She adopted her suspicious air again. ‘Don’ live far off.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about, child. I just wanted to … well, it’s nothing to do with police work, rest assured.’
‘Me ’n Elsie live in Golding Court. Ma says Pa were a so’jer, but we don’ know nothin’ abaht ’im, mister.’
‘Does she have a job?’
‘A bit o’ needlework when she can get it. But ’er ’ands is dodged up now, and it don’t come as easy to ’er as it used to.’
Gordon straightened up. ‘Well …. It is excessively cold of late, but they say it is to change and get warmer and wetter very soon. Anyhow, take care. And take care of your sister!’ It all sounded so horribly, pathetically inadequate, but he could find no other words. He hesitated before carrying on his way; he wanted to do more – but at least he had given them precious money. Other than taking them home with him, what more could he do? Gordon walked on. A second later he heard Annie’s voice. He thought at first that she was resuming her sales patter, but she was calling his name. He stopped and looked back. She was slipping the money he had given her into her pocket, and she smiled for the first time. It was as if a light had illuminated her features from within, and Gordon saw that she was far prettier than he had appreciated.
‘Thanks, mister,’ she grinned. And this time he knew she meant it. ‘And I wuz joshin’. Ye’r proper ’andsome really, Mr Gordon.’
‘I shall see you again. Take care.’
Thanks no doubt to his novice’s over-enthusiasm, and despite his brief detour, Gordon arrived at the Scambles’ house in Russell Square a good fifteen minutes earlier than the time appointed by Mr Bucket. He walked past the front door, wrestling with the idea of taking a turn or two around the square to pass the time. But the cold was so pervasive and dispiriting that his resolve lasted only a second, and he turned about and approached the house. Upon knocking, Gordon was surprised to be almost instantly greeted by Mrs Scambles herself. An image of her counting down the minutes and perhaps even impatiently peeping out of the window sprang to mind, and he was glad he had chosen not to circumnavigate the square shivering and sniffling for a quarter of an hour while she perhaps looked on.
‘Oh – no Mr Bucket?’ she queried – yet smiling agreeably and showing no sign of disappointment.
‘Mr Bucket has been assigned to an important matter by our senior officer. I was with him yesterday when you—’
‘No need to explain – I remember you very well, sir!’
Now, Gordon had stared steadfastly into the eyes of a Chinaman rushing at him with a thrusting bayonet, intent on taking his life; but Mrs Scambles looked at him with her extraordinary blue eyes – looked into him, more like – in such a direct and striking manner that he was quite overpowered and had to avert his gaze. He felt quite sure it was all perfectly innocent and merely her natural, open way; and in what was, he was also sure, an effort to put him at his ease, she took his arm and ushered him indoors.
‘Come, sir. Do not linger in the cold.’
She led Gordon into her drawing room and summoned a maid, ordering coffee for them both. There was a good fire crackling in the hearth, and the warmth of the room felt like a soothing embrace after the freezing air outside.
‘I did not have the opportunity to introduce myself properly yesterday.’ She held out her hand – surprisingly plump and child-like for such a relatively tall woman – and gave Gordon’s a little squeeze when they shook. ‘Eleanora Scambles, wife of Doctor Jonathan Webster Scambles who, I am sure you know, is, owing to a most unfortunate error, at present incarcerated and awaiting trial for murder.’
Still clutching his cold hand in her own warm and soft one and giving it an extra press, she added, ‘I hope that doesn’t sound like a discourteous attack on yourself or Mr Bucket. It is, I’m sure, merely a terrible but completely understandable mistake.’
Again, he wilted before her gaze and took a sudden interest in a sewing table on his right. ‘No offence taken, I assure you, Mrs Scambles. My name is James Alexander Gordon, and I am a sergeant of the detective force.’
‘Would you like me to have your coat taken by the maid, Mr Gordon? It is perfectly warm in here.’
‘Thankfully so!’
Gordon had expected her to await the maid’s return with the coffee, but he was in the act of removing the coat himself when she moved swiftly to help him. She took the garment, which was rapidly becoming damp now that the frost upon it was melting, and in a quick and subtle movement smoothed and straightened his stock, which had partially come adrift from his waistcoat. The maid arrived with the drinks as this was happening, and he took an involuntary step back from Mrs Scambles and cleared his throat. But neither the maid nor her mistress seemed to make anything of the situation or register any reaction in their faces, and Gordon reproached himself for interpreting what he felt sure was merely a caring and friendly gesture in such a cynical way.
She got him to sit on a chintz-covered sofa, and such was his state of mind that for a moment Gordon thought Mrs Scambles was going to sit beside him, but she drew up an ornate, wooden-backed chair and placed it opposite him. ‘Mr Gordon, on the day I first told Mr Bucket about my poor husband’s arrest, I thought – I would put it no stronger than having sensed – that I was being followed on my way home. I did once stop and turn round, and I caught a glimpse of a man slipping into a shop. Of course, it may have been his intended destination, but….’
‘Did you get a look at him? I mean to say, could you describe anything at all about him?’
She shook her head. ‘It happened too quickly. He may have been taller than average, but I couldn’t guarantee even that as a fact. But then the following day I fancy I saw a suspicious fellow lurking about the Square. I was writing letters, and my desk is by the window for the light. I noticed him glance briefly up at the house as he walked by and thought no more of it. But some minutes later I saw him doing the same thing again – he had clearly walked all the way round the Square at least once.’
Gordon reddened slightly, remembering that he had almost done the very same thing. ‘It is interesting, but there might obviously be an innocent explanation. I am new to London myself and often seem to wander in circles while getting my bearings! But presumably you did get a good look at this man. Might it have been the same one?’
‘Even though I only managed a fleeting glimpse of the first man, I sense they were not one and the same. The person who passed the house seemed shorter and perhaps – though it’s impossible to be certain – more shabbily dressed. He was certainly not a gentleman, but more like a labourer of some kind. His head was shaven and his nose quite flattened to his face; his coat was black and possibly tied at the waist with dark cord rather than fastened with a belt. I really should be able to say more – you must think me a silly, empty-headed thing ….’ Her remorseful sapphire eyes gazed up at Gordon like those of a child expecting to be scolded, and he hastened to reassure her.
‘Not at all, madam. At the time, these things may not seem important. It is only afterward. Do not blame yourself.’
Gordon was not sure whence, during his mere days as a detective officer, he had dug up that pearl of investigative wisdom, but it had the desired effect. Her face brightened and she leaned forward and touched him lightly on the knee. ‘You are so understanding, Mr Gordon!’
The muscles beneath her touch tensed involuntarily and he rose to his feet – perhaps a little too quickly, for he thought he detected a slight smile fleetingly play upon her classically full and shapely lips. ‘May I see the place from where the items were taken?’
‘Of course. As far as I can tell, only my husband’s study was disturbed. This way, Mr Gordon.’
Dr Scambles’ study was much colder than the parlour, having no fireplace of its own – not to mention having been unoccupied for some days due to the enforced absence of its owner. There was ice on the insides of the windowpanes, and Gordon could see his own breath as soon as he entered the room. It was t
owards the rear of the house, but as far as he could tell from the route they had taken it could only be accessed from either the front hallway or from a door leading in from the garden at the back. Then, his mind went blank. What other things did detectives look for in such circumstances?
‘The only area which was disturbed was his writing area, Mr Gordon,’ said Mrs Scambles gesturing to a plain, sturdy mahogany desk. To his eye everything seemed to be in order. There were several quill pens, a pen-knife and ink pot, a pile of papers neatly stacked in one corner, a couple of small ornaments in the other and various other items one would normally associate with such a gentleman’s working area.
‘Has the maid put everything back in its place since the incident?’
‘That’s the problem, Mr Gordon. There has barely been an “incident” as such. We think a silver snuffbox may be missing, but no one is sure and what you see is more or less what we found.’
‘Then ….’
‘But Polly has been with us since we married and moved into this house. My husband is very particular about where everything on his desk is placed, almost to the point of … well, if anything is ever found out of place….’
She seemed about to expand on this subject, but contented herself with repeating, ‘Very particular. And Polly has come to know exactly how everything must be after she has tidied and dusted. On the day in question – the morning after I saw the man loitering in the Square and looking at our house – Polly reported to me that something was amiss. Items on my husband’s desk were not in their usual place. All was very tidy – but she knew that things had been moved. She also believed that something was missing.’
‘The snuffbox?’
She sighed. ‘No. My husband would never normally leave it in here, but on the day he was arrested he feels he may have momentarily placed it on his chair before leaving the house – but equally he thinks it could be at his surgery. Polly herself is sure that there was something on the desk – some other item which wouldn’t normally be there, but which my husband had left out for a particular reason before his arrest – and that had gone. Try as she might, she cannot remember what it was. I’m afraid she is not an intelligent girl, Mr Gordon.’
Gordon stared at the desk for a moment as if it might offer up some sort of clue. ‘Have you asked your husband? I take it you have been visiting him?’
‘Every day, Mr Gordon. But he cannot recall leaving anything out of the ordinary on his desk. As you can imagine, after everything that has happened to him his mind has not been as composed as it might normally be.’
‘I quite understand, madam. And no other servants might have been in here and moved things?’
‘Only Polly and myself are allowed in here. I have questioned everyone closely, and all swear they have never entered the room.’
‘Do you think it would do any good if I were to discuss this with your husband? See if I can jog his memory?’
Her lustrous eyes clouded with misgiving. ‘My husband’s moods can be … unpredictable, Mr Gordon. His mind is preoccupied with his present unfortunate situation, and he believes that this particular matter is of no importance whatsoever.’
‘Sadly, I can think of no other course of action – even assuming my superiors agreed that I might be permitted to see him. But I can assure you that, should I visit your husband, I would treat the matter with the utmost caution and discretion.’
‘I know you would,’ she smiled, the brightness returning to her face in that mercurial, child-like way of hers. ‘You were an officer of the army, Mr Gordon?’
This observation momentarily caught him off balance. ‘Yes, but who—’
‘No one informed me, sir. It’s just that you have a certain way of deporting yourself that I have seen only in officers of the highest and most refined calibre.’
She took a step closer to him and he stood transfixed by her gaze, when suddenly, a most artificial-sounding cough from behind the slightly open door of the study broke the silence.
Mrs Scambles grinned at Gordon as if they had just shared a private joke. ‘What is it, Polly?’
The door opened fully and the maid stepped across the threshold. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but there’s this gen’lman to see you.’ She held out a calling card.
Mrs Scambles took the card and studied it. ‘It is not a name I recognize…. Polly, perhaps you will speak to this policeman about my husband’s study while I talk to my visitor? He is from the Detective Department, and you must answer all his questions honestly. I shan’t be many minutes, Mr Gordon.’
Polly looked to be in her early twenties, with a pale, hangdog face. As soon as Mrs Scambles had mentioned the word ‘police’ her complexion had turned a kind of grey colour and she seemed to almost shrink bodily, as if attempting to disappear within herself. Gordon questioned her briefly, without any hope of gaining useful intelligence. Not only was he sure that she would have already imparted any helpful knowledge to her mistress, but she was so utterly intimidated by his status as a detective officer as to become almost verbally incapable. Impressed as he was by this demonstration of the power of his new position in society, it was of no practical use here and so he quickly dismissed her. He decided to make his way to the hallway and wait for Mrs Scambles to emerge from her meeting.
It had clearly been a very brief interview, since the door opened and a man emerged almost as soon as Gordon turned the corner into the hall. He was tall – Gordon was a little over six feet and before he replaced his hat he could see that the visitor would have been at least a couple of inches taller, with rather long, greasy-looking hair. Turning immediately away from him in the direction of the front door, he did not see the detective but strode purposefully towards it and let himself out. Something seemed odd about this little scene. Gordon would have expected either Mrs Scambles or a servant to have shown him out. And there was something else; it wasn’t something he could put into words, just an uneasy feeling – hopefully, he thought, borne out of his new-found detective’s way of thinking and viewing things. When Mrs Scambles didn’t emerge from the drawing room, Gordon tapped lightly on the door; on receiving no response, his misgivings were heightened further, and he gently pushed it open and went in. She was standing with her back to him, facing the fire, her arms hugging her waist. Gordon could hear no sound, but her shoulders were gently convulsing and he quickly realized that she was crying. He approached her hesitantly.
‘Mrs Scambles?’
She didn’t turn, but through her quiet, half-suppressed sobbing, said simply, ‘That man….’
Overcoming his desire to question her further, Gordon hurried to the window. He was just in time to see the tall, dark figure with the top hat about to depart Russell Square on the far side and he was torn between trying to catch up with him and not wishing to leave Mrs Scambles in her current state of distress. Since he had no idea as yet what, if anything, he might be guilty of, Gordon reluctantly watched the man disappear from view.
‘Mrs Scambles – what has occurred?’
She took a deep breath and straightened up, turning to him so that he could see her moist eyes. She was trembling slightly. ‘He … he said that if I continued to ask questions about the murder of Edward Mizzentoft… I should soon be found floating in the Thames.’
‘Edward Mizzentoft?’
‘The businessman whom my husband is supposed to have killed.’
Gordon now cursed himself for not having pursued this scoundrel. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Only to point out that he and those for whom he was acting obviously knew where I lived – they also know the places I frequent, and nearly everything about me. They can apprehend me at any time it suits them. And silence me.’
Gordon expected her composure to crumble at this revelation, but to her great credit she looked him in the eye and related the information in a tone almost of defiance. He quickly decided what he needed to do.
He asked for the card the man had given her. ‘I will go
immediately in the direction this monstrous villain took and see if I can catch sight of him. In the meantime, admit no visitors and instruct your servants to answer the door to no one. If there is a firearm or any other weapon in the house I suggest that it is put into the possession of any capable male member of your staff and kept with him at all times. I assure you I will return once I have consulted Mr Bucket.’
Within moments Gordon was out of the house and hurrying westwards across Russell Square. It was just possible that if the man had stopped somewhere to meet an accomplice, or for any other reason, he might spot him. He quickly reached Tottenham Court Road, and there any optimism he had quickly evaporated. Every other gentleman on this crowded street wore a long black coat and a tall hat – and Gordon had not even seen his man’s face. Feeling somewhat less of a detective than he had just a few minutes earlier, his pace slowed to a moody and dejected amble, and he headed for Great Scotland Yard.
VII
W hy is she carrying an umbrella? Why?
The question was on the minds of numerous passengers on the crowded King’s Cross omnibus as it rattled its way towards its Euston Square terminus. The only clouds to sully the pristine February sky these last few days had been inconsequential wisps of white cirrus. It had been freezing, icy, bright – and consistently dry.
And she was carrying an umbrella.
And it was carried athwart her lap. And the pointed end of the handle was sticking into the admittedly rotund belly of the young woman sitting on her left. Every time the omnibus rumbled over a bump in the road or turned a corner, it prodded fiercely and seemed ready to disembowel her. But she was timid, and pretended not to have noticed.
And the sharp end of the umbrella was poking into the open copy of the Morning Herald held by a stern-looking gent with a fiery red beard. All eyes in the opposite seats were drawn to this scene, since it was patently only a matter of time before the sharp point broke through. The fiery-bearded man was not timid, and repeatedly turned his head and glared at the woman. He felt that the fiercer his stare became, and the more he snorted and the expressed air agitated his truculent-looking whiskers, the more, surely, she must take notice. But he was above all a gentleman, and said nothing.
Murder in Montague Place Page 6