Murder in Montague Place

by Martyn Beardsley

  Close by, a recruiting sergeant was buying two young men drinks and endeavouring to persuade them to enlist in his regiment of the line, albeit in a friendly and jocular manner. One of his intended recruits noticed Spud and called him over.

  ‘Why, here’s a fine fellow who will take your shilling, Sergeant!’

  This caused much mirth, and Spud knew it was on account of his being only twelve years old – and small and scraggy, even for that. He decided to go along with the fun.

  ‘I would go for a drummer boy if only you will buy some nuts from me!’

  The sergeant pulled a face. ‘Me ivories is no longer equal to nuts, sonny. Last time I ate a hazel it fair broke one at the back into pieces.’

  He opened up his mouth to display the evidence, but Spud couldn’t make out which of the blackened stumps he was referring to. The youth who had summoned him bought a handful of mixed nuts, then Spud began to wander back towards the door. It had been a worthwhile visit after all. A couple more such sales and he’d be able to round off his night with a trip to the oyster man on Fenchurch Street. But just as he was about to leave, yet another patron of the Ten Bells summoned him. This was a big, tough-looking man with a scarred face and shaven head. The man was smiling, but something about him sent a cold tingle down Spud’s spine. The man raised a great gnarled hand and pointed to a side door.

  ‘In that there bagatelle room you’re sure to find further custom, young sir.’

  Spud looked at the door, shrugged and entered the room. But once inside he saw that the tables were deserted and there was not a soul there. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned sharply. The big man had followed him in – and was now closing the door. Spud felt his heart race, and he glanced round for other doors and windows.

  ‘Easy there, young chap,’ the man tried to reassure him.

  ‘There’s nobody here. You said—’

  ‘I said you’d find custom.’ He peered at Spud’s tray, chinking among some coins in his pocket as he did so. Spud began to sort out some nuts, but the man stopped him and reached into the tray himself.

  ‘Walnuts is me favourites!’ He gathered a few up in his big paw, then rummaged through the remainder and picked out the biggest of the lot. He slapped the coins that he had fished from his pocket into Spud’s palm without even looking to see how much there was. But Spud’s practised eye could tell from a single glance how much he’d been given without the need to count it out – and it was easily double what the nuts were worth.

  Holding the biggest walnut in his left fist, the big man began to squeeze, still smiling and looking Spud in the eye as he did so. His face was relaxed and there was no sign that he was straining unduly with effort – but within a couple of seconds there came a muffled CRACK. It sounded like the breaking of bones. Bits of shell and crumbs of walnut escaped from his grasp. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘Tom Prike!’

  Spud felt the colour draining from his face. ‘I ain’t Tom Prike, mister. Tom’s older than me and—’ But that’s not what the man meant, and the man knew he knew it.

  ‘Tom Prike ’as made ’imself scarce but I need to find ’im. One good turn deserves another, after all!’

  ‘Look mister, Tom’s my chum….’

  ‘But that’s just it – ’e ain’t in trouble! Someone just needs to talk to ’im, that’s all.’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me where he was going. Wouldn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘You could find out. People like you and me – we can find things out when we really need to, and I really need to.’

  ‘Mister, please….’

  ‘And because I really need to and I’ve found you, now you really need to. S’just the way it works.’

  ‘He’s my chum, though, mister!’ But Spud couldn’t look him in the eye, because he knew he had no choice.

  ‘Got nothing against ’im meself – don’t even know ’im. But the task was passed on to me and now I’m passing it on to you. And when you find out and tell me, it must be the truth, mind. You need to walk these streets regular to earn your crust, so you won’t be hard to find.’

  Spud let out a troubled breath, and his head drooped in something between a crestfallen sag and a nod of assent.

  ‘I’ll do me best.’

  ‘I don’t want yer best. I just want Tom Prike.’

  Upper Grosvenor Street, Mayfair. It was an area where the atmosphere of nobility lingered in the air like smoke from expensive cigars. The very omnibuses which plied their trade along Park Lane and Oxford Street seemed to do so with greater deference; less of the mad scramble and competition for fares here than elsewhere. It was the sort of place where one might indeed expect to find a Home Secretary’s residence. Mr Bucket, watery-eyed, clad in great coat, scarf, gloves and any other item of apparel he could find to ward off the cold, counted down the house numbers until he arrived at number 22. This was an area which even he was less familiar with. Peterborough House was a tall, fairly modern building: imposing but in a restrained, dignified way. After taking in the splendour for a moment and allowing himself a slight smile as he pictured his telling of the tale to Mrs Bucket that evening, he walked boldly to the colonnade, immaculately polished, deep blue front door and gave the shiny brass knocker a double rap.

  A tall, funereal-looking butler with long black hair slicked down with macassar opened the door and gazed disdainfully at the caller. His lips were pursed – he was waiting for the visitor to announce himself; and he would wait there silently with pursed lips all morning if necessary. But Mr Bucket didn’t speak for a moment. It’s not that he was struck dumb at the thought of visiting the home of a senior member of the government, nor by the butler’s jowly funereality. It was something else … something about this man. For Mr Bucket felt there was something familiar about him, but he was blowed if he could put his finger on it.

  He gave up and declared cheerfully, ‘I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective, and your mistress is expecting me.’

  The butler’s expression remained unchanged. He turned and retreated into the house. Mr Bucket thought he might have heard some sort of grunt, and if he had it would almost certainly have been an invitation to follow, so he did, and closed the door behind him. The intense blueness of the morning sky was shut out and now he was in a dark hallway, decorated in muted colours, furnished with items made of dark-coloured timber. He followed the servant up the stairs to the drawing room, staring at his back as if it would reveal to him where he had come across this man before – if indeed he had. Then Mr Bucket was left alone. It was a large room, as he had imagined it would be, seeming to occupy most of the first floor. And it was opulently decorated – as he also imagined it would be – although almost every item of decor seemed to be either solely or predominantly a sort of mauve colour. It was all very impressive, but even though Mr Bucket was no authority on such matters he couldn’t help thinking that Mrs Bucket had more taste and imagination where interior decoration was concerned. But it was the great table in the centre of the room which was of most interest to the detective. He soon noticed that dominating the centre there were ferns growing in pots, and beside them a sort of album: which by its bulk and general appearance he suspected also harboured a collection of what, to his mind, was nothing more than a lot of very plain green leaves. He then spotted that even a number of vases and jugs, which adorned the table, had fern designs engraved or printed upon them.

  So not all had been taken. Lack of time, or were specific specimens only coveted?

  He was kept waiting for a shorter time than he expected. A woman, who he was sure must be Lady Rhynde herself, swept into the drawing room with the butler at her shoulder; the latter stopped just short of entering the room, gave a slight, funereal bow to his mistress’s back, then closed the door to leave them alone.

  Lady Rhynde glided gracefully across the room towards Mr Bucket, wearing a pleasant smile and proffering an outstretched hand. She was petite, younger than he had pictured her, with a white yet healthily glowin
g complexion.

  ‘Sir, how very good of you to come!’

  ‘Inspector Bucket at your service, ma’am,’ he replied, taking her hand.

  ‘I am very annoyed at what has occurred but I should never have demanded the immediate attentions of such an eminent officer of the police. They are, after all, only ferns and may be replaced. But my husband insisted….’

  ‘A theft is a theft, you know. Your ladyship’s privacy has been invaded, which just won’t do whether it’s ferns or the family silver which has been a-lifted.’

  ‘But has my privacy been invaded? That is the question, Mr Bucket.’ As they talked, Lady Rhynde directed him to another part of the room where they settled into a pair of mauve and cream armchairs with soaring backs leading to a sort of Norman arch, like thrones from a children’s nursery tale. She lowered her voice. ‘One hears that many of these crimes are committed by one’s own servants. I have no reason to suspect any of them – but no doors or windows have been broken, and no intruder seen.’

  ‘Your ladyship is correct,’ Mr Bucket agreed. ‘Just as likely is that someone on your staff either allowed entry to an outsider, or passed on a key so that a copy might be made. That’s the way many of ’em operate that is, ma’am.’

  ‘But if that is the case, I can’t think which of them it might have been. I consider myself a good judge of people, Mr Bucket, and a woman in my position – more particularly my husband’s position – must choose her employees with the utmost care. I like to think that I am on friendly terms with all of them, and ordinarily I would stand by each and every one if any accusations were made against them.’

  ‘The butler, ma’am?’

  ‘Chuddersby?’

  Mr Bucket cocked his head to one side. ‘Chuddersby …’ he muttered, almost to himself, before returning his attentions to Lady Rhynde. ‘Yes, him. Would you say you are on friendly terms with him? Only – begging pardon, m’lady – but he don’t exactly seem the friendly sort to me.’

  Lady Rhynde smiled. ‘Oh, Chuddersby is just … Chuddersby! I have no more reason to suspect him than anyone else. And he came to me on an impeccable recommendation and with the best of references from Baroness Sowerby.’

  ‘Sowerby? A relation of the Home Secretary?’

  ‘Cousin of the Earl of Runnymede actually.’

  ‘I see. And there has been no suspicious activity of late? Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred?’

  Lady Rhynde pondered this for a moment. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And about these ferns….’

  ‘There was the gipsy woman, but—’

  ‘Ah!’ Mr Bucket’s heavy forefinger was raised like a flag.

  ‘But Mr Bucket, she has called here before without anything untoward happening. She mends chairs – I have seen her at work: a very dextrous lady, and of a very kindly disposition.’

  Mr Bucket’s flag was yet to be lowered. ‘Kindly in appearance and dextrous. All the hallmarks, your ladyship, all the hallmarks.’

  Lady Rhynde shrugged. ‘Of course it is possible, but I doubt that she would have had very much opportunity to—’

  ‘Not very much opportunity is all that’s required, I can assure your ladyship! Not very much opportunity is ample opportunity for those skilled in such matters. Now, the woman in question may very well be innocent of any wrongdoing and I do not intend to get all heavy-handed in the matter, rest assured, ma’am. That is not my method. However, in the absence of any other suspects, perhaps I might take some particulars. I take it that this is one of her regular haunts, so to speak, and that she might be found in this vicinity from time to time?’

  ‘I believe so. She is a very little person, rather hunched over, with dark hair half-turned grey. She habitually wears a scarlet shawl and has very noticeable, large brass earrings. Oh, and she has very low, dark, heavy eyebrows.’

  Mr Bucket gazed at his interviewee with open admiration. ‘Excellent, ma’am. There is a great demand for folks with abilities such as yours in the Detective Service should ever you be that way inclined.’

  ‘I doubt very much whether they would be willing to recruit a lady, Mr Bucket!’

  ‘That would depend upon the lady’s connections….’

  Lady Rhynde laughed lightly. She provided him with such information as she could regarding the ferns, Mr Bucket politely declined the offer of a pot of coffee and soon the consultation was over – but for one final question, which occurred to him just as they were about to part company.

  ‘The butler – Chuddersby – your ladyship.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How long has he been with you?’

  ‘Not a long time. My previous one eloped with one of my maids – about two months ago.’

  After leaving, Mr Bucket immediately sought out the policeman whose beat this was and ascertained from him that he was aware of the gipsy chair-mender in question, and an arrangement was made for the detective to return at an appropriate time so that he could speak to her.

  He was making his way back to Great Scotland Yard when, walking along Piccadilly, he passed Duke Street – and then he had it. Duke … Juke – Jukes! That was the answer to the conundrum. Alfred Jukes, not Chuddersby, was the real name of Lady Rhynde’s butler, and Mr Bucket knew it because he had collared Alfred Jukes some years ago for receiving stolen goods in his dolly shop. Eighteen-month sentence, if Mr Bucket remembered it right. Maybe Jukes only wanted to conceal his criminal past to get an honest job. Or maybe he had something else to hide….

  VI

  GORDON WAS AS surprised as he guessed some of his colleagues were at his being invited to undertake an investigation unsupervised so soon in his career. He had been a member of the Detective Force for less than a week; and further, as Sergeant Blacksnape had already pointedly alluded to, he had no previous experience in police work in the way that all the other detective officers, without exception, had. Something about the Commissioner’s manner had given Gordon cause to wonder whether there was an ulterior motive for him being handed this case. Was it yet another ‘family favour’, or was there something else, something he was as yet unaware of? Nonetheless, here he was on his way to Russell Square to pursue a case of burglary. To tell the truth, he wasn’t heading directly to Russell Square, for another matter had been on his mind since the previous day. It wasn’t so much a conscious decision: his feet seemed almost to guide him on a very minor detour in the direction of Coventry Street. The sky was like a sheet of the blue Arctic ice Gordon had read about in the tales of hardy explorers like Franklin and Parry, save for plumes of smoke rising from every chimney far as the eye could see, smudges of dirty black against the pristine heavens. It was bitterly, bitterly cold once more – another factor which had brought him to the area he now found himself in. And there he saw them: in exactly the same spot, on a packing case at the end of the same alley where he had first encountered them with Mr Bucket the day before. As far as he knew they were to be found there every day of their short lives, come snow, come rain, come shine. As before, Annie the elder one of the two bare-headed, bare-footed girls, was calling out to passers-by boldly and stoically, while her sister Elsie sat beside her cross-legged on the box. But this time Elsie seemed in an even sadder state than she had the first time Gordon had seen her. There was a ghost-like look about her; her eyes gazed vacantly at the boot-print patterns in the frost on the pavement, never looking up even when her sister sold a bunch of flowers to a passing gentleman. Yet she was not shivering as she had been before; Gordon did not know whether this was a good sign or bad ….

  He walked over to them.

  ‘Buy some lovely lavenders fer yer sweetheart, Guv?’ cried Annie as raucously as any brawny market trader.

  Gordon removed a glove and dipped a hand into his pocket. ‘Do you not remember me, Annie?’

  She scowled at his features with suspicion and a hardness in her eyes, which saddened Gordon almost more than did the conditions which seemed to be their lot in life. ‘I ain’t done nuthin�
�.’

  Gordon adopted what he hoped would be a reassuring smile and crouched down before her, giving her most of the small coins he had with him. ‘I know that, child. I’m Mr Gordon and I was here yesterday with Mr Bucket – he bought some flowers too.’ He was going to explain more, but the mention of Mr Bucket caused her face to immediately brighten.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Remember you now, aw’right, mister.’

  Gordon suspected she didn’t remember him at all. ‘I shall take two bunches, if you please, Annie. I don’t currently have a sweetheart, though. Perhaps the flowers will bring me luck in that direction!’

  ‘Ah, you’ll be aw’right, mister. Seen a lot more uglier mushes than yours abaht the place.’

  ‘Oh … well, thank you, Annie. And how is little Elsie?’ He turned his gaze to the diminutive slumped figure, which still had neither moved nor acknowledged even being aware of his presence.

  ‘She don’t care for the cold – do yer, Elsie?’

  The little mite looked up at her sister, glanced briefly at Gordon, croaked some unintelligible reply, then cast her eyes downwards again and attempted to pull her threadbare shawl tighter around her frail body.

  ‘Do you live near here, Annie?’ he asked. ‘What of your parents – do they have employment?’