Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He hadn’t settled in Oxford’s halls, felt too different. Wanted a room of his own. Room to rent. Suit student.

  There were plenty to choose from.

  “If it’s a six,” thought Sam, “I’ll take this one.” And the die came up with a two and a four. He liked the room, paid a deposit, started to unpack. And then he opened the drawer.

  Could he have lived in the room for three years without opening that drawer? Probably. It was the bottom one in a five-drawer chest and it was a weird thing to have opened that one first. But he opened that drawer and that was when freedom evaporated for Sam. There were no choices after that, as far as he could judge.

  The drawer was lined with fading newspaper.

  Sam raised his head from the icy water. “Come out with your hands above your head,” roared the police megaphone.

  Wait, there had been a moment of choice after opening the drawer. He didn’t have to have read the yellowing newsprint. Why did he read it? But had there, really, been a choice? For a child to whom reading had been the first, the only, thread of hope? For a boy for whom Camus made more sense as an author than a footballer? Well, he read it, naturally.

  “HARRY’S HOOKER SHAME” the faded headline screamed. And there was a picture of a handsome white man and a beautiful black woman. And the woman was the woman whose photograph Sam had kept for as long as he could remember.

  Shaking, Sam read on. He read how Harry was a dazzling young politician tipped for high office. He read how Harry had been caught with a prostitute and how Harry’s career was in the balance. He read about how someone so happily married, with such a lovely young family, could descend to the gutter to risk everything for a moment’s sordid gratification. He read how Harry was mortified. He read some crude details from the police report. He read how nothing more was known about the beautiful black woman, except her name, which was a different name than the one on the back of the photograph that he kept in his wallet alongside his card from Karen and his letters from Ed. On the back of the photograph was written, in a spidery, fragile hand:

  To my darling Samuel Josiah Darwin,

  Love is too small a word, Ma.

  The newspaper was dated 10 September, nineteen years ago. Just nine months before Sam was born.

  The moment, you could say, changed Sam’s mind. His scholarship, his talent for research, was unleashed to one purpose and in just two weeks he unearthed all he needed to know. Sam’s father, the dazzling young Harry, had escaped the paparazzi by putting a gun to his head six weeks after his indiscretion was first blazoned across the tabloids: “TRAGIC HARRY’S FINAL ACT.” There was a picture of a startled widow, protecting two small boys. Sam had two brothers, then: Charles and Henry. Sam’s own mother had died, as he had always been told, shortly after his birth. That remained true, and the truth remained bitter. But the carefully constructed story of her life which she had entrusted to his first care-givers and which, he was now amazed to realize, he had never doubted, had been entirely false. She had been neither married, nor tragically widowed. She had not been a nurse, but a hooker. She had not even been English, but American. She had conjured the father’s name on his birth certificate. It must have been almost her final act, her last attempt to confer some dignity on her son. The blaze of publicity surrounding her encounter with Harry had led her to flee London, change her name and make a bid for a quiet life. Morning-after pills must have been the last thing on her mind. She resisted offers to sell her story, just disappeared.

  “Come out with your hands above your head,” repeated the voice from the megaphone. But Sam’s mind raced.

  Supposing he hadn’t rolled the dice? Opened that drawer? Read the old newsprint? He could have just crumpled it unread. He could have left the drawer closed for three years. The truth would have smouldered silently in the very room he slept and studied in. Could that have happened? Wouldn’t he have smelled the burning ink? But he had opened the drawer. And then he had to dig and dig. There had been no choice after.

  Samuel Josiah had completed his research fourteen days after opening the drawer. One day later, on a golden Sunday morning, in a sleepy Gloucestershire village, in a chorus of birdsong, he raised the heavy brass of a lion’s head on a door. Once, twice, three times.

  The door was opened by a small, elderly man.

  The small, elderly man saw a tall, black stranger and heard him say:

  “You killed my father.”

  The small, elderly man saw the stranger reaching inside his jacket for a gun.

  Samuel Josiah reached into his jacket, to pull out his sheaf of newspaper clippings. He hadn’t meant it to be like this, not so abrupt as this. The fear on the little man’s face unnerved him. He had witnessed two stabbings at the second children’s home. They had been easier to watch than this small man clasping his heart, staggering, flailing, falling, uttering a small, surprised cry as he fell. Sam looked away, overwhelmed by shame. And when he looked back, he saw blood trickling from the little old man’s temple, where he had cracked his skull open against the stone step.

  Sam had seen two dead bodies. He knew.

  Sam did not read the papers the next day, or the day after that. He dared not show his face. He was an animal now, running, hiding in a barn one night, a ditch the next.

  So he didn’t read of the dreadlocked thug who had cracked the skull of a defenceless old man in his own home in a picturesque English village. Nor did he see the artist’s nightmarish impression of the mindless killer pieced together from a neighbour’s description.

  In the ditch, Sam felt only rage and shame.

  “Come out, with your hands raised.”

  Sam came out, too fast. Freezing mud streamed from his hair, his teeth were startling in the sunlight. The youthful policeman, panicky, saw an animal, not a man, leaping. Luckily for him, shooting murderers was not frowned upon in those parts any longer. Not when the murderer was a mindless thug who had slaughtered without motive.

  No one who knew Sam’s “victim” remembered that it had been his tireless pursuit of Harry Engerfield that had led to the promising young MP’s suicide nineteen years before. If they had remembered, they would have said that digging the dirt on MPs was a tabloid reporter’s duty. That if people didn’t like heat, they should stay away from kitchens. And who, in that peaceful village, would have connected the young black killer with the dazzling, talented, white Harry?

  And how could the legitimate children of Harry Engerfield know that the mindless killer on the run, who had caused them to double-lock their doors for a week to protect their infants, was their brother?

  Days later, the smallprint reported that the mindless killer had been a most promising, indeed brilliant, student. Drugs were blamed for his apparent personality change. The young police officer who shot him received counselling and the consolation that he had acted as anyone else might have. It was no crime, was it, to kill a killer?

  No connection was made between the faded newspaper photograph in Sam’s lodgings and the picture in his wallet. The authorities tried to contact Karen and Ed, but both had long since moved on.

  In the absence of any family, it was thought proper that the children’s home should send a mourner to Sam’s funeral: a tall, thin man in a grey suit.

  Murder Uncordial

  Amy Myers

  There was something seriously wrong. One did not serve oyster forcemeat with a delicate guinea fowl. Auguste Didier despaired of the modern standards of cuisine. Worse, Tranton Towers, the stately Kentish residence of Lord and Lady Bromfield, seemed to be a most mysterious mansion. Instead of concentrating on the delights of a menu prepared by Master Chef Auguste Didier, his lordship’s household seemed far more interested in politics.

  It was a small comfort that the dinner, for which Auguste’s services as chef had been specially arranged, was in honour of the President of the French Republic, during his return journey to Paris. The reason for his visit to England had been to seal the knot of friendship between the two
countries with the Entente Cordiale, and so the menu for the evening demanded the best of Auguste Didier’s art. But that, he fumed, would not be possible with the assistant chef with whom he had been provided. Oyster forcemeat? Non, non, non.

  “Why not?” assistant chef Françoise Dagarre had asked demurely.

  Usually Auguste was only too happy to work with women in his kitchens, especially attractive ones like Mademoiselle Dagarre. After all, this was 1903. Nevertheless he drew the line at those who pretended to be chefs and were not. She was a good cook, yes, but a chef? No. He had even considered the possibility that she was a secret agent, a spy, as the reason for today’s banquet was that the German ambassador would also be present. It was generally known that the Kaiser viewed the Entente Cordiale between France and England with deep suspicion, and the Foreign Office had suggested this gesture to show that he had nothing to fear from this new rapport between its two rivals. All three nations were, and would be, the best of friends.

  Auguste tried to convince himself that with the ambassador’s presence, the French would not require a spy in Tranton Towers, as the President would not only have his entourage with him, but would be accompanied by Scotland Yard detectives throughout his visit. Nevertheless all sorts of fearful visions filled Auguste’s head, from assassination to his delicate Swan of Savoy à la Chantilly being smashed by an intruder in his kitchen bent on ruining this important occasion.

  It was not too late to prevent catastrophe, as Monsieur le President and the other guests would not be arriving until five o’clock this afternoon. He must take his concerns to Lord Bromfield immediately.

  “A spy?” Lord Bromfield roared. “By heaven, Didier, this is England, man. We don’t hold with spies here. Not gentlemanly.”

  “But Mademoiselle Dagarre is not what she seems, sir.”

  “Nonsense. What would she be spying on, might I ask?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” It seemed obvious to Auguste, but Lord Bromfield was the politician, not him.

  “Well, I do know. Nothing. Stick to your trade and cook.” Then he added a conciliatory note. “Look here, Didier, you’re a good fellow, but you’re French.”

  “Half French, sir.”

  This was waved aside. “You don’t understand the way we do things here. This is a private dinner, so as a matter of honour politics are left at the dining-room door.”

  Not in Auguste’s experience, but he maintained a diplomatic silence.

  “Good Lord, what’s that?” The monocle dropped from Lord Bromfield’s eye in his astonishment. He had been standing by the window and something was clearly amiss in the forecourt below. Auguste hurried to join him.

  Drawn up in front of the pillars of the grand entrance to Tranton Towers he could see a horse-drawn charabanc, towards which the butler, Mr Jennings, was hurrying as fast as his dignity permitted. One of his lordship’s grooms was bemusedly holding the reins, and out of the charabanc spilled surely the strangest array of people ever to grace the portico of Tranton Towers.

  Auguste’s fascinated eyes fell on a thin man busily donning a one-man-band harness, jangling cymbals, trumpets, a drum and sundry other instruments; a well-rounded gentleman in a large checked suit and battered top hat; a dapper man with moustache and melancholy expression, clad in dinner suit and huge bow tie; a large solid man of many muscles; a lady of middle years and girth who seemed to be covered in purple feathers waving from her costume and hat; and a young – no, not so young – lady clad in a tight bustled white dress with pink frills and sporting a large and very flowery hat. She was grasping the leads of three small yapping dogs. Behind her streamed several others, including a lady in male attire. In all, Auguste counted twelve unexpected visitors.

  Whoever they were, they were not the President of the French Republic.

  “Look here, your lordship.” Mr Check Suit was obviously the leader, Auguste noted, and was only too happy to explain their presence. “Charlie’s my name. The Great Charlie, I am, and what we’re all here for is what you promised.” He gave a hearty chuckle, as he waved a letter in front of his surprised lordship’s eyes.

  Mr Jennings, having been forced to summon higher authority to deal with the calamity, stood by ashen-faced at this challenge to his ability to deal with any domestic emergency. Since no one seemed to object to his presence, Auguste edged closer to Lord Bromfield whose face had assumed a bright shade of red.

  “That’s my writing paper,” he roared.

  “Course it is.” The Great Charlie sounded surprised. “So here we are, straight from the Wapping Palace of Varieties. Daisy, dear, introduce yourself.”

  “Pleased to meet you, your lordship,” trilled the lady in the tight frilly dress. “Sweethearts,” addressing the dogs, “bow to his lordship.” Her charges reluctantly stood on their hind legs, wobbled and dropped down again.

  “And this,” Charlie said proudly, “is the Wapping Blackbird, Miss Emmeline Foster.” This was the large lady with the feathers – an apt stage name, Auguste thought, as the Blackbird kissed his lordship’s hand, much to his horror.

  The one-man-band, Joachim Schmitt, made no attempt to follow suit, being laden with jangling musical instruments, but managed a toot on the trumpet to acknowledge Charlie’s introduction. The dapper gentleman was introduced as “our own, our very own Caruso, Soulful Songster Stefan Meyer”. Joe Jones, the strongman, looked all too eager to crush his lordship’s hand but Lord Bromfield hastily backed away. The rest of the group took their turn, as his lordship struggled to give vent to his feelings.

  At last he found his voice: “What the blazes are you doing here?”

  Charlie looked puzzled. “Come to take a tour of the house, dine with you and perform for a few guests. That’s what you asked in your letter, sir.” He waved it again, and this time Lord Bromfield snatched it.

  One glance and he’d seen enough. “Not my writing. Looks like it, but it’s a forgery. My apologies, Mr Charlie, but you’ve been grossly deceived and so have I. Mr Jennings . . .” The butler approached him almost in tears. “Kindly arrange for these good people to be recompensed and see them off the property.”

  The faces of the good people promptly changed from cheerfulness to dismay, and rebellion looked likely to break out as they murmured angrily amongst themselves.

  “Can’t do that, your lordship,” the Great Charlie said firmly. “A contract’s a contract, and who’s to say whether it’s your writing or not? What’s more, it’s against the professional code of Wapping Palace of Varieties not to perform when contracted so to do.”

  “And what about our grub?” Joe, the strongman, demanded.

  “Looking forward to our little tour, I was,” Daisy wailed tearfully, thus making the dogs yelp again and the Wapping Blackbird move forward to the attack.

  “I was to sing,” she informed Lord Bromfield with heaving bosom. “Are you telling me that the Voice of the Wapping Blackbird is not good enough for your guests?”

  Soulful Songster Stefan hurried to support her. “Meine Liebling has the voice of an angel.”

  He was swept aside by the Wapping Blackbird’s dismissive hand, which indicated she could fight her own battles.

  His lordship, Auguste thought, highly amused, looked as though speedy retreat would be his preferred tactic in the fight, but he managed to stand his ground.

  “Kindly leave,” Lord Bromfield almost squeaked in response, but in vain. The mutiny was growing in strength. It was time for his own version of diplomacy, Auguste decided.

  “Your lordship, suppose we served an early luncheon on the south lawn for these artistes, followed by a short conducted tour of the house? Your guests do not arrive until five, and if the charabanc leaves by two o’clock no one need be incommoded.”

  “Yes, yes.” Lord Blomfield clutched at this compromise. “You’ll make a politician yet, Didier.”

  The Great Charlie still looked doubtful. “What about our show? We got a contract.”

  Lord Blomfield took a fi
rm stand. “So have I, and mine’s with Scotland Yard. Personally, I would of course have greatly enjoyed your performance, but I have already given the Yard a list of those who will be attending today, and due to this misunderstanding it does not include you. Another time, perhaps.”

  There followed a brief consultation between Charlie and his colleagues. “We get our dosh and our tour then?” he finally asked his lordship. “And grub?”

  “Jellied eels,” Daisy eagerly demanded.

  “Victoria sponge,” requested the Wapping Blackbird.

  “Kugelhopf,” the Soulful Songster pleaded.

  “And booze,” Joe added firmly.

  “Plenty of everything,” his lordship assured them.

  At last the magic hour of two o’clock arrived. It had taken its time doing so, Auguste thought, breathing a sigh of relief as he watched the well-fed and well-oiled uninvited guests lurching their way out of the servants’ wing towards the charabanc. Fortunately Mademoiselle Dagarre had not only superintended their luncheon and drinking requirements (only the Kugelhopf proved a problem), but she had offered to help Mr Jennings escort the group round the house, an arrangement with which Auguste had eagerly concurred. Not only had he been able to continue with the delightful preparations for the banquet ahead, but he had been relieved of the anxiety of superintending his assistant chef’s every move in the kitchen – particularly any threat of her moving towards his guinea fowl or Chantilly Swan.

  The tour had duly taken place, ending with a second visit to the servants’ hall to reclaim any property left there and also – in Mademoiselle Dagarre’s discreet words – to prepare for the journey home. A wise precaution, Auguste thought, in view of the copious amount of drink consumed.

  Auguste decided to follow the eventual exodus, if only to support Mr Jennings who was still glassy-eyed with shock. Just as it was rejoining the charabanc, however, the party decided to stop to express its thanks.

  “Let’s have a song for his lordship,” shouted a bleary-eyed Great Charlie.