by Jim Eldridge
‘So, since then, you’ve given Inspector Drabble some stick in your pages.’
‘Only when he deserves it,’ said Blades.
‘So, as a result, no police cooperation. Which seems rather short-sighted, as an editorial policy,’ commented Daniel.
‘Maybe, but Mr Purslane did suffer very deeply when Inspector Drabble informed Mrs Purslane of the charges being considered against her husband. Mrs Purslane has got a very ferocious temper. So, let us say that if you can furnish me with inside information of your investigations, exclusive to me, perhaps I might see my way clear to tipping you the wink on who my Egyptology expert is.’
‘We are employed by the Fitzwilliam,’ Daniel reminded him. ‘Any information we gather must first be reported to them.’
‘Sir William Mackenzie,’ said Blades. He shook his head. ‘No, that won’t work for me. Sir William has got personal contacts with the big London papers. I want first dibs. I want them London papers to come asking me for tips. That’s where my future lies. The Big Time.’
‘We will ask Sir William—’ began Daniel, but again Blades shook his head, firmer this time.
‘No good. Sir William’s not the kind of bloke who’d agree to it. And, even if he did, who’s to say he’d stick to his side of the bargain.’
‘Sir William is an honourable man!’ snapped Abigail.
Blades shook his head again.
‘Too risky. Look, what I’m offering is a fair trade. You give me something I ain’t got, ahead of anyone else getting it, and I’ll see about dropping you that name. What do you say?’
Daniel saw that Abigail was about to snap something curt at Blades, and before she did he said, ‘We’ll think about it. Thank you for your time, Mr Blades.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘What an odious creature!’ snorted Abigail as they walked away from the Gazette offices.
‘I agree,’ said Daniel. ‘You see what I mean about not wanting to let them run the story about the photograph of the mystery dead man, rather than put it in as an advert. Mr Blades would certainly make it a colourful tale, and quite likely inaccurate.’
‘But you are prepared to do that deal with him?’
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘I was prepared to let him think I might. I believe our duty is to report his offer to Sir William, and see what he says. Don’t you agree that knowing the identity of the person who started this murderous mummy rumour could be quite crucial? I get the feeling whoever did it is connected with these murders in some way.’
‘Yes.’ Abigail nodded. She turned to Daniel and asked suddenly, ‘What was this Cleveland Street business that dreadful man was talking about?’
‘You don’t remember it?’ asked Daniel. ‘Five years ago. It was in the papers, some more sensational than others.’
‘Five years ago I was in Egypt,’ said Abigail. ‘I would have not had time, nor the interest, in newspaper stories of a sensational nature.’
Daniel explained: ‘My boss, Chief Inspector Abberline, received orders to investigate allegations of a homosexual brothel operating at Cleveland Street in Fitzrovia in London. Apparently a complaint had been lodged that suggested telegraph messenger boys who worked for the post office were also working as prostitutes at Cleveland Street. We investigated, and discovered that the Cleveland Street brothel had a very illustrious clientele. Among others, Lord Arthur Somerset, an equerry to the Prince of Wales, was a client, and stories were circulating that Lord Somerset had introduced Prince Albert Victor, the eldest son of the Prince of Wales, and thus second in line to the throne, to the place.
‘The bush telegraph works very quickly, and once word of our investigation became known, most of the principals, including some very distinguished men, fled the country. The only ones who were arrested were the male prostitutes themselves …’
‘The telegraph boys?’
Daniel nodded. ‘They were given light sentences. But, because none of the clients was prosecuted, this led to rumours and allegations that there had been a government cover-up to protect prominent people.’
‘Blades said you’d been paid off.’
‘That was another rumour, that Fred and I had been bribed to let the clients slip away. Absolute rot! There was no one more honest than Fred Abberline. And I assure you I never took a penny in all my years on the force.’
‘I believe you, Mr Wilson,’ said Abigail. ‘So now, what is our next move regarding this case?’
‘I thought I’d return to talk to Mr Elder,’ said Daniel. ‘See if he can enlighten me further on Ransome’s nocturnal activities.’
‘Disgusting!’ said Abigail. ‘I shall be aware of such desecration the whole time I’m cataloguing the latest arrivals.’
‘Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t said anything to you,’ suggested Daniel.
She shook her head. ‘No, if I’m to be your partner in this investigation, I need to know everything. For my part, I need to return to the Fitzwilliam and press on with the cataloguing. I think that Sir William feels the process is not going fast enough.’
‘I’m sure he’ll make allowances in the circumstances.’
‘I’m afraid Sir William can be very single-minded when it comes to the Fitzwilliam’s reputation and fortunes,’ said Abigail. ‘Perhaps you would like to call at our house later, to update me.’ She gave an arch smile as she added, ‘I’m sure my sister would be pleased to see you.’
Daniel wondered how to respond. Abigail’s tone suggested her disapproval of her sister’s apparent interest in Daniel. He opted for a polite smile and murmured, ‘I will certainly call later. What time would suit you?’
‘I normally arrive home about six.’
‘Then just after six.’ Daniel nodded.
She took one of her cards from her bag and wrote on the back of it. ‘This is our address.’ She gave him the card. ‘I look forward to seeing you later.’
Daniel watched her walk away with a feeling of confusion. He couldn’t make Abigail Fenton out. Sometimes she seemed cold and aloof, and at other times he sensed a hint of warmth towards him. And her dig at her sister seemed to hint at jealousy, if indeed her sister – Bella – was interested in him; although he felt that Bella was the kind of outgoing person who expressed herself like that to everyone. Indeed, Abigail had said as much.
Still keen to get his bearings in Cambridge, in addition to Bella’s offer to show him around, Daniel took a few turnings of minor lanes and found himself in Fitzroy Street, where a sign saying ‘W. Heffer & Sons Booksellers and Stationers’ caught his eye. He recalled a phrase of Professor Hughes’ at breakfast: ‘If you need any information about Cambridge while you are here, I recommend Heffers. They are so much more knowledgeable than most booksellers.’
Well, this enquiry will challenge their knowledge, he thought as he entered.
The young man at the counter looked up as he approached.
‘Yes, sir?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope you can,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m trying to find a copy of a story by Arthur Conan Doyle, called “Lot No. 249”.’
The young man nodded. ‘Indeed, sir, although I’m afraid that particular story hasn’t yet been issued in book form, we do have a copy of the edition of Harper’s Magazine in which it was published.’
Daniel couldn’t help but stare at the young man, who had so casually offered this information. At the very least, Daniel had anticipated having to give the bookshop assistant more information about the story, including the publication in Harper’s.
‘I could let you have the magazine to look at,’ continued the young man, adding apologetically, ‘but unfortunately I can’t let you take it out of the shop as it’s the only copy we have, and we use it for reference. Harper’s is an American magazine, you see, and we get our copy on subscription.’
‘Of course,’ said Daniel. ‘I would very much appreciate the opportunity to look at it.’
‘If you’ll just wait here I’ll go and get our copy,
’ said the young man.
As he headed for a back room, Daniel called him back.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Daniel, ‘but I can’t let this go without complimenting you. An acquaintance of mine told me that the people at Heffers are especially knowledgeable, but I never expected this. It’s such a rare story, not even a known book, but a story in a foreign magazine, and yet you didn’t even need to check on it. I am intrigued how you have trained your mind to get such instant recall of even the smallest trivia such as this story.’
The young man smiled. ‘Thank you for the compliment, sir, but you give me more credit than I deserve. The reason I recall it is because you’re the second person to ask after that story in the last few days.’
‘Oh? Who was the first?’
‘A gentleman.’
‘Did he give a name?’
The assistant shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Is it important?’
Daniel produced his card and handed it to the man.
‘I’m investigating the recent deaths at the Fitzwilliam on their behalf,’ he said. ‘And this story of Arthur Conan Doyle’s seems to figure in it, in an odd way. So I’d be quite interested in finding out who this gentleman was. Have you seen him before?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. We’re familiar with our regular customers, but he was new to me.’
‘What sort of man was he?’
‘An educated man, I’d hazard. In his forties, I think.’
‘Any noticeable features? Anything that might make him easily recognisable?’
‘Not really. Although he did have a very luxuriant moustache. Rather in the style of W. S. Gilbert, curling back towards his sideburns.’
‘English?’
‘Yes.’ The man smiled. ‘Actually, the most noticeable thing about him was his suit.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was of a light green colour, designed in rather large checks. Even the waistcoat. Rather ostentatious, I thought. And now, sir, I’ll go and get you the story.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Daniel headed to his lodgings, his mind still full of the Arthur Conan Doyle story he’d just read. A tale of the supernatural, a far cry from Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes tales, and so well told that the supernatural element, the mummy being brought back to life to wreak vengeance, seemed entirely possible.
Careful, he told himself. To say such a thing to Abigail would only bring down more scorn on his head. But the main factor was that the plot of the story was the same as the story that Blades had told in the Gazette. There had to be a connection with the murders.
Mrs Loxley was out when he arrived, but there was a large envelope addressed to him waiting on the hall table. He opened it, and took out the photograph of the unknown dead man, along with a note from Dr Keen. There was no doubt that Dr Keen had done an exceptional job. Some photographs Daniel had seen were blurred, or failed to look like the person being photographed. He’d only seen the dead man on the table in the basement of Gonville and Caius, but up close, the sepia depiction of the man’s face was perfect.
Daniel set off immediately for the offices of the Gazette, where he handed the photograph and his prepared wording to the clerk in the Announcements and Advertisements Office.
‘It’s too late for today’s late edition,’ said the girl at the desk. ‘That’s already at the presses, but it’ll go in tomorrow’s early edition.’
Daniel thanked her and assured her that was very acceptable, and then headed for Harry Elder’s house. By now it was mid-afternoon, so Daniel felt that Elder should be up and refreshed. Most night-workers he’d known slept during the hours of morning, surfacing shortly after noon.
Harry Elder didn’t seem particularly pleased to see him, but Daniel felt that Elder was a man who did not like his regular routine to be disrupted by anything.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr Elder,’ said Daniel when they were once more seated in his front parlour. ‘But I need more information about Joe Ransome’s activities.’
‘Activities!’ snorted Elder in disgust.
‘It’s only by asking questions that we can hope to get to the bottom of this, and hopefully prevent similar tragedies occurring. And the next victim may not be of disreputable character, like Ransome, but someone law-abiding. An innocent bystander, for example.’
Elder nodded, mollified by this argument.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘For one thing, I’m interested to discover which particular pub Ransome frequented.’
‘The Lamb and Flag in Jessop Street,’ said Elder, his mouth tight in disapproval.
‘Did you ever accompany him there?’ asked Daniel.
‘Certainly not!’ snapped Elder. ‘I am a teetotaller. The only reason I know this was his favourite haunt was because he spoke of it, and suggested I should go with him for “some sport”, as he put it. I soon disabused him of my desire to do any such thing.’
‘I assume this Lamb and Flag is not a very reputable establishment?’
‘You assume correctly,’ said Elder with a snort of disgust.
‘As I’m a stranger in Cambridge, I wonder if you can suggest someone who might be able to give me information about it. Accurate information, that is. Of course, I could go to the police …’
‘The police!’ said Elder with derision. Then he corrected himself. ‘No, that’s not fair. Generally, they’re good. But there are some beat officers who aren’t averse to looking the other way, if it suits them. Or their pockets.’
Daniel waited, feeling there was more to come, and after a thoughtful interval Elder said, ‘There is someone, a member of my church, Neville Padstow, a very decent and honest man. He recently retired from the local force. He’s not a man to tell tales …’
‘I only want to know about the Lamb and Flag, not about any activities of his former colleagues in the police,’ Daniel assured him.
‘Very well,’ said Elder. ‘If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and see if he’s available.’
‘I’ll come with you, if you prefer,’ offered Daniel.
‘There’s no need,’ said Elder. ‘Padstow only lives round the corner, and he’s a very private man not used to visitors.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘His wife suffers from nerves. A visit from a stranger might upset her. If I can ask you to wait here.’
‘Of course,’ said Daniel.
Neville Padstow was a large, serious-looking man in his early sixties. Clean-shaven, with close-cropped grey hair, he shook hands with Daniel after Elder had made the introductions, then sat down on one of the upright chairs, while Elder seated himself on another.
‘You were Abberline’s man,’ said Padstow.
‘I was,’ said Daniel.
‘It’s a pity you both retired,’ he said. ‘The force needs honest men.’
‘The same could be said of you, Mr Padstow,’ Daniel returned the compliment.
‘Me, I’m old. After years of pounding the pavements, I was ready to go.’ He regarded Daniel solemnly. ‘Harry said you wanted to know about the Lamb and Flag.’
‘Yes. Was it on your beat?’
Padstow gave him a grim look. ‘If it had been, I’d have cleaned it up. Or done my best to.’
‘A cesspit of vice?’ suggested Daniel.
‘Along with suspected stolen goods,’ grunted Padstow.
‘You never mentioned it to your superiors?’ asked Daniel.
‘I dropped a few hints, but I was told that it was opportune to leave the situation as it was.’
‘The landlord was passing information on,’ Daniel guessed.
‘When it suited him,’ said Padstow.
‘We had the same situation in certain places in London,’ said Daniel. ‘Our chiefs adopted the same attitude when some of us raised concerns. That while they stayed open, we were able to keep an eye on them and the people who operated out of them. And, in turn, they gave us useful intelligence on people we might be looking for.’
‘In my opinion it�
��s the thin end of the wedge,’ said Padstow in disapproval. ‘Soon other places start wanting the same leeway, the same blind eye turned to their illegal activities, and that one bad apple turns into a whole barrelful.’
Daniel nodded. ‘I agree with you, but we are not in charge. We just have to follow orders. Or leave.’
‘Is that why you left, Mr Wilson?’
Daniel hesitated, then answered blandly, ‘The time was right for me to move on. Returning to the Lamb and Flag, who is the landlord?’
‘Officially, a man called Herbert Crane. But the person who really runs what goes on there is his wife, Lillian. At least, she calls herself his wife and uses his name, but whether they’re actually married is debatable.’
‘And what is the best time to find Lillian there?’
‘She sleeps most of the morning, is up at about noon and behind the bar at two. And she’s there till about two in the morning.’
As Daniel listened to Padstow, a very different Cambridge was revealed to him than the one he’d so far seen: the colleges, the museum, the centuries of historical grandeur, respectable and professional people in respectable houses. From Padstow’s description of the place and the tales he told of its patrons, the Lamb and Flag, and the area where it was to be found, was a den of iniquity, a cesspit, a sink of evil. To Daniel, it felt like coming home; these were the kind of places he’d earned his stripes as a uniformed copper, then as a detective, in London: the rookeries of Seven Dials, Whitechapel, Stepney, the slums where few coppers ventured on their own after dark.
But he was no longer a copper. And he needed to get to the bottom of this before the trail for the murderer went cold. He’d go to the Lamb and Flag tonight.
Aware that Harry Elder would be needing to get ready for his shift at the museum shortly, Daniel thanked Padstow and Elder for their assistance.