‘No – it’s still too risky for that, for I believe the good lady knows more than she’s letting on, and that someone knows that she knows and will stop at nothing to silence her.’
‘Then why am I meeting her. And why there?’
Mr Bucket handed Gordon a cup of delicious-smelling coffee in a white china cup. ‘Slaughter’s because it suits Mrs Scambles. Mrs Bucket’s sister happens to be hosting a fund-raising event at Lambeth Ragged school, so it won’t be a convenient place for discreet inquiries. I’m quite certain that nobody knows of Mrs Scambles’ whereabouts so it will be quite safe for her to venture out for a short time.’
Gordon knew from experience that Mrs Scambles could be free with her affections, but other than that he failed to see what material help she might be to them. ‘What sort of thing do you believe she can tell us?’
‘How much she knew about her husband’s debts, for one thing.’
‘But her husband’s debts are surely nothing to do with a simple burglary. Are we still looking at the murder he is accused of?’
Mr Bucket rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Can’t discount some strange connection. While you’re there you might as well ask.’
‘Mr Stope won’t take too kindly if he finds out.’
‘If it helps solve the case he’ll be a-glad of it, you mark my words.’
But this was something that had been nagging at Gordon’s conscience, both personally and professionally, and he could keep it to himself any longer. ‘Mr Bucket … do you suspect Inspector Stope of having missed something, of having arrested the wrong man? Perhaps even of incompetence?’
‘Incompetence? Billy? Never! But sometimes in this game you can get so close to a case that you can no longer see the wood for the trees, so to speak, Mr Gordon. Then again, it might just be me and my naturally suspicious mind, as Mrs Bucket is prone to describe it. Or perhaps I’m just jealous that he’s got a murder when I’ve got ferns and I’m a-looking for problems where there ain’t none. Now get that coffee down your neck and away with you. We shall rendezvous again at Mr George’s shooting gallery.’
Slaughter’s Coffee House was a place Gordon had visited before, a very well appointed establishment on St Martin’s Lane. Mrs Scambles was already there when he arrived, sitting at a small table for two by the blazing fire. Upon seeing him she immediately rose and hurried over, beaming and greeting him like an old friend. Mrs Scambles’ vivacity and beauty doubtless attracted attention wherever she went, and Gordon couldn’t help but be aware of a certain boost to his pride and vanity at being greeted so by such a woman.
‘Mr Gordon! What a delight! Mrs Bucket’s sister is a delightful host but it is still nice to see a friendly face after being away from home for so long.’
He didn’t point out that this was only the third day since she had gone to stay in Camden Town, since he was sure that to her it must have seemed longer. As Gordon suspected she would, Mrs Scambles had made sure that there were no obstructions between them where she was sitting, and managed to position the chairs in such a way at the little table that that their knees were almost touching. Once they were thus seated, her radiant smile and seemingly buoyant mood evaporated somewhat dubiously yet still convincingly in the blink of an eye, and she developed a pressing need to hold on to Gordon’s arm to steady herself.
‘It has been a very trying time, these past few days, James – I may call you James?’
‘Er … of course.’
‘Every caller to the house, every shadow that passes the window, could be that man or one of his agents. Needless to say, the journey here from Mrs Bucket’s sister’s home was most agonizing ….’ Her voice wavered and she placed a hand to her brow. ‘That horrid brute could have been waiting for me around any corner.’
She grasped Gordon’s arm tighter and lowered her head to his shoulder as if she no longer possessed the strength to keep it raised. He glanced round the room and coughed politely, patting her gently on the back. ‘Now, now, Mrs Scambles—’
‘Eleanora, please,’ she insisted, miraculously finding the power to raise her head, at least momentarily.
‘Mr Bucket is a very experienced man in these matters and he assures me that no one could possibly know of your current whereabouts, and so could not know where to be waiting for you. Have no fear on that account.’
‘But why do you think someone might be after me, James? Why did that evil person invade my house and behave in such an ungentlemanly fashion towards me? Do you think he could be the real murderer of Edward Mizzentoft?’
‘Mrs … Eleanora, I must remind you that until some solid evidence to the contrary comes to light, as far as the law is concerned your husband remains the killer and will stand trial within a very few weeks.’
She let out strangled sob and drew herself even closer, this time clutching his hand. Hers was not cold with fear as he had expected, but delightfully soft and warm. Gordon felt the heat rising within him, both of public embarrassment and of … something else. ‘To think I stared into the eyes of a cold-blooded murderer in my own home – yet no one believes me! Who is a poor woman to turn to?’
He tried to shuffle apart from her a little without seeming unsympathetic, yet when she lifted her head from its resting place on his arm her large, moist blue eyes were still so close as to fill his field of vision.
‘Eleanora, there is no easy way to broach this subject …. There are other people who might have an interest in your husband for reasons which could have nothing to do with the murder ….’
‘Whatever do you refer to, James?’
‘Were you – are you – aware that Dr Scambles was … financially embarrassed?’
She let out a tinkling little laugh. ‘Don’t be silly, James!’
‘I’m afraid it’s true. I have to tell you that we now know that he was very heavily in debt.’
‘Sir, if Jonathan had owed people money I should certainly have known of it. He was a very successful doctor!’
‘I’m sure he was. But the detective in charge of the case is equally sure that at some point your husband began to pay out very large amounts to the deceased on a regular basis. The bank has confirmed that your husband was – is – greatly overdrawn.’
Mrs Scambles’ lips parted and closed more than once as this information slowly began to sink in. Her gaze passed right through Gordon, perhaps into the black abyss of her own future. Finally, she gasped. ‘Overdrawn? Then it’s gone. All of it.’
‘I do fear so.’
Her classically shaped lips narrowed and tightened, and the paleness of shock in her features turned into heated flush of rage before Gordon’s very eyes – and this time he knew it was not an act.
The veins in her neck stood out; her bosom heaved quicker and quicker. ‘Then let him hang!’
Gordon couldn’t have been more shocked had she torn off her own dress in full view of everyone in the room. ‘Mrs Scambles … Eleanora … there might very well be some explanation for his misfortune of which we are—’
‘Oh, there certainly is an explanation,’ she spat, almost as if it were her husband before her and not Gordon. ‘Greed! Greed and foolishness. Yes, he is a clever man when it comes to facts and figures, anatomical diagrams and bodily organs. But he is ignorant of the ways of the world, and he is ignorant because he is cold, aloof, unable to understand what people think, what they feel.’
Gordon was stunned into silence by this abrupt revelation of a side to the woman he could never have guessed at, and he could only let her continue.
‘He never loved me, James, not even at the start. He was only interested in me as a plaything, something to be kept in a box and brought out to amuse him whenever the mood took him – and that particular mood soon become more and more infrequent. I remained loyal to him because he let me entertain myself with his money, no matter how extravagant my desires. Now I know that not only did he make a fool of me in that respect, but that there will be nothing for me whether he liv
es or dies – so I say let him meet the fate he deserves!’
If it had been any other person, Gordon would have put this display of callousness down to the shock of all she had been through, but in Mrs Scambles’ case he could tell that she was in complete control of her faculties, and no platitudinous mumblings from his lips would have had the slightest effect. Gordon didn’t doubt, having met him, that all she said about her husband was true: that he was as cold and unfeeling as she said. But to wish one’s own husband dead?
He now saw this woman, for whom he had felt so much pity, in a completely different light. Yet once more she leaned closer to him. ‘When he’s dead I shall be free. I am well aware that policemen do not earn a great deal but I no longer care about such things. I realize now that it’s warmth I crave, James. Warmth and passion – and those are the things I feel for you ….’
The hand which had been grasping his arm slid upwards and caressed his bare neck, and Gordon fought against the images which flashed into his mind. He pulled back from her. ‘But your husband is still very much alive, Mrs Scambles. And he has not even faced trial. For all we know a jury might clear him, so it would be improper to dwell on such things.’
She smiled. It was a smile which said she could see into him, and it was disconcerting.
‘At this juncture of our lives you and I are made for one another, James. I know it, and so do you.’
Mr Bucket had the faintest of smiles on his face as he approached Peterborough House, number 22 Upper Grosvenor Street in Mayfair, for he had already mentally played out this little scene in advance. He bounced up the immaculately scrubbed steps and rapped on the blue door in which he could see his reflection as clearly as if it were a mirror. After a minute passed he was greeted by the faintly disdainful gaze of the butler Chuddersby – whom Bucket now knew was in fact the criminal – former or otherwise – Alfred Jukes. Bucket also knew that he was both expected and recognized, yet the servant stood before him impassively, looking down his nose as he might to a hawker who had inadvertently come to the front entrance instead of the back. Mr Bucket took the initiative, and instead of waiting to introduce himself he swept past the butler, who followed hard on his heels protesting ineffectually.
‘Sir! But … sir!’
‘The drawing room, is it?’ Mr Bucket said breezily, pausing only to hand over his hat and cane. ‘I’ll see myself up. I always remember the layout of a house – as I’m sure you do, Jukes. Good day!’
And with that he skipped up the broad stairway. He didn’t turn back to watch the gradual transformation of Jukes’s expression after the unexpected declaration of his true identity, but he could imagine it.
Lady Rhynde, the wife of the Home Secretary, happened to be already in the drawing room. She was sitting at a writing desk by the window, drawing up her household accounts and she didn’t even notice the detective enter, such was his ability to materialize almost supernaturally in a room. Thus, when he gave a polite little cough, her ladyship started somewhat and spun round to face the door.
‘Oh, it’s you Inspector Bucket. You weren’t announced ….’
‘Begging your ladyship’s pardon,’ the detective said with little bow. ‘Your butler was attending to my belongings and I thought I would show myself up – not expecting you to be present.’
She sanded off the ink of her recent entries, closed the ledger and came over to shake Mr Bucket’s hand. Hers was a slender, distinctly feminine hand, but the detective noticed traces of roughened skin and earth under her nails, which told him that she was not afraid of a little manual labour – perhaps in the garden.
‘Have you made any progress regarding the theft of the ferns? I still feel embarrassed that the police’s finest brains have to devote themselves to such trifles as this – although it does now appear to be a more common crime than I would ever have guessed. Almost everyone I speak to seems to have suffered the same fate as me!’
‘When you say “almost everyone”, might certain of those people belong to the society your ladyship is concerned with?’
‘I am active in a number of societies, Mr Bucket. One has time on one’s hands, and one likes to put it to good use.’
‘Most commendable, madam,’ he confided, patting her on the shoulder in a way that people don’t normally touch the wife of the Home Secretary – but it made her smile.
‘There was one very worthy institution I particularly recall.’ Mr Bucket’s sturdy right forefinger hovered before his face like a conductor’s baton. ‘It was the National Truss Society for the Relief of the Ruptured Poor.’
‘Well, yes, that is one of my—’ The light of realization suddenly spread across Lady Rhynde’s finely sculpted features. ‘Yes, Mr Bucket! There does seem to be a significant number of members of that society who have experienced the loss of ferns. Do you think someone with inside information knows when we are out?’
‘Upon my soul, I do declare that one of her ladyship would be worth any ten sergeants in the Detective!’ Mr Bucket exclaimed – but his finger was still waggling, signifying that there was more to the matter than had thus far been exposed. ‘Someone who knows when you are out is a definite possibility. But another is someone who knows when your ladyship is in.’
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean, Mr Bucket. But either way might there be a simple solution? I can hardly believe that any lady who is selfless and compassionate enough to devote her time and energies to good causes would stoop to crude theft. However … I would not wish to tread on your professional toes, but ….’
‘Tread away, your ladyship. I place too high a value on your analytical skills to allow my pride to get in the way of solving the case!’
‘Might it be so simple a matter as to ascertain which lady or ladies who belong to the Society have not had ferns stolen, and focusing your attentions there?’
‘That might be the case if I were investigating a crime committed by one of the lower orders of person, madam. But a lady of discernment and intelligence, even though not versed in the ways of the criminal classes, might not lay herself open to detection quite so easily.’
‘Then one of my ladies is a master criminal – how exciting!’
‘Do any names spring readily to your ladyship’s’ mind?’
Lady Rhynde laughed gaily. ‘No one, I’m sure Mr Bucket ….’ But then her face grew suddenly darker.
‘Prey tell me what it is, madam. There’s no good in keeping it back.’
‘Oh … it is nothing. A misunderstanding between myself and another member of the Society – but nothing which might lead to something so base as theft.’
‘I do believe your ladyship is already enough of a detective to be aware that anything out of the ordinary is of interest to an investigator.’
But her ladyship was adamant. ‘I’m afraid it is not something I could not bring myself to repeat to another soul, and which, anyway, cannot be relevant to this case. Besides, others who are on far friendlier terms with this person than I have also had ferns stolen.’
‘Very well, my lady. I will continue to pursue this matter to the best of my ability and keep you informed of any progress. Oh, but I must ask your ladyship one further question. It is about your butler Chuddersby.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you noticed anything different or unusual about his behaviour these last few weeks?’
Lady Rhynde thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Nothing comes to mind. He does return to his former employer, Baroness Sowerby quite often – he says she is helping him with a little trust fund she helped him set up. He puts a small amount aside from his wages each week.’
‘Isn’t that something you could easily assist him with?’
‘I’m sure it would be if he asked. He seems to prefer to stick with Baroness Sowerby since she is the one whose idea it was and who started the ball rolling.’
‘It was her idea? How common is it for a person of her station in life to involve themselves in their servants’ financial affairs?
’
‘It is not unknown, but I suppose it is hardly a regular occurrence.’
‘And how often would you say he visits Baroness Sowerby?’
‘Not so frequently lately, but for a time it was once a week – sometimes more. Mr Bucket, you have aroused my interest now. Do you read something suspicious into all this?’
‘Let’s just say it is of interest to me.’
Gordon’s meeting with Mrs Scambles not having taken long, he arrived at the area around the Haymarket and Leicester Square, which seemed to specialize in racket courts, gaming houses and the like, and after obtaining guidance from a passing muffin man, his tray balanced precariously on his head while still somehow managing to ring his hand bell with great vigour, he ascertained the whereabouts of Mr George’s shooting gallery. Following his directions, Gordon found his footsteps echoing along a long a whitewashed passage which opened out into a dingy, grimy courtyard, and there in front of him was a large brick building bearing the sign: GEORGE’S SHOOTING GALLERY &c. The white lettering was weathered and faded, the ‘&c’ in particular being in imminent danger of extinction. The court was deserted but for one man in a long black frock coat and a shiny black hat that looked brand new. He carried what Gordon immediately recognized to be a mahogany pistol case under one arm, and he was moving from window to window of George’s establishment, peering in. Hearing Gordon approach, he turned.
‘Place is quite empty, sir. Gas unlit, no sign of life at all. If you want to shoot I suggest Brady’s just a short distance from here – you can walk with me if you wish.’
‘Thank you, but it is Mr George himself I came to see.’
‘Then I can’t help you, sir. If he isn’t here some assistant or other usually is. Most unusual. I’m off to Brady’s.’ He touched the rim of his hat and disappeared into the passageway.
Gordon, too, tried to look through the windows. He could just make out the targets at the far end of the main room: being painted white, they stood out in the gloom. He could also see some swords in a rack, and what looked like boxing mittens on a shelf. But no sign of Mr George or anyone else. There might be a thousand reasons why he had to be elsewhere, but what the man had told Gordon about there normally being some member of staff present, together with some inexplicable instinct of his own, told him that there might be more to this unexpected absence. He tried the door, but, as he had expected, it was locked, and since there seemed no point in knocking he decided there was nothing for it but to pace about this draughty, unappealing yard and await the arrival of Mr Bucket. But just as Gordon turned to begin his second circuit of the perimeter, he almost bumped into a figure standing by his right shoulder, and both parties cried out simultaneously.
Murder in Montague Place Page 11