by Robin Paige
Looking past him, out the window, Sheridan pulled on his pipe. “About Tom Finch.”
Manfred felt his knees suddenly go weak. “Tom... Finch? I don’t believe I know...” He sat down, trying to collect himself, muttering the name several times. Then: “Oh, right,” he said, as if he had just remembered. “Tom Finch. He’s a photographer, isn’t he? When I was over at the New Review, he brought some of his work for us to have a look at. Of course, the New Review didn’t go in for that sort of thing, but I felt he had a certain style—” He knew he was rattling on, and forced himself to stop. “Why do you ask?”
Sheridan did not answer the question. Instead, he uncrossed his legs and put his hat on the floor. Then he took out his wallet and removed two newspaper clippings, placing them in front of him, the edges precisely touching. “Because,” he said, “he is dead.”
Manfred’s stomach lurched. “Dead?” He swallowed. He could not read the clippings upside down. but they looked like—He swallowed again, and said, more loudly. “What do you mean, ‘dead’?”
Again, no answer. Again, into the wallet. Without looking up, Sheridan took out two typewritten notes and laid them on either side of the clippings, just touching, just so, as if they were playing cards.
Manfred’s eyes were fixed on the notes. “What,” he heard himself asking hollowly, “are... those?”
“They are demand notes received by Lady Randolph in the past few days,” Sheridan replied. He reached into the side pocket of his coat. “Tom Finch was in the unsavory business of photographing people—particularly important people whom he caught flagrante delicto, as it were, in the midst of unwise acts. He claimed to have such a photograph of Lord Randolph Churchill, with one of the victims of the Ripper killings—a woman named Mary Kelly. He was using it to blackmail Lady Randolph.” From his pocket, he took out a manilla envelope from which he extracted a photograph, placing it above the notes and clippings.
“Blackmail!” Manfred exclaimed, trying not to look at the photograph. His voice was high and thin, and he heard it as if from a great distance. “Why, I call that shocking! Poor Lady Randolph! Why would anyone do such a—”
“At some point,” Sheridan continued, in his precise, dry voice, “another party learned of the photograph and felt that he could put it to a better use. Finch, however, had already had a change of heart. He wrote to Lady Randolph to tell her that he would no longer annoy her with his demand letters and to offer her the negatives.”
“To offer her—” Manfred heard his voice crack and the words fail.
“Exactly,” Sheridan said. “However, before Finch could make good on his intentions, the other party learned of his plans. They fell out, and Finch got the worst of it. The police found him face-down in his shepherd’s pie with a knife between his shoulder blades. His murderer made off with one or more prints of the photograph.”
Someone made a choking noise. It might have been Manfred, but he wasn’t listening. He was trying to weigh the likelihood that Sheridan was guessing. The man did not sound at all speculative—but where had he come by his information?
“What the other party did not know, however,” Sheridan went on, “was that the photograph for which he killed Finch was a forgery, and that the negatives used to construct it were hidden in a photographic studio elsewhere on Cleveland Street.”
“A... forgery?” Manfred’s words were a whisper, and he scarcely heard them. Involuntarily, his hand had gone across the desk for the photograph. He pulled it back.
Sheridan turned the photo and pushed it toward Manfred. “Exactly. It was a rather clever forgery, you see—clever enough to have deceived Lady Randolph and clever enough to have taken in Finch’s killer. However, the negatives have been recovered from Finch’s studio, and clearly reveal how he fabricated it.”
“I—I—” Manfred’s throat was too dry to continue. He seized his cup and swallowed some tea. “I don’t see why you—”
“Why I have come to you?” Sheridan asked. With the tip of his finger, he pushed the two typewritten notes across the desk. “Because these notes were typed on that machine at your elbow.” He paused and added gently, “And since you are the only occupant of this office, it is logical to assume that you typed them. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Manfred turned to stare at the typewriter, as if he had never seen it before. “On this machine?” Now he was sure that Sheridan was guessing. There was no possible way he could know—
“Yes.” Sheridan took a pencil from the cup on the desk and pointed to a line in one of the notes. “The lowercase o is slightly defective. You can see that it is flat at the bottom.” He paused. “If you cannot make it out, I shall be glad to offer you my hand-lens.”
Manfred found it suddenly very difficult to see the notes on the desk in front of him. He blinked to bring them into focus, but they were still a blur.
Sheridan went on, relentlessly logical. “And if you are inclined to point out that this demonstration proves only that the two notes came from the same machine, consider this.” Out came the wallet again, and a third typed note, the commendatory one Manfred had written to Lady Randolph about Beryl Bardwell’s short story. “You can see the same flattened o,” Sheridan said, pointing. “This note has your signature on it.” He nodded toward the typewriter. “And if I’m not mistaken, the paper in the machine at the moment is the very same yellow flimsy you used for the second demand note.”
There was a long silence, and then Manfred heard himself saying: “But anyone could have come into this room and typed those blackmail notes on this machine.” The suggestion sounded thin and unconvincing, even to him.
“But not everyone had a motive,” Sheridan said gravely. He rose and turned, just as the door opened and Churchill strode in, a few paces ahead of a police officer in a blue serge uniform.
Without preamble, Churchill said, “I’ve come to tell you that I’m awfully sorry for what I did, Raeburn.”
Manfred was struck dumb, and the despair washed through him like a bitter flood. They not only knew that he had killed Finch and tried to blackmail Lady Randolph, but they knew why, and their knowledge robbed him of everything. There was nothing left of his plan for revenge, nothing left of his hopes, nothing left of his future. It was gone. All gone. He half turned toward the window, where the bird with the iridescent feathers had come back to peck at the remaining bits of grain. Such a beautiful bird, Arthur’s bird, its feathers sleek and glistening—
Sheridan was looking at Churchill. “I want Raeburn to hear the whole thing, Winston,” he said. “Everything you told me last night.”
Manfred heard Churchill’s words through a great roaring in his ears. “Ragging you and your brother was unforgivable of me,” he was saying, “and I shall be haunted by my actions for the rest of my life. I want you to know that I am heartily sorry, Raeburn. I could not know that what I and the others did might lead to your brother’s suicide, but if it is of any help to you, I have thought of myself with a deep loathing every day since his death. If only I could go back and undo what we—”
“Stop ‘im!” the officer cried. “’Ee’s jumpin’!”
Manfred heard that, too. But he had already swung one leg over the windowsill, and the desk was between the three of them and himself. They could not reach him in time. He cast one last glance at the pigeon as it flew up and away, and then he was over the edge and falling free.
38
Man Dies in Fall from Window
Pigeon-Fancier Suffers Fatal Accident
Mr. Manfred Raeburn, Managing Editor of The Anglo-Saxon Review, fell to his death from the fourth-floor window of his office on Thursday morning. According to witnesses, he was intent on feeding pigeons at the window-sill when he lost his balance and fell to the street below. Lady Randolph Churchill, Editor of the Review, expressed deep sorrow at his passing. “He was a talented and capable editor,” she said. “It will be difficult to replace him.” Mr. Raeburn is survived only by his sister, Miss Maude Raeburn o
f Queensway, Bayswater.
The Times,
18 November, 1898
Kate knocked at the door of Maude Raeburn’s apartments, which occupied the second floor of a brick building in Bayswater—not a fashionable address, but clean and well-kept. Miss Raeburn herself, wearing a loose caftan dyed in dark greens and purples, opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Lady Charles,” she said. She did not seem surprised, nor embarrassed, at the prospect of receiving a visitor in something other than mourning garb.
“I’ve come to pay my respects,” Kate said, “and to tell you how sorry I am about your brother’s death.”
“Thank you,” Miss Raeburn said. “Do come in and have a cup of tea.”
She led the way down a hall hung with framed photographs of herself and other women in walking and cycling costumes, posed before various mountains and lakes and pyramids. The small parlor into which they went was crowded with exotic furnishings and souvenirs of foreign countries: a vase of ostrich feathers, an African mask, a stuffed bird in a glass case, a large pottery urn filled with carved walking sticks. There were several shelves full of smaller pieces of pottery with a variety of glazes, and baskets of all shapes and sizes. The air was filled with the exotic scent of some foreign incense.
“I’ll be just a moment,” Miss Raeburn said, and disappeared. Kate sat on a velvet settee in front of the parlor fire, looking around, and after a few moments, Miss Raeburn returned with a black-lacquered tray. She poured tea out of a red porcelain pot decorated with Oriental designs into small cups without handles. Apart from her exotic garb, she looked much as she had the night she and her brother had dined at Sibley House, but was much more subdued and somber. And now that Kate studied her more closely, she realized that the woman was older than she had thought—in her mid-thirties, perhaps. She was certainly several years older than her brother.
“Lady Randolph asked me to convey her condolences,” Kate said, sipping the tea. It had a strange taste but was very pleasant, and the flaky Greek pastries Miss Raeburn offered had a honey-rich flavor. “She wanted to come with me, but under the circumstances—” She hesitated, half-wishing she hadn’t begun the sentence.
“I’m sorry for what Mannie did,” Miss Raeburn said, “and for any injury he caused Lady Randolph. But there are two sides to the story, you know. Mannie was wrong, but he acted out of a great injury. Forgive me for speaking bluntly,” she added, setting the tea tray to one side and settling herself in a large rattan chair. Her voice was matter-of-fact, without inflection. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to speak of it other than frankly. It’s no good brushing it under the rug, is it?”
“I should like to hear the other side of the story,” Kate said. “And perhaps it might help you to speak of it. I understand that you are all alone, now that your brother has died.”
“You are kind,” Miss Raeburn said. She gave Kate a sideways glance. “I admire your novels, you know. I particularly enjoyed the one in which the heroine flies around the world in a balloon. You are quite clever. Adventurous, too. You Americans are always adventurous.”
Kate was glad that an answer did not seem required.
“I am something of a writer and adventuress myself,” Miss Raeburn went on, gathering speed. “Travel pieces for magazines and newspapers, chiefly. I also give magic lantern lectures for the benefit of women who secretly wish they could abandon their husbands and children and go jaunting off to other countries in the company of adventuresome women.” She sat for a moment, the firelight glinting in her light hair, and then said, more slowly and in a different, softer tone, “And yes, I am alone now, entirely alone. My mother has been dead for some years, and my father—he was a farmer in Shropshire—died of grief after Arthur’s death.”
“Arthur was your brother?”
“Yes. He hanged himself in Father’s barn.” Kate could hear the bitterness that crept into Maude Raeburn’s voice. “After he and Mannie were driven out of the Hussars. That was his dream, you know. Arthur lived for the adventure of soldiering.”
“I’m so dreadfully sorry,” Kate said quietly. “It must have been awful for you.”
Miss Raeburn gave a little nod of acknowledgment. “But life goes on,” she said. “At least, it has done for me. Father couldn’t bear the disgrace. And Mannie—” She turned her head. “I’m not surprised he chose his own solution.”
Kate took a breath. “The men who were there, my husband, Winston Churchill, the policeman—they tried to stop him, but they couldn’t reach him in time.”
There was another long silence, and then Miss Raeburn said, “Mannie loved Arthur more than anything in his life. They dreamed of a military life together—brother officers gloriously defending the far-flung borders of the Empire.” She laughed, sadly. “From the time they were children, that was all they ever talked of. Father tried to tell them that it was nonsense, that farmers’ sons could never be officers, but they wouldn’t listen. They would saddle Father’s draft horses and ride out across the meadow with long, heavy sticks for lances, pretending to be cavalry officers leading their regiment to relieve General Gordon. Then Uncle Oliver died—he was my mother’s brother and had made a small fortune as a bicycle manufacturer—and left Arthur and Mannie three hundred a year each. They insisted on using the money to enter Harrow. Father pointed out that a military career was beyond their reach, that the money would be barely enough to keep a horse and pay mess bills, but eventually he gave in. So Harrow it was, and then Sandhurst.” Her lips quirked. “Harrow is where they had their first skirmish with the Little Napoleon.”
“That was their name for Winston?” Kate asked.
“Oh, not just theirs—everyone’s! He was such a bossy, arrogant boy, so impressed with himself. No one liked him, you see, while Arthur and Mannie had any number of friends. I daresay there was more than a bit of jealousy there, and worse at Sandhurst. Arthur was gifted in military strategy, and easily bested Winston on the examination. Mannie was quite a strong horseman, and snatched the riding prize out of the Little Napoleon’s fingers.”
“I see,” Kate said gravely. Knowing how competitive Winston was, how he measured his own worth against the performances of others, she could begin to understand his animosity toward the Raeburn brothers.
Miss Raeburn eyed her. “Are you sure you want to hear any more of this? It’s sordid—in its way. Oh, nothing like a crime, I mean,” she added. “Just your ordinary gentlemen’s bullying and brutality.”
“I want to hear it,” Kate said. “I want to understand.”
Miss Raeburn nodded. “Well, then. Somehow, Arthur and Mannie got into the Fourth Hussars and found themselves at Aldershot. But it was very like belonging to a gentlemen’s club. In addition to keeping a batman and groom, they had to pay for coach subscriptions, band subscriptions, theatricals, a wine cellar, even a pack of hounds. Not to speak of their uniforms and kits, which came to something over seven hundred apiece.”
Kate gave a smothered exclamation. She had known that it required money to enter the military, but she had no idea how much.
“Indeed,” Miss Raeburn said dryly. “It was completely ridiculous, but they couldn’t see it. They were so pleased to have been commissioned into the Fourth. Their fellow second-lieutenants weren’t at all pleased, however, because of course Arthur and Mannie weren’t gentlemen. They were asked, politely, at first, to resign their commissions. When they refused, they were bullied and badgered. They never went to sleep in a dry bed, their possessions were smashed and pilfered, and they were flogged and held head-down in a horse trough, where Arthur nearly drowned. The end came when they returned from exercises one day to find their bags packed and loaded onto a cart. Mannie tried to convince Arthur to stay and brave it out, but he was a sensitive young man, and was completely broken. He resigned his commission that day. Two days later, he was dead.”
“But what about the commandant?” Kate exclaimed. “What about the upper levels of command? Didn’t anybody see what was
going on? Couldn’t they stop it?”
“Why?” Miss Raebum asked, with a toss of her head. “The ideal of the ‘brotherhood of officers’ exists at all levels. If a man isn’t of the right sort, he doesn’t belong, and the sooner he realizes that and gets out, the better.” Her lips had an ironic twist. “Perhaps that is hard for you to understand, being an American.”
“Perhaps,” Kate said. She frowned. “You didn’t mention Winston Churchill. Was he involved in the bullying?”
“There were four or five others, but he was the ring-leader,” Miss Raeburn said shortly. “The worst and cruelest of the snobs.”
Kate was not surprised at Maude Raeburn’s opinion. But she felt she had to say something in Winston’s defense. “I think,” she said, “that young Mr. Churchill’s military service has changed him.”
“Do you? I don’t. I believe that he is using the Army as a platform for a political career—a career which he can scarcely finance, any more than my brothers could finance their cavalry commissions. And I certainly didn’t find anything in his military reporting to suggest that Mr. Churchill is anything but manifestly ambitious for himself and willing to sacrifice others to gain his own ends.” Miss Raeburn fell silent for a moment, staring at the fire. “God help England if he should succeed in his ambitions. Can you imagine the consequences if that young man should be called to serve with the Cabinet, or as Prime Minister?” She shuddered.
After that, there was hardly anything more to say. A few moments later, Kate murmured her goodbyes and left. As she walked down the street toward Bayswater Road to hail a cab, she reflected on the course of events, the terrible chain of causality that had led from a boy’s jealousy at Harrow and Sandhurst, to a young man’s bullying at Aldershot, to a suicide in Shropshire, thence to a murder in Cleveland Street and finally to another suicide in Fleet Street. Arthur Raeburn had died by his own hand. Manfred Raebum, bent on avenging his brother, had killed Tom Finch to obtain the photograph he intended to use to destroy Winston’s political ambitions. And now Manfred was dead. Was that the final conclusion? Had they arrived at the end of the terrible trail?