In the Footsteps of The Whitechapel Slasher (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 1)

by Felix Bruckner

  Inside the car I was enveloped by the warmth, the smell of polished walnut and leather, the yielding seats, and the sound of a Haydn string quartet playing gently in the background: what luxury! I felt a soft kiss on the cheek, and Vicky snuggled up against me. I was going to enjoy my stay in the country! In the front, the chauffeur sat to attention, steering the big limousine effortlessly through the narrow twisting lanes; the snow lay virginal, save for the twin tracks made earlier by the Rolls, on its way to the station; it was snowing again, so that even these recent marks were already partly obliterated; black clouds darkened the sky, and we drove with dipped headlights despite the early hour; beside the road, trees stood stark and bare, with no breath of wind to stir their branches.

  We had been climbing steadily for a while, when the car swung suddenly sharp left into a driveway; at the end of the drive was a big turreted house, silhouetted against the black and purple sky, its mullioned windows lit up (appropriately) like a Christmas tree; as the vehicle skidded gently to a halt, the porch light came on, the front door opened, and a uniformed maid emerged with an open umbrella; we were hurried through the thickening flurries of snow-flakes, up the front steps, and into the hall.

  After Christmas at home with my family, I had been invited to stay with Vicky’s god-parents at Chalfont Manor for a couple of nights during the holidays. A welcoming log fire burned in the huge open hearth; I just had time to register the black and white chequerboard marble floor, the marble statuary, the tapestries and oil paintings that covered the walls (I was disappointed to see no suits of armour!); then I was ushered up the oak staircase to the second floor.

  Vicky showed me my room, and helped me unpack; the chamber was large but dark and gloomy, with oak-panelling and massive furniture; my few articles of clothing were lost in the great wardrobe and chest of drawers; in a short while my unpacking was complete. Vicky was standing very close. As I gazed abstractedly out of the window at the splendid views across the Chess Valley, I felt her breast press gently but insistently against me; her arms crept around my waist, and then she was kissing me. My legs felt weak, and my knees seemed to buckle: we subsided gently onto the soft bed. Vicky moaned, as her hands encircled my neck ...

  A gong sounded downstairs, and we came out of a red haze, hearts thumping, clothes disarrayed - back into the real world.

  “There’s a buffet lunch downstairs,” she murmured huskily, her voice barely recognisable. “Come on … We’d better hurry. It’s almost two o’clock. We don’t want to miss it.”

  However, by the time we arrived, the place was completely empty: no sign of our hosts or any of the guests! The dining-room furniture had been cleared, save for a long table on which lunch was laid, and some randomly placed chairs; the vast room was freezing, so we took our meal - cold turkey, ham, hot sausages, freshly baked bread, and a salad - to seats by the open fire. After a dessert of sherry trifle, the cheese and biscuits were washed down with scalding black coffee from a hot-plate.

  “A few relatives and friends are staying, but they must have eaten early.”

  In a low voice, Vicky detailed the genealogy of her family, the Hambleton-Laidlaws: Uncle Percy was Lord Laidlaw, a high court judge, the third son of the Earl of Ilminster (who was Vicky’s grandfather); his wife was Lady Antonia Laidlaw, and she and Uncle Percy were her god-parents. (“Call them Lord Laidlaw and Lady Antonia.”) Also staying for a few days were Percy Laidlaw’s son, Henry, and his wife, Margaret; Cousin Montague with his girlfriend Roberta; Cousin Henrietta (“Have to distinguish her from Henry …”) and boyfriend James; Cousin Sylvester; and a barrister colleague of the Judge’s - Hubert Digby-Stammers - with his wife Anne-Marie. At the end of this whispered monologue, I felt totally confused.

  “My parents are over in Nassau for a fortnight, with Cousin Peter (well, second cousin really) - Sir Peter Hambleton-Laidlaw …”

  “… Governor of the Bahamas!” I finished for her. She smiled engagingly ...

  After lunch, I donned my duffel coat, college scarf, and a pair of Wellington boots (from a selection lined up at the back of the hall), and followed Vicky through a maze of small passages to the rear of the building; we came out into dazzling sunshine: the snow-fall had ceased, the clouds had parted, and the Chiltern Hills were a fairyland of white with pale blue shadows; trees and bushes sagged under the weight of new snow; the parkland fell away steeply from the back of the house, and disappeared from view over a ridge; a small stream emptied into the lake at the rear of the Park, and from this another cascade of water tumbled towards the River Chess in the valley far below; parallel to the river, I could just discern the winding ribbon of a road: a tiny toy motorcar made its way slowly and cautiously along this, a sudden diamond of light flashing off its windscreen as we watched. For a long moment, we stood in silence, drinking in the champagne-clear air and the breath-taking vista …

  “Let me show you Clover, my mare … Well, she isn’t really mine; but Uncle Percy keeps her for me to ride whenever I’m here.”

  She took my hand; together we made our way carefully through the virgin snow to the stables; on our approach, a horse’s head appeared over the split door of one of the stalls, and whinnied softly: she was a handsome chestnut mare with a white blaze on her face; she stretched out her neck affectionately towards Vicky, who patted her nose gently, fed her some sugar cubes (which had appeared magically from her pocket), and chatted to her softly in baby-talk. When we turned away from the stable block a few minutes later, Vicky broke into my thoughts again:

  “I must warn you that Uncle Percy may ask you to speak after dinner - most likely on some medical topic ...” And my mind raced off in new directions.

  By the time we had walked as far as the lake and back - our breath condensing into smoke, our cheeks cherry-red from the cold - it was time for tea. Apart from the servants going about their duties, I had seen no-one; but now, as I moved towards the drawing room with growing trepidation, I could hear voices, and we burst in on a sizeable company: Lady Laidlaw, statuesque and still beautiful, with only a hint of grey in her elaborate coiffure, presided over a large silver Georgian tea-pot - replenished from time to time by a uniformed maid-servant.

  “Hope you have been made comfortable, Edwin …”

  “Yes thank you, Lady Antonia.”

  The drawing room was decorated in salmon pink, with chintz floral curtains, sofas and easy chairs in yellow and pink; the tea was spread on a table covered with a cream cloth which reached almost to the floor, and modern occasional tables were scattered around the room; in one corner, stood a Steinway grand piano; about ten people were grouped around the room, conversing and sipping their tea. I helped myself to a cucumber sandwich and a slice of fruit-cake with mine. Vicky, at my side, kept up a whispered commentary:

  “The heavily pregnant lady in the pearl-grey smock is Henry’s wife, Margaret Laidlaw …”

  “Hee-hee-hee ...” A high pitched giggle interrupted her; at the other end of the room stood a tall, slim youth with rosy cheeks, an arrogant manner, and a persistent sneer; as we watched, he made a straight for us.

  “Cousin Sylvester, Henrietta’s brother … Not yet eighteen. Terribly bright. Up at Cambridge, reading Mathematics …”

  “Hello Vicky; lovely as ever … Hm, so you’re a medic …” Sylvester looked me over dismissively. “…I’ve just finished a term at Trinity. A bit boring, really, but it has possibilities.” He turned away, rudely, and I wondered why he had approached us in the first place.

  At that moment Lord Laidlaw arrived, attired almost seedily in a canary cardigan, baggy grey flannels, scuffed lace-up shoes, a silk paisley scarf at his throat; he was in his early fifties, plump, balding, below middle height, and quietly spoken; but his grey eyes were shrewd, and he exuded confidence and authority; he ambled across to us.

  “Ah, so this is Edwin. Heard a lot about you from Victoria. Good of you to come …”

  His appraisal was keen, and his hand-shake firm.

  “It was
kind of you to invite me, Lord Laidlaw …”

  “My intimate friends call me Bodger … Hm … you’d best call me Percy.” And he moved off, smoothly.

  The tea-cups and plates were cleared quickly by the butler and the parlour maid; the guests helped rearrange the chairs, and moved towards the Steinway; without further pause, Lady Antonia seated herself at the piano and began to play. There was complete silence from the audience, as the limpid tones of two Chopin nocturnes shivered on the air, and finally died. I was stunned: I had not expected such a virtuoso performance from an amateur.

  “She had trained as a concert pianist, before she met Uncle Percy,” whispered Vicky in my ear.

  Enthusiastic applause. Then, without prompting, Henrietta, a buxom brunette, joined her hostess at the piano; and in a slightly wobbly contralto voice gave her rendition of a Mozart aria.

  “Your turn, Vicky …”

  She sang Vilja, the Witch of the Wood from Lehar’s Merry Widow; the purity of her soaring soprano voice captivated me; Sylvester, who had replaced Lady Antonia at the piano, gazed up at her enraptured - the sneer gone! (He fancies her, I realized with shocked surprise.)

  “Come and entertain us, Hubert,” came Lord Laidlaw’s soft voice from the back of the room.

  The barrister, Hubert Digby-Stammers - thirty-something, brisk, elegant, but casual in a sports jacket - appeared in my field of vision, extracting a flute from its case; he remained seated on the arm of his wife’s easy-chair, raised the instrument to his lips, and played: all too soon, the haunting, lilting melody faded gently away.

  “Syrinx - Debussy,” he announced simply ...

  “What can you do for us, Edwin?” I was brought out of a trance by the quiet voice behind me.

  The pause lengthened; finally, I rose from my seat, mind in turmoil; I contemplated a rendition of God save the Queen; however, at the last minute my head cleared, and I remembered my school choir performance in Edward German’s musical pageant The Faerie Queen: I opted for The May Queen Comes from this.

  “Afraid I don’t know it,” from Lady Antonia, and my heart filled with hope.

  “I know it. I’ll accompany you.” Sylvester Laidlaw sat down at the piano again, the sneer firmly back in place.

  “The May Queen comes/ May her path be spread/ With roses white and with roses red …”

  My voice, initially faint and rather hoarse, gradually gathered strength; I finished quite creditably, to polite applause.

  “They dress for dinner,” Vicky had reminded me. “They say it’s mainly for the benefit of Staunton, the butler …”

  I finished changing into my dinner-jacket and black bow-tie. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the winter night, and the old-fashioned radiator - with its occasional clanging and gurgling - gave out a comfortable warmth; the standard lamp and ceiling lights bathed the room in a soft radiance, dispelling the sense of gloom which I had experienced on arrival. I glanced at myself again in the full-length wardrobe mirror; satisfied, I settled down in the tapestried arm-chair to await the summons for dinner at eight o’clock.

  There was a small book-shelf next to my seat, and, idly, I examined the selection of books: The Seven Pillars of Wisdom - T.E. Lawrence, Edgar Allan Poe Short Stories, The Wings of the Dove - Henry James, four volumes of A History of England by Lord Macaulay, and several collections of short stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; I picked out Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, casually flicked through the pages, found The Red-headed League, and started reading:

  “I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year …”

  I was interrupted by the sound of the gong from downstairs; I closed the book, turned off the lights, and left the room. I paused on the landing - looking down, I could see activity: black-clad male figures, and ladies with elaborate coiffures and elegant full length gowns in a rainbow of colours were descending the stairs below me; they gathered together in the brilliantly lit hall, before moving sedately towards the dining room. I took several deep breaths, braced myself, and - grasping the carved balustrade - began my descent down the imposing stairway.

  The twin crystal-glass chandeliers were ablaze with light, when we entered the dining room and took our seats at the long table. Never before had I seen at close quarters such a quantity of bared flesh (of shoulders and arms), and such low necklines. I remembered, irreverently, Joe Knowles’s quip, which had recently circulated around the medical school: “Confucius he say plunging necklines hide bandy legs!”

  Vicky was some distance away from me on the opposite side of the table, and I found myself seated between Miss Manners and Mrs Digby-Stammers.

  Roberta Manners, Cousin Montague’s friend, had waist-length raven hair, and, from a flawless face, she peered at me through misty brown eyes; as I turned to address her, I found myself gazing down the front of a revealing gold-lame’ dress - and promptly forgot what I was about to say!

  “You must be Vicky’s friend …” Her voice was husky, with a slight catch in it. “Monty’s brought me down here several times, for the week-end. It’s lovely in the summer … Have you been here before?”

  The crimson damask curtains were drawn back, and I could see an almost full moon riding in the night sky. The stark elm trees cast their shadows across the snow-covered lawns. A dark form flitted across my line of sight - was it a fox or was it a ghost from the past?

  “… Do you ride, Edward [sic]?”

  Momentarily disorientated, I was brought back to the present by the languid voice from my right:

  “Afraid not, er, Roberta.”

  The maid cleared my soup plate, and Staunton brought the fish dish. I turned my attention to the lady on my left: Anne-Marie Stammers was petite and had a crisp no-nonsense manner, yet was no less beautiful than Roberta Manners; her honey-blonde hair was piled up in an elaborate chignon; I found myself under careful scrutiny from a pair of wide intelligent grey eyes.

  “Well, you’re new around here. The place could do with a breath of fresh air.”

  She didn’t like horses, and didn’t much care for the country; however, her husband felt it necessary to accept these invitations, in order to further his career as a barrister. Her disclosures had an honest ring, and I found myself warming to her. Though sophisticated and in her late twenties, she didn’t talk down to me; we discussed music - she was a regular at Covent Garden and the Royal Festival Hall - and books: she imagined I might enjoy the novels of Graham Greene, and suggested I start with Brighton Rock, a quite unusual thriller; I promised to try it.

  The pheasant came and went, amid a languorous account of a Debutantes’ Ball and a shopping expedition to Harrod’s, from my right; once or twice I managed to catch Vicky’s eye down the table, and once I fancied I felt a soft pressure against my left thigh ...

  “Everything satisfactory, M’ Lady, Master Percy?” Staunton had cleared the dessert.

  A faint, almost imperceptible nod from Lord Laidlaw; then Lady Antonia’s chair abruptly scraped backwards, and she was on her feet, followed by the rest of the ladies.

  “Come, ladies …Let us leave the gentlemen to their conversation and cigars, and retire to the drawing-room to take our coffee.”

  They bustled out. In the succeeding silence, I could hear the ticking of the long-case clock from the far corner of the room.

  “Let us move closer together,” and we all gathered around Lord Laidlaw’s end of the table.

  “Gentlemen, you may smoke.”

  Staunton offered the cigars around the table, which were accepted by several of the gentlemen (but not by me); I watched Lord Laidlaw go through the ritual of selecting his cigar, crinkling it to his ear, sniffing it, piercing it, cutting off its tip, and (finally) lighting it. As the rich aroma of cigar smoke wafted past me, the Port decanter made its round: after the Chablis with the fish, the Burgundy with the pheasant, and the sweet Sauternes with the apple tart, I was beginning to feel slightly tipsy. We discussed hunting, the Suez crisis, a
recent interesting case which Hubert Digby-Stammers had defended …

  “Tell us of some recent advances in your field, Edwin.”

  Since Vicky’s warning, I was prepared for this bombshell. Fortunately, I had reviewed the literature on poliomyelitis for a recent physiology project. Tentatively, I began to speak; I hinted at the devastating effects of “infantile paralysis” - which was still incurable; I described the hunt to find a safe vaccine: the research had been done mainly in the United States and Canada, and two vaccines had been discovered - the Salk killed vaccine, given by injection, and the Sabin live oral vaccine; these were now being tested on volunteers in prison ... There followed a vigorous, even heated discussion on the ethics of using convicted prisoners as guinea-pigs for hazardous drug trials, in exchange for life in a luxurious hospital block, and remission of their sentence.

  Eventually cigars were extinguished, and we “joined the ladies” in the drawing room, before retiring upstairs.

  It was past midnight: I was in bed, reading, the bedside lamp casting a comforting glow on the ceiling; outside, an owl hooted; nearer at hand, a small sound caught my attention - and I could see the door handle turning slowly …

  “Are you alright, Victoria?” Lord Laidlaw’s voice came from down the corridor.

  “Yes, thanks, I’m fine Uncle Percy. I think I left my handbag downstairs … I need to retrieve something from it.” Vicky’s voice directly outside my door trailed off towards the staircase, and my surge of excitement slowly subsided. I returned to my book:

  “THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. OCTOBER 9, 1890.

  Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.