Inspector Abberline and the Gods of Rome

by Simon Clarke

  Thomas shook his head as he murmured to Abberline, ‘They’re talking as if we’re not even here.’

  ‘And something tells me we’re going to hear much more about the curse before the day’s out.’

  The cart finally left the country road for a long driveway that led to a mansion of red brick. Tall, spindly chimneys poked high above the roof. A sign fixed to a gatepost proclaimed:

  FAIRFAX MANOR

  NO VISITORS WITHOUT PRIOR APPOINTMENT

  TRESPASSERS BEWARE

  ‘Seems rather ominous.’ Thomas nodded at the sign.

  ‘Ominous or not, we’ll do our duty.’

  ‘Do you think Sir Alfred was murdered?’

  ‘That’s why we are here, Thomas. Our quest, come hell or high water, is to discover the truth.’

  Thomas Lloyd pulled a handle set into a recess beside an imposing door. A bell rang somewhere deep inside the mansion. The windows of Fairfax Manor reflected the April sunshine with such dazzling intensity that it forced Thomas to shield his eyes when he looked up at the building. How many bedrooms does a house like this house have? he wondered, Ten? Twenty? He couldn’t recall ever visiting a home of this magnitude before. The owner must be stupendously wealthy.

  Abberline, meanwhile, appraised the grounds with those sharp eyes of his, undoubtedly noting specific details that Thomas had missed. This remarkable detective was sharpening up his mind for the coming investigation.

  The sound of echoing footsteps approached. Locks and bolts clunked loudly. At last, the door swung open to reveal a tall, thin figure in black. The butler, Thomas saw, was a sombre-faced man of sixty or so, with grey hair and a grey-skinned face of pretty much the same hue.

  Abberline spoke briskly, ‘I’m Abberline; this is Mr Lloyd. Your master is expecting us.’

  ‘The back,’ intoned the butler in a voice that was as grey as his complexion.

  ‘The back?’ Abberline shook his head, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand what you mean?’

  ‘The door at the back of the house.’ The butler looked down his grey nose at the men as if they gave off an unpleasant odour. ‘Tradespeople, etcetera, must enter via the back door.’

  ‘Be so good as to tell your master that Inspector Abberline is here.’

  ‘Mr Denby is busy this morning. He will speak with you later.’

  ‘He’ll talk to me now, damn it. I am here at Mr Denby’s request.’

  ‘I have my orders, sir. Mr Denby must not be disturbed.’

  ‘Good grief.’ Thomas couldn’t believe his ears. They’d travelled all this way only to be treated with the contempt householders’ reserve for unwanted door-to-door salesmen. ‘Tell Mr Denby we will take the next train back to London if he doesn’t let us through this door in the next sixty seconds.’

  The butler appeared startled by Thomas’s aggressive tone. Clearly, this grey-faced man wasn’t used to dissent. ‘Very well … step into the hall. I’ll just be a moment.’

  Thomas and Inspector Abberline were shown into a lofty hallway. A marble staircase swept upwards into the shadows. Somewhere a clock ticked with a slow, ponderous rhythm.

  Abberline said, ‘Your threat about us returning to town worked admirably.’

  ‘Do you think I was a little too harsh?’

  ‘Not at all. I wish some of my fellow police officers weren’t so overawed by the trappings of aristocracy. They still fear the ruling-classes – something which has ruined many an investigation.’

  Ten minutes passed as they stood in that mausoleum of a place. Eventually, the butler glided from the shadows.

  ‘Mr Denby is annoyed at being disturbed,’ said the butler in those pompous tones of his. ‘However, he will meet you at the workshop, which is the scene of the tragedy that claimed the life of his late brother.’

  The butler told them that they’d find the workshop, and Mr Denby, at the rear of the house. After they’d stepped outside he closed the front door, relieved to be shutting these interlopers out. Thomas and Inspector Abberline skirted the formidable structure until they came upon a group of outbuildings.

  Thomas murmured, ‘Even I can deduce which one is the workshop.’ He nodded in the direction of a brick-built building that had clearly suffered extensive damage. Slates were missing from the roof, leaving yawning holes. A gentleman in a long, dark coat and wearing a top hat stood with his back to the building.

  When he saw the pair he pulled out a watch, glared at it, then shouted, ‘Come along, I don’t have all day.’

  ‘The butler didn’t like us,’ Thomas murmured under his breath, ‘and neither does his master.’

  ‘It’s not a question of disliking us, it’s something else entirely.’

  ‘Well, he’s giving an excellent portrayal of someone pretending not to like us.’

  ‘Let’s have a chat with Mr Denby and then I’ll share my suspicions with you.’

  Thomas was taken aback by that that mystifying statement. So what had the detective noticed that he hadn’t? He began to suspect his journalistic senses weren’t as keen as he hoped. Abberline could interpret the tiniest of clues as if he was reading the large print of a newspaper headline.

  Inspector Abberline approached the man, raising his hat as he did so. ‘Mr Victor Denby. I’m Inspector Abberline; this is my assistant, Mr Lloyd.’ Clearly Abberline didn’t want to reveal that Thomas was, in fact, a journalist. At least not yet. ‘I came here as quickly as I could after receiving your letter.’

  Mr Denby, a heavilybuilt man in his sixties, showed no interest in the niceties of handshakes and greetings. Instead, he spoke with curt impatience, ‘Ah, Abberline, so you’re the Ripper man?’

  ‘Hardly a description I would use of myself, sir.’

  ‘You never caught this Jack the Ripper, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm … even so, your superiors tell me that you’re their best detective.’

  ‘I will do my best to discover what really happened to your brother.’

  ‘Well, Abberline, I’m not discussing anything outside. Come into the workshop … what’s left of it.’ The man strode into the building.

  Abberline, pausing outside, gazed at the upper windows of the mansion. He spoke in a low voice so Denby couldn’t hear, ‘Thomas, have you revised your opinion of Mr Denby?’

  ‘Not at all. He despises us. Our very existence on earth seems to anger him.’

  ‘No, he’s not angry, Thomas, he’s scared. In fact, he’s scared for his life.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Did you notice the way he repeatedly scanned the trees over there, as if he expected a man with a gun to step out and take a shot at him?’

  ‘I took that as merely impatience.’

  ‘He also made a point of standing with his back to the wall. The man is frightened of who might suddenly appear behind him.’

  ‘So, Denby thinks that whoever killed his brother will return and kill him?’

  ‘Yes, and the man is terrified.’

  Denby didn’t venture as far as the doorway. Instead, his voice boomed from inside the workshop: ‘Well, are coming in here or not?’

  The interior of the workshop consisted of bare walls, the only exception being at the far end where one wall had been clad in wooden boards. The floors had been swept clean of debris. On one wall there were black smoke marks. Thomas Lloyd saw that fresh putty lined the window frames, indicating that broken glass had been replaced after the explosion. Even so, reconstruction of the workshop seemed half-hearted. He could see blue sky through holes in the roof.

  Victor Denby stood in the corner furthest from the doorway. He seemed calmer now, though his expression was one of impatience. This is a man who wants to get finished here so he can get back to the house. Thomas surmised that much from the man’s demeanour. Abberline walked the length of the room, examining the walls, floor, and the roof above his head.

  ‘All the original contents have been disposed of,’ said Denby. ‘You will be familiar wit
h the background to my brother’s death. He used to come out here at six-thirty every morning to collect a quantity of gunpowder stored in cupboards fixed to that wall. He then went to a cannon at the front of the house, loaded the powder into the gun, then fired it at seven sharp.’

  Abberline examined the scorched wall. ‘And that tells the estate staff to begin work?’

  ‘Indeed so. Alfred continued the tradition started by my father.’

  ‘Didn’t the workers resent that?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, sir, that some might not like having their lives governed by the firing of a gun.’

  Victor Denby scowled. The questions irritated him. ‘It’s a very large area of farmland and forest, not to mention the gardens. The cannon is an effective way of signalling the start of the working day, and whether the staff resent it or not is neither here nor there. They are paid to work.’

  Abberline turned to face the man. ‘Were you here at the time of your brother’s death?’

  ‘No, I was in living in London. I moved here to take over the running of the estate after my brother was killed.’

  ‘Which bedroom did your late brother occupy?’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘One on the second floor at the back of the house. You can see the window from here.’

  ‘That’s a north-facing room.’

  ‘What of it?’

  Abberline went to the doorway in order to study the bedroom windows. ‘Surely a south-facing bedroom would be brighter and much more pleasant?’

  ‘This was my brother’s home, Inspector; he was free to choose which ever bedroom he wanted.’

  ‘And so picked one that had a perfect view of this workshop?’

  ‘I don’t see that is relevant to his death. Do you?’

  ‘I am in the process of accumulating facts,’ Abberline told the man. ‘It’s much too early to draw any conclusions from them.’

  ‘Did you draw any conclusions from the facts you accumulated about the hussies butchered by the Ripper?’ Spite glinted in Victor Denby’s eye when he said those words.

  ‘I wish I could have solved that case, Mr Denby but it was not to be.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll have better luck solving this one?’

  Thomas opened his mouth, ready to protest about what Denby was clearly inferring; that Abberline was incompetent. Abberline placed his finger to his lips. A request that Thomas didn’t speak.

  Victor Denby sniffed, as if the air in the workshop wasn’t to his liking. ‘I’m a very busy man. I’ll leave you gentlemen here to pursue your investigations.’

  Abberline spoke politely. ‘Sir, I haven’t finished asking my questions yet.’

  ‘You ask questions that don’t make any sense. Your interest in my brother’s choice of bedroom – surely that’s hardly relevant, is it?’

  ‘Be patient with me, sir. The more I know, the more I can get to the truth of what happened to your brother.’

  ‘Dash it all, man. Alfred was murdered.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How was he murdered?’

  ‘The gunpowder … a bomb of some sorts … I don’t know exactly how.’

  Abberline came back sharply with, ‘But I must know exactly. I must be able to marshal hard facts. I must have evidence that your brother is the victim of homicide by an individual or individuals that I can eventually identify; otherwise there will be no arrest, no trial and no conviction. Do I make myself understood?’

  Denby became angry. ‘Do you know to whom you are speaking?’

  ‘I’m speaking to the gentleman who asked me to investigate – a gentleman who is also extremely frightened.’

  ‘Confound it, sir. How dare you?’

  ‘Was Sir Alfred a victim of the curse?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘That’s what local people are saying. Your brother was destroyed by the curse placed on statues known as the Gods of Rome.’

  ‘Lies. Infernal lies and nonsense spouted by local peasants.’

  Abberline waited a moment for Denby to calm down. Thomas noticed what Abberline had seen before. Denby’s eyes revealed his agitation. He repeatedly shot anxious glances through the windows, as if expecting an unwelcome visitor.

  ‘If we may proceed with the interview?’ Abberline spoke with impeccable courtesy.

  ‘Yes, yes, but make it quick.’

  ‘I’d like to know the history of your family.’

  Denby stared in disbelief at the detective. ‘The history of my family? How in heaven’s name can that be of any use to you?’

  ‘It might be of vital importance.’

  ‘This line of questioning is nothing short of impudent.’

  Abberline took a deep breath and looked the man in the eye. ‘Sir, we must be able to speak frankly to one another. It is essential in police matters that an officer can ask questions freely – questions that might appear blunt, impolite, intrusive and even downright rude. The answers a policeman receives may become the building blocks of his case that leads to a conviction.’

  ‘But really … how can my family’s past have any bearing on my brother’s murder?’

  ‘I must cast my net wide and catch as many clues as possible; some will have no relevance whatsoever, some might well unlock the mystery of Sir Alfred’s death.’

  For a moment, Denby let his guard down. An expression of alarm did appear on his face when he walked to the window and looked out across the lawn. He stiffened, realizing he’d exposed himself to danger. Quickly, he retreated to the corner of the room where two solid walls met, which might offer some protection. The anger vanished now. His shoulders sagged and, when he spoke, it was in a much quieter voice.

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you about my family. However, I don’t know everything. There are secrets. I have long suspected that certain key facts have been kept from me.’ That’s when he began to reveal the remarkable story of the Denby bloodline.

  The three men stood in the workshop. Brilliant sunshine flooded in through large windows, filling the room with light. This was the scene of the explosion that killed 63 year-old Sir Alfred Denby eight weeks ago. Now the man’s brother, dressed in a severe black coat and top hat, revealed the astonishing history of the Denby family. Although he tried to maintain an air of magisterial dignity, Thomas noticed that his stern demeanour often slipped. His eyes darted at the slightest sound. When a gardener passed by the open doorway, Victor Denby stopped dead and froze. He only let out a sigh of relief when he realized that the man was, indeed, a member of his staff. Inspector Abberline was right. Here was an individual who was terrified.

  Thomas jotted key facts into his reporter’s notebook as Denby spoke.

  ‘The Denby family were blacksmiths. It’s said that a Denby man shoed horses for the Roundhead army before the battle of Naseby. It was my grandfather who turned what was a traditional village smithy into a manufacturing business. Not only did he shoe horses, he also employed men to make bridles, stirrups and so on. He was an industrious fellow and he was still shoeing horses in his eightieth year, even though he had nine men working for him.’ Denby smiled. ‘My grandfather was proud of his workforce; he called them “The Many Nine”.’

  Abberline nodded. ‘I take it that the family back then didn’t occupy such a splendid house as this?’

  ‘No, my grandfather lived in a house that went with the old blacksmith’s premises down in the village. But he generated enough wealth to buy more houses, which he rented out to local people.’

  ‘So, where did the abundant wealth originate?’

  ‘The abundant wealth, as you put it, came about as a result of my father’s genius.’ Denby sounded prickled at having to divulge what he clearly considered a private family matter. ‘My father inherited my grandfather’s business over fifty years ago. This was when England was gripped by railway building fever. Construction com
panies had an insatiable demand for all manner of ironwork for the new railways – everything from iron wheels to the rails they ran upon. My father was shrewd enough to recognize that demand for all this ironmongery would be worth a king’s ransom, so he sold the houses that my grandfather had acquired and invested every penny in a foundry that could produce railway tracks by the mile.’

  ‘The casting of railway lines brought in hard cash?’

  ‘It did indeed.’ He puffed out his chest proudly. ‘Newspapers called my father Iron Road Denby. Just two years after the first section of rail left the factory my father moved his family into that house.’

  Abberline appeared to glance in the direction of the mansion. However, Thomas noticed that the detective’s gaze settled on the windowsill instead, where a hammer rested alongside a bag of nails. Thomas endeavoured to see through the detective’s eyes. So, what’s significant about that humble hammer and nails that warrants such scrutiny? Some nails had spilled from the torn bag. They were rusty. A spider had spun its web across the hammer. Was this more evidence that Victor Denby wasn’t especially interested in putting right the damage caused by the explosion? After all, the roof had gaping holes where the rain would pour in.

  Meanwhile, Victor Denby listed his fathers’ achievements with ever-growing pride. ‘He bought the leases of several country estates. When my brothers and I were old enough he sent each one of us to these estates and told us to manage them, and make the family even more prosperous.’

  ‘So you and your brothers became country squires?’

  ‘Indeed so. We each occupied our own mansion, such as this one. We either farmed the land ourselves, or rented it out to tenant farmers.’

  ‘You were living in London when your brother died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d left your own country estate for a spell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Denby spoke with breezy indifference. ‘I lived in Fenton Hall in Devon. It had five thousand acres of farmland. The lease expired, so I had to leave, simple as that.’

  ‘Bear with me while I get this clear in my mind,’ said Abberline. ‘Your father made his fortune supplying railway track when there was explosive growth in the building of Britain’s railway system?’