And the umbrella stayed in her lap. Until, that is, the sharp right-turn near the King’s Cross railway terminal, when the point finally breached the gentleman’s defences, which had been ever-thinning with each turn of the page. The tip of the instrument thrust itself through a major speech by the prime minister in Parliament on the Chartist Petition.
‘Madam!’ His red beard positively bristled with indignation. He yanked his paper from the tip of the weapon, causing the young woman’s arm to jerk slightly, at which she threw up her arms like the leading lady in a second-rate stage melodrama.
‘Aaaagh! Murder! Police!’
She then commenced to poke savagely at him with the self-same umbrella point. Each time she pulled back for another thrust, the handle jabbed deeply into the belly of the timid fat woman sitting on the other side, who continued to refuse to acknowledge that anything untoward was even taking place – or that she was accumulating a series of bruises and experiencing a great deal of undignified abdominal wobbling. She gazed fixedly out of the opposite window. A general commotion now ensued. People at the front of the omnibus, who had no knowledge of the real cause of the fracas and naturally assumed that a defenceless lady was being assaulted, rose to express their outrage, ready to intervene if necessary. Those who knew the real cause jumped up and volubly prepared to mount a defence, and the conductor tried to break through the scrummage and make his voice of reason heard above the babble. It seemed that only three persons remained unmoved by the drama: the rotund lady on the right of the umbrella-wielder, still refusing to accept the reality of the scenes being played out around her, and two men sitting opposite.
At the mention of the word ‘police’ by the umbrella carrier, Sergeant Gordon twitched slightly, but Mr Bucket placed a calming hand on his colleague’s arm. Before any of the passengers could come to blows, the voice of the conductor finally cut through the babble of accusation and counter-accusation: ‘Eus-Ware!’ he cried. ‘Eus-Ware – aw change!’ This acted like a bucket of cold water on the rumpus, and aside from a few residual mutterings and the rustle of the Morning Herald as the bearded man showed the wounded condition of his paper to all who would look, people headed for the exit.
Mr Gordon had learned to interpret the arcane utterances of the conductor during the course of the journey. Early on, he had interpreted the rendition of ‘Oxford Street!’ as ‘Oswestry’ and had feared they had accidentally boarded some sort of long-distance stage coach. But the cry of ‘Toh-Corode!’ had happened to come just as they were opposite a street sign for Tottenham Court Road, and this proved to be Sergeant Gordon’s Rosetta Stone. Thus, on hearing ‘Eus-Ware!’ he knew that the Euston Square terminus was almost upon them. With each small victory like this, Mr Gordon felt himself more and more a fully paid-up Londoner.
Mr Bucket preferred walking wherever possible, and the omnibus to cabs for longer journeys. Not only, he informed his colleague, was it cheaper, but it was where one got to meet people, got to observe people.
An icy blast of air assailed them as soon as they left the relative shelter of the omnibus and struck out in the direction of King’s Cross, before turning south. When it came into view, the Coldbath Fields House of Correction seemed to live up to its name. A biting wind swept across the land into their faces and made their eyes water as they gazed upon the bleak, plain-built edifice standing in swampland and enclosed by high, sheer walls. Gordon was shuddering at the thought of incarceration in that desolate fortress – the conditions inside of which he had already heard stories – when the sound of his companion’s voice and its unexpectedly stentorian tone made him start.
‘As he went through Coldbath Fields, he saw a solitary cell. And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint for improving his prisons in hell.’
‘Very impressive, Mr Bucket. Did you just make that up?’
Mr Bucket laughed. ‘Not I, Mr Gordon. Some versifying chap whose name escapes me.’
‘I see. Do you think a gentleman like Dr Scambles would be kept among the common prisoners?’
‘A man who has money can obtain certain small privileges … and as yet the good doctor has not been found guilty of anything by twelve good men and true, so I should imagine he is being treated tolerable well.’
‘Oh, and what about the ferns? You were following up a lead, as I recall.’
‘The delightful Lady Rhynde mentioned a gipsy woman, a chair-mender who frequents the district. I tracked her down; she is a merry old bird, much liked by all and is definitely not our thief. No, I see this as an inside job one way or another. But for now, here we are at the Prison of Hell, Mr Gordon.’
They announced themselves at the great gateway and were soon admitted. Gordon shuddered again as the heavy door slammed and reverberated behind them with an air of finality. In his imagination he had been mistakenly accused of some heinous crime, removed from his cosy, comfortable life among people of the same class and sent to this ‘Devil’s prison’ to live out the rest of his life among cut-throats and villains. No one believed in his innocence, and there was no way of proving it. The eventual fate, perhaps, of Dr Scambles.
‘This way, gents,’ mumbled the elderly officer who had been detailed to take them to see the prisoner. They walked across a courtyard, deserted but for a bedraggled prisoner being escorted across it by two burly guards, passed through a doorway and entered a second, larger yard. This time the prospect was completely different. The flagstones of the yard rang to the footsteps of groups of hunched prisoners wearing drab uniforms with numbers pinned to their backs, walking in circles under the bored gaze of a number of warders. Curiouser still, above this scene was an enormous treadmill which ran along the whole of the far wall of the yard and was accessed by some steps leading up to a platform about ten feet above ground level. In some ways it resembled a rudimentary grandstand. The machine was kept in motion by around a dozen men in separate, individual stalls; they had their backs to the yard and trod wearily but continuously to keep the gigantic wheel revolving. But Dr Scambles was evidently not here because they moved on to the next area. Now they were in a vast, cold, dank room where row after row of men wearing the same drab uniforms and soft caps were seated on the floor like Mahometans at prayer, watched over by prowling officers. The men appeared to be manipulating pieces of old rope, and a musty smell of tar pervaded the arena. Everything was done in silence, with only the odd cough or shuffle impinging on the cathedral-like quiet of the place.
‘Oakum picking, sirs,’ mumbled the guard. He left Bucket and Gordon just inside the doorway and spoke to a man standing on a platform overlooking the whole process.
This man barked out, ‘Scambles! Prisoner R218 Scambles to report to the interview room immediately.’
A couple of minutes later, the detectives were in a cold little room with whitewashed walls, sitting on uncomfortably hard chairs and staring across a small trestle table at Dr Jonathan Webster Scambles. A guard had been posted outside the door, but otherwise they had been left to speak in private. Dr Scambles was a thin, sinewy man; he had prominent veins at his temples, naturally gaunt cheeks and cold, yet piercing grey eyes behind small circular-framed spectacles. Even seated, it was clear that he was a tall man, and despite his lack of bulk there was an air of wiry strength about him. The detectives reached across the desk to shake his hand, which felt cold to the touch. Perhaps it was merely due to the coldness of the place.
‘I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective, and this is my colleague Sergeant James Alexander Gordon, of that ilk. I trust you are being treated well?’
Dr Scambles’ lips took on something resembling a narrow, slightly crooked smile. But it might equally have been a sneer. ‘I am still alive.’
‘As I am sure you know, this is but a temporary measure until the trial.’
‘Ah, yes. I will then have somewhere more comfortable to look forward to, such as the end of a noose if Scotland Yard gets its way.’
‘Scotland Yard is only interested in the evidence and
where it leads, sir.’
‘And you are here because you have new evidence regarding my case?’ Dr Scambles eyed them coolly through the thick lenses of his spectacles. He was not excited, he did not plead. He might even be interviewing them rather than the other way round.
‘As a matter of fact, my dear fellow, we have not come about the matter to which you refer at all,’ Mr Bucket revealed. Dr Scambles held his steady gaze upon the detective in a way which Gordon had not seen a man do before. No trace of a reaction could be ascertained in the doctor’s countenance except perhaps, a certain almost imperceptible tightening of the thin lips. He did not ask Mr Bucket to enlarge upon his surprising statement. After a pause, the detective took it upon himself to explain.
‘My sergeant was recently called upon by Mrs Scambles to look into a burglary at your residence….’
Mr Bucket paused, perhaps again awaiting some sort of reaction, for Gordon had passed on Mrs Scambles’ warning that this was a matter only likely to irritate her husband. But again, none was forthcoming; so again, Mr Bucket continued.
‘We are led to believe that one, possibly two items were taken from your study.’
Mr Bucket fixed Dr Scambles calmly with his dark, searching eyes. Dr Scambles fixed Mr Bucket with his stony, pale ones. Gordon watched with fascination.
Mr Bucket persisted patiently. ‘What might it have been, eh, Dr Scambles? Of particular interest to me is that something is possibly missing from your desk. I know you’ve said you don’t recall, but I ask you – now that you’ve had further leisure, as one might say, to contemplate it – to really search into your memory. You see, it is my opinion that—’
The eruption came violently and without warning.
Scambles leapt to his feet with such force that the table flew upwards and spun in mid-air with its legs arcing and slashing towards the faces of the detectives, who both instinctively pushed back in their chairs with raised arms shielding their faces.
‘I AM ROTTING IN HERE WITH VILLAINS FOR A MURDER I DIDN’T COMMIT. I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT SOME TRINKET TAKEN FROM MY WRITING DESK!’
Spittle flew from Dr Scambles’ lips; his normally pallid face had turned scarlet. Even his eyes seemed to glow red like those of a fairy tale demon, and the veins at his temples bulged. The table clattered to the floor at his feet and he kicked it out of the way and advanced towards the detectives. The officers sprang to their feet, ready to meet his advance. Then the door flew open, and the guard rushed in. More running footsteps could be heard outside, but Mr Bucket raised his hand.
‘We don’t require any assistance, my good man.’ The guard halted, and Dr Scambles also paused, as if meeting some invisible force emanating from the detective’s outstretched palm. But his face remained a mask of barely human fury and enmity, and his fists remained clenched.
‘The prisoner,’ explained Mr Bucket, ‘had a minor accident in rising somewhat abruptly, but all is well now – ain’t that so, Dr Scambles?’ His arms were relaxed and held loosely by his sides while he smiled affably at Scambles, who remained looming a good six inches over him, well within striking range. Then the detective calmly bent down, righted the table and carefully arranged it in its former position. ‘Dr Scambles has expressed his frustration at his current unfortunate situation – but he is now prepared to regain his seat and discuss things like the proper gen’lman he is – that’s what he intends to do.’ Mr Bucket smiled and looked benignly upon the physician. After a few seconds, intellect regained control over instinct; the redness drained from Scambles’ face and the veins subsided; the fists unclenched, and he sank into his chair. Mr Bucket’s knowing glance towards the guard was enough to send him back out of the room.
‘I haven’t come about the murder and I know that’s galling. Would be for me. Another detective officer is handling that case – a very capable officer, a very experienced officer.’ Dr Scambles’ lips parted, but Mr Bucket raised his stout forefinger and silenced him. ‘I don’t know a great amount about the medical field, sir. My cousin’s boy is studying in that very profession, but Mrs Bucket and myself don’t have a lot to do with ’im – bit of bad blood going back so far no one can quite remember what started it, but there it is. But what I do suspect, Dr Scambles, is that if you were treating a patient and another doctor tried to stick his oar in with a different opinion on the cause and treatment of the illness, well, it wouldn’t sit easy with you, would it now?’
‘It is not the same. Not the same at all.’
‘Ah but pretty close, I say. And I say something else. I might not be able to interfere with my colleague’s investigation – but I do believe that whatever was taken from your desk might appertain to said case. What do you say to that, now, Dr Scambles? That would give me cause to combine my brains with the very capable ones of Inspector William Stope to see what we could come up with!’
‘I still don’t see how the two matters can be related …’ said the doctor – but now he seemed more reflective, as if he had been given a lifeline.
‘Well I ain’t exactly sure that I do as yet, Doctor. But perhaps in that respect medicine and detective work aren’t so far apart. We spot a symptom that don’t seem quite right, and even though we don’t always know where it might lead or whether it might be a red herring, we feel obliged to look into it, see what comes up. Ain’t that close to the mark?’
With some reluctance, Scambles was obliged to nod his head.
‘There, then,’ said Mr Bucket, rising to his feet and holding his hand out across the table. ‘All is not lost! There are still avenues, Doctor. Avenues!’
Cursory handshakes were exchanged, and the detectives left the room, walking past the somewhat bemused faces of the prison officers gathered tensely and expectantly outside.
Mr Bucket buttoned up his coat, ready to face the frozen outdoors. ‘Never known such cold as of late,’ he announced to no one in particular. ‘But they do say the weather’s about to turn.’
VIII
IT BEING A Sunday and with no cabs available, Gordon called upon his friend Lieutenant-Colonel Daird at the Horseguards just across the road from Great Scotland Yard for the loan of his Brougham. This suited his purposes well, since a hansom may not have been capable of carrying the volume of personal belongings he suspected would be coming on this particular journey – for he was to escort Mrs Eleanora Scambles to the home of Mrs Bucket’s sister; a temporary measure for her own personal safety, which had been agreed upon by all concerned. Mrs Bucket’s sister normally took in a lodger, but as luck would have it the room was currently vacant, and while it might not be the kind of accommodation Mrs Scambles was accustomed to, her security was presently the overriding concern. The housekeeper’s husband also happened to be a policeman – a constable of the Marylebone Division – which was an added bonus.
Daird’s coachman guided the vehicle along Whitehall, and as it trundled sedately through Trafalgar Square Gordon looked out at the little knots of people promenading in their Sunday best attire, circumnavigating the Square like proud skaters circling a frozen pond. He saw others walking to church in family groups, servants in tow, and felt a tiny pang of guilt. Not because he wasn’t going to church, but because he had no such belief in the first place; no faith whatsoever, in fact. His guilt was born out of this being something of a dark secret. It didn’t do to swim against the tide, either in society or one’s profession, and the easiest, albeit the cowardly option was to simply nod sagely when the Lord’s name was evoked to save mortals from a precarious situation, and nod sagely again when He did no such thing and the tragedy was put down to the mystery of His ways, as when his beloved elder sister and only confidante had died from diphtheria at the age of twelve.
The coach scrunched into Russell Square, where a frost-encrusted Charles James Fox gazed down upon Gordon from his plinth like an emaciated polar bear, then after a few more yards it pulled up outside the home of Eleanora Scambles. A footman opened the door, and it was suggested that the coachman come
inside and warm himself below stairs while Gordon himself awaited the lady of the house in the drawing room – she was still finalizing her preparations for the journey.
He had been looking out across the Square, enjoying the heat from the well-stoked fire for a few minutes, when the door opened and Mrs Scambles swept in and greeted him like an old friend.
‘Mr Gordon!’ She held her hand out, Gordon assumed for him to shake, but as he attempted to do so she turned the back of her hand upwards and raised it towards his face for him to kiss. Not wishing to seem coldly formal, he hesitantly touched her hand with his lips.
‘Another cold day, Mrs Scambles,’ he ventured awkwardly.
‘So I can tell, sir,’ she replied. She had yet to release his hand, and made a great show of patting and rubbing it to generate some warmth. ‘And not only a very cold day!’
She beamed at Gordon expectantly as if he should know what she meant. ‘I’m really not sure I—’‘
With a furtive grin Mrs Scambles turned to a bulging carpet bag on the nearby sofa, part of an assembled collection of luggage he assumed was to accompany her to Pimlico, and delved inside it with her back to him. When she turned back she was holding out a small blue box, slightly larger than those for finger rings. ‘What day is it, Mr Gordon?’ she asked with a twinkle in her beaming blue eyes.
He shrugged. ‘Sunday ….’
‘In what month?’ she giggled.
‘The month is February, Mrs Scambles, but I’m sure I don’t know—’
‘Sunday, February the…?’
‘It is February the … ah … er, I—’
‘Not only is it the day we honour the worthy Saint Valentine, but it is a leap year, when, as I’m sure you are aware, it is the lady’s obligation to profess her love to the gentleman!’
Murder in Montague Place Page 7