‘You don’t know that it was him for certain, sir.’
‘Not as a gospel fact, no, but there are times, Sergeant, when you’ve got to accept something as fact for the sake of a workable theory. Everything that Lovett told Portman – the baby’s name, the baby’s name for herself, how she addressed her ma and pa, etcetera and so forth, was then repeated to those two harpies, Pennymint and Sylvestris. That’s how the seance was worked. That’s how poor young Lane was duped.’
‘What do you propose to do about the spiritualists, sir? You can have them up for purporting to tell fortunes, or charge them under the vagrancy acts.’
‘I’ve worked out a kind of timetable in my mind for dealing with these intertwined villainies. Pennymint first, then Portman – interview them, and put the wind up them, if you’ll excuse the expression. I’ll need warrants, though, to search Madam Sylvestris’s house, and Sir Hamo Strange’s bullion vault. So tomorrow, Sergeant, you and I will go down to Brookwood and tackle Mrs Pennymint. From what I saw of her, she’ll panic and confess all when she hears that her dupe PC Lane has been murdered.’
‘Sir, it’s Tuesday tomorrow, and those trains to Brookwood—’
‘Yes, I know all about the Brookwood trains, Sergeant, but the Pennymints live just a stone’s throw from Brookwood Station, so there’s no point in taking a direct Woking train. So it’s to Brookwood tomorrow, Jack, to beard Mrs Pennymint in her den.’
Knollys smiled to himself, and changed the subject.
‘Why did Portman post an envelope with five pounds in it through the Lanes’ door?’
‘I think that was conscience money, Sergeant, which says something for Portman and his associates, I suppose. It’s a point worth bearing in mind as a mitigating circumstance once we round up this gang of sinners.’
Box bit into his bacon sandwich, and swallowed a mouthful of ale. The Horse and Groom was a dark place, on the shady side of Oxford Street. The little room where they sat smelt of stale tobacco and beer. Box pushed open a frosted glass window, and a miasma of putrescent air came in from the middens in the backyard. He pulled the window shut, and sat down again.
‘What about the spirit baby?’ asked Knollys. ‘Lane told you that he’d actually seen a baby at the Belsize Park seance. Did he make that bit up?’
‘No, it would have been a real baby, a toddler, introduced into the room through a false door or panel. The so-called medium does the voice, and they make sure the toddler’s too young to speak. The sitter’s in such a turmoil that he believes anything he sees. They have music, and perfumes, and – it makes me sick, Sergeant, and they’re going to pay for their chicanery.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a risk, sir, using a real live child?’
‘Oh, yes. Some of them don’t take that risk. There was a Mrs Niedpath taken up last year, who sent a little monkey into the darkened seance room, and said it was a little boy come to comfort his mother. She got three months in the House of Correction.’
Despite the dismal surroundings, the sandwiches were excellent, and the beer very welcome on such a hot day. For the next few minutes both men gave all their attention to the business of refreshment. When they had finished, they sat back contentedly on the oak settles. Box lit one of his thin cheroots, and blew smoke towards the blackened ceiling.
‘Why?’ asked Knollys, and the word came so unexpectedly in the silence that Box jumped in alarm.
‘Why? What do you mean, “why”?’
‘Why did they go to all those lengths to deceive poor Lane and his wife?’
‘It was done to lure PC Lane away from Carmelite Pavement on the morning of the twenty-eighth. He was given a very powerful inducement to arrange a substitute, that substitute being the murderous Mahoney. You can see, now, can’t you, the connection between those spiritualists and the bullion robbery? They’re not just linked, Sergeant: they’re entwined.’
‘But PC Lane turned up for duty after all.’
‘Yes, he did. Perhaps the call of duty was greater than his desire to see his little daughter’s spirit…. No, that won’t do. He must have found out something about Madam Sylvestris that made him see the whole seance business as a wicked fraud. That would make him recall his responsibilities. He’d have known that I’d have helped him later to haul in that gang of spiritual bloodsuckers.’
‘And so Mahoney killed him, sir. I believe now that he’d only just done the deed when I turned up at Carmelite Pavement. He looked agitated and ill at ease, but he left me no time to ask him any inconvenient questions.’
Sergeant Knollys rubbed his head ruefully, and recalled Mahoney’s sudden attack upon him. What a fool he’d been, to turn his back on the man! He’d unfinished business to do with Mahoney.
‘And so PC Lane died, Sergeant, simply because he failed to keep out of the way. I expect Mahoney waited until the yard was empty for a moment, and then carried Lane’s body down to the pier. He’d have concealed it there until the steam launch arrived. Something like that.’
‘Who were the men in the launch? And where are the original crew?’
‘Well done, Sergeant! You’re asking all the right questions today. So sit still, and listen, while I propound a theory. The original crew of the launch have not been reported missing by the owners, because – because there never was an original crew. It must be that…. The men in the launch had been hired especially for the task—’
‘From the Milton Fisher gang?’
‘No, Sergeant. I believed Fisher when he said he’d nothing to do with this business. That crew – the crew who sailed the launch into Corunna Lands and scuttled her – was hired to do the job by someone in the consortium who hired the launches in the first place. When we’ve finished here, we’ll go out to Rotherhithe and interview the people who hire out the launches – what were they called? – Moltman. Moltman & Sons, They’ll tell us why one launch – Number C1 – was to be provided without a crew.’
‘Sir—’
‘Yes, I know, Sergeant. I’m skating on thin ice, as the saying goes. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. But this is all between these four walls, Jack. That sinister crew who came in their launch to Carmelite Pier could only have been provided by—’
‘Hold on, sir! With all due respect, haven’t you considered the possibility that a professional gang as yet entirely unknown to us engineered this robbery? After all, no other launch was affected. Maybe this unknown gang planned all along to seize this huge assignment of bullion.’
‘You’re not thinking straight, Jack,’ Box interrupted. ‘There was no original crew. You won’t find ten sailor men with their toes turned up, floating down towards the sea. These villains were the intended crew all along, and they were hired by the man who started this whole operation – the man whose bullion chests contained not gold, but lead.’
‘Sir Hamo Strange.’
‘Yes, Sir Hamo Strange! There, that’s in the open, so we can pause there, Sergeant, and pass on. Twenty-five chests were recovered, artistically smashed, and with some of the locks still open on their hasps. Fifty-three chests went missing. But we know where they must be, don’t we, Sergeant? Go on, don’t be shy: tell me!’
‘They’re at the bottom of Parr’s Basin, sir, in Corunna Lands. They sailed the launch into that wilderness, and threw the whole lot, apart from the twenty-three they kept back to create the illusion of a robbery, into the deep water of the basin.’
‘And why did they do that?’
‘Because to them, those chests of lead were quite worthless.’
‘And why did they pretend to force open twenty-five of the chests in the gully?’
‘Because, sir, they’d already opened them on the launch, and thrown their contents into the river. Those empty boxes were there to create the illusion that a robbery had taken place.’
Box offered his cigar case to Knollys, who accepted a thin cheroot. Box lit both cigars with a wax vesta, which he dropped into the dregs of his beer. He sat back luxuriantly on the settle, and regarded his serge
ant with twinkling eyes.
‘You’re doing very well, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s see whether you can complete the theory. You said that the villains wanted to create the illusion that a robbery had taken place. So are you saying that no robbery took place? That no gold was stolen from Sir Hamo Strange’s vaults? In that case, who’s gained from all this rigmarole? As far as I can see, no one’s gained anything at all.’
Knollys drew thoughtfully on his cigar. It was some time since the guvnor had subjected him to one of his splendid barrages of questions. They were designed to clarify matters in a case that was particularly obscure, but they were also part of a conscious effort to refine his sergeant’s skills in the art of detection.
‘Who’s gained? Well, sir, I’d say Sir Hamo Strange has gained, because the whole consignment of the Swedish Loan was insured by the British Government. For reasons of his own, Sir Hamo Strange had kept his million pounds in gold intact, and defrauded the Government of one million pounds.’
‘Well done, Jack! So our great financier has cheated the British Government of one million pounds by a very clever and very dangerous piece of villainy. Others are involved, including Mahoney, and possibly our prim and proper Mr Arthur Portman, spiritualist and bank clerk. Excellent, Sergeant! But you still haven’t seen what it’s really about, have you?’
‘What do you mean, sir? What else is there to see?’
‘What was in the chests?’
‘Lead.’
‘Well, then. What if Sir Hamo Strange’s vast holding of gold below Carmelite Pavement is all lead? Perhaps the colossus of finance is down to his last few pounds, Sergeant, and defrauding the Government of a million pounds may be the first step in rebuilding a battered fortune. If that’s true, then it’s gaol for our Sir Hamo.’
‘We’ll never know what’s really in those vaults, sir. What you say can only remain supposition.’
‘Oh, no, Sergeant Knollys. Remember, we’re still investigating this so-called robbery, so it would be entirely in order for us – and Sergeant Kenwright – to carry out a thorough inspection of all the chests held in Sir Hamo’s vaults. I’m going to tackle Superintendent Mackharness about it. He’s had his own suspicions from the start, and I think you’ll find that in this matter of the fake bullion robbery, he’ll be entirely on our side.’
Box stood up, and brushed some imaginary breadcrumbs from his fashionable overcoat.
‘Come on, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘it’s getting late. Time that you and I set out for Rotherhithe.’
The boat-yard of Moltman & Sons lay alongside one of the many large basins of the Surrey Commercial Docks, near the opening of the Grand Surrey Canal. In a brick-walled office reached by means of a flight of steep wooden steps, Box and Knollys found the yard foreman, a heavy, hunchbacked man who introduced himself as John Hodge. His sun-bronzed face looked as though it had been sculpted from mahogany, but his bright blue eyes were alert and humorous. Box had never before seen a man who stowed the stub-end of his current cigar behind his ear.
‘Inspector Box, hey? And Sergeant Knollys?’ said Hodge. ‘Well, this is an honour! I suppose you’ve come about our scuttled launch? Disgraceful. Mr Moltman’s very angry about it, as well he should be. Still, it can be salvaged, and we’ll make it as good as new in a couple of weeks. The insurance will cover the cost.’
Mr Hodge glanced out of the office window at the busy yard. Three new launches were taking shape on the stocks, and beyond them, lying at anchor, lay a dozen trim craft, part of Moltman’s celebrated boat-hire business. Finally, he gave his full attention to Box.
‘So what can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘Mr Hodge, I want to know why Moltman’s didn’t provide the crew for launch Cl, the vessel assigned to collect Sir Hamo Strange’s bullion from Carmelite Pavement, and deliver it to the West India Docks. All the other launches in the operation had crews provided by you.’
For answer, John Hodge began to rummage through a pile of dog-eared letters lying in a wooden tray on his desk. His fingers, Box saw, were heavily stained with tobacco, the nails bitten and cracked. Perhaps being foreman of a large boat-yard affected the nerves? With a little yelp of triumph Hodge found the document that he was looking for, and handed it to Box.
‘Here we are, Inspector. Here’s your answer. On Wednesday, the twenty-sixth, two days before the gold was moved, that letter was delivered by hand. It came from Mr Horace Garner, Chief Warden of the Carmelite Pavement Bullion Vaults. You can read what it says yourself.’
The letter, written by hand on the printed notepaper of the Vaults, begged to inform Messrs Moltman & Sons that Sir Hamo Strange would provide his own crew for the launch Cl, that they had contracted to supply. The letter was signed by Horace Garner, who begged them to believe that he was their humble servant.
‘And did this crew turn up here on the Friday morning?’ asked Box.
‘They did. There were ten of them, decent-looking men in navy-blue jerseys, pants, and caps. Very respectable, they were, and obviously used to launches and their funny little ways. I never thought anything of it. Why should I? So off they went, out of the basin and into the river.’
‘Did they say anything to you?’
‘Not a word. They just nodded and smiled, you know. They were French.’
‘French?’
‘Yes. At least, I think they were. They jabbered a bit among themselves, and it sounded like French to me. Is there anything else?’
Mr Hodge was clearly aching to get out among the boats. Box had heard enough.
‘May I keep this letter, Mr Hodge?’ he asked. ‘I’ll give you a receipt, and return it in the post when I’ve done with it.’
‘Certainly, certainly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Inspector….’
Without waiting for his receipt. John Hodge strode out of the office, and clattered down the wooden stairs. Box scribbled a few words on a piece of paper, and left it on the foreman’s desk. Then he and Knollys followed him.
Later that afternoon, a special courier delivered a note to Box at King James’s Rents. The envelope also contained the letter that Mr Hodge had loaned to Box earlier in the day.
Medici House.
Blomfield Place,
London, EC
31 July 1893
Dear Inspector Box,
The letter that you sent us, purporting to come from Mr Horace Garner, is an impudent fiction. I can confirm that neither Sir Hamo Strange, nor Mr Garner, knew anything of the matter. We assumed that the crew who arrived with the launch C1 was a crew furnished by Messrs Moltman & Son. The signature, ‘H. Garner’, is a bold and wicked forgery.
Your obedient servant,
William Curteis
Private Secretary to Sir Hamo Strange
13
Wrestling with the Spirits
The 9.30 train for Brookwood moved ponderously out of the private station at Waterloo, its polished black carriages gleaming in the morning sunshine. A crowd of people standing mournfully on the long platform watched it begin its dignified progress out of London along the tracks of the London & South Western Railway.
Arnold Box sat back in his upholstered seat, and observed his five fellow passengers. Jack Knollys sat beside him, reading the Morning Post. To Knollys’ right an elderly man, clad in funereal black, was nursing a black bowler hat on his knee. In the seats opposite sat two ladies in deep mourning, and a little boy in a sailor suit. The ladies were weeping, occasionally lifting their black veils to dab their eyes with small black-bordered lace handkerchiefs.
‘It seems to me, Sergeant Knollys—’ Box began.
‘Shh!’ hissed the elderly man. He regarded Box from reproachful faded grey eyes, The two ladies burst afresh into tears, and the elder of the two pointedly snapped open the clasps of a black prayer book, and pretended to read. Knollys smiled. Box, who had not thought to buy a paper, sat in frozen embarrassment, staring ahead of him. Dense black smoke drifted past the window of the carriage.
‘I don’t know, dear,’ muttered the elder of the two ladies. Box saw her dart him a venomous look through her veil. ‘Maybe they got on the wrong train.’
‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ declared the elderly man, and the two ladies began to weep again. Box rose from his seat, and with a mumbled apology slid open the carriage door and stepped out into the corridor.
He remained there, observing the changing scenery as the train passed through the London suburbs and then out into the Surrey countryside until it slid to a gentle stop at Brookwood Station, a long platform set pleasantly among a grove of trees. Box gratefully opened the carriage door, and stepped down on to the platform.
As though obeying a hidden command, all the other carriage doors opened, and the black-clad passengers alighted. They stood motionless, looking fixedly towards what appeared to be two long guard’s vans at the rear of the train. Sergeant Knollys quietly joined Box on the platform.
A number of men in frock coats and top hats came into sight, moving slowly towards the train. At the same time, the van doors were slid open.
‘Sir,’ whispered Knollys.
‘What?’
‘Hats off.’
Again, as though orchestrated by a hidden director, four dark elm coffins were solemnly borne from the vans, and lifted at a slight angle up on to the platform. The men in frock coats were joined by a number of clergymen. Box’s fellow passengers threw him a look of reproach, and the little boy in the sailor suit managed to stick his tingue out at him without being detected by his mama. The elderly man with the faded grey eyes joined them, and they attached themselves to the first of four separate cortèges that had travelled down from London on one of the special funeral trains provided by the London Necropolis and National Mausoleum Company.
As they emerged from the station on to the public road, Inspector Box sighed with relief. Knollys had been right to warn him about taking one of the Necropolis trains. They were, in effect, hearses with mourners’ carriages attached, pulled by a steam locomotive, and not really suitable for ordinary passengers. Still, it had got them there!
The Gold Masters Page 16