possibly manslaughter. Still, my story increased the Chronicle’s sales by more than a third, and caused my editor to give me a grunt of approval and a gory murder to cover. I was becoming noticed as not just one of the penny-a-line crowd but a scribbler to be reckoned with. I was building the career of which I had so long dreamed, and I was proud.

  I had therefore written to Simon suggesting dinner, phrased in terms that also suggested other evening entertainments—one develops a knack for writing in a way that no policeman could point to as criminal—and he had accepted. I named Wyatt’s as the venue, since one can get a capital chop there, it was halfway between our respective addresses, and most significantly, it was very close to Holywell Street and its environs, where gentlemen can take a room for two hours with no awkward questions.

  I had, therefore, come to this evening with some anticipation. But the clock ticked on and Simon did not arrive.

  I waited. I ordered a dish for myself, and ate it, since I could not afford to leave a meal unconsumed. I took more wine than was good for me, and at last I abandoned my solitary dinner and left the chop house in a fury of disappointment, curiosity, anger. He could, surely, have sent a note, were he occupied with work. Had his interest lapsed in the intervening weeks? Or perhaps he had been unavoidably detained, even injured?

  I stewed over these thoughts as I walked, aware of my own absurdity but unable to shrug off his defection. I walked home through Old Compton Street, where a telegraph boy can be had for a shilling, and the thought crossed my mind to look for consolation there, but I could not find the enthusiasm. The fact was, Simon Feximal had come to occupy my thoughts to a degree that was not entirely welcome.

  Of course one dreams of forming a deep connexion, but for most of us, a dream is all it can be. Even were Simon to return my interest—and on the strength of this evening I had no reason to suppose he did—then what? He was a most extraordinary man living a most extraordinary life. I had my career to pursue. And the law condemned us both to a hole-and-corner existence when it came to personal affections. What on earth did I expect of him, or of myself? Why indulge in fancies that could only lead to disappointment?

  No, I thought. I would do well not to think more of Simon Feximal. I would expect nothing, plan nothing, hope for nothing, and not allow foolish imagination to paint pictures of what could not be.

  I was checking proofs of my latest article the next morning when I heard my name resound across the room.

  “Caldwell! Where the devil’s Caldwell?”

  Mr. Lownie, editor of the Chronicle, pushed his way through the desks and piles of paper, cursing a compositor who blocked his way.

  “Here, sir,” I cried, lifting a hand.

  “There you are,” he said, with an accusatory note, as though I had been hiding under the desk. “You know the ghost-hunter. Feximal.”

  It is always a little unnerving to be told that one knows a man if one’s knowledge is in the Biblical sense. I adopted an expression of, I hoped, intelligent curiosity. “I do, sir. May I ask the matter?”

  “Can you use him?”

  “I doubt it, sir, he is not a man to be used. But he owes me—” An explanation, at least. “A small favour. What’s the matter?”

  “Hartley House.” Mr. Lownie rapped his pipe on the edge of my desk, spraying dottle. “The residence of his grace the duke of Sarum.”

  “And her grace his wife, and Lord Mitcham their son,” I added. The infant thus named was the latest great-grandson to her imperial Majesty. Her Majesty had had the house built for the young duke, her favourite grandchild, and their graces had removed there some few months before the birth of their first baby. “What has Mr. Feximal to do with dukes?”

  “That is what you shall tell me, Caldwell.” Mr. Lownie pulled a twist of tobacco from his pocket and began to stuff his pipe with stained fingers. “Your ghost-hunting acquaintance was summoned there most urgently last night— What?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Along with Miss Kay and Dr. Berry. Carnacki’s in Ireland chasing up some haunting, else he’d be there too, I hear.”

  I whistled. That list encompassed the best-known ghost-hunters in England, with the exception of the reclusive Dr. Silence. I had looked into the field in some detail when I had inherited a ghost along with my crumbling and so far unsellable house. What I had learned had left me with a powerful desire to avoid Dr. Berry, a powerful relief that my case did not require Miss Kay, and a choice between Messrs Feximal and Carnacki that I could only be grateful had been settled in Simon’s favour by Carnacki’s absence. “Three ghost-hunters to the ducal residence?”

  “They have been in constant attendance since last night. The gates are locked and the servants silent. No journalist is admitted, and even callers of the highest society have been turned away this morning.” Mr. Lownie patted me on the shoulder. “Get in there, Caldwell. I want to know what’s going on.”

  I took the Underground to Green Park and the elegant new mansion of Hartley House. The corrosive touch of London fog had not yet begun to eat away at its white façade, and the house shone brightly, light spilling from the great windows on this dull day. Outside the wrought-iron gates lurked a disconsolate gaggle of my fellow scribblers.

  Murchison of The Times raised a hand in weary greeting. “I don’t know why you’ve bothered to haul yourself here, Bobster. Nothing doing.”

  “You must have some idea what’s happened,” I said. “You, stewing in ignorance?”

  He snorted. “All I know is, there were screams and cries last night, an urgent fuss made, and all the spook-shyers called up in a lump. The place has been closed up like a nun’s quim since.”

  Rodericks of the Gazette gave me a knowing look. “You are acquainted with the man Feximal, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “I saw your copy from Winchester. Good stuff.” Rodericks narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be planning to steal a march on us with personal association, would you, dear boy?”

  I denied it utterly and insincerely. Murchison and Rodericks closed in on me.

  “Listen, my boy,” Murchison told me quietly, while Rodericks glared our fellows away. “Hopkin got inside this morning, but the spook-shyers wouldn’t talk to him. Your pal Feximal marched him out. Poor fellow looked scared half to death, couldn’t say a word. The fact is, we’re all stumped, because it’s no good to get in if you can’t stay in. Now, if we can finagle you inside, do you suppose you can persuade Feximal to talk to you?”

  “I might,” I said cautiously. I did not think it likely, but one should never say no before hearing the offer.

  “You’d want to be reasonably sure. He’s a bruiser of a fellow.” I knew that well; his finger marks had lingered on my hips for days. “Because I’ve greased a servant here, and not used her yet, and I believe I can get a man inside.”

  “Put him in his shirtsleeves,” Rodericks said, with a rude nod in my direction. “He’ll look just like the baker’s boy.”

  “But it’s halves on the story, Bobster,” Murchison insisted. “I’ll want something exclusive.”

  “Thirds,” Rodericks said over his shoulder. “The maid was my lead in the first place.”

  “Halves, and you two split what I give you,” I said firmly. “If Feximal doesn’t want me in there, he’s liable to tear me limb
from limb.” What a thought. Simon truly angry with me was not a sight I wished to see, but Simon venting his outrage with a stern and punishing hand… I reined in my thoughts before they wandered too far from decency.

  Murchison and Rodericks exchanged looks. “Halves,” they agreed without further argument, and I knew then that the task ahead of me should not be taken lightly.

  The disloyal kitchenmaid met us round the back of the house. She had a bowl of slops in her hands, and a baize apron bundled under her arm, ready to act as my disguise. Her face bore a surreptitious look and her pinched mouth spoke of dissatisfaction.

  “Don’t you point the finger at me when you get caught,” she muttered.

  “I shan’t,” I assured her. “I trust you won’t be suspected?”

  “Don’t know as I care if I am. I’d give up my place for two shillings and welcome.” She sniffed meaningfully, my cue to offer a sympathetic ear.

  “What’s so bad about it? Is it the family, or the Upper Ten?” The senior servants set the tone of the backstairs, and a cruel Cook was the bane of many a kitchenmaid’s miserable life.

  She shook her head. “It ain’t that, I been in worse-run houses. But I never been in a haunted one before, nor I don’t want to, and put up with it I shall not.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  She gave me an expectant look. I found a couple of shillings in my pocket and passed them over with a secretive hand.

  “Crying.” She leaned forward, speaking softly. “Littl’uns, crying like their hearts was broke. Ever since the baby came, we’ve heard the crying.” She looked round sharply at a raised voice from inside the house. “No time for this now. You get inside, and I know nothing.”

  She shoved an earthenware bowl of slops into my hands, and I followed her meekly in. Normally I should have taken the opportunity to pump the servants for information, but we had the kitchenmaid on our payroll already, and I was after bigger game. I slipped through the back ways of the house, abandoning the bowl and stripping off the apron as I moved from the servants’ domain to the family rooms.

  The house was brand new, of course, warmed with great hot-water pipes to the point where I was quite glad that I had left my topcoat outside with Murch. I paced the halls, trying to look as though I belonged here. The halls were silent and empty. I could hear the sounds of speech from ahead, and I quickened my pace as my sharp ears caught a particularly low and resonant tone.

  Only one man of my acquaintance had a voice that deep.

  I could have hurried forward then, but I was caught by uncertainty. No gentleman would invade the privacy of another’s home thus; but I was a journalist, not a gentleman, and I had a story to pursue. Simon would understand that, would he not?

  Or perhaps he would not. I had thrilled at the thought of his disapproval earlier, but it seemed rather more probable and more menacing now. If he was truly angered, or disgusted, so that he did not want to see me again…

  Well, that would be as it might. Had I not resolved already to let the cards fall as Fate decreed? Journalism was my ambition, nothing more, and I had a career to build.

  With that decided, I crept forward along the bright hallway to a great panelled door, and paused a moment to listen.

  The voice inside was unmistakeably Simon’s. It was hard to hear through the thick wood, but he sounded frustrated and even worried.

  “I can’t,” he insisted. “There’s nothing. It makes no sense.”

  A woman’s voice came back, somewhat testily. I could not make out the words. Simon responded, a little quieter, so that the door muffled his words altogether. I heard “stubborn” and no more.

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  I had not had the slightest sense of another’s approach. I turned with a startled cry and found myself facing Dr. Berry.

  The famous ghost-exterminator was very close to me. He was not much over my own medium height, and aged at least fifty, his pale eyes magnified behind thick lenses, the sallow skin of his bald head sagging. His white moustache and neatly pointed beard were stained yellow with a lifetime’s use of tobacco, and I smelled the stale fug of the weed on his skin and clothes.

  “Who are you?” he said softly. His voice was sibilant, and the smell of smoke rolled off his breath.

  “Just pausing in my duties, sir,” I said as any servant might.

  I doubted he would believe me, and it was clear he did not. His eyes widened a little, seeming as round as the lenses that framed them.

  “Who are you?” he repeated, moving closer, so close that the lines of his skin seemed to impress themselves on my vision.

  I leaned back. He leaned in, and I realised I had my back to the wall, and the man was up against me, and…

  And I was frightened. Out of nowhere I was deeply, profoundly afraid, not of being evicted, or the physical chastisement that might come with it, but afraid as prehistoric man feared the noise in the dark cave. Afraid of something I could not apprehend, but which I knew and dreaded in my bones.

  Dr. Berry’s face was inches from mine. His eyes were huge. His teeth had vertical lines marked in brown, stained by years of smoke. The hairs just under his nose were of a browner shade too, fading out to yellow and then the natural white. All these details impressed themselves on me with a force so stunning that I could scarcely drag breath into my lungs. The gaping pores of his skin. The obscenely soft bulge of a mole, pushing its way out of the rough, pitted side of his nose. And the eyes, threaded with red veins, staring at me.

  “Who are you?”

  “Caldwell,” I managed. My tongue felt thick.

  “You’re going to tell me everything.” Dr. Berry raised a hand. He was not a stout man but his fingers were oddly plump, and pallid. They did not look like the swollen fingers of a drowned corpse. I told myself that they did not.

  I did not want him to touch me with those soft fingers.

  “Please,” I whispered.

  Dr. Berry’s lips (a little cracked, a little dry, tobacco stains in the lines and ridges of dry skin) curved at my plea. There was nothing in the world now but his eyes behind those awful refractive thick lenses. His dead man’s fingers closed on my jaw—

  There was a solid thump, and he wasn’t there any more.

  “What the devil?” demanded a deep voice. I gasped, pulling in air to my parched lungs, and as the blackness around the edge of my vision receded, I saw Simon’s powerful body protectively in front of me, and Dr. Berry straightening from where the blow had sent him stumbling down the hall.

  Dr. Berry gave Simon a look of such blank malevolence that it shuddered down my own spine. Simon stared back, unmoving, his mouth curled with contempt. He seemed to feel none of the fear that had gripped me at the doctor’s snakelike gaze.

  “Another snooper.” Dr. Berry pulled out a darkly stained handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. “I was merely teaching him a lesson.”

  Simon exhaled through his nose, then turned to me, and I cringed at the expression on his face. I had been a fool to do this, it dawned on me far too late. To bring my presence, with our illegal connexion, into his work.

  “Mr. Caldwell,” Simon said with grim intent.

  “You know him?” enquired the doctor.

  Simon ignored him. “I suppose I need not ask what you are doing here.”

  “Prying,” Dr. Berry said. “Prying and spying. Eavesdropping and earwigging.”

  “Am I to do this entire task on my own?” said a sharp female voice from the door to the room.

  I turned. She was a tall woman, in her thirties or perhaps older, with dark hair plainly dressed. Her face bore the marks of suffering, the irritable twitching of her hand suggested it had not always been borne with patience, and she was looking from Dr. Berry to Simon with an expression of some annoyance. She ignored me entirely.

  “I found a scribbler,” Dr. Berry explained. “But Feximal has interfered.”

  “I should hope so,” replied the woman, who had to be the third of the ghost
-hunters, Miss Kay. “Just throw him out, Simon.” She flicked a finger at me.

  “I am acquainted with Mr. Caldwell,” Simon said. “The butterfly business last month.”

  “Then throw him out gently.”

  “That is not good enough,” Dr. Berry said. “The scribblers keep coming in, like cockroaches, like rats. We must make an example.”

  Miss Kay looked at Dr. Berry and said, her tone quite dispassionate, “Everything about you revolts me.”

  I sagged against the wall, avoiding looking at Dr. Berry. I could feel his eyes on me like a wet touch, like a tongue on my skin, even as he answered Miss Kay in a tone of equal dislike to her own. If Simon would only escort me out, so that I did not have to go near Dr. Berry, I should not complain.

  Simon said, “Well, Mr. Caldwell,” moving towards me, and then all three ghost-hunters looked up as one.

  “Get him out,” Miss Kay snapped.

  Dr. Berry reached a hand towards me. Simon smacked it away, with a force that sent the older man’s limb flying upwards. Dr. Berry’s pale eyes shone with anger, but that was when I heard it. A baby’s cry.

  It rose in sobbing crescendos, the mewing cry of a young infant, but it was loud. Very loud, and very close, and under it there was another cry starting. It sounded like the heartbroken sounds of a lost child, of perhaps two years, interspersed with gasps and sobs of fear. I stared, wide-eyed, as the sound came over and upon us, and with it a wave of sensation that made me cringe into myself.

  Simon’s jaw was set. Miss Kay bowed her head over clenched hands. Dr. Berry’s eyes were narrowed as he murmured something under his breath.

  The younger child cried out, and the sobs of both changed into a high-pitched moan that rose and wailed and sharpened with agony.

  “For God’s sake!” I cried, as the keening sound rose intolerably. “How can you stand there? Can you not help them?”